THE TALE OF THE GENTLE FOLK
ET me see. This story begins at the time I climbed down the Andes on the east side and came upon a house by a lake. There were two children living there, one named Juan, the other, his sister, named Juanita, and the boy was seven years old and the girl nine. They had never seen a school, and the nearest house was more than fifty miles away. Still they had books, knew how to read, and I do not think that they ever found the day long. For one thing the lake was not at all deep, and a little bit off from the shore of it was a small island. That was a kind of playground for them, and often they paddled their boat to it in the early morning and stayed there all day.
There were other things highly interesting. On the second day that I was there, I saw their tame ostrich, a great gray bird that they had had for two years, and now and then Juan would ride it, Delicia, which was the name of the ostrich, spreading his wings like sails, and running out in a wide zigzag circle on the pampa, caring no more for the light weight on his back than a chicken would care for a fly. Somehow, the birds of that place were no more afraid of the children than the cat is afraid of you, and they knew places where they could see the flamingo with its scarlet cloak, the cowbird all glossy violet, the lapwings making a drumming music, gray and white scissortail with feathers a foot long, and red oven-birds. But their great pet was the huanaco, tall and proud-looking, all yellow and white, like a camel without a hump, about the size of a donkey. They called him Campeón, and he had been on the place as long as the children could remember. Their father, who owned many sheep, had found him when he was no larger than a fox, brought him to the house, and he had become as tame as a pet lamb. Both Juan and Juanita would roll over on him as he lay in the sun, burying their faces in his gold-coloured fur, hugging his long neck, wrestling with him until he got up and walked away to find a quieter place. They would use him as a horse, harnessing him to a little wagon, and all would go well sometimes, but sometimes not so well, for Campeón taking it into his head to run, the wagon would upset, the children roll out on the soft grass, and in a moment Campeón would free himself from the harness, going in great leaps to find a little hill where he would perch himself on the crest and stand like a sentinel.
Now one day the man who was my travelling companion was out with his rifle, and coming upon old Campeón standing on a high rock, took him for a strange and wild animal, and, like many thoughtless men with a gun, followed his impulse and shot. Campeón was badly wounded, and doubtless astonished to receive such treatment from the hands of a man. Anyway he limped on three legs to the house. Juan and Juanita grieved sadly, their parents no less, and all was done for Campeón that could be done. As for my friend, seeing what had happened, he was the most sorrowful of us all. For a time it seemed as though Campeón would get better, but one day he was plainly worse. All that day he rested on the sheltered side of the house, refusing food and water, his finely shaped head proudly upright, his eyes turned to the south, and the next morning there was no sign of him. From the hill on which he had stood we could see for miles and miles, and Juanita and I went there, taking a telescope, and we searched the country far and wide. In the afternoon we saddled horses and rode many, many miles until we came to a belt of sandy soil that ran east and west, and there we saw the trail of our Campeón going straight south. So we turned home sadly enough, for we knew that we would see the gentle beast no more.
And this is why: If you have read the “Arabian Nights,” you will remember, in the story of Sindbad the Sailor, that it is told that he discovered a wonderful valley in which were the bones of hundreds and thousands of elephants. Whether there is any truth or not in that, I do not know, but I do know that in south Patagonia there is a vast valley called the Valley of the Gallegos and there the huanacos go to lay down their bones when they feel the coming of death. And beautiful Campeón, though he had never seen that valley, somehow felt that he must find it, being so wounded and sick, and while we slept that moonlight night, had left us. Both Juan and Juanita knew well enough that they would never see Campeón dead, for they had heard the story of the huanaco valley as often as you have the story of Cinderella. So had I heard it, and that night when we fell to talking about Campeón, a gaucho who looked after the horses told us the story again, and this is what he said:
Long, long ago, when there were giants and before there were horses in this land, there lived a gentle people who did not know sickness or pain or anger. They moved about among the animals and the birds as we move about among the flowers in the garden, and men were much kinder and the maidens more graceful and beautiful than any on the earth to-day. The colours of the birds were brighter and the scent of the flowers sweeter than now; the sun was never too hot nor the wind too cold. What was more wonderful, the Gentle People had a strange power by means of which they could change flowers into living things which turned to bright-coloured birds.
Now and then there would be great gatherings, when all the Gentle People would come together before their prince who sat on a throne decked with precious stones. And the people who loved him for his wisdom as well as for his goodness brought to him at such times gold and silver and diamonds and rubies and glittering precious stones, and these he would give to the young people to play with, for in those days people loved things for their beauty alone. The birds and animals too would join in the gathering, and the air would be full of song and colour and the scent of woods and flowers. On that day each person there would have his or her wish granted, whatever it was. To be sure, where was so much that was good, it seemed hard to wish for anything at all.
There was one thing only that was forbidden to the Gentle People, which was to go north until they saw no more the stars of the Southern Cross in the sky, for after many days’ journey, they were told, there was a great dark forest on the other side of which were fierce men who did evil. But one day one of the Gentle People saw a strange bird, more beautiful than anything ever seen, a bird whose breast shone green and blue and gold, with a tail of long feathers white as ivory. Capa it was who saw the bird, and it seemed strange to him that seeing him the bird flew away. Never before had he seen a bird that he could not touch and hold, and the more the bird avoided him the more eager was he to take it to the prince. So he followed it as it went from place to place, always thinking that at last the strange bird would allow him to draw near. That it feared him he never knew, for his people knew no fear, neither did the animals nor birds that lived among them. At last the bird led him to the edge of the forest, and when he looked into the sky that night he saw new stars there, at which he wondered. Into the forest he went, always following the bird, and so tall and thick were the trees that the sun did not shine and the stars were blotted out at night.