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. Swallow: A Tale of the Great Trek by H. Rider Haggard (early readers .TXT) 📖
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
Book online «Swallow: A Tale of the Great Trek by H. Rider Haggard (early readers .TXT) 📖». Author H. Rider Haggard
“At last he grew impatient, and without warning lifted his gun and fired at me, aiming low, for he feared lest the ball should pierce my mistress. The shot struck my leg where you see, and being unable to stop myself, although I broke my fall by clutching with my hands, I rolled down the rock to the ground beneath, but not over the edge of the precipice as I could have wished to do, for at the last I had intended to escape him by throwing myself from it.
“Leaving me unable to move he began to ascend the pinnacle, calling your daughter Swallow by sweet names as a man calls a shy horse which he fears will escape him. I watched from below, and even in my pain I laughed, for now I knew what must come. Since the Swallow did not answer, Bull-Head, wishing to be cunning, crept behind her in silence, and of a sudden seized the cloak and the arm beneath it, for he feared lest she should choose death and cheat him.
“Then it was that the body rolled over toward him; then it was that he saw the whitened face and the black breast beneath. Ah! lady, you should have heard his oaths and his yell of rage as he scrambled down the rocks towards me.
“‘What think you of your bride?’ I asked him as he came, for I knew that I must die and did not care how soon.
“‘This is your trick, witch,’ he gasped, ‘and now I will kill you.’
“‘Kill on, butcher,’ I answered, ‘at least I shall die happy, having beaten you at last.’
“‘No, not yet,’ he said presently, ‘for if you grow silent, how shall I learn where you have hidden Suzanne Botmar?’
“‘Suzanne Kenzie, wife of the Englishman, butcher,’ I answered again.
“‘Also,’ he went on, grinding his teeth, ‘I desire that you should die slowly.’ Then he called some of his men, and they carried me in a kaross to this place. Here by the river he lashed me to the stone, and, knowing that already, from loss of blood and lack of drink, I was in the agonies of thirst, he tormented me by holding water to my lips and snatching it away.
“All day long, lying in the burning sun, have I suffered thus, waiting for death to heal my pain. But in vain did he torture and question, for not one word could he wring from my lips as to where he should seek for the lady Swallow. He thought that she was hidden somewhere on the mountain, and sent men to search for her till they grew tired and ran away to steal the cattle; he never guessed that disguised as a black woman she had passed beneath his very eyes.
“Yet this was so, for I, Sihamba, know it from the talk I overheard between Bull-Head and one of his servants, who had held her awhile wishing to take her for a wife.[*] Yes, she passed beneath his eyes and escaped him, and I—I have won the game.”
[*] In after days, when there was talk far and wide of the wonderful escape of my daughter Suzanne, disguised as a Kaffir woman, the man who had sought to take her captive told the story of the white mark which his grip left upon her arm. He said, indeed, that both he and Bull-Head saw the mark when she was at a little distance from them, but believing it to be an ivory ring they took no heed.
Now the effects of the water, which for a little while had given new life to Sihamba, began to pass off, and she grew weak and silent. Presently I saw Ralph returning down the steep cleft, and with him Jan, and went to meet them.
“It is finished,” Ralph said, looking at me with quiet eyes.
“I know it,” I answered, “but, son, there is still work to do if you want to save your wife——” and I told him what I had learned.
“The schimmel,” he exclaimed, growing pale to the lips, “where is the schimmel?” and he turned to seek him.
“No, no,” I said, “let Jan fetch the horse. Come you to Sihamba, that she may show you the path before she dies.”
Now Jan went to the glade that I pointed out to find the schimmel, while I led Ralph to Sihamba. She heard him coming and opened her eyes.
“Welcome, husband of Swallow,” she said, “you have done well and bravely, yet it was the hand of fate and not yours that smote yonder on the rock point. Now hearken——” and she told the road which he must follow across the Quathlamba, if he would hope to reach the white koppie camp by dawn.
Before she had done, for the dying Sihamba spoke slowly and with pain, Jan came leading the schimmel saddled and bridled, for Swart Piet’s saddle had been put upon it, the mare he was riding having been taken by one of his men whom he had sent to drive in the captured cattle.
The great roan horse, which I rejoiced to see once more, was somewhat thin, for he had lacked water like the rest, but throughout the siege he had been well tended by Sihamba and Zinti, and fed with green corn, and since that morning he had drunk all he would, so that now he was strong again and fit to run.
“Bring me the schimmel,” said Sihamba, but there was no need, for the brute which loved her now as always, had winded her, and coming to where she lay, put down his head and fondled her with his black lips. Catching him by the forelock, she drew herself up, and as once before she had done when he swam the Red Water, she whispered into his ear, and as I live the beast seemed to listen and understand.
