Chapter I: Part 1

_The Youngest Camel_

THE YOUNGEST CAMEL

By Kay Boyle

With illustrations by
FRITZ KREDEL

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY
1939

COPYRIGHT 1939, BY KAY BOYLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT
TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK OR PORTIONS
THEREOF IN ANY FORM

FIRST EDITION

_Published August 1939_

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS BOOKS
ARE PUBLISHED BY
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_For Pegeen, Bobby, Apple-Joan,
Kathe, and Clover Vail_

ILLUSTRATIONS

“_Now we have brought you to the pathway between the
winds._” Frontispiece

_The little camel said nothing at all, but simply
followed in her footsteps_ 22

_He lay there very meekly on one side_ 28

_And then they flew off, their legs floating on the air behind
them_ 44

“_It’s much wiser to be polite to everyone I meet, because one
never knows._” 54

_The little camel took another uncertain step towards the tent_ 68

_The Youngest Camel_

_I_

The beginning of the caravan’s trip was made through lovely country, through regions in which flowers such as tea roses and white and purple iris bloomed. When the caravan came through villages, boys ran out barefoot and half-naked to sell fruit to the travelers: baskets of peaches, pears, and melons. All the forty camels wore bells, each one several little silver-tongued bells attached to the harness he wore around his neck. The youngest camel was the only one who did not carry a bell, nor a load on his back. This was the first trip he had ever made across the desert and he followed close behind his mother. As long as she was there before him, he felt quite pleased with himself and not at all fearful of all the sights he saw.

After several days the caravan, like every other caravan that took this route, entered the badlands. Here the older camels fell into sudden rages and spat if anyone approached them. If the camel drivers jerked their nose cords, they flung their legs about and tottered as if they were about to faint. Now and then, towards sundown, when the hour to halt seemed near, they screamed aloud like humans. But the camels grew quieter as soon as the desert began and they felt their feet deep in the hot slipping sand.

The early mornings were now a clear icy blue, but as the day advanced the heat blazed up as if a fire were sweeping across the heavens towards them. The youngest camel didn’t mind how hot it was and he had such a good opinion of his own strength that he thought he could never possibly get tired. He came skipping and jumping along behind his mother, playing games with himself and laughing out loud when the dry sand ran swift as water between his toes. But when his mother complained of the terrible heat and the long way they had to go, he lifted his soft dark eyes and looked at her long legs before him, and her tail, and he thought: I love her. I love her elbows with the hair worn off them, like the old carpet the snake charmer sits on in the market place; I love the way her hump slumps when she has no more water in it, and I love the way her tail is eaten by the moths because she forgot to put it in camphor once about fifty years ago.

He was a very poetic young camel and rather musical besides. He had a beautiful singing voice, and in the evenings when they halted at an oasis he liked to play the harp and sing to her. Most of his songs were about himself and his own beauty and grace, but sometimes at night his songs were so tender in his love for her that she had to rise from her knees and break off great leaves from the banana trees and dry the tears from her aging face.

On the fifteenth night they halted at an oasis where the poplars and mimosas grew in great profusion, and where hares and antelope moved shyly in the cool green gorges. The stars were sprinkled out as fine as salt across the bluish night sky. The youngest camel lay close beside his mother in the moist grasses, and she said to him:--

“Flower of my heart, this trip you have followed close beside me, for you are my baby still, but soon you must prepare yourself for what will surely come. Perhaps when we reach the end of our journey you will be taken from me, and from then on you will travel with strange camels, carrying a load of your own.”

“A baby?” said the youngest camel in surprise, feeling a little annoyed. “Me, a baby?”

“Yes,” said his mother sadly, “and so, my earliest leaf, you will have to undergo the ordeal of loneliness.”

“What in the world is that?” asked the young camel, and he reached out for his harp and lightly touched its strings.

“The ordeal of loneliness is the thing we camels fear the most,” said his mother, and he sat listening to her rather impatiently, swinging his little golden chin back and forth as he chewed on a bit of grass. “Men have found out,” she went on, lowering her voice, “that what we fear above everything else is being left alone. So they take us one by one when we are very young like you, and they tie us fast and leave us in solitude three days and three nights in the desert. If we live through that and keep our reason, then we’re cured. After that we no longer fear the terrible sight of nothingness around us. But sometimes we do not live through it. You must be prepared for that.”

“What, me?” said the youngest camel with a laugh. “Do you think I’ll mind? Why, not at all. I’m a little bit afraid of fire, and I don’t quite like things that lie still and refuse to move any more. But generally I’m much more brave than other young camels, and I couldn’t possibly be afraid of being alone!”

He was so close to his mother’s side that this seemed like a fairy story she told him. And all around them the oasis was filled with sleeping life. Near the trees, the mules stood tethered, their tails swinging back and forth in the warm night air. Against the starry sky, the necks and heads of the forty kneeling camels stood out, peaceful as statues. Danger seemed a thing too far away to think of, even.

