Wydanie do czytania BokRobot
Książki
Za darmoAmina
Wybierz wersję
Waldo, confronted with the reality of the impossible—as he himself would have phrased it—was utterly stunned. Silently, he let the consul lead him out of the tepid gloom of the tomb's interior, through the ruined doorway, into the brilliant, crushing heat of the desert landscape. Hassan followed, never looking back. Without a word, he had taken Waldo's gun from his helpless hand and carried it, along with his own and the consul's.
The consul strode across the gravelly sand, some fifty paces from the southwest corner of the tomb, to a stretch of partially ruined wall that offered a clear view of the tomb's entrance and the side with the larger crack.
"Hassan," he commanded, "watch here."
Hassan muttered something in Persian.
"How many cubs were there?" the consul asked Waldo.
Waldo stared, speechless.
"How many young ones did you see?" the consul repeated.
"Twenty or more," Waldo finally managed.
"That's impossible," snapped the consul.
"It seemed like sixteen or eighteen," Waldo insisted. Hassan smiled and grunted. The consul took two guns from him, handed Waldo his, and they walked around the tomb to a point about the same distance from the opposite corner. There was another heap of ruins, and in front of it, on the side facing the tomb, stood a block of stone mostly in the shadow of the wall.
"Convenient," said the consul. "Sit on that stone and lean against the wall; make yourself comfortable. You're a bit shaken, but you'll be fine in a moment. You should eat something, but we have nothing. Anyway, take a good swallow of this."
He stood by as Waldo gasped over the raw brandy.
"Hassan will bring you his water bottle before he leaves," the consul continued; "drink plenty, for you must stay here for some time. Now, pay attention. We must eradicate these vermin. The male, I judge, is absent. If he were anywhere about, you wouldn't be alive now. The young can't be as many as you say, but I suspect we're dealing with ten, a full litter. We must smoke them out. Hassan will return to camp for fuel and the guard. Meanwhile, you and I must ensure none escape."
He took Waldo's gun, opened the breech, closed it, checked the magazine, and handed it back.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 1 / 10
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Waldo, confronted with the reality of the impossible—as he himself would have phrased it—was utterly stunned. Silently, he let the consul lead him out of the tepid gloom of the tomb's interior, through the ruined doorway, into the brilliant, crushing heat of the desert landscape. Hassan followed, never looking back. Without a word, he had taken Waldo's gun from his helpless hand and carried it, along with his own and the consul's.
The consul strode across the gravelly sand, some fifty paces from the southwest corner of the tomb, to a stretch of partially ruined wall that offered a clear view of the tomb's entrance and the side with the larger crack.
"Hassan," he commanded, "watch here."
Hassan muttered something in Persian.
"How many cubs were there?" the consul asked Waldo.
Waldo stared, speechless.
"How many young ones did you see?" the consul repeated.
"Twenty or more," Waldo finally managed.
"That's impossible," snapped the consul.
"It seemed like sixteen or eighteen," Waldo insisted. Hassan smiled and grunted. The consul took two guns from him, handed Waldo his, and they walked around the tomb to a point about the same distance from the opposite corner. There was another heap of ruins, and in front of it, on the side facing the tomb, stood a block of stone mostly in the shadow of the wall.
"Convenient," said the consul. "Sit on that stone and lean against the wall; make yourself comfortable. You're a bit shaken, but you'll be fine in a moment. You should eat something, but we have nothing. Anyway, take a good swallow of this."
He stood by as Waldo gasped over the raw brandy.
"Hassan will bring you his water bottle before he leaves," the consul continued; "drink plenty, for you must stay here for some time. Now, pay attention. We must eradicate these vermin. The male, I judge, is absent. If he were anywhere about, you wouldn't be alive now. The young can't be as many as you say, but I suspect we're dealing with ten, a full litter. We must smoke them out. Hassan will return to camp for fuel and the guard. Meanwhile, you and I must ensure none escape."
He took Waldo's gun, opened the breech, closed it, checked the magazine, and handed it back."Now watch me closely," he said. He paced off, looking left past the tomb. Presently he stopped and gathered several stones together.
"You see these?" he called.
Waldo shouted his affirmation.
The consul walked back, then passed along the same line, looking right past the tomb, and at a similar distance set up another small pile of stones, shouting again and receiving an answer. He returned once more.
"Now, are you certain you won't mistake those two markers I've made?"
"Very certain indeed," said Waldo.
