LITMIR.BIZ

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past Pella, we gained a view of its farther side; and seated in a lofty cleft, beheld a lonely fisherman; solitary as a seal on an iceberg; his motionless line in the water.

      “What recks he of the ten kings,” said Babbalanja.

      “Mohi,” said Media, “methinks there is another tradition concerning that rock: let us have it.”

      “In old times of genii and giants, there dwelt in barren lands, not very remote from our outer reef, but since submerged, a band of evil-minded, envious goblins, furlongs in stature, and with immeasurable arms; who from time to time cast covetous glances upon our blooming isles. Long they lusted; till at last, they waded through the sea, strode over the reef, and seizing the nearest islet, rolled it over and over, toward an adjoining outlet.

      “But the task was hard; and day-break surprised them in the midst of their audacious thieving; while in the very act of giving the devoted land another doughty surge and Somerset. Leaving it bottom upward and midway poised, gardens under water, its foundations in air, they precipitately fled; in their great haste, deserting a comrade, vainly struggling to liberate his foot caught beneath the overturned land.”

      “This poor fellow now raised such an outcry, as to awaken the god Upi, or the Archer, stretched out on a long cloud in the East; who forthwith resolved to make an example of the unwilling lingerer. Snatching his bow, he let fly an arrow. But overshooting its mark, it pierced through and through, the lofty promontory of a neighboring island; making an arch in it, which remaineth even unto this day. A second arrow, however, accomplished its errand: the slain giant sinking prone to the bottom.”

      “And now,” added Mohi, “glance over the gunwale, and you will see his remains petrified into white ribs of coral.”

      “Ay, there they are,” said Yoomy, looking down into the water where they gleamed. “A fanciful legend, Braid-beard.”

      “Very entertaining,” said Media.

      “Even so,” said Babbalanja. “But perhaps we lost time in listening to it; for though we know it, we are none the wiser.”

      “Be not a cynic,” said Media. “No pastime is lost time.”

      Musing a moment, Babbalanja replied, “My lord, that maxim may be good as it stands; but had you made six words of it, instead of six syllables, you had uttered a better and a deeper.”

CHAPTER 70

      THE MINSTREL LEADS OFF WITH A PADDLE–SONG; AND A MESSAGE IS RECEIVED FROM ABROAD

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      From seaward now came a breeze so blithesome and fresh, that it made us impatient of Babbalanja’s philosophy, and Mohi’s incredible legends. One and all, we called upon the minstrel Yoomy to give us something in unison with the spirited waves wide-foaming around us.

      “If my lord will permit, we will give Taji the Paddle–Chant of the warriors of King Bello.”

      “By all means,” said Media.

      So the three canoes were brought side to side; their sails rolled up; and paddles in hand, our paddlers seated themselves sideways on the gunwales; Yoomy, as leader, occupying the place of the foremast, or Bow–Paddler of the royal barge.

      Whereupon the six rows of paddle-blades being uplifted, and every eye on the minstrel, this song was sung, with actions corresponding; the canoes at last shooting through the water, with a violent roll.

      (All.)

      Thrice waved on high,

      Our paddles fly:

      Thrice round the head, thrice dropt to feet:

      And then well timed,

      Of one stout mind,

      All fall, and back the waters heap!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      The wild sea song, to the billows’ throng,

      Rising, falling,

      Hoarsely calling,

      Now high, now low, as fast we go,

      Fast on our flying foe!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      Dip, dip, in the brine our paddles dip,

      Dip, dip, the fins of our swimming ship!

      How the waters part,

      As on we dart;

      Our sharp prows fly,

      And curl on high,

      As the upright fin of the rushing shark,

      Rushing fast and far on his flying mark!

      Like him we prey;

      Like him we slay;

      Swim on the fog,

      Our prow a blow!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      Heap back; heap back; the waters back!

      Pile them high astern, in billows black;

      Till we leave our wake,

      In the slope we make;

      And rush and ride,

      On the torrent’s tide!

      Here we were overtaken by a swift gliding canoe, which, bearing down upon us before the wind, lowered its sail when close by: its occupants signing our paddlers to desist.

      I started.

      The strangers were three hooded damsels the enigmatical Queen Hautia’s heralds.

      Their pursuit surprised and perplexed me. Nor was there wanting a vague feeling of alarm to heighten these emotions. But perhaps I was mistaken, and this time they meant not me.

      Seated in the prow, the foremost waved her Iris flag. Cried Yoomy, “Some message! Taji, that Iris points to you.”

      It was then, I first divined, that some meaning must have lurked in those flowers they had twice brought me before.

      The second damsel now flung over to me Circe flowers; then, a faded jonquil, buried in a tuft of wormwood leaves.

      The third sat in the shallop’s stern, and as it glided from us, thrice waved oleanders.

      “What dumb show is this?” cried Media. “But it looks like poetry: minstrel, you should know.”

      “Interpret then,” said I.

      “Shall I, then, be your Flora’s flute, and Hautia’s dragoman? Held aloft, the Iris signified a message. These purple-woven Circe flowers mean that some spell is weaving. That golden, pining jonquil, which you hold, buried in those wormwood leaves, says plainly to you — Bitter love in absence.”

      Said Media, “Well done, Taji, you have killed a queen.” “Yet no Queen Hautia have these eyes beheld.”

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