“What does he want?” asked Stella.
“He tell—gn—of a prayer in the valley for rain. It is long time, Wife-of-the-Kami, that we get no rain, and the cocoanut withers in the sun. They ask if you will show yourself on the crest of the hill as a sign—gn—the gods will open up the sky.”
She felt the primitive fog of superstition in the midst of which she dwelt, and a shudder of new misgiving and vague fear oppressed her. But she rose and said: “Yes, I will go. Where is the hill, Tsuda?”
“Just come along this way, Wife-of-the-Kami. I give you a hand so you don’t slip down where it get steep.”
And Nipek-kem followed at a respectful distance. But first, his eyes agleam, he picked up the little revolver which Stella had left on the rock. He slipped it inside his tunic of birds’ feathers. This, he knew with a gay heart, would mean all the good saké he could drink.
III
The hill to which Tsuda took her, his hand hot, trembling now and then a little as it supported her up the rough trail, proved to be the same hill upon which reposed the prostrate slab sacred to the remains of Vander Hagen. It was one of the loftiest spots on the island. They stood just beside the grave to watch the rain ceremonial.
In the valley below were a few Ainu huts. In their midst was a bit of open sward, and half the tribe was assembled. Most of the Ainu lay on the ground and kept nodding their heads in the dust in a patient, abject way. In the centre of the sward a post had been set up, and upon it was fastened the dilapidated skull of a raccoon brought down from Paromushir. It seemed to leer in the sunshine. There was no cloud in the sky. The island simmered and baked. This was, indeed, an unusual spell of drought in a realm so lush, and where scarcely a day passed by without its brief, warm drenching. In the valley they prayed for rain, and some capered solemnly, sprinkling each other with water. Nobody remembered at length how the curious custom had begun. Its origin lay swallowed up in the void that stood in lieu of history. These Ainu had no heritage: a weary race devoid of yesterdays.... Tsuda had seized upon this piece of ritual, but he had subtly touched it, too, with the finer genius of Shintō. Tsuda could never outgrow the sacerdotal atmosphere which had surrounded his youth in the Shinshū mountains. The lure of the gods was in his blood. This was his other self—his soul’s deep hinterland.