"It's important," warned the consul. "I'm going back to where I left Hassan, to keep watch there while he's gone. You'll watch here. You may walk back and forth between those stone heaps as often as you like. From either one, you can see me on my beat. Don't stray from the line between them. For as soon as Hassan is out of sight, I'll shoot any moving thing I see nearer. Sit here until you see me set up similar limits for my patrol on the far side, then shoot any moving thing that isn't on my patrol line. Keep a lookout all around. There's a one-in-a-million chance the male might return in daylight—mostly they're nocturnal, but this lair is clearly exceptional. Keep a sharp watch.
"And listen to me. You must not feel any foolish sentimentality about these vermin resembling human beings. Shoot, and shoot to kill. Not only is it our duty to eradicate them, but it will be very dangerous for us if we don't. There's little solidarity in Mohammedan communities, but on the few points where public opinion does exist, it acts with amazing speed and vigor. One matter on which there is no disagreement is that every man must help exterminate these creatures. The old Biblical custom of stoning to death is the local way of lynching. These modern Asiatics are quite capable of applying it to anyone suspected of failing against these hostile monsters. If we let one escape and word gets out, we may spark a racial prejudice that's hard to handle. Shoot, I say, without hesitation or mercy."
"I understand," said Waldo.
"I don't care whether you understand or not," said the consul. "I want you to act. Shoot if necessary, and shoot straight." And he tramped off.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 2 / 10
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Now watch me closely," he said. He paced off, looking left past the tomb. Presently he stopped and gathered several stones together.
"You see these?" he called.
Waldo shouted his affirmation.
The consul walked back, then passed along the same line, looking right past the tomb, and at a similar distance set up another small pile of stones, shouting again and receiving an answer. He returned once more.
"Now, are you certain you won't mistake those two markers I've made?"
"Very certain indeed," said Waldo.
"It's important," warned the consul. "I'm going back to where I left Hassan, to keep watch there while he's gone. You'll watch here. You may walk back and forth between those stone heaps as often as you like. From either one, you can see me on my beat. Don't stray from the line between them. For as soon as Hassan is out of sight, I'll shoot any moving thing I see nearer. Sit here until you see me set up similar limits for my patrol on the far side, then shoot any moving thing that isn't on my patrol line. Keep a lookout all around. There's a one-in-a-million chance the male might return in daylight—mostly they're nocturnal, but this lair is clearly exceptional. Keep a sharp watch.
"And listen to me. You must not feel any foolish sentimentality about these vermin resembling human beings. Shoot, and shoot to kill. Not only is it our duty to eradicate them, but it will be very dangerous for us if we don't. There's little solidarity in Mohammedan communities, but on the few points where public opinion does exist, it acts with amazing speed and vigor. One matter on which there is no disagreement is that every man must help exterminate these creatures. The old Biblical custom of stoning to death is the local way of lynching. These modern Asiatics are quite capable of applying it to anyone suspected of failing against these hostile monsters. If we let one escape and word gets out, we may spark a racial prejudice that's hard to handle. Shoot, I say, without hesitation or mercy."
"I understand," said Waldo.
"I don't care whether you understand or not," said the consul. "I want you to act. Shoot if necessary, and shoot straight." And he tramped off.Hassan soon appeared, and Waldo drank from his water bottle, nearly emptying it as Hassan allowed. After he left, Waldo's initial alertness soon turned into sheer endurance of the monotonous watch and the intense heat. His discomfort became suffering, and with the fury of the glaring sun, the pangs of thirst, and his bewildered mind, Waldo was moving in a waking dream by the time Hassan returned with two donkeys and a mule laden with brushwood. Behind the animals straggled the guard.
Waldo's trance became a nightmare when the smoke took effect and the battle began. He wasn't required to join in the killing, but was told to keep back. He stayed well in the background, seeing only as much of the slaughter as his curiosity wouldn't let him avoid. Yet he felt like a murderer as he gazed at the ten small carcasses laid out in a row, and the memory of his vigil and its end—indeed, the whole day, though it was the day of his most incredible adventure—remained with him as the broken recollections of a phantasmagoria.
On the morning of his memorable peril, Waldo had woken early. The experiences of his sea voyage, the sights at Gibraltar, Port Said, the canal, Suez, Aden, Muscat, and Basrah had formed an entirely inadequate transition from the orderly routine of house and school life in New England to the breathless wonder of the desert's vastness.
Everything seemed unreal, and yet the reality of its strangeness so besieged him that he couldn't feel at home in it; he couldn't sleep soundly in a tent. After settling himself to sleep, he would lie awake for a long time and wake early, as on this morning, just at the beginning of the false dawn.