“Yes,” his mother went on as she smoothed his hair back from his brow. “At first you will be very much afraid, but you must try to remember there is nothing really to fear. Remember, it is only the beating of our own hearts that makes us tremble.”

The young camel laughed a little in contempt at the idea of being afraid of anything at all, and then he began to draw music from his harp. No one moved, nothing stirred except the mules’ tails slowly waving in the tall grass, but his mother began to cry silently while he sang.

_The Youngest Camel’s Song_

When I am fourteen I shall wear tassels on my cheeks,
And I shall dance for the Shah and the Lamas and the Raj
With a tambourine tied to my tail.
When they sprinkle coins before me and wash my hoofs in milk,
I shall return to you rich from their palaces,
Running fast as a king deer to you with jewels in his antlers.

I shall know you at once, no matter how many years have passed over,
Because you have no upper teeth any more
And because you have sores on your shoulders.
I shall bring you patches to wear on your old knees, Mother,
And ivory and basalt stronger than teeth
To fill up your naked mouth.

_II_

The next morning the youngest camel awoke in high spirits and ran quickly to brush his teeth in the oasis pool. He felt so reckless that he swallowed all his toothbrush water on purpose, a thing his mother had told him particularly he should never do. Then he gargled so loud that nobody could hear the waterfall any more; so loud, in fact, that the mules craned their heads around and looked critically over their shoulders at him. Next he caught sight of a group of melancholy waders, some of them looking in the water for frogs and some of them standing mournfully on one leg in the shallows. So he crept along behind the bushes and then jumped out at them with such a shout that he scared them into fits before they collected themselves enough to spread their wings and fly away.

His mother was not at all pleased at the way he was going on. The sun was rising beyond the tamarisk trees and a day’s travel lay before them, so naturally she was not feeling in quite such a sentimental mood as on the night before. She kept darting black looks at him all the time she was being saddled and packed, but she couldn’t get near enough to him to say a word. He was dancing foolishly around with his harp and making a spectacle of himself before the mules, who, although they did not usually see anything funny in anything, had begun to show their teeth in quick unhappy smiles.

And now the caravan started off again across the sand, accompanied by the music of the camels’ silver bells. The young camel ran lightly along beside his mother, humming under his breath something about “love” and “the afternoon I met you” and “a love nest for two,” which were words from a song everybody was singing that year.

“The trouble with you is that you just can’t see things as they really are,” his mother said severely to him.

She reached out and tried to nip his ear, but he skipped quickly behind her and there he began to play with her tail, leaping and skidding, the way a kitten will bound after his mother’s tail if he is feeling full of milk and bold as brass.

“Whoops!” he cried, making another flying leap after her tail as she tossed it in irritation into the air. “And, anyhow, how _are_ things _really_?”

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped his mother as she ambled along behind the next camel’s hind legs and tail. “Things _are_ exactly as they _are_.”

The sun was rising higher above them, and every instant it grew hotter until the heat seemed to have bleached all the color out of the sky.

“For instance, this sand is getting unbearably hot,” his mother went on, “and there is no stopping place until we reach the oasis, which will be about sundown. Also, there is a sore on my right hip which is being rubbed at every step by my haunch strap. And, last but not least, you are behaving like a perfect ninny. Such things _are_. Whether you like it or not, you have to admit they’re _there_.”

“Where is _there_?” asked the youngest camel smartly, and his mother answered:--

“_There_, of course, means _here_.”

“I don’t see how _there_ can be _here_ when _there_’s over there somewhere,” said her son, and she answered shortly:--

“Don’t waste your time talking so ridiculously. One of the things that doesn’t exist is the green vale I had always hoped to settle in. At my time of life I ought to have a place like that where I could stretch out and eat all the fresh vegetation I wanted and drink as much cool water as I wanted--” The camel driver gave her mouth such a jerk that she had to stop speaking for a moment, and then she added bitterly: “That’s just one of the things that can never possibly be.”

“Why can’t it?” asked the youngest camel.

“Because it can’t,” snapped his mother. “Because your father didn’t take out any life insurance. Because things _are_ or else they _are not_.”

“What about the caravan of white camels with solid gold hoofs that goes right around the earth like a belt?” asked the little camel, shifting his harp on his shoulder.

“Hooey,” said his mother. “A lot of hooey.”

“But a llama told me that back in Hindustan,” her son insisted. “They go right around the world through everything--cities, oceans, railway carriages, skyscrapers. They keep on going all the time and nothing can stop them and nobody except camels can see them. And whenever a camel is lost anywhere in the world he only has to join the caravan of white camels and in the end he’s bound to pass through his own country and find his family again--”

“Don’t be an ass,” said his mother. Her feet were beginning to hurt her very much. “You can be sure that’s one of the things that decidedly _is not_.”

“The llama said he knew a camel who--” he began, but his mother interrupted:--

“Llamas are notoriously untruthful.”

They went on in silence for a while, but presently the little camel began asking questions again.

