This calmed the threatened insurrection. Oomah’s words had been calculated to uphold their respect for the one who was their leader and they had accomplished their purpose, so the subject was dismissed.
“Would you hear more?” the youth asked.
“Yes, yes,” came the response in a chorus of eager voices. “Tell us another story.”
“This, also have I not seen,” the storyteller continued, “nor do I hope ever to see it. But it has been known that at certain intervals of time a mysterious spirit appears in the forest—a huge black being, so powerful and so ferocious that every living thing shrinks from it in terror. Our sharpest arrows, shot from the most powerful bows do not harm it. It roars at night so that the sound of its voice may be heard a distance of a full day’s travel and it slays on sight but does not devour the men it kills.”
The hearers drew closer together. They were too interested for speech.
“It is said that the terrible monster is a phantom, sent by Tumwah, God of Drought to punish us for our evil deeds. It takes the form of the tiger but of a black color. May none of you ever come under the spell of this vile spirit.”
The tale was interrupted at this time. A shadow flashed past them on the sand.
“See, see,” Oomah shouted, jumping to his feet. He pointed to a black bird, a vulture, that was circling over their heads.
“The omen never fails. Siluk is coming; he is upon us. Look! look!”
He was now pointing to the fleeting shadow on the sand. Some of the bird’s primary feathers were gone so that the wings cast a barred shadow.