The consul was fast asleep, snoring loudly. Waldo dressed quietly and went out, mechanically taking his gun, without any purpose or forethought. Outside he found Hassan, seated, his gun across his knees, his head slumped forward, as fast asleep as the consul. Ali and Ibrahim had left camp the day before for supplies. Waldo was the only waking creature around; the guards, camped some distance off, were like logs about the ashes of their fire.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 3 / 10
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Hassan soon appeared, and Waldo drank from his water bottle, nearly emptying it as Hassan allowed. After he left, Waldo's initial alertness soon turned into sheer endurance of the monotonous watch and the intense heat. His discomfort became suffering, and with the fury of the glaring sun, the pangs of thirst, and his bewildered mind, Waldo was moving in a waking dream by the time Hassan returned with two donkeys and a mule laden with brushwood. Behind the animals straggled the guard.
Waldo's trance became a nightmare when the smoke took effect and the battle began. He wasn't required to join in the killing, but was told to keep back. He stayed well in the background, seeing only as much of the slaughter as his curiosity wouldn't let him avoid. Yet he felt like a murderer as he gazed at the ten small carcasses laid out in a row, and the memory of his vigil and its end—indeed, the whole day, though it was the day of his most incredible adventure—remained with him as the broken recollections of a phantasmagoria.
---
On the morning of his memorable peril, Waldo had woken early. The experiences of his sea voyage, the sights at Gibraltar, Port Said, the canal, Suez, Aden, Muscat, and Basrah had formed an entirely inadequate transition from the orderly routine of house and school life in New England to the breathless wonder of the desert's vastness.
Everything seemed unreal, and yet the reality of its strangeness so besieged him that he couldn't feel at home in it; he couldn't sleep soundly in a tent. After settling himself to sleep, he would lie awake for a long time and wake early, as on this morning, just at the beginning of the false dawn.
The consul was fast asleep, snoring loudly. Waldo dressed quietly and went out, mechanically taking his gun, without any purpose or forethought. Outside he found Hassan, seated, his gun across his knees, his head slumped forward, as fast asleep as the consul. Ali and Ibrahim had left camp the day before for supplies. Waldo was the only waking creature around; the guards, camped some distance off, were like logs about the ashes of their fire.When he had begun camp life, he had expected the consul—that combination of sportsman, explorer, and archaeologist—to be a particularly easygoing guardian. He had looked forward to absolute freedom in the vast, limitless wastes. The reality was the exact opposite of his preconceptions. The consul's first instruction was:
"Never let yourself get out of sight of me or Hassan, unless he or I send you off with Ali or Ibrahim. Let nothing tempt you to wander alone. Even a short walk is dangerous. You might lose sight of camp before you know it."
At first Waldo acquiesced, but later he protested. "I have a good pocket compass. I know how to use it. I never lost my way in the Maine woods."
"No Kourds in the Maine woods," said the consul.
Yet before long, Waldo noticed that the few Kourds they encountered seemed simple-hearted, peaceful folk. No sign of danger or even adventure had appeared.
Their armed guard of a dozen greasy tatterdemalions had spent their time in uneasy loafing.
Waldo also noticed that the consul seemed indifferent to the ruins they passed or camped among; his interest in sites and topography was lukewarm at best; he showed no enthusiasm for hunting the sparse and uninteresting game. Waldo had picked up enough of several dialects to overhear repeated conversations about "them." "Have you heard of any around here?" "Has one been killed?" "Any traces of them in this district?" He could make out such queries in various talks with the natives they met, but as to what "they" were, he received no enlightenment.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 4 / 10
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
When he had begun camp life, he had expected the consul—that combination of sportsman, explorer, and archaeologist—to be a particularly easygoing guardian. He had looked forward to absolute freedom in the vast, limitless wastes. The reality was the exact opposite of his preconceptions. The consul's first instruction was:
"Never let yourself get out of sight of me or Hassan, unless he or I send you off with Ali or Ibrahim. Let nothing tempt you to wander alone. Even a short walk is dangerous. You might lose sight of camp before you know it."
At first Waldo acquiesced, but later he protested. "I have a good pocket compass. I know how to use it. I never lost my way in the Maine woods."
"No Kourds in the Maine woods," said the consul.
Yet before long, Waldo noticed that the few Kourds they encountered seemed simple-hearted, peaceful folk. No sign of danger or even adventure had appeared.
Their armed guard of a dozen greasy tatterdemalions had spent their time in uneasy loafing.