“What about the two sides of the weather that Mohammed has for a fan?” he said to his mother. “The light blue side is turned towards him when he feels like dancing and singing, and then the dark side is turned out to us. And when he is in thought he fans himself with the dark side so the light won’t disturb him. That’s how we have good and bad weather.”

“Absurd!” snapped his mother. “Sometimes the sun shines and sometimes it doesn’t. That’s all there is to that story.”

“What about the sun being a pineapple with its skin taken off?” said the youngest camel rather sadly.

“Bunkum!” said his mother as she ambled along before him.

“The peacock I met in Kerbela said bad weather came when the wind blew hard and broke the pineapple off the branch and split it in five hundred pieces,” the little camel said.

“There’s not a word of truth in that story either,” his mother said. “You’re old enough now,” she added as the camel driver jerked up her nose, “to begin recognizing the truth when you see it--”

But before she could say any more, the little camel cried out:--

“Oh, I’ve found the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen! Oh, it’s so marvelous! I found it--lying--right--here--in--the--sand--”

Because his voice grew fainter and fainter, she knew he must have stopped behind her to pick up whatever it was, but when she tried walking slower to give him time to catch up with her again, the camel driver pulled fiercely at her reins. She could not so much as turn her head to see what had become of the youngest camel, but she had to go loping on with that queer human-looking smile on her lips which camels usually wear.

But they had not gone very far before she heard her child panting behind her, and in another moment he called out:--

“This time I’ve found a fortune! We’re going to be rich and happy forever and you’ll never have to work again! It’s a string of wonderful beads,” he said, dropping into step behind her. “Some of them are carved and they’re all different colors, and they’re strung together on a solid-silver chain. It must have been a prince who lost them on his way to his wedding,” his excited voice went on. “I’m sure they must be very valuable indeed.”

The sun was growing hotter and hotter in the heavens, and now his mother, who was much older than anyone would have believed, was feeling more than a little impatient. She couldn’t crane her neck around and see what the youngest camel was up to, and her feet hurt her, and her hip was rubbed quite raw.

“In the first place, they don’t belong to you,” she said to him in annoyance. “You’ll have to turn them over to the police as soon as we reach civilization.”

“Oh, but look!” cried the little camel, just as if it were possible for her to turn her head and see. “There’s a bit of paper tied to them. It says--let me see a minute,” he said, as if trying hard to make the letters out--“it says, ‘Whoever finds these magic beads may keep them.’ So you see!” he cried out joyfully. “Now they belong to us and we can sell them in the next city and you can have everything you want to make you happy. You can have a parasol to keep the sun off you, and a litter with curtains at the sides to be carried in by slaves, and you can wear a solid gold ring in your nose every day, and I can have a big mirror to watch myself in while I’m dancing, and--”

“Tell me what they look like,” said his mother, beginning to be a little curious. “This brute is holding the cord so tight that I can’t look around, but describe them to me.”

“Well, one is bright red,” said her son, following quickly behind her. “The one next to it is green, and the next after that shines like a diamond.” He talked very slowly, as if he were examining the necklace closely as he came along. “And now I see something else!” he cried out in fresh excitement. “Each one has a sort of message written in it, carved right inside it in beautiful tiny lettering.”

“Ho, ho,” said his mother. “That’s probably why they’re called magic beads.”

“Oh, yes, that must be it. I hadn’t thought of that,” said the youngest camel in an innocent-sounding voice. “The jade one has written inside it,” he went on slowly, as if he were having difficulty in making out the words, “‘I am the green valley you long for. You may live in me forever.’ And the topaz bead says, ‘I am a silk tent to protect you from sandstorms and from winter and from the midday sun.’ And the ruby one says, ‘I am blood to flow in your veins and the veins of those you love. Thus you may live forever.’ And the--”

“Do any of them say anything about bones?” asked his mother, and the little camel looked up with surprise.

“Bones?” he repeated.

“Yes, bones,” said his mother. “Perhaps I haven’t told you about that yet, but if you don’t know it’s certainly high time you did. Although we camels dread the smell or sight of death, there’s really nothing nicer than being able to crunch the bones of a fallen relative later, say three or four months after his demise when the flesh has fallen quite off his bones. They taste very good,” she continued, almost smacking her lips. “Like pretzels or salted almonds. It’s a great comfort if you’ve lost someone dear to you to be able to munch him up like that, and very good for the teeth and hoofs.”

“Oh, yes,” said the youngest camel, as if he had been searching all this time for it and just found it in the string. “Here is a pure-white bead, like ivory, and all around it there is written something in gold. Yes--bones,” he murmured. “I do think it says something about bones.”

“Read it quickly!” said his mother, and after a moment of hesitation the little camel began reading aloud very slowly and uncertainly:--

“If it’s bones you want,
No longer hunt.
Just rub my--rub my cheek
And bones will creak.”