“Not I, not I,” she said aloud when she had finished whispering, “not I but the Englishman, yet, Horse, I think that I shall ride you again, but it will be beyond the darkness. Stay not, stumble not, for you go on your last and greatest gallop. Speed like the swallow to save the Swallow, for so shall you live on when your swift bones are dust. Now, Englishman, away.”
Ralph stooped down and kissed the woman, the angel whom God had sent to save him and his, and with her dying lips she blessed him and Suzanne, prophesying to them life and joy. Then he leapt into the saddle, and with a snort and a quick shake of its head the schimmel plunged forward in the red glow of the sunset.
Sihamba leaned against the rock and watched the light pass. As its last ray fell upon her quivering face, she lifted her arms and cried, “Swallow, I have kept my oath. Swallow, I have served you well and saved you. Sister, forget me not.”
With these words upon her lips Sihamba Ngenyanga died; yes, she and the daylight died together, while Jan and I stood over her and wept.
THE SCHIMMEL’S LAST RACE
Ralph cleared the mountain slope, but before he had covered a mile of way the darkness began to fall, till presently the night was black. Now he must ride slowly, steering his path by the stars, and searching the dim outline of the mountains with his eyes.
But search as he would Ralph could not see the saw-edged rock. He reached the range indeed, and for hour after hour roamed up and down it, his heart torn with helpless haste and fears, but it was of no use, so at last he dismounted, and holding the schimmel by the bridle allowed him to eat a little grass while he waited for the moon to rise. Oh! never was the moon so long in coming, but at length it came, and with it clear, soft light. He looked, and there, not half a mile away, just showing in the shadows, was the saw-edged rock he sought.
“There is little time to lose,” Ralph muttered to himself as the stallion swept across the plain towards the rock. “In three hours it will be dawn, and these mountains are sheer and wide.”
Now he was in the pass and galloping up its rocky steeps as fast as the horse dare travel and not fall. Up he went through the moonlit silence that was broken only by the distant roaring of lions; up for one hour and for two. Now he was at the crest of the mountains, and beneath him, miles away, lay the dim veldt, and there—yes, there in the far distance—the moonbeams sparkled upon a white-topped koppie and the waters of a river that washed its base. Miles and miles away, and but one hour left to cover them. One short hour, and if it was not enough then death by the Zulu assegai would be the portion of Suzanne and of those among whom she sheltered. For a moment Ralph breathed the horse, then he shook the reins, and with a snort of pride the schimmel started upon his last gallop.
Ah! what a ride was that. Had ever man the like of it? Rushing down an untrodden mountain way swifter than others dare travel on a plain, bounding from rock to rock like a buck, dashing through streams, and leaping dim gullies at a stride. On, on went the schimmel, with never a slip and never a stumble. On, swifter than a sassaby and surer-footed than a fox; now the worst of the road was passed, and a long, smooth slope, almost free from stones, led them to the grassy plain beneath. The schimmel swept down it at a fearful pace and reached the level land in safety, but the strain of that mad gallop told its tale upon him, for he was drenched with sweat, his eye was red with blood, and the breath whistled in his throat.
Ralph raised himself in his stirrups and scanned the sky, which began to brighten with the coming dawn.
“There is time,” he muttered, “for the koppie is near, and the Zulus will not attack till they can see the white moons upon their finger nails.”
Now he was speeding up a long rise, for here the land lies in waves like a frozen sea. He topped it, and in an instant—almost before he saw them—he had swept through a Zulu impi marching stealthily in a triple line with companies thrown forward to the right and left. They shouted in astonishment, but before they could harm him or the horse he was out of reach of their spears and galloping forward with a glad heart, for now he thought the danger done with.
Down the slope he thundered, and the sound of his horse’s hoofs came to the ears of Suzanne, who, frozen with terror, crouched in the grass near the spring at the foot of it. Turning her eyes from the ridge where she had seen the Zulus, she looked behind her. At first she could see nothing except a great horse with a man upon its back, but as she stared, presently she recognised the horse—it was the schimmel, and none other.
And the man. Whose shape was that? No, this one had a golden beard. Ah! He lifted his head, from which the hat had fallen, and—did she dream? Nay, by Heaven, it was her husband, grown older and bearded, but still her husband. In the piercing agony of that happiness she sank back half-fainting, nor was it till he was almost upon her that she could gain her feet. He saw her, and in the dim light, mistaking her for a Zulu soldier who way-laid him, lifted the gun in his hand to fire. Already he was pressing the trigger when—when she found her voice and cried out:
“Ralph, Ralph, I am Suzanne, your wife.”
As the words left her lips it seemed to her as though some giant had thrown the big horse back upon its haunches, for he slipped past her, his flanks almost touching the ground, which he ploughed with outstretched hoofs. Then he stopped dead.
“Have I found you at last, wife?” cried
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