Waldo also noticed that the consul seemed indifferent to the ruins they passed or camped among; his interest in sites and topography was lukewarm at best; he showed no enthusiasm for hunting the sparse and uninteresting game. Waldo had picked up enough of several dialects to overhear repeated conversations about "them." "Have you heard of any around here?" "Has one been killed?" "Any traces of them in this district?" He could make out such queries in various talks with the natives they met, but as to what "they" were, he received no enlightenment.Then he questioned Hassan about why he was so restricted. Hassan spoke some English and regaled him with tales of Afrits, ghouls, specters, and other uncanny legendary beings: the jinn of the waste, appearing in human shape, speaking all languages, ever on the alert to ensnare infidels; the woman whose feet pointed backward at the ankles, luring the unwary to a pool and drowning her victims; the malignant ghosts of dead brigands, more terrible than their living counterparts; the spirit in the form of a wild ass or a gazelle, enticing pursuers to the brink of a precipice, then seeming to run ahead over a patch of sand that was nothing but a mirage, dissolving as the victim stepped over the edge and fell to their death; the sprite in the guise of a hare feigning a limp, or a ground bird feigning a broken wing, drawing its pursuer onward until they met death in a hidden pit or well shaft.
Ali and Ibrahim spoke no English. As far as Waldo could understand their long harangues, they told similar stories or hinted at dangers equally vague and imaginary. These childish bogey tales only whetted Waldo's craving for independence.
Now, as he sat on a rock, longing to enjoy the perfect sky, the clear early air, and the wide, lonely landscape, with the sense of having it all to himself, it seemed that the consul was merely naturally cautious, even overly cautious. There was no danger. He would take a fine, leisurely stroll, perhaps kill something, and certainly be back in camp before the sun grew hot. He stood up.
Some hours later, he was seated on a fallen coping-stone in the shadow of a ruined tomb. The entire region they had been traversing was full of tombs and their remains—prehistoric, Bactrian, old Persian, Parthian, Sassanian, or Mohammedan—scattered everywhere in groups or solitary. Gone utterly were the faintest traces of the cities, towns, and villages, the ephemeral houses or temporary huts in which countless generations of mourners had lived who raised these tombs.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 5 / 10
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Then he questioned Hassan about why he was so restricted. Hassan spoke some English and regaled him with tales of Afrits, ghouls, specters, and other uncanny legendary beings: the jinn of the waste, appearing in human shape, speaking all languages, ever on the alert to ensnare infidels; the woman whose feet pointed backward at the ankles, luring the unwary to a pool and drowning her victims; the malignant ghosts of dead brigands, more terrible than their living counterparts; the spirit in the form of a wild ass or a gazelle, enticing pursuers to the brink of a precipice, then seeming to run ahead over a patch of sand that was nothing but a mirage, dissolving as the victim stepped over the edge and fell to their death; the sprite in the guise of a hare feigning a limp, or a ground bird feigning a broken wing, drawing its pursuer onward until they met death in a hidden pit or well shaft.
Ali and Ibrahim spoke no English. As far as Waldo could understand their long harangues, they told similar stories or hinted at dangers equally vague and imaginary. These childish bogey tales only whetted Waldo's craving for independence.
Now, as he sat on a rock, longing to enjoy the perfect sky, the clear early air, and the wide, lonely landscape, with the sense of having it all to himself, it seemed that the consul was merely naturally cautious, even overly cautious. There was no danger. He would take a fine, leisurely stroll, perhaps kill something, and certainly be back in camp before the sun grew hot. He stood up.
---
Some hours later, he was seated on a fallen coping-stone in the shadow of a ruined tomb. The entire region they had been traversing was full of tombs and their remains—prehistoric, Bactrian, old Persian, Parthian, Sassanian, or Mohammedan—scattered everywhere in groups or solitary. Gone utterly were the faintest traces of the cities, towns, and villages, the ephemeral houses or temporary huts in which countless generations of mourners had lived who raised these tombs.The tombs, built more durably than mere dwellings of the living, remained. Whole or ruined, or reduced to mere fragments, they were everywhere. In that district, they were all of one type. Each was domed, with a square base, its one door facing east and opening into a larger empty room, behind which were the mortuary chambers.
In the shadow of such a tomb, Waldo sat. He had shot nothing, lost his way, had no idea where camp was, and was tired, hot, and thirsty. He had forgotten his water bottle.