“Well, that’s really wonderful,” said his mother, and now she had entirely forgotten about the heat and how sore her hip was and how long a way they had still to go. “I’m half tempted to have you try it here, only it might be a bit embarrassing--”

“Oh, I wouldn’t try it now, would you?” cried the little camel. “I think it would be much better if we waited until this evening, because if bones suddenly started creaking now the whole caravan would stop and then they’d all see the beads around my neck--”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said his mother. “But I can scarcely wait to try. Now, tell me what’s written inside the diamond, darling.”

“Oh, the diamond,” said her son slowly and thoughtfully, exactly as if he were having a good look for it among the other beads. “Well, it’s rather difficult to make it out.”

“I should think it would be very easy,” said the mother camel. “It must be as clear as water, if it’s a real diamond, so that you can see what’s written in it without any trouble at all.”

“Well, you see, the diamond takes the rays of the sun on every one of its points,” said the little camel, “and so it practically blinds me, it dazzles so. But I think I can see something about ‘drink’ or ‘water’ written in it. Oh, yes,” he went on presently, during which time his mother concluded he had been studying the jewel. “Oh, yes. Now I can see. I’ve got in the shadow of your tail and I can make out the words quite well. It says--let me see--yes, it says:--

“When you would drink
Just cease to think
And bend your knee at my brink.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed his mother, joyfully, and he could see by the way she ran youthfully over the sand that she had completely forgotten all her troubles and discomforts. So through the entire blazing hot day, as they crossed the desert, he told her one by one the endless colors and verses of the beads. His little throat grew hoarser and hoarser, and his tongue drier and drier from talking so much, but the excited jerk of her shabby tail before him was enough to urge him on and on. The amethyst was the jewel of memory, he told her, and you only had to hold it for a minute in your ear for all the nice things that had happened in the past to become the present. The moonstone was the bead of the future, and after you had rubbed it hard you could see reflected in it all that was going to happen, and so you could avoid any coming danger. The sapphire was the bead of purity, and when you were old you need only press it for an instant against your forehead to have all your years drop from you like the petals from a flower.

“And the opal,” he ended, as the blue light of evening began to fall. “It is the bead for those who have told a lie. All you have to do is to hold it under your tongue for half an hour and the lie you have told becomes the truth.”

“Ah, there’s the oasis at last!” his mother cried out. The youngest camel lowered his head and peered through her legs, and there on the horizon, which had not altered the entire day, he saw the distant dark points which must be the oasis trees growing. “The time passed very quickly, although I was so impatient to see the necklace every minute,” his mother said. “But now in no time at all we can settle down and undo our packs and then we can try the magic beads. The first one I’m going to try is the sapphire, so I need not be old any longer, and then the amethyst, so that all the nice things that happened to me before will come true again, and your father will be alive with us, and then--”

Strangely enough, the little camel said nothing at all, but simply followed in her footsteps, and once they had reached the green island in the vast white sea of sand, the mother camel turned eagerly to her son.

“Quickly now, darling, come with me behind the trees here and show me the necklace,” she whispered, and she hurried him off out of sight of the others. But now that they were quite alone, the youngest camel only hung his head. “Quickly, quickly, where is it? I’ve never been so anxious to see anything in my life--”

“Mother,” said her child miserably, “there is no necklace.”

“What?” she cried, tottering back under the tamarisk trees. “Do you mean to say--oh, can it be possible--oh, good heavens, it can’t be all a lie?”

“I don’t know if it’s a lie or not,” said the little camel, and he turned unhappily away from the sight of her grief and fingered the tall grasses absent-mindedly. “I made it up so you would forget about the heat, so perhaps that isn’t quite so bad as lying. I kept thinking perhaps the necklace was really there, although I couldn’t see it, like the caravan of white camels that girdles the earth, and like Mohammed--”

“Oh, this is too much!” moaned his mother, covering her face with her arms. “I never would have thought you could--I never dreamed--oh dear, oh dear--”

“But music’s invisible, isn’t it?” said the little camel in a gentle voice. “I kept on saying things like that to myself to make the necklace seem all right. I said, ‘Music’s invisible and history’s invisible and memory’s invisible and love’s invisible and still they’re all really there.’”

His mother had now sunk down on the ground in despair, and realizing she was on the verge of tears, her son took his harp off his shoulder and shyly touched the strings.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d feel like singing me to sleep tonight,” he said in a low voice. “After all that happened, I thought you might rather not. So I made up the words of a lullaby myself, and if you feel too badly I’ll sing them instead.”

His mother was weeping now and she did not answer, so he ran his fingers lightly over the strings and began singing in a sad beautiful voice through the night.

“We have seen many colors together,
The color of the dying moon, the turquoise of men’s lips in death,
So we need wear no colors;
We can draw our shaggy coats around us
And sleepily,
sle-e-e-e-e-pily, sleep-i-i-i-i-i-ly,
dr-o-w-s-i-l-y, _d-r-o-w_-sily,
s-m-i-i-i-i-i-le.

