Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (best classic books to read txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (best classic books to read txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Jumping on the sledge again, the Eskimo cracked his whip and set the dogs off at full gallop.
For some time they advanced, looking eagerly forward, as if expecting every minute to come in sight of the man and dog who had made the tracks, but nothing appeared for some hours. Then they arrived at the three huts where the Indian had received such a disappointment on finding them deserted. A close examination showed that the stranger had spent a night in one of them, and, from various indications, Cheenbuk came to the conclusion that he had been much exhausted, if not starving, while there.
Getting on the sledge again, he continued to follow up the trail with renewed diligence.
They had not gone far when an object was seen lying on the ice not far ahead of them.
Anteek was first to catch sight of it, and point it out to his companion, who did not speak, but let out his lash and urged the dogs on. As they approached, the object was seen to move, then there came towards them what sounded like a prolonged melancholy howl.
“The dog is alive,” whispered Anteek.
“I hope the man is—but I fear,” returned his comrade.
In a few moments more they were alongside, and the dog started up with a snarl as if to defend its master, who was lying motionless on the ice; but the snarl was feeble, and the poor beast was obviously in a state of exhaustion.
“He is not dead,” said Cheenbuk, putting his hand over the Indian’s heart, while Anteek caught poor Attim by the nose and held him gently back.
It turned out as the Eskimo had said. Nazinred was not dead, but he was very nearly so, and it is probable that another hour of exposure and inaction would have ended the career of both himself and his dog.
He had walked on persistently until that peculiar feeling of an irresistible desire to lie down and sleep overcame him. No one knew better than himself the danger of his condition, yet the fatal lethargy is such that no resolution is sufficient to overcome it. Lying, or rather falling, down, he had remained still for a few moments—then the state of quiet, but deadly repose had supervened and he would never have risen again if succour had not been sent.
As it was, the Eskimos set to work with tremendous energy to chafe and resuscitate him, but it seemed at first that they were too late. By dint of untiring perseverance, however, they became successful. A slight effort to exert himself was observable in the Indian, and then, getting him on his feet, Cheenbuk on one side and Anteek on the other, they forced him to stagger about until vitality began to revive.
“Now, boy, we’ll get him into the sledge, and away back to the igloes.”
Without delay they led Nazinred to the sledge, rolled him in a large white bearskin, and tied him on. While thus engaged Anteek observed that Cheenbuk gazed for a few moments intently into the Indian’s face, and then became much and strangely excited.
“Is he going to die?” asked the boy anxiously.
“No, it is not that—but—but, I have seen this Fire-spouter before. I know him! Quick, we must save his life!”
If the life of Nazinred had depended on the speed of the Eskimo dogs there would have been much hope of it, for Cheenbuk made them fly like the wind until he regained the three igloes. As for Attim, having, with prompt sagacity, perceived that the strangers were friendly, he resigned himself to his fate. Indeed, his master had, in a dazed sort of way, adopted the same course, and willingly submitted to whatever was done to him.
Arrived at the deserted huts, the Indian was allowed to lie in his white bearskin until the Eskimo had kindled a lamp, cooked some food, warmed some water, and prepared a comfortable couch. Then he went out to unlash the sleeper.
“Now, Anteek, I’m going to send you away, and will expect you to be quick and act like a man. Drive the sledge back to where we killed the walrus. Let the men pack the meat on it and away back to our igloes. It is not far. You will soon get there if you make the dogs yelp. When you have arrived, and told your story, get a fresh team of dogs, and two men, and come back here with a little meat and some more bearskins—and do it all, boy, as fast as you can.”
“I will,” answered Anteek in a tone and with a look of decision that were quite satisfactory.
It was difficult to rouse the Indian at first so as to get him to stagger into the snow-hut, and he was more than half asleep all the time, insomuch that when inside he fell down on the couch prepared for him, and again sank into profound slumber.
Then Anteek started up, jumped on the sledge, and set off for home at full speed.
Returning to the hut, Cheenbuk continued his culinary preparations with great diligence, gazing often and earnestly, as he did so, at the thin and careworn countenance of the sleeper.
Although Nazinred was considerably altered by fatigue and suffering, the Eskimo entertained not the smallest doubt that he was the same Indian with whom he had once struggled on the banks of the Whale, or Greygoose, River. Equally sure was he that the Indian, owing to his worn-out condition when discovered, had not recognised himself, and the fancy occurred to him that he would at first try to avoid recognition. To this end he pulled his hood a little more over his eyes, deepened the colour of his face by rubbing it with a little lamp-black and oil, and resolved to lower his voice a note or two when the time for speaking should arrive. That time was not long of coming; probably the increasing warmth of the hut, or the smell of the seal-steak in the nostrils of the half-starved man, may have had something to do with it, but the meal was hardly ready when the Indian yawned, stretched himself, sat up and gazed solemnly around.