He swept his gaze over the vast, desolate prospect, the unvarying turquoise sky arching above the rolling desert. Far reddish hills along the horizon hemmed in the less distant brown hillocks, which, without diversifying the view, hummocked the yellow landscape. Sand and rocks with a lean, starved bush or two made up the nearer view, broken here and there by dazzling white or streaked, grayish, crumbling ruins. The sun hadn't been above the horizon long, yet the whole desert surface was already quivering with heat.
As Waldo sat viewing the outlook, a woman came around the corner of the tomb. All the village women Waldo had seen wore yashmaks or some other face covering or veil. This woman was bareheaded and unveiled. She wore a loose, yellowish-brown garment that enveloped her from neck to ankles, showing no waistline. Her feet, despite the blistering sands, were bare.
At the sight of Waldo, she stopped and stared at him as he did at her. He noticed the un-European posture of her feet, not turned out at all, but with the inner lines parallel. She wore no anklets, he observed, no bracelets, no necklace or earrings. Her bare arms, he thought, were the most muscular he had ever seen on a human being. Her nails were pointed and long, on both her hands and feet. Her hair was black, short, and tousled, yet she didn't look wild or unkempt. Her eyes smiled, and her lips had the effect of smiling, though they never parted even slightly, never showing the teeth behind them.
"What a pity," Waldo said aloud, "that she doesn't speak English."
"I do speak English," said the woman, and Waldo noticed that as she spoke, her lips didn't perceptibly open. "What does the gentleman want?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 6 / 10
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The tombs, built more durably than mere dwellings of the living, remained. Whole or ruined, or reduced to mere fragments, they were everywhere. In that district, they were all of one type. Each was domed, with a square base, its one door facing east and opening into a larger empty room, behind which were the mortuary chambers.
In the shadow of such a tomb, Waldo sat. He had shot nothing, lost his way, had no idea where camp was, and was tired, hot, and thirsty. He had forgotten his water bottle.
He swept his gaze over the vast, desolate prospect, the unvarying turquoise sky arching above the rolling desert. Far reddish hills along the horizon hemmed in the less distant brown hillocks, which, without diversifying the view, hummocked the yellow landscape. Sand and rocks with a lean, starved bush or two made up the nearer view, broken here and there by dazzling white or streaked, grayish, crumbling ruins. The sun hadn't been above the horizon long, yet the whole desert surface was already quivering with heat.
As Waldo sat viewing the outlook, a woman came around the corner of the tomb. All the village women Waldo had seen wore yashmaks or some other face covering or veil. This woman was bareheaded and unveiled. She wore a loose, yellowish-brown garment that enveloped her from neck to ankles, showing no waistline. Her feet, despite the blistering sands, were bare.
At the sight of Waldo, she stopped and stared at him as he did at her. He noticed the un-European posture of her feet, not turned out at all, but with the inner lines parallel. She wore no anklets, he observed, no bracelets, no necklace or earrings. Her bare arms, he thought, were the most muscular he had ever seen on a human being. Her nails were pointed and long, on both her hands and feet. Her hair was black, short, and tousled, yet she didn't look wild or unkempt. Her eyes smiled, and her lips had the effect of smiling, though they never parted even slightly, never showing the teeth behind them.
"What a pity," Waldo said aloud, "that she doesn't speak English."
"I do speak English," said the woman, and Waldo noticed that as she spoke, her lips didn't perceptibly open. "What does the gentleman want?""You speak English!" Waldo exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "What luck! Where did you learn it?"
"At the mission school," she replied, an amused smile playing about the corners of her rather wide, unopening mouth. "What can I do for you?" She spoke with scarcely any foreign accent, but very slowly, with a sort of growl running from syllable to syllable.
"I'm thirsty," said Waldo, "and I've lost my way."
"Is the gentleman living in a brown tent, shaped like half a melon?" she inquired, the strange, rumbling note drawling from one word to the next, her lips barely separated.
"Yes, that's our camp," said Waldo.
"I could guide the gentleman that way," she droned, "but it's far, and there's no water on that side."
"I want water first," said Waldo, "or milk."
"If you mean cow's milk, we have none. But we have goat's milk. There is something to drink where I dwell," she said, sing-songing the words.
"It isn't far. It's the other way."
"Show me," he said.
She began to walk, and Waldo, his gun under his arm, walked beside her. She trod noiselessly and fast; Waldo could scarcely keep up. As they walked, he often fell behind and noticed how her swathing garments clung to a lithe, shapely back, neat waist, and firm hips. Each time he hurried to catch up, he studied her with sidelong glances, puzzled that her waist, so well-marked at the spine, showed no particular definition in front; that the outline from neck to knees, perfectly shapeless under her wrappings, lacked any waistline or suggestion of firmness or curve. He also noticed the amused flicker in her eyes and the compressed line of her lips—red, too red.