“At the halting places
We drink at bright pools by the trees;
Our coats are the color of drought and sand.
Does it matter? Oh, child, does it matter?
In our humps we carry a treasure of crystal and diamond-white water;
Jewel box of the desert, my son, you hold dreams
Of topaz and emerald, ruby and pearl,
Like nothing at all in your h-e-a-r-t, in your _h-e-a-r-t_.”

No sooner had he finished than two camel drivers came to where they were seated under the trees, and without speaking a word one of them put a rope around the youngest camel’s neck. He was so surprised that he simply stood there looking at them in amazement, but his mother understood at once what was taking place, and she raised herself quickly from her knees and said to him in a soft voice:--

“Do not resist them. Go quietly.”

As they led him away, she hurried after him, calling:--

“Be brave, my son. Think of me and remember all I have told you.”

To stop the noise she was making, one of the men turned and raised his whip and struck her sharply on the soft part of her nose. She jumped back with a little cry of pain, but long after they had started out across the dark desert, the bewildered little camel could hear her voice calling and calling to him:--

“Go quietly! Do not struggle! Do not forget me! Perhaps one day we shall find each other again!”

_III_

The two men led the youngest camel far, far out into the desert, and after a long time, when they seemed to be out of sight and hearing of any living thing, they gave him the command to lie down. He kneeled obediently before them, and then they unwound the ropes from around their waists and pushed him over on his side, and while one camel driver sat on him, the other began hastily to bind him. They drew his hind legs roughly forward and knotted them tightly to his forelegs, and he never dreamed of kicking or protesting. He had been brought up to look on man as master, for his mother had always told him this was one of the unalterable truths.

So he lay there very meekly on one side and allowed them to pass the ropes around his body and draw them fast. He did not utter a sound, but his heart was filled with fear. He was fastened so firmly that he could scarcely breathe, and his ankles seemed almost cut in half, but still he did not think to struggle. When their work was done, the camel drivers each gave him a parting kick or two and then went off in the direction from which they had come. He tried to raise his head a little from the sand and with his eyes follow their retreat through the starlit night. But after a moment the two shapes muffled in their flowing robes were lost in the darkness, and as the little camel realized he was alone, he uttered one sudden terrible scream.

He had no intention of making a fuss or calling a lot of attention to himself, but now he knew beyond any doubt that this was the ordeal of loneliness at last and he could not control the shaking and the quaking and the sobs which shook his frame. All about him lay the warm desert silence, and there was no smell anywhere of other camels or of man. He strained his ears until he thought they would fall from his head for some sound of bells or perhaps the faintest echo of his mother’s voice still calling out to him, but everything was as quiet as the tomb.

After some time had passed like this, he began kicking with all his strength. This was not such an easy matter, either, because his feet were very firmly tied. But he doubled up his legs as best he could and then shot them savagely out. All this served no purpose, however. In fact, it seemed to draw the cords tighter and tighter around his neck and shoulders and it certainly made the knots cut deeper into his anklebones. So presently he gave that up and tried lifting himself by pushing one shoulder and one hip hard against the ground. But this got him no further, and added to everything else he had now got sand into both his eyes, and his mouth was filled as well. In his misery, he tried to remember all the things his mother had told him as they lay under the oasis trees at night. Once she had said to him:--

“If a camel falls ill or is overcome with old age while crossing the desert, the men unsaddle and unload him and divide his pack among the others, and then he is abandoned. They leave him alone there to die, kicking hour after hour against death, while his friends are forced on, screaming aloud with terror and despair and trying to look back over their shoulders at him as they go.”

“If the truth is so terrible as all that,” he had said to his mother, “I don’t see why anyone pays any attention to it. I think it would be much better to make up something else instead.”

And another night his mother had said to him--

“If a camel does not have the smell of his own kind about him, he is horribly frightened. But this is such a foolish thing, if you really stop and think about it, that wise camels have taught themselves to master their fear.” And another time his mother had said: “If we camels have silence in our ears, that is another thing that drives us out of our minds with fright. Perhaps that is the reason they hang bells around our necks or perhaps that is why you like to sing so loud at night when everything is still.”

Remembering her words, the little camel began to sing in a high quavering voice. He was in such a state of nerves that he didn’t know what words he sang, and the tune kept changing from one thing to another, and he couldn’t manage to keep on the right key. But still he went on singing and singing, making up songs about nothing lasting forever, and about the swiftness of time passing.

“All the time I am singing [was what he sang],
Time is passing, passing, passing.
The ordeal of loneliness will be over before I know it.
The camel drivers will come back and fetch me
And I’ll run as fast as I can to Aqsu and find my mother--”

But when he reached the word “mother” his voice rose to a high wail and the tears rushed into his eyes and down his cheeks. Very soon after this, he must have cried himself to sleep, and when he awoke the sun was already rising. He rolled his eyes around in bewilderment a moment, and then he felt the ropes fast on his legs and neck still and the sand gritting in his teeth, and he knew where he was and why he was there. As the sun rose, it beat hotter and hotter on him and the sky seemed to be on fire above him and the sand on fire underneath him, and it is very probable that he became delirious as noon approached.