“You are feeling better?” said Cheenbuk in his deepened tone, and in broken Dogrib tongue.
The Indian fixed a steady gaze on him for nearly a minute before replying.
“Yes,” he said, in a dreamy tone, “I’m better. If the Eskimo had not been sent to me I had now been with my ancestors.”
“No one sent me to you,” returned Cheenbuk; “I found you lying on the snow.”
“The Great Manitou sent you,” said the Indian gravely.
It was this touch of seriousness which had originally drawn those two men together, but the Eskimo remembered that he was acting a part at the moment, and that any expression of sympathy might betray him. He therefore made no rejoinder, but, placing the seal-steak on a flat stone, bade the hungry man eat.
Nazinred required no pressing; he began at once, and was ready for more almost before more was ready for him. By persevering industry, however, Cheenbuk kept his guest supplied, and when appetite began to fail he found time to attend to his own wants and keep the other company.
Silence reigned at first. When the Indian had finished eating he accepted a draught of warm water, and then had recourse to his fire-bag and pipe. Cheenbuk expected this, and smiled inwardly, though his outward visage would have done credit to an owl.
At last he looked up and asked the Indian how he came to be travelling thus alone and so far from his native land.
Nazinred puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips and two streaming cloudlets from his nose ere he replied.
“When my son,” he said, “was on the banks of the Greygoose River his voice was not so deep!”
Cheenbuk burst into a laugh and threw back his hood.
“You know me, then, you man-of-the-woods,” said he, holding out his hand in the white trader fashion which the other had taught him.
“When the men-of-the-woods see a face once, they never forget it,” returned the Indian, grasping the proffered hand heartily, but without a sign of risibility on his countenance, for in this, as we know, he differed considerably from his companion; yet there was a something about the corners of his eyes which seemed to indicate that he was not quite devoid of humour.
“But how did you discover me?” resumed Cheenbuk. “I not only spoke with a deeper voice, but I put black and oil on my face, and pulled my hood well forward.”
“When the Eskimo wants to blind the man-of-the-woods,” answered Nazinred, sententiously, “he must remember that he is a man, not a child. The cry of the grey geese is always the same, though some of them have deeper voices than others. A face does not change its shape because it is dirtied with oil and black. Men draw hoods over their faces when going out of a lodge, not when coming in. When smoking tobacco is seen for the first time, surprise is always created.—Waugh!”
“What you say is true, man-of-the-woods,” returned Cheenbuk, smiling. “I am not equal to you at deceiving.”
Whether the Indian took this for a compliment or otherwise there was no expression on his mahogany face to tell, as he sat there calmly smoking and staring at the lamp. Suddenly he removed the pipe from his lips and looked intently at the Eskimo, who in turn regarded him with evident expectation.
“My son,” said Nazinred, “I have one or two questions to put to you. You and I agree about many things. Tell me, what would you think of the fawn that would forsake its dam?”
Cheenbuk was puzzled, but replied that he thought there must be something the matter with it—something wrong.
“I will tell you a story,” continued the Indian, “and it is true. It did not come into my head. I did not dream it. There was a man-of-the-woods, and he had a squaw and one child, a girl. The parents were very fond of this girl. She was graceful like the swan. Her eyes were large, brown, and beautiful like the eyes of a young deer. She was active and playful like the young rabbit. When she was at home the wigwam was full of light. When she was absent it was dark. The girl loved her father and mother, and never disobeyed them or caused them to suffer for a moment. One day, when the father was far away from home, a number of bad Eskimos came and fought with the men-of-the-woods, who went out and drove their enemies away. They took one prisoner, a strong fine-looking man. One night the prisoner escaped. It was discovered that the girl helped him and then went away with him.”
He paused and frowned at this point, and the startled Cheenbuk at once recognised himself and Adolay as the hero and heroine of the story.
“Did the girl,” he asked, “go away with the escaped prisoner of her own will, or did he force her to go?”
“She went of her own will,” returned the Indian.
“One of the women of the tribe followed her and heard her speak. But the father loved his child. He could not hate her, although she forsook her home. At first he thought of taking all his young men and going on the war-path to follow the Eskimos, slay the whole tribe, and bring back his child. But Manitou had put it in the father’s mind to think that it is wrong to kill the innocent because of the guilty. He therefore made up his mind to set off alone to search for his child.”
Again Nazinred paused, and Cheenbuk felt very uncomfortable, for although he knew that it was impossible for the Indian to guess that the Eskimo with whom he had once had a personal conflict was the same man as he who had been
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