"How long were you at the mission school?" he inquired.
"Four years," she replied.
"Are you a Christian?" he asked.
"The Free-folk do not submit to baptism," she stated simply, but with rather more of the droning growl between her words.
He felt a strange shiver as he watched the scarcely moving lips through which the syllables forced their way.
"But you're not veiled," he couldn't resist saying.
"The Free-folk," she rejoined, "are never veiled."
"Then you're not a Mohammedan?" he ventured.
"The Free-folk are not Moslems."
"Who are the Free-folk?" he blurted out incautiously.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 7 / 10
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"You speak English!" Waldo exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "What luck! Where did you learn it?"
"At the mission school," she replied, an amused smile playing about the corners of her rather wide, unopening mouth. "What can I do for you?" She spoke with scarcely any foreign accent, but very slowly, with a sort of growl running from syllable to syllable.
"I'm thirsty," said Waldo, "and I've lost my way."
"Is the gentleman living in a brown tent, shaped like half a melon?" she inquired, the strange, rumbling note drawling from one word to the next, her lips barely separated.
"Yes, that's our camp," said Waldo.
"I could guide the gentleman that way," she droned, "but it's far, and there's no water on that side."
"I want water first," said Waldo, "or milk."
"If you mean cow's milk, we have none. But we have goat's milk. There is something to drink where I dwell," she said, sing-songing the words.
"It isn't far. It's the other way."
"Show me," he said.
She began to walk, and Waldo, his gun under his arm, walked beside her. She trod noiselessly and fast; Waldo could scarcely keep up. As they walked, he often fell behind and noticed how her swathing garments clung to a lithe, shapely back, neat waist, and firm hips. Each time he hurried to catch up, he studied her with sidelong glances, puzzled that her waist, so well-marked at the spine, showed no particular definition in front; that the outline from neck to knees, perfectly shapeless under her wrappings, lacked any waistline or suggestion of firmness or curve. He also noticed the amused flicker in her eyes and the compressed line of her lips—red, too red.
"How long were you at the mission school?" he inquired.
"Four years," she replied.
"Are you a Christian?" he asked.
"The Free-folk do not submit to baptism," she stated simply, but with rather more of the droning growl between her words.
He felt a strange shiver as he watched the scarcely moving lips through which the syllables forced their way.
"But you're not veiled," he couldn't resist saying.
"The Free-folk," she rejoined, "are never veiled."
"Then you're not a Mohammedan?" he ventured.
"The Free-folk are not Moslems."
"Who are the Free-folk?" he blurted out incautiously.She shot one baleful glance at him. Waldo remembered he was dealing with an Asiatic. He recalled the three permitted questions.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Amina," she told him.
"That's a name from the 'Arabian Nights,'" he hazarded.
"From the foolish tales of the believers," she sneered. "The Free-folk know nothing of such follies." The unvarying shutness of her speaking lips, the drawly burr between syllables, struck him even more as her lips curled but didn't open.
"You utter your words strangely," he said.
"Your language is not mine," she replied.
"How is it you learned my language at the mission school and aren't a Christian?"
"They teach all at the mission school," she said, "and the maidens of the Free-folk are like the other maidens they teach, though the Free-folk when grown are not as town-dwellers are. Therefore they taught me as any town-bred girl, not knowing me for what I am."
"They taught you well," he commented.
"I have the gift of tongues," she uttered enigmatically, with an odd note of triumph burring the words through her unmoving lips.
Waldo felt a horrid shudder all over, not only at her uncanny words, but also from sheer faintness.
"Is it far to your home?" he breathed.
"It is there," she said, pointing to the doorway of a large tomb just ahead.
The fully open arch admitted them into a fairly spacious interior, cool with the enduring temperature of thick masonry. The floor was clean of rubbish. Waldo, relieved to escape the blazing glare outside, seated himself on a block of stone midway between the door and the inner partition wall, resting his gun butt on the floor. For a moment, he was blinded by the change from the intense brilliance of the desert morning to the dim gray light within.
When his sight cleared, he looked around and noticed, opposite the door, a ragged hole that opened into the desecrated mausoleum. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was so startled he stood up. It seemed to him that from all corners of the room swarmed naked children. To his inexperienced eye, they appeared about two years old, but they moved with the assurance of boys of eight or ten.