At one moment he thought he heard the faraway tinkling of camel bells and he tried to call out, but he could not. A little later, he thought he saw pomegranate flowers and fruit hanging on cool leafy branches before his eyes. Hour after hour passed and he lay there gasping under the sun, and at times he believed that icy pools of water were just within reach, and at other times he thought that fresh ripe figs were just about to melt on his tongue. His eyes were glazing as his fever rose, and his mind was filled with visions of strange and beautiful things. With his parched black lips he kept repeating:--

“Music’s invisible, memory’s invisible, love’s invisible,” and in the same faint voice he whispered: “Even hope’s invisible, but it must be there just the same--”

As he uttered these words, he heard a gentle sigh like a breeze stirring the air, and the next instant a hand was laid on his forehead. He looked up through the blinding waves of heat and he saw a man standing beside him and leaning over to stroke him, but strangely enough there was no smell of man in his nostrils.

“This must be another vision,” he said to himself, but at once the man began speaking to him in a sweet musical voice.

“I’ve been waiting around for seventeen hours for you to say that,” said the man, and for some inexplicable reason he spoke a language which the youngest camel understood with ease.

“Say what?” he murmured, and the man crossed his legs under him and sat down on the sand. Then he lifted the little camel’s head and laid it on his silk-clad knees and stroked back his hair as a mother might have done.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say the word ‘hope,’” he answered, “because as soon as you said that you proved you hadn’t given up, and then I was able to become visible and rescue you.”

“Who are you?” asked the little camel. He was almost too weak to keep his eyes open now, but he felt the man loosening the ropes that bound him and this gave him courage to speak.

“Oh, I’m one of Mohammed’s sons,” the man said casually. “I’m one of the youngest and not one of the important ones. This year I’ve been given all the camels to keep an eye on. That’s why I’m here.” All the time he talked he kept undoing the ropes and drawing them from under the little camel’s hot body and shaking them off his ankles. “If only you’d mentioned the word ‘hope’ sooner I could have let you free hours and hours ago. You see, ‘hope’ is the one word that lets me become human for a little while and help camels when they have been bound up like this by men. I had to stick around here quite invisible until you said that one particular word. One of the laws is that I’m not allowed to make any suggestions, no matter how much else I have to do. So you can see what a lot of time I have to waste just waiting.”

“Why is the word ‘hope’ magic?” asked the youngest camel, stretching out one stiff leg to see if it still could move. And now Mohammed’s son lifted the little camel’s head up again and laid it against his shoulder while he shook the remaining cords away. When he did this, the little camel saw that he was young and very handsome. He was wearing a silk turban with pearls and turquoises embroidered on it, and carved gold ornaments hung from his ears, and there was a look of great gentleness in his face.

“Well, you see, _h_ stands for ‘help,’ and _o_ stands for ‘O,’ and _p_ stands for ‘power,’ and _e_ stands for ‘eternal,’” he said so lightly and merrily that he seemed to be making fun of something. He took out a little ivory flask from his garments and poured some fresh water between the little camel’s burning lips. “So when you say ‘hope’ like that, you’re really saying ‘Help, O power eternal!’ And that means me because I’ve been appointed your patron saint this year.”

The youngest camel was feeling so much better by this time that, assisted by Mohammed’s son, he was able to get to his knees and look around him. But there was nothing at all to see as far as the eye could reach but the empty sky and the wastes of sand. Feeling a bit dizzy still, the little camel looked up into the young man’s face and tried to smile.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything to eat,” Mohammed’s son went on as he patted the little camel’s cheek affectionately. “But it’s really too difficult to travel around invisible with a lot of mimosa branches and bones and things hanging on me. But if you feel strong enough now, I can start you off in the direction for Aqsu. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble at all in finding your way.”

“Oh, please, don’t leave me alone! Please stay with me until I find my mother and the caravan again!” the youngest camel pleaded. But Mohammed’s son shook his head at him and gently smiled.

“I can’t run around after you like a nursemaid,” he said. “You see, there are lots and lots of other young camels in just the same situation as you were in when I came along, and I have to rescue them too if it’s not too late. Only most of them are so stupid or have been so obstinate about not listening to what older camels say that I can’t do anything for them. They just won’t use the word ‘hope,’ so I usually have to leave them there bound up.” The little camel thought to himself that certainly no one had ever been able to call him stupid in his whole life, and he began to feel rather pleased with himself again. “My father made a rule,” Mohammed’s son went on, “that the guardian of the camels could only bring help to those whom men had tied up in knots; therefore, no matter what happens to you, I won’t be able to help you any further. But I’m sure nothing can possibly happen to you now if you listen carefully to my directions and do exactly what I say.”

The little camel was able to stand now and even to walk without too much difficulty, and Mohammed’s son led him a little farther into the desert. All the time he talked lightly and happily to him as they went.

