Chapter Thirty.
The “Sacred Town.”
While the pursuing party is peacefully reposing upon the stalagmites of the cavern, that pursued reaches its destination—the “Sacred town” of the Tovas.
The tolderia, so named, stands upon a level plain, near the shore of a large and beautiful lake, whose numerous low-lying islets, covered with a thick growth of the moriché, have the appearance of palm-groves growing direct out of the water itself.
A belt of the same stately trees borders the lake all around, broken here and there by projecting headlands; while away over the adjacent campo, on the higher and drier ground, are seen palms of other and different species, both fan-leaved and pinnate, growing in copses or larger “montes,” with evergreen shrubs and trees of deciduous foliage interspersed.
At some three or four hundred yards from the lake’s edge, a high hill rises abruptly above the plain—the only elevation within many miles. Thus isolated, it is visible from afar, and forms a conspicuous feature of the landscape; all the more remarkable on account of its singular shape, which is the frustrum of a cone. Though its sides are of steep pitch, they are thickly wooded to the summit; trees of large size standing upon its table-like top. But something more than trees stand there; the scaffolds upon which are laid the bodies of the Tovas dead; hundreds of which may be seen in all stages of decay, or shrivelled and desiccated by the dry winds and sun of the Chaco till they resemble Egyptian mummies. For it is the “Cemetery Hill,” a spot hallowed in the hearts of these Indians, and so giving the title of “Sacred” to this particular place, as the town adjacent to it. The latter is situated just under the hill, between its base and the shore of the lake. No grand city, as might be supposed from such a high-sounding name, but simply a collection of palm and bamboo toldos, or huts, scattered about without any design or order; each owner having been left free to select the site of his frail tenement, since among the Tovas municipal regulations are of the simplest and most primitive character. True, some dwellings, grander and more pretentious than the common, are grouped around an open space; in the centre of which is one much larger than any of the others, its dimensions equalling a dozen of them. This is not a dwelling, however, but the Malocca, or House of Parliament. Perhaps, with greater propriety, it might be called “Congress Chamber,” since, as already hinted at, the polity of the Tovas tribe is rather republican than monarchical.
Strange, as sad, that in this republic of redskins, and so-called savages, should exist the same political contradiction as among some other republican communities, having the name of civilised. For although themselves individually free, the Tovas Indians do not believe in the doctrine that all men should be so; or, at all events, they do not act up to it. Instead, their practice is the very opposite, as shown by their keeping numbers of slaves. Of these they have hundreds, most of them being Indians of other tribes, their enemies, whom they have made captive in battle. But to the Tovas master it signifies little what be the colour of his bondman’s skin, whether white or red; and many of the former, women as well as men, may be seen doing drudgery in this same Sacred town—its hewers of wood and drawers of water. These are also captives, the spoil of predatory incursions across the Salado into the settlements of Santiago, Salto, and Tucuman.
Most of these slaves, employed in the care of cattle, live apart from their masters, in a sort of suburb, where the dwellings are of a less permanent character than the ordinary toldos, besides being differently constructed. They more resemble the tents, or wigwams, of the North-American Indians; being simply a number of poles set in a circle, and tied together at the tops; the hides of horses covering them, instead of the buffalo skins which serve a similar purpose on the northern prairies.
It may seem strange that captives with white skins, thus left unguarded, do not make their escape. But no; those so kept do not even seek or desire it. Long in captivity, they have become “Indianised,” lost all aspirations for liberty, and grown contented with their lot; for the Tovas are not hard taskmasters.
On the night of that same day, when the tormenta overtook them, Aguara and his party approach the Sacred town, which is about twenty miles from the edge of the salitral, where the trail parts from the latter, going westward. The plain between is no more of saline or sterile character; but, as on the other side, showing a luxuriant vegetation, with the same picturesque disposal of palm-groves and other tropical trees.
The hour is late—nigh to midnight—as the captive train passes under the shadow of the Cemetery Hill, making round to where the tolderia stands; for both lake and town are on the west side of the hill.
Well may the young cacique feel something of fear, his face showing it, as he glances up to that elevated spot where he so late laid the corpse of his father. Were that father living, he, the son, would not be passing there with the daughter of Ludwig Halberger as his captive. Even as it is, he can fancy the spirit of the deceased cacique hovering over the hill, and looking frowningly, reproachfully, down upon him!
As if to escape from such imaginary frowns, he gives the lash to his horse; and setting the animal into a gallop, rides on alone—having first placed the captive under the charge of one of his followers.
On reaching the tolderia, however, he does not go direct to his own dwelling, which is the largest of those adjacent to the malocca. Nor yet enters he among the toldos; but, instead, makes a wide circuit around them, taking care not to awake those sleeping within. The place for which he is making is a sort of half hut, half cave, close in to the base of the hill, with trees overshadowing, and a rocky background of cliff.
Arrived in front of this solitary dwelling, he dismounts, and, drawing aside the horse’s skin which serves as a swing door, calls out:—
“Shebotha!”
Presently a woman appears in the opening—if woman she could be called. For it is a hag of most repulsive appearance; her face half hidden by a tangle of long hair, black, despite old age indicated by a skin shrivelled and wrinkled as that of a chameleon. Add to this a pair of dark grey eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, for all gleaming brilliantly, and you have the countenance of Shebotha—sorceress of the Tovas tribe—one of cast as sinister as ever presented itself in a doorway.
She speaks not a word in answer to the friendly salutation of the cacique; but stands silent in bent, obeisant attitude, with her skinny arms crossed over her breast, as it waiting to hear what he would further say. His words are by way of command:
“Shebotha! I’ve brought back with me a captive—a young girl of the palefaces. You must take charge of her, and keep her here in your hut. She’s not yet come up, but will presently. So get things ready to receive her.”
Shebotha but bends lower, with an inclination of the head, to imply that his instructions will be attended to. Then he adds—
“No one must see, or converse with her; at least, not for a time. And you mustn’t admit any one inside your toldo, except the witless white creature, your slave. About him it don’t signify. But keep out all others, as I know you can. You understand me, Shebotha?”
She makes answer in the affirmative, but, as before, only by a nod.
“Enough!” is the young chief’s satisfied rejoinder, as he vaults back upon his horse, and rides off to meet the captive train, which he knows must be now near.
That night, as for other nights and days succeeding, Francesca Halberger has this horrid hag for a hostess, or rather the keeper of her prison; since the unhappy girl is in reality kept and guarded as a prisoner.