"Whose are these children?" he exclaimed.
"Mine," she said.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 8 / 10
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She shot one baleful glance at him. Waldo remembered he was dealing with an Asiatic. He recalled the three permitted questions.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Amina," she told him.
"That's a name from the 'Arabian Nights,'" he hazarded.
"From the foolish tales of the believers," she sneered. "The Free-folk know nothing of such follies." The unvarying shutness of her speaking lips, the drawly burr between syllables, struck him even more as her lips curled but didn't open.
"You utter your words strangely," he said.
"Your language is not mine," she replied.
"How is it you learned my language at the mission school and aren't a Christian?"
"They teach all at the mission school," she said, "and the maidens of the Free-folk are like the other maidens they teach, though the Free-folk when grown are not as town-dwellers are. Therefore they taught me as any town-bred girl, not knowing me for what I am."
"They taught you well," he commented.
"I have the gift of tongues," she uttered enigmatically, with an odd note of triumph burring the words through her unmoving lips.
Waldo felt a horrid shudder all over, not only at her uncanny words, but also from sheer faintness.
"Is it far to your home?" he breathed.
"It is there," she said, pointing to the doorway of a large tomb just ahead.
The fully open arch admitted them into a fairly spacious interior, cool with the enduring temperature of thick masonry. The floor was clean of rubbish. Waldo, relieved to escape the blazing glare outside, seated himself on a block of stone midway between the door and the inner partition wall, resting his gun butt on the floor. For a moment, he was blinded by the change from the intense brilliance of the desert morning to the dim gray light within.
When his sight cleared, he looked around and noticed, opposite the door, a ragged hole that opened into the desecrated mausoleum. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was so startled he stood up. It seemed to him that from all corners of the room swarmed naked children. To his inexperienced eye, they appeared about two years old, but they moved with the assurance of boys of eight or ten.
"Whose are these children?" he exclaimed.
"Mine," she said."All yours?" he protested.
"All mine," she replied, with a curious suppressed boisterousness in her manner.
"But there are twenty of them!" he cried.
"You count badly in the dark," she told him. "There are fewer."
"There certainly are a dozen," he insisted, spinning around as they danced and scampered about.
"The Free-people have large families," she said.
"But they're all the same age!" Waldo exclaimed, his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth.
She laughed, an unpleasant, mocking laugh, clapping her hands. She stood between him and the doorway, and since most of the light came from there, he couldn't see her lips.
"Isn't that just like a man! No woman would have made that mistake."
Waldo was confounded and sat down again. The children circulated around him, chattering, laughing, giggling, snickering, making noises of glee.
"Please get me something cool to drink," said Waldo, and his tongue was not only dry but swollen in his mouth.
"We shall have to drink shortly," she said, "but it will be warm."
Waldo began to feel uneasy. The children pranced around him, babbling strange, guttural sounds, licking their lips, pointing at him, their eyes fixed on him, with occasional glances at their mother.
"Where is the water?"
The woman stood silent, her arms hanging at her sides, and it seemed to Waldo she was shorter than she had been.
"Where is the water?" he repeated.
"Patience, patience," she growled, and took a step closer.
The sunlight struck her back and cast a sort of halo around her hips. She seemed even shorter. There was something furtive in her bearing, and the little ones sniggered evilly.
At that instant, two rifle shots rang out almost as one. The woman fell face down on the floor. The babies shrieked in a shrill chorus. Then she leaped up from all fours with explosive suddenness, staggered in a lurching rush toward the hole in the wall, and with a frightful yell threw up her arms and whirled backward to the ground, doubled and contorted like a dying fish, stiffened, shuddered, and lay still. Waldo, his horrified eyes fixed on her face, even in his amazement noted that her lips did not open.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 9 / 10
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"All yours?" he protested.
"All mine," she replied, with a curious suppressed boisterousness in her manner.
"But there are twenty of them!" he cried.
"You count badly in the dark," she told him. "There are fewer."
"There certainly are a dozen," he insisted, spinning around as they danced and scampered about.
"The Free-people have large families," she said.
"But they're all the same age!" Waldo exclaimed, his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth.
She laughed, an unpleasant, mocking laugh, clapping her hands. She stood between him and the doorway, and since most of the light came from there, he couldn't see her lips.
"Isn't that just like a man! No woman would have made that mistake."
Waldo was confounded and sat down again. The children circulated around him, chattering, laughing, giggling, snickering, making noises of glee.
"Please get me something cool to drink," said Waldo, and his tongue was not only dry but swollen in his mouth.