“Now, the thing to keep in mind is that you must follow the sun,” he said. “If you do that, and run very fast, you will be in Aqsu just as night is beginning to fall. Remember not to let the sun show either over your right shoulder or over your left, and don’t let the heat of the sun fall warm on your tail. That will mean you are going in quite the wrong direction. About twenty miles from Aqsu you’ll come to a lovely oasis with hundreds of herons bathing in the waters and flamingos flying through the luxuriant glades. When you reach that oasis, you will know for certain that you haven’t much farther to go. If you do as I say,” said the young man, stopping and putting one arm around the youngest camel’s neck, “you can’t possibly make a mistake.”

The little camel began to wonder if he had ever in his entire life made a mistake, and he really couldn’t think of a single time he had. But now Mohammed’s son was saying farewell, and the little camel cried out:--

“Oh, thank you a thousand times! Thank you, thank you!”

“Now you must repeat after me the word which restores me to godhead,” the young man said. “For it is past time for me to go.”

“What is the word?” the youngest camel asked, and the other replied:--

“Pernod.”

“What does it mean? What does per--” the little camel began, curiously, but Mohammed’s son interrupted him:--

“Don’t say it or I’ll disappear at once and then I won’t be able to tell you! _Pe_ stands for ‘power eternal’ just as before, and _rnod_ stands for ‘reign near our dreams.’ I never liked the word ‘reign’ much, but my father thought it added dignity to the formula so we let him have his way. So now repeat it after me--_P-e-r-n-o-d_.”

“Oh, please let me thank you again,” the little camel said, “and, please, wouldn’t it be possible for you to let my mother know that I’m--”

“Good gracious,” said the young man, “you mustn’t think about yourself all the time the way you do! I have so much work to do I really haven’t the time to rush around with personal messages to camels’ mothers--”

“I’m sorry,” said the youngest camel, and this time when Mohammed’s son smiled at him and said the word he repeated it at once: “Pernod!”

As soon as the syllables had passed his lips, the handsome youth waved his hand in farewell and vanished from sight. Without wasting another instant, the little camel turned his head towards the sun and, his heart singing with hope in him, began to run as fast as he possibly could across the stretches of white desert in the direction of Aqsu.

_IV_

By four o’clock in the afternoon the little camel was still running hard, but now he had begun to slacken his pace a little, for it seemed to him that some sort of object was appearing on the horizon far, far away. Whatever it was, it was decidedly to one side and not at all in the direction of the sun where the handsome youth had told him the oasis would be. As he ran he kept glancing out of the corner of one eye at the dark object that seemed to be growing bigger and bigger over his left shoulder, and he kept asking himself what in the world it could be.

After a while his curiosity got the best of him and he stopped running entirely and turned halfway around and gave the dark thing a good long stare. And then he really began to suspect it was the oasis. It looked exactly like an oasis. He was sure he could make out the tops of the trees against the sky. It was certainly the oasis. In another minute he had turned all the way around, and even though he felt the light of the sun falling warm on his tail, he was convinced it was the oasis.

He thought he could even make out tiny black specks hovering above it.

“Those are probably the herons and the flamingos,” he said to himself. “Mohammed’s son said there were hundreds of them there.”

So without any further hesitation he started running again, but this time in an entirely different direction from the one in which Mohammed’s son had told him he should go. Faster and faster he sped towards the perfectly clear oasis ahead, and now the sun was shining well over his right shoulder.

“Mohammed’s son certainly didn’t know what he was talking about,” he said with a little snort of laughter. “It’s evident even to an idiot that the oasis is over there right in front of me and not in the direction of the sun in the slightest.”

In half an hour at the most, he thought, he would be snuggling down against his mother among the fresh grasses of the oasis twenty miles this side of Aqsu. He knew he was absolutely right and he began complimenting himself on his quick eyes and wits. Most young camels would have gone right on and never noticed what fools they were making of themselves, he thought with satisfaction.

“It just shows,” he said to himself, “that it doesn’t pay to believe everything you’re told.”

He was so pleased with himself that he began to whistle as he ran. He whistled treble and bass and, by curling his tongue up against his lower teeth, managed to do some double-stops. And now that he made out what looked exactly like branches of palm trees waving against the sky ahead, he gave a few little hops and skips of joy.

Before he had gone much farther a flock of herons came flying across the heavens towards him, and as they came near to him they circled lower, so low in fact that he could see their long legs dangling in the air behind them as they flew. The sight of such a baby camel running so fast and quite alone across the sands made them circle closer and closer above him in wonder, and at last the leader of the herons called down:--

“Where are you going so fast, four-footed child?”

The youngest camel was a bit annoyed at being called a child by birds he had never laid eyes on before, and he tossed his head rather insolently as he answered:--

“I’m going to the oasis which my mother is passing through with her caravan. If they’ve started on by the time I get there, I’ll run straight on to Aqsu.”

