The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

It was a fair morning, hot, cloudless, blazing. Oman wilted in the heat, but his steps went on, mechanically. He had already determined in his mind to reach the hills that day. As he went, he found his thoughts groping vaguely in once-accustomed ways: loneliness—fear of people—hatred of those that shunned him—hunger—physical discomfort—all the old details of that solitude that he knew so well. And still his feet did not falter. It was his masculine nature that upheld him now; but, adding to his dread, he felt the feminine, knocking—knocking at his heart, at his brain; and he fought desperately against admittance, knowing that, when it came, his suffering would be trebly increased.

His old training with Hushka stood him in good stead to-day. He made progress. By noon, seven miles stretched between him and Bágh, and he was now among the foothills of the great Vindhyas, which, so far as he knew, stretched eastward before him into infinity. In this thought there was something like comfort. Those dark-wooded wilds meant refuge from men and the haunts of men. There should be no day in his life to come when he would not be able to plunge into some deep ravine, or mount some thickly jungled steep, knowing, in his heart, that whither he went no curious, human eyes could rest on him, no living creature follow. He felt just now that never again, while he was doomed to remain on earth, would he suffer a glance from human eyes.

At noon, after a few moments’ rest, Oman plunged into the woods and began to move upward to the heights. The underbrush was not too thick to prevent progress; and the trunks of young trees afforded grasping-places for his hands. In this sort of country snakes were supposed to abound; but he moved on without any fear of them. No wild thing would molest him. Only man he feared.

After a while he found refreshment. In the dense undergrowth were bushes and trees bearing fruits; and many of these were at their ripening season. Mangoes and custard apples there were in plenty, and tamarinds and a few bananas. He was also presented with a cocoanut, delivered by an interested monkey, who first flung it at him, and then came hurrying to the ground to see what had happened. The incident proved unfortunate, however. The suggestion of fellowship about the little, bright-eyed thing, unnerved Oman for the space of a second. In that second he was undone. The door opened to the woman. Tears flooded his eyes, and, throwing himself upon the ground, he yielded to an outburst of the wildest grief. The monkey, who had seated himself near at hand, scratching his black head and chattering volubly to the stranger, now looked on sorrowfully, and shed a few tears himself:—wherefore, who can say? After a time, when Oman had recovered again, the grotesque little creature broke the cocoanut against the tree trunk, and solemnly offered half of it to his new friend. There in the jungle they ate together; and presently, when the monkey had run off to rejoin his tribe, Oman rose and moved on, comforted and fortified.

The incident had turned his thoughts away from himself; and the afternoon passed rapidly. At nightfall he halted once more, near the summit of a hill, ate again of the fruits of Mother Earth, and lay down in the solemn stillness, not to sleep very readily this time. Physically, he was very tired. Mentally, he was waking. He must now—alas!—begin to weigh his loss, and face the future. His thoughts travelled back through the few intervening months to the spring, when he had wandered southward with Hushka. Then he reviewed the early part of the Vassa, and began to see how his life had broadened before him. There had taken place his first struggles against himself; and there could be marked his first victories. He recalled to mind passages of the Dharma, which he had loved to think were made for him alone. And, with this memory, the bitterness became intolerable. He lifted his arms toward the stars and wailