Allan and the Ice Gods (21 page)

people stirred at this hour when it was known to be abroad, a company

of them always went together. They reached the cave, and Moananga

asked what was the trouble. Aaka answered that she desired to know if

they had seen Wi, whom she could not find, or Pag, who doubtless was

with him, or if they knew where he had gone.

Moananga answered no, and spoke calm words to her, for she was much

disturbed, saying that Wi had many duties to attend of which he told

no one, and doubtless one of these had called him away. Or perhaps, he

added, he had gone to the glacier to make prayer to the Ice-gods or to

seek some sign of them.

While he was speaking thus, Foh pointed with his finger, and behold!

out of the morning mists appeared Wi, painted from head to heel with

blood and leaning upon the shoulder of Pag the dwarf, as a lame man

leans upon a stick.

“Not for nothing was I troubled,” said Aaka. “See, Wi is wounded, and

sorely.”

“Yet he walks well and his ax is as red as his skin,” answered

Moananga.

Then Wi came up to them and Aaka asked:

“Whose blood is that which covers you, Husband? Your own or another

man’s?”

“Neither, Wife,” answered Wi. “It is the blood of the great toothed

tiger which Pag and I have been fighting.”

“Yet Pag’s skin is white and yours is red, which is strange. But what

of the tiger, Husband?”

“The tiger is dead, Wife.”

Now they stared at him, then Aaka asked:

“Did you slay it?”

“Nay,” he answered, “I fought it, but I think Pag was its slayer. He

made the plan; he dug the trap; he set the bait, and it was his spear

that reached the brute’s heart at last ere my head was bitten off.”

“Go look at the tiger’s skull,” said Pag, “and see whether Wi’s ax

fits into the hole there. Look at its forearm also and judge what

weapon shattered it.”

“Pag! Always Pag! Is there nothing that you can do without Pag,

Husband?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Wi bitterly. “Perchance I might kiss a woman, if I

could find one who was fair and gentle-hearted.”

“Why don’t you?” mocked Aaka.

Then he went past her into the cave and called for water to wash

himself, while Pag sat down in front of it and told the tale of how Wi

had slain the tiger to all who would listen to him, but of his part in

that play saying nothing at all.

Led by Moananga, men went out, a score of them or more, and carried in

the beast, which they laid down in a place where it could be seen by

everyone. That day all who could stand upon their feet from the oldest

to the youngest of the tribe, came to stare at the dead monster which

had worked them so much mischief, while Pag sat by grinning, and

pointed out how the ax of Wi had shattered its skull and well-nigh

hewn off its great forepaw.

“But who gave the wound that pierced its heart?” asked one.

“Oh! Wi did that, too,” answered Pag. “When the beast charged him with

its last strength he leapt aside and thrust his spear through its

heart, after which it fell on top of him and tried to bite off his

head.”

“And what did you do all this time?” asked Tana, the wife of Moananga.

“I? Oh! I looked on. No, I forgot. I knelt down and prayed to the gods

that Wi might conquer.”

“You lie, Wolf-man,” said Tana, “for both your spears are buried in

the beast.”

“Perhaps,” answered Pag. “If so, it is an art I have learned from

women. If you have never lied, Tana, for good ends or bad, then

reproach me; but if you have, leave me alone.”

Then Tana was silent, for although she was sweet and loving, it was

well known that she did not always tell the truth.

After this, when he was recovered from his weariness and shaking and

his crushed ribs ceased to ache, all the people came up and worshipped

Wi who had rid them of the tiger, as he had rid them of the wolves,

declaring that he was one of the gods who had come out of the ice to

save them.

“So you say when things go well and danger passes. But when they go

ill and it hangs over your heads, then you tell another tale about

me,” answered Wi, smiling sadly. “Moreover, you give praise where it

is not due while you withhold it where it is due.”

Then, to be rid of all this clamour, he slipped away from them and

went out quite alone to walk upon the beach, while Pag stayed behind

to skin the tiger and to dress its hide. For now that the wolves were

dead and the tiger was dead, and Henga the murderer was dead, all

slain by Wi, man or woman or child might walk the beach in safety and

alone, especially as the bears seemed to have gone away, though

whether this was from fear of the tiger, or lack of food none knew.

The great gale from the south, which that spring had raged for very

many days, almost up to the night when Wi went out to fight the tiger,

had now quite blown itself out, leaving behind it a clear gray sky,

though of sun that spring there seemed to be even less than during the

year that was gone. Indeed, the air remained very cold, feeling as it

does when snow is about to fall, though this was not the time for

snow; the flowers which should have been making the woodlands and the

hillsides bright had not yet bloomed, nor had the seals and the birds

come in their wonted numbers. But though the wind was gone, there was

still a great swell upon the sea, and big waves upon which floated

blocks of ice broke sullenly upon the beach.

Wi walked toward the east. Presently he came to the mouth of the

glacier cleft, and though he had not purposed to go up to the face of

the ice or to look upon the shape of the Sleeper, something seemed to

lead him there; indeed, he felt as if an invisible cord was drawing

him toward this gloomy yet to him sacred spot, because in it dwelt the

only gods he knew. Moreover, he remembered that, during the mighty

frosts of the past winter, and especially at the time of the big gale,

great noises had been heard in the ice, which caused the people to

believe the gods were stirring.