“You’ve lost your way, four-footed child!” the herons called down in chorus. “We’re going to the oasis for the night. Watch us and follow where we go.”

“But I can see the oasis as clear as day ahead!” the little camel cried out impatiently. “You must be blind as bats, old birds! Can’t you see the palms and the--”

“You’ve lost your way!” the leader of the herons called down to him again as she swept above him and beckoned with one wing. But the youngest camel went running on in his own direction as fast as he could go.

“They’re just as stupid as I always thought,” said the little camel to himself. “They can’t see two inches in front of their big beaks, the silly-looking creatures!”

The flock of them swerved over him once more, calling to him to come, and then they flew off, their legs floating on the air behind them. He glanced around to watch them go, and in a few moments they were nothing but tiny specks against the sky, and presently they were lost completely in the sun’s dying light. When the little camel looked back at the oasis again, he saw to his surprise that for some reason it was not a bit nearer than it had been before. He could see the palms clearly enough, and the birdlike shapes hovering above, but he certainly was no closer to it, though all the time he had been running fast.

His legs were beginning to feel tired now, and his feet hot and sore, and he suddenly felt angry with everyone and everything. He kicked viciously at the sand as he ran, and after another little while, as if he must put the blame on someone, he looked back over his right shoulder and stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his nose up at the sun. The whole world was turning pink now at the end of day, and the wide desert was glowing with the sun’s last light. There was the oasis still, not so very far away, and yet mysteriously just as far as it had ever been.

As the youngest camel went running on in discouragement, a flock of flamingos came winging towards him, their feathers and their legs colored like the petals of a rose. When they saw such a baby camel running so desperately across the wastes of sand, they circled several times above him, their legs hanging down like brilliant satin ribbons, and the leader called down:--

“Where are you going so fast, four-footed child?” and he answered in irritation:--

“I don’t see why you have to ask such a stupid question! Can’t you see I’m going to the oasis?”

But he was so tired now that he stopped running while he talked to them, and stood stamping his foot in the sand.

“You have lost your way, four-footed child!” the flamingos all called out to him in chorus. “We are going to the oasis! Follow us and we will show you!”

They wheeled once above him, calling out to him to follow, and then they flapped slowly off in the direction of the setting sun. He stood looking after them rather wistfully for a moment, and then he tossed his head and turned back towards the oasis. It seemed to him now to be even farther away than ever, and tears came into his eyes.

“I’m _sure_ I couldn’t have made a mistake,” he said stubbornly. “I’m sure I couldn’t be wrong. It’s absolutely impossible.”

“Why in the world should that be impossible?” asked a clear little trilling voice very close to his ear, and when he looked quickly around him he saw that scores of brightly feathered little birds were flying and darting in the air about his head. From the feeling of it, some of them had certainly alighted on his hump and some on the back of his neck, and there they were all chattering and chirping together. The bird who had spoken to him was no bigger than a pear leaf, but its feathers were brighter than a peacock’s. In company with others just like it, it spun and darted on the air before him, humming and whistling and eying him sharply and curiously.

“I haven’t made any mistakes yet in my life,” he said boldly. “I can’t think of a single time I’ve been wrong.”

At this, all the little birds uttered tiny shrieks of laughter and swayed back and forth on their perches on his spinal column and on his neck and on the top of his head. To his annoyance he realized that some of them were swinging and shrieking with laughter on his tail, and he thrashed it angrily from side to side.

“Well, if you’re so smart and know so much about me,” he said furiously, “tell me once when I’ve done something I shouldn’t! I’m sure you can’t think of a single time. I know I’m a very good singer because everyone I ever met said I was, and I’m a very good poet and I’m--”

“Oh, good heavens!” screamed the dozens and dozens of little birds all together, and their shrill laughter trilled and whistled all around him.

“There’s nothing at all to laugh at!” the youngest camel cried out, stamping his foot. “I’m simply telling you the truth--”

“Oh, my goodness!” shrieked all the birds again.

“You speaking the truth!” cried the first little bird as she cavorted on the air before him, and all the birds’ tongues tinkled like little bells with laughter. “Do you remember the terrible lie you told your mother about finding the necklace?”

Either the very last crimson rays of the sun on him or his own conscience turned the little camel’s face bright red and he hung his head between his legs and looked hard at the sand.

“You’ve always made the mistake of being conceited,” one clear sweet bird’s voice sang to him, and immediately the other voices went on with it, one by one, as if it were so many verses of the same song they were singing as they fluttered about him in the evening air.

“You always made the mistake of not believing what your mother told you,” rippled the notes from one feathered throat, and the next one sang:--

“You always bullied creatures smaller than yourself.”

“You were wrong not to do what Mohammed’s son told you,” whistled another, and still another trilled:--

“You were always a coward except when you were with your mother.”

“You were so pleased with yourself you wouldn’t listen to the herons,” sang the next, and one, swinging far back on the youngest camel’s tail, chirped:--