Chapter IV: The Rainmaker’s Advice

Garram heard the tapping of a stick. It was approaching along the rocky path which wound through the terraced fields of corn, toward the place where he lay basking in the sun. Bare feet give no sound on rock, so people of the Hills learn to recognize the tapping of the six-foot walking sticks as easily as boot-wearing people recognize the sound of a well-known footstep.

“Salutations and many salutations!” The boy sprang up in greeting as, rounding a boulder at the turn of the path, came the tall figure of his ancient friend, the Rainmaker and Priest of the Tribal Cults. Proudly Garram offered his new leopard skin as a seat for his visitor. Garram’s wounds had healed with no trace of blood poisoning, but he was still too weak to hunt, and was forced to sit about, idly convalescing. He had been lying in the shade, watching Kon scratch for imaginary fleas, listening to the songs of the women as they ground corn in the huts, stretching out his brown arms and legs luxuriously in the morning breeze, but getting more and more bored.

“Increase in years and prosperity be thine!” he added as his welcome visitor sat down and disposed his soft skins about him.

The Rainmaker laid down his staff. “Peace and health!” the deep voice replied. “And your strength?... Returning to you?... It is good, for you will need it soon!”

The appearance of the old Rainmaker was impressive. His high-bridged nose was in contrast to the flatter noses of the rest of the tribe, and his shining but uncut beard and hair, his six foot six of bone and muscle hung round with soft tanned leather robes and mysterious bags and charms, all added dignity to the seamed, impassive face on which alone the years had left their mark.

The young hunter and the old magician seemed to have something in common. Though grown-ups were silent at his approach and children ran howling to their mothers, Garram, when a small child, had stood gravely considering the old Rainmaker; then, to the horror of the other children, had crossed the market place to him, politely saluted him, and asked why people feared him! This was many years ago, but the Rainmaker and the young hunter, both aloof and uncommunicative, both fearless and rather disdainful of the chattering village, had formed a curious friendship which had lasted ever since.

The old man began to fill his pipe from a leather tobacco wallet which hung at his waist. At least two ounces of the coarse native tobacco went into the shining black clay bowl with its ornate carvings. The bowl was nearly four inches across and five deep, and it would have taken twice the amount to fill it. But it was seldom smoked out. Garram watched with interest as the old man busied himself with a collection of small tongs, skewers, and knives made of soft iron and kept especially for this purpose in the wallet.

Behind them as they sat was the group of red-walled, grass-thatched huts, built touching each other and inclosing a courtyard. This was Garram’s home, and at a sign from the other he went in swiftly by the narrow window-like door set high in one of the walls. In a moment he returned with a small ember from the cooking fire, carefully shielding it from the inflammable thatch as he climbed out again through the circular doorway.

With the bowl at the end of the three-foot-long mouthpiece resting on the ground, the Rainmaker applied the glowing ember to a small stick.

“Though the sky be clear,”--he squatted on the leopard skin and drew carefully at the mouthpiece--“those who have wisdom can yet feel the coming storm.” He made a motion for the young hunter to sit down and listen. “But the fool will wait till Achin the God of Thunder rends a tree before he says to himself, ‘See there is a storm!’” Reaching out his hand he broke the glowing end of the stick carefully into the exact center of the bowl. With a metal skewer he scraped the fluffy white wood ash all around it, carefully covering all but the center, where the charcoal glowed. A few tentative draws on the pipe, then, the result appearing to his satisfaction, he wiped and replaced the odd bunch of tools in the wallet.

“What, then, is the meaning of my saying?” he asked.

Garram remained silent. As a hunter he knew that talk scared the game. The silent man sees and hears most. The Rainmaker had not come for a chat but to say something of importance. Instead of replying, the boy stretched out a leg and with bare toe invited Kon to come and be scratched. The massive dog approached and with a bored sigh flopped down and rolled over, his lips drawing back in a contented grin as a skilful toe explored the sensitive part of the chest around the shoulder.

“Even though the sky be clear for you and for Warok your father,” the deep voice resumed, “is there no sign of a coming storm?”

Garram looked up swiftly as his friend seemed to be reading his thoughts.

“Uncle of my father, Yes! The signs are clear, but there is much that I cannot understand.”

The chief priest, in his turn, seemed to have lost all interest in the subject. With all elaboration and care seemingly due to so important an act he was tamping down his pipe where smoldering grains of tobacco had forced up the neat white ring of the wood ash.

The leopard skin beneath the two lay on a surface of thickly strewn white sand, sand which had been brought painstakingly from a stream bed two thousand feet below and spread like a soft carpet over the stones. Garram was marking parallel lines in it with outstretched forefinger as he brought to mind, one by one, the matters that had puzzled him.

With a sweep of his hand he obliterated the marks and spoke.