He reached the head of the cleft, and there, poor savage that he was,

covered his eyes with his hands and, kneeling down, prayed after his

fashion. He thanked the gods because they had delivered him and the

people in his charge from great peril, giving him strength to kill the

evil Henga and, by the help of Pag, to do away with the most of the

wolves and with the awful tiger that the tribe believed contained the

spirit of Henga still lingering upon earth. He prayed also that the

laws which he had made might prosper; that there might be plenty of

food; that Foh his son might grow and be strong, ceasing to cough;

that Aaka might be gentle toward him who felt so lonely and

companionless and who by the law that he had made was forbidden to

seek any other wife. Lastly, he prayed that the sun might shine and

the weather become warm.

Then, as had happened to him before in this spot, something seemed to

speak in his heart, reminding him that he had brought no offering,

also that it was too late to find one, especially now that the wolves

were gone and he could not slay a beast as he had done before and set

its head upon a stone that the gods might smell blood.

Well, if so, what did it matter? How could the blood of wolves be of

any service to gods, and if it were so, was it good to worship beings

who rejoiced in blood and suffering? If they lived and had power, must

they not desire a very different sacrifice? What sacrifice? A thought

came to him. Surely that of the heart, that of repentance for past

evil, that of promise to do better. A gust of passion seized him. He

flung himself upon his face, muttering:

“O Gods, let me be the sacrifice. Give me strength to see and

understand, to bring blessing upon the heads of all, to protect and

nurture all, if only for a little while, and then, if you will, take

my life in payment for your gifts.”

Thus prayed poor Wi, and for a moment thought that he was better than

those among whom he lived, since he knew that not in the heart of one

of them would this prayer have been born, except perhaps in that of

Pag, if Pag had believed in anything, which he did not. For even then

Wi understood that he who does not believe cannot pray. A boy, so long

as he thinks he sees something or smells it, or hears it move, will

throw stones in the hope that he may hit it; but when he is certain

that there is nothing beneath the water or in the tree, for how long

will he go on throwing the stones? Now this was the difference between

them; although he could not see it, Wi thought that there was

something beneath the water or in the tree, and therefore continued to

throw his stones of prayer; whereas Pag was sure that there was

nothing at all, and therefore kept his stones and saved his strength.

Then Wi remembered that, after all, he had no cause to boast himself.

He prayed for the people. But why did he do so? Oh! the answer was

plain: it was not for the people and their woes that he was sorry, but

for his own, in which he saw theirs reflected by the mirror of his

heart, as images are seen in clear water. His little daughter had been

taken from him in a cruel fashion. He had avenged her death upon the

murderer, thinking thus to satisfy his soul. Yet it was not satisfied,

for he had learned that there is no comfort in vengeance. What he

needed was his daughter, not the blood of her butcher. Therefore he

hoped that some land unseen lay beyond that of life, where he might

find her and others whom he had loved, which was why he prayed to the

gods. He was sorry for others who had lost their children, because he

could measure something of their suffering by his own, but at bottom

he was most sorry for himself. So it was with everything. By his own

unhappiness he measured that of others, and when he feared for them,

really he feared for himself and those he loved, feeling for all with

the ache of his own heart and seeing all by the light of his own eyes.

These thoughts crushed Wi, who by help of them now understood that

even the sacrifice which he offered for others was full of

selfishness, because he desired to escape from trouble and at the same

time to earn merit and to leave a hallowed name behind him, he who did

not know that than this no higher measure is given to man, for if it

were he would cease to be man and become a god.

Of a sudden Wi abandoned prayer. He had thrown the spear of his mind

at the skies, and lo! it stood there fixed in the ground before his

feet. Since he could never get away from himself, what was the use of

praying? Let him do those things that lay to his hand as best he might

and bear his burdens as far as he could and cease from importuning

help from he knew not whence. He who in this bitter moment of

understanding for a while became sure that man could not hunt the

gods, since it was they who hunted him, paying no more heed to his

petitions than he, Wi, did to the groanings of any seal that he

pursued as it strove impotently to struggle to the sea where it would

be safe.

He rose from the ground to look at the face of the glacier and

discover how far it had moved forward during the fierce winter that

was gone. He stared at it and started back, for there in hideous

imagery stood his own thought portrayed. In that clear ice he had been

accustomed to see the dim form of the Sleeper and behind it, rather to

one side, a yet dimmer form, thought to be that of a man who pursued

the Sleeper, or perchance of one of the gods taking his rest with it.

Now, behold! all this was changed. There stood the Sleeper as before,

but by magic, or perhaps by some convulsion of the ice, the figure

that had been behind was now in front. Yes, there it stood, with not

more than once pace length of ice between Wi himself and it, a weird

and awful thing.

It was a man, of that there could be no doubt, but such a man as Wi

had never seen, for his limbs were covered with hair, his forehead

sloped backwards, and his great jaw stood out beyond the line of his

flat nose. His arms were very long, his legs were bowed, and in one of

his hands he held a short, rough staff of wood. For the rest, his sunk

but open eyes seemed to be small and his teeth large and prominent,

while his head was covered with coarse and matted hair and from his

shoulder hung a cloak, the skin of some animal of which the forepaws

were knotted about his neck.

On this strange and hideous creature’s face there was stamped a look

of the wildest terror, telling Wi that he had died suddenly and that,

when he died, he was very much afraid. Of what had he been afraid? Wi

wondered. Not of the Sleeper, he thought, because until some movement

of the glacier had thrust him forward during the past winter, he had

been behind the Sleeper, as though he were pursuing it. No, it was

something else that he feared.

Suddenly Wi guessed what it was. Long, long ago this forefather of the

tribe, for knowing no other men, Wi thought that so he must be,