Part 11 (1/2)

”My case all over,” said Battle. ”Andy unnerstand--no. But there, we'll off to England, my son, soon as ever this mortal frost breaks. Years and years have I been in this here dismal Munza. Man-eaters and Ephelantoes, Portingals and blackamoors, chased and hara.s.sed up and down, and never a spark of frost seen, unless on the Snowy Mountains. What wouldn't I give for a sight of Plymouth now!”

He rose and stretched himself. Facing him, across the unstirring darkness of the forest shone palely the great new-risen moon. ”'Hi, hi, up she rises,'” said Battle, staring over. ”'But what's to be done with a s.h.i.+pwrecked sailor?' n.o.body knows, but who can't tell us. Now, just one stave, Nod Mulgar, afore we both turns in. Give us 'Cherry-trees.'

No, maybe I'll pipe ye one of Andy's Own, and you shall jine in, same as t'other.” Nod climbed up and stood on his log, his hands clasped behind his neck, and stamped softly with his feet in time, while Battle, after tuning up his great gourd--or Juddie, as he called it--plucked the sounding strings. And soon the Oomgar's voice burst out so loud and fearless that the prowling panthers paused with cowering head and twitching ears, and the Jaccatrays out of the shadows lifted their cringing eyes up to the moon, dolefully listening. And when the last two lines of each verse had been sung, Battle plucked more loudly at his strings, and Nod joined in.

”Once and there was a young sailor, yeo ho!

And he sailed out over the say For the isles where pink coral and palm-branches blow, And the fire-flies turn night into day, Yeo ho!

And the fire-flies turn night into day.

”But the _Dolphin_ went down in a tempest, yeo ho!

And with three forsook sailors ash.o.r.e, The Portingals took him where sugar-canes grow, Their slave for to be evermore, Yeo ho!

Their slave for to be evermore.

”With his musket for mother and brother, yeo ho!

He warred wi' the Cannibals drear, In forests where panthers pad soft to and fro, And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear Yeo ho!

And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear.

”Now lean with long travail, all wasted with woe, With a monkey for messmate and friend, He sits 'neath the Cross in the cankering snow, And waits for his sorrowful end, Yeo ho!

And waits for his sorrowful end.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: NOD DANCED THE JAQQUAS' WAR-DANCE, ... STOOPING AND CROOKED ”WRIGGLE AND STAMP.”]

This song sung, Nod danced the Jaqquas' war-dance, which Battle had taught him, stooping and crooked, ”wriggle and stamp,” gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, waving a club--which waving, indeed, always waved Nod sprawling off his log before long, and set Battle rolling with laughter, and ended the dance.

That dance danced, they sat quiet awhile, Battle softly, very softly, thrumming on his Juddie, gazing into the fire. And suddenly in the silence, out of the vast blackness of the moonlit leagues beneath them, broke a strange and dismal cry. It rose lone and hollow, and yet it seemed with its sound to fill the whole enormous bowl of star-bedazzling sky above the forest. Then down it lingeringly fell, note by note, wailing and menacing, an answering song of hatred against the solitary Oomgar and his gun.

Battle caught up his musket and stood erect, facing with scowling eyes the vast silence of the forest. And instantly from far and near, solitary and in hunting-bands, deep and shrill, every beast that slinks and lies in wait beneath the moon broke into its hunting-cry.

Battle stood listening with a savage grin on his face, until the last echo had died away. Then, throwing down his musket, he hitched up the cloth bandage on his shoulder, lifted his great Juddie, and strode out from the fire a few paces till he stood black and solitary in the moonlight of the snow. And he plucked the girding strings and roared out with all his lungs his mocking answer:

”Voice without a body, Panther of black Roses, Jack-Alls fat on icicles, Ephelanto, Aligatha, Zevvera and Jaccatray, Unicorn and River-horse; Ho, ho, ho!

Here's Andy Battle, Waiting for the enemy!

”Imbe Calandola, M'keesso and Quesanga, Dondo and Sharammba, Pongo and Enjekko, Millions of monkeys, Rattlesnake and scorpion, Swamp and death and shadow; Ho, ho, ho!

Come on, all of ye, Here's Andy Battle, Waiting and--alone!”

He swept his great scarred thumb over the strings with a resounding flourish, and burst into a laugh. Then he turned his back on the unanswering forest, and sat down by the fire again, wiping the sweat from his face and combing out his tangled beard. Nod drew a little away from the fire, and sat softly watching him. The Oomgar was muttering with wide-open lids. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up a lump of the cold Mulgar-bread that Nod had cooked for his supper, and gnawed it with twitching fingers. He glanced over it with bright blue glittering eyes at his little hunched-up friend.

”Don't you have no shadow of fear, my son. If they come, come they must.

Just you skip off into the forest with your courage where your tail ought to be. I care not a pinch of powder for them or'nery beasts. It's that there Shadowlegs that beats me with his mewling. I've heard it down on the coast; I've heard it with the Portingals; I've heard it with the Andalambandoes; I've heard it wake and sleep. But witch-beast or no witch-beast, and every skulk-by-night that creeps on claws, I'll win home yet!” He kicked a few loose smoking logs into the blaze. ”More fire, my son! I like a light to fight by when fighting comes.”

The darkness was clear as gla.s.s. The sky seemed shaken as if with fire-flies. Not a sound stirred now, not even a hovering wing. Nod heaped high the huge fire, and followed the Oomgar into his hut.

But not to sleep. He crouched on his snug dry bed of moss, and waited patiently till Battle's snores rose slow and mournful beneath the snow-piled roof. Then very quickly he put on his sheep's-coat over his Juzanda jacket and breeches. He crawled out, and lifted down with both hands the heavy bar of the door, and stole out into the moonlight again.

He thrust his puckered hand under his jacket, and touched his skinny breast-bone, beneath which, ever since the little Horse of Tishnar had toppled him into the snow, he had felt the slumbering Wonderstone strangely burning. And, as if even Oomgar magic, too, might help him, he hobbled back into the hut and put Battle's little dog's-eared book into his pocket. Then, before his heart could fail him, he ran out as fast as his fours could carry him to where he had heard rise up in the night the Hunting-Song of Imma.n.a.la.