"We shall have to drink shortly," she said, "but it will be warm."
Waldo began to feel uneasy. The children pranced around him, babbling strange, guttural sounds, licking their lips, pointing at him, their eyes fixed on him, with occasional glances at their mother.
"Where is the water?"
The woman stood silent, her arms hanging at her sides, and it seemed to Waldo she was shorter than she had been.
"Where is the water?" he repeated.
"Patience, patience," she growled, and took a step closer.
The sunlight struck her back and cast a sort of halo around her hips. She seemed even shorter. There was something furtive in her bearing, and the little ones sniggered evilly.
At that instant, two rifle shots rang out almost as one. The woman fell face down on the floor. The babies shrieked in a shrill chorus. Then she leaped up from all fours with explosive suddenness, staggered in a lurching rush toward the hole in the wall, and with a frightful yell threw up her arms and whirled backward to the ground, doubled and contorted like a dying fish, stiffened, shuddered, and lay still. Waldo, his horrified eyes fixed on her face, even in his amazement noted that her lips did not open.The children, squealing faint cries of dismay, scrambled through the hole in the inner wall, vanishing into the inky darkness beyond. The last had hardly gone when the consul appeared in the doorway, his smoking gun in his hand.
"Not a second too soon, my boy," he ejaculated. "She was just about to spring."
He cocked his gun and prodded the body with the muzzle.
"Good and dead," he commented. "What luck! Usually it takes three or four bullets to finish one. I've known one with two bullets through her lungs to kill a man."
"Did you murder this woman?" Waldo demanded fiercely.
"Murder?" the consul snorted. "Murder! Look at that."
He knelt down and pulled open the full, close lips, revealing not human teeth but small incisors, cusped grinders, widely spaced, and long, sharp, overlapping canines, like those of a greyhound: a fierce, deadly, carnivorous dentition, menacing and combative.
Waldo felt a wave of nausea, yet the face and form still swayed his horrified sympathy for their humanness.
"Do you shoot women because they have long teeth?" Waldo insisted, revolted by the horrid death he had witnessed.
"You're hard to convince," said the consul sternly. "Do you call that a woman?"
He stripped the clothing from the carcass.
Waldo was sickened. What he saw was not the front of a woman, but the body of a female animal—old and flaccid—mother of a pack.
"What kind of creature is it?" he asked faintly.
"A ghoul, my boy," the consul answered solemnly, almost in a whisper.
"I thought they didn't exist," Waldo babbled. "I thought they were mythical; I thought there were none."
"I can well believe there are none in Rhode Island," the consul said gravely. "This is in Persia, and Persia is in Asia."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-04cdd1329548496dbcff2d2fc4301513
# book_title: Amina
# chapter_id: 1-amina
# chapter_title: Amina
# book_page: 10 / 10
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The children, squealing faint cries of dismay, scrambled through the hole in the inner wall, vanishing into the inky darkness beyond. The last had hardly gone when the consul appeared in the doorway, his smoking gun in his hand.
"Not a second too soon, my boy," he ejaculated. "She was just about to spring."
He cocked his gun and prodded the body with the muzzle.
"Good and dead," he commented. "What luck! Usually it takes three or four bullets to finish one. I've known one with two bullets through her lungs to kill a man."
"Did you murder this woman?" Waldo demanded fiercely.
"Murder?" the consul snorted. "Murder! Look at that."
He knelt down and pulled open the full, close lips, revealing not human teeth but small incisors, cusped grinders, widely spaced, and long, sharp, overlapping canines, like those of a greyhound: a fierce, deadly, carnivorous dentition, menacing and combative.
Waldo felt a wave of nausea, yet the face and form still swayed his horrified sympathy for their humanness.
"Do you shoot women because they have long teeth?" Waldo insisted, revolted by the horrid death he had witnessed.
"You're hard to convince," said the consul sternly. "Do you call that a woman?"
He stripped the clothing from the carcass.
Waldo was sickened. What he saw was not the front of a woman, but the body of a female animal—old and flaccid—mother of a pack.
"What kind of creature is it?" he asked faintly.
"A ghoul, my boy," the consul answered solemnly, almost in a whisper.
"I thought they didn't exist," Waldo babbled. "I thought they were mythical; I thought there were none."
"I can well believe there are none in Rhode Island," the consul said gravely. "This is in Persia, and Persia is in Asia."
BokRobot
BokRobot brings together books and fairy tales to read and explore. Discover a growing collection, or create books and fairy tales of your own.