“Many things which are hidden to me are clear to you. And perhaps in these matters there is no mystery. But why is Menud again the leader of the young hunters of the tribe? Before my wounds made all things go black before my eyes he had been shown guilty of stealing and perhaps of plotting to have me killed. He was not worthy of punishment, though many wished him punished. Why then is he thought worthy again to lead the youths of the tribe--he who is a thief and worse?”

The tall figure nodded. “Yes, that is without doubt one of the signs.”

The boy made a long mark in the sand.

“And Sura who shared in the blame of Menud his son--he has not been cast out. He has even taken part in the Council of the Elders, sitting on the Sacred Stones and speaking as if with authority--though only in the absence of the chief, my father. Sura is not of the true descent, being a runaway slave from the Plains. Why does my father permit these acts?”

The priest nodded. Garram made another mark in the sand. There was a pause. The old man drew gently on his pipe. Then:

“Are there no other signs that you see? Things that affect you less, but the tribe perhaps more?”

Garram hesitated for a moment. “O uncle of my father, that is all that I see with clear sight. But beyond, matters which are no concern of mine, since I have no authority in the tribe--and yet....”

Garram had risen and was standing, hands clenched, more moved than when he had been on trial for his life. A look of understanding crossed the priest’s seamed and rugged face.

“Why do we, the Hillmen, grow careless of our honor and safety?” The boy’s dark eyes flashed as he spoke. “The elders follow Sura because of his wealth, though he is not of our race. The young men follow though he is clumsy as the wild boar and vain as the rock fowl. None care for the good of the tribe. There are no young hunters fit to become warriors. The cactus defence walls of the village are never repaired and are full of gaps for lazy women to take short cuts. There are no fire belts around the towns, so annual bush fires destroy many villages. An enemy could, by fire, drive us forth to meet his waiting spears.”

Unused to making long speeches, the boy paused and scratched the calf of his left leg with bare right toe.

“And why, seeing this--and I have seen his face darken with anger as he sees--does my father the chief do nothing?” He stopped, his brown chest rising and falling under his excited breathing, and looked down into the expressionless face of the smoker.

Again the pipe called for attention. Again the tools were produced and the glowing charcoal was moved slightly toward one side. Garram, annoyed with himself for having said so much, fidgeted awkwardly from foot to foot.

“What would you have your father do?” The Rainmaker spoke quietly. “In peace we Hillmen are as free to act foolishly as wisely. Only in time of war do we place all power in the hands of the chief, punishing with death all who disobey. If the people, soft and secure for many years, fear no attack and neglect their defences, what then? The elders too,” he continued, “are soft and forgetful of their duty. If Warok commands that defences be repaired, the elders will stand between him and the people, seeking to gain favor, saying, ‘See, we will not permit this chief to oppress you, for you are free men!’”

The old man paused, then added as if in careless afterthought: “Moreover, the elders are well bribed by Sura with feasts and presents. And Sura seeks to discredit the chief, your father, and seize the chieftainship.”

The early morning breeze was dropping, and the sun was getting uncomfortably hot. Kon rose and sauntered toward the cooler shadow of a doka tree near the path. But Garram waited. The old Rainmaker, the most feared man of the tribe, was not one to speak without cause and point. The boy felt the fierce eyes under the deep brows looking into him and testing him.

Whatever he sought, the priest seemed satisfied. Preliminaries were over, and he came straight to the point of his visit.

“There is a secret plot to murder Warok, your father. He will not save himself by flight, for the gods made him without fear and heedless of his enemies. He cannot defend himself except against the straightforward attack, and Sura and his followers are more likely to loose an arrow through the dusk or poison his food or water. But you his son have it in your power to save him. You only.”

The eyes of the young hunter lighted up, and his hand slid to the knife at his belt. A half smile relaxed the grim face of the old man. “Nay, not by that means. By one way only--flight! If you are beyond the reach of the plotters they will not touch the chief your father. For they will fear the day when you may return to the tribe a grown man, living only to avenge him.”

His message delivered, the gaunt Rainmaker turned again to his pipe. With the greatest attention to detail he emptied out the charcoal, scraped out some burned tobacco, and plugged the unburned dottel with a stopper of grass. The young hunter stood motionless before him, looking into the distance. His hand was still on his knife, but he was swallowing the bitter medicine of his disappointment. To fight--ah, that would have been good! But to fly from one’s enemies--it seemed too hard a thing to ask! His chest rose and fell, and he had to gulp hard to conceal his sorrow. The old man, face averted, cleaned his tools twice over in the sand and polished them off on his bare sole with quite unnecessary care before replacing them in the leather bag.

At last the old Rainmaker rose to go. “Well? Your answer?” The deep voice betrayed unintended sympathy at variance with the curt inquiry.

The boy swallowed again. Then huskily, “I go!”

A JOURNEY TO COME