Tales by Polish Authors Part 21

'Is it, perhaps, rich furs, silver, gla.s.s ornaments, coloured dresses, sweet cakes, or vodka that you desire?'

'That cannot be!' exclaimed the attendant.

'Fools! Something, were it even everything, must be taken for the powerful!'

'Therefore choose a young girl from among us, and we will dedicate her.'

There was silence.

'Oh, fiery Goloron, feared on the earth, proclaiming--'

Again there was silence.

Oltungaba beat the drum, and the strokes rolled like thunder between the awful words, which, uttered haltingly, seemed to come from a distance.

'They give the sc.r.a.ps to the dogs! Let the people humble themselves, and an obedient man be found; otherwise they will fade like the morning mist.'

'O-oh! How can we possibly give anything, possessing nothing?'

'I will therefore tell you how it was in former days. Let it be he who is proud, he who is rich, whose sons are famed for their shooting, and daughters for their beauty; whom all love, whose thoughts are kind, and counsels wise, whose heart is brave, whose hand is open, whose soul seeks good. We wish to see the bewildered terror, the pale face, the tears of separation.'

Oltungaba became silent, and let the drum fall.

'No!' he said, after a moment's reflection, 'I will not disclose the name; possibly they may say; "Oltungaba is jealous." Yet what is human blood to me? A shaman needs nothing but his drum.--I have said everything.'

He concluded the rest of the ceremony rapidly, and took his place among the spectators, gloomy and exhausted. Tea was offered to him and the more honoured guests. The young men began to kill reindeer for the others, and to put the cauldron on the fire without delay. Yet none of this was accompanied by the gaiety and animation which usually prevails among the Tungus on such occasions. Those present talked with great restraint, lowering their voices almost to a whisper. They behaved with marked politeness to the family of Seltichan, and took pains not even to look at their host.

Seltichan was as calm and friendly as usual, as if he had not noticed anything, and even tried to start a conversation with Oltungaba. But the shaman preserved a gloomy silence. Then Seltichan began to relate aloud how he had spent that year beyond the mountains, throwing in various hunting anecdotes which he told with so much humour that he was soon surrounded by cheered and even smiling faces.

Only his favourite son, Miore, who was standing behind him, looked gloomily at everyone.

The frame of mind usual before a meal slowly gained the ascendancy.

And when the pieces of savoury meat were taken from the cauldron, everyone had quite forgotten to be sad. Then Seltichan, forsaken by his listeners, became depressed at once, and Miore, watching his father attentively, grew gloomier still.

Unable to restrain himself longer, the lad burst forth angrily to Oltungaba, as he approached: 'I can see that you really want to make away with the old man.'

The latter regarded him with angry surprise.

'You are young and ignorant--'

'But nothing shall come of this,' Miore answered, and withdrew, shaking his head.

This short conversation did not escape other people's attention.

By the end of the banquet Seltichan had regained his usual amiability, as became a host who was entertaining the second day running without regard to his herds. But on returning to his tent he no longer concealed his anxiety, and sat meditatively before the fire, paying no heed to anything; he did not even see the supper his wife placed before him.

'Eat, Seltichan; do not grieve, my lord; I am your faithful servant!'

she said at last, shaking him by the shoulder and looking at him affectionately.

The old man turned enquiringly towards his wife, and smiled. He ate heartily and with relish, for, according to Tungus ideas, no event in life is great enough to deprive a fat reindeer of its savouriness.

The following morning Seltichan awoke earlier than the rest, and possibly for the first time since becoming head of the family, he did not stir the half-extinguished fire, but, without waking anyone, quietly escaped from the tent.

The sun was shining, although it had not yet risen above the mountains. The dawn had disappeared, and it was broad daylight. Here and there golden lines bordered the blue shadows of the clefts in the snow-clad mountains. But meanwhile in the valleys, man and Nature were still asleep:--the wood slept, wreathed in mist; the embers glowed faintly on the cool hearths; the reindeer lay on the moss in the bushes, chewing the cud. The only sounds were the gurgle of the river, and the chuckle of the mountain pheasants, which were leaving their hidden roosting places, and flying to the tree tops.

The old man gazed at the familiar valley long and attentively.

Suddenly he trembled. He could see a man standing before one of the tents in the distance; he also seemed to be looking at the surrounding country. Seltichan's keen glance recognized Oltungaba, but the tent, before which he was standing, belonged to the Kniaz. The old man's face clouded, and he went home.

'Get up, children!' he cried. 'Heh! Chun-Me! light the fire! You've had enough sleep for a day like this!'

They all sprang up frightened, and began to busy themselves. The old man looked on with pleasure while the work was silently shared in the order established by centuries. The women put the tea-kettle and cauldron on the fire, and carried the bedding out of doors; the men, after examining their thongs and arms, prepared to go into the wood to call the herd together. The bustle stopped when the tea was ready.

They all sat down gravely round a plank serving as table, but as the host was silent, no one dared to talk, although all, not excepting old Nioren, were excited. The young women and girls looked at their father in unspeakable fear. Miore was sad and angry, but 'Sparkling Ice'

regarded the old man with respect, not unmixed with a certain degree of curiosity.

After drinking his tea, Seltichan ate something, and lighted his pipe.

Then he said to his youngest son:

'Go out, boy, and call the people.'

Miore did not stir from his seat.

'Do you hear?'

Not until the command had been repeated threateningly did the lad rise and begin to buckle on his things. But, instead of going, he suddenly threw himself at his father's feet.

'Are you determined? Are you determined? Oh, father do not leave us!

The family will never agree to it. I was talking to the young men yesterday, and they said: "Rather than that, let all our reindeer die, and we will live by industry." But if they do decide on that in the end,--let the fat Kniaz be killed!'

'You are foolish, my boy,' the old man said with a smile. 'You do not know yet what I shall do. I wish to see the people.--Go, I tell you!'

'Oh, my lord, why do you deceive us with hope?'

'Don't talk nonsense.--I have already told you--'

'They will never let us off; it would be better to escape secretly.'

'I have already told you--' the old man repeated obstinately.

'Oh Father, let us escape, let us escape!' they all begged, stretching out their hands towards him. But the old man thrust away Miore, the most impetuous of them all, with a kick in the chest, and cried:

'Cursed birds of ill-omen, cease from breaking my heart!'

'I would like to know,' said 'Sparkling Ice,' who had been gloomy and silent hitherto, 'why Miore does not obey when our father commands him?'

The lad, who was lying as he had fallen, rose, and left the tent in silence.