“Wake up, rise, sit up; listen to the music somebody is playing.”
They woke, one after another. “Who is playing?” asked one. “Who is it?” asked another. “We have played many days and nights, but no one played like that. All have their own flutes. Who can this be?”
At last some one said: “I know who is playing. It is Hawt.”
“How could Hawt play?” asked others. “Whose flute has Hawt? He has none of his own. Each of us brought a flute, but Hawt brought none. Whose flute has he now?”
Every one heard the wonderful music, and every one said, “We should like to see the man who plays in this way.”
It was night, and dark in the sweat-house. All began to say how much they wanted light to see who was playing. Waida Werris was lying back in the east half of the sweat-house, and heard every word. He, too, wanted to look at the player. He sat up, pulled one hair out of his beard, gave it to Tsudi, and said,—
“Go down near that man who is playing, and hold up this hair so that people may see him.”
Tsudi took the hair and went along quietly. No one heard him. He held the hair over Hawt’s head, and there was a light from it that filled the whole house. It was as bright as day there. All the people were seen sitting up, each hugging his flute. No man would lend his flute to any one else in the world for any price. All were looking toward the spot whence the music came. In the light they saw a man lying on his back with his arms across his breast, but they could not see that he was doing anything. He had no flute, he made no motion with his mouth, for he fingered his sides as he would a flute, and made the music by drawing in air through his nostrils, and sending it out through the holes in his sides.
Tsudi held up Waida Werris’s single hair, and people watched Hawt to see how he made the beautiful music. He was lying on his back making wonderful sounds. He played the music of Tsaik’s song, of Waida Werris’s song, of Tsaroki’s song. They could hear the music, but there was no motion of Hawt’s mouth and they could not see his fingers play. He gave the music of Patkilis’s song and of Sedit’s. He gave the music of the songs of all people in the sweat-house.
“Hawt has beaten the world!” cried the assembly. “He can do more than we can; we yield, we are silent. Hawt is the best player in the world! No one can play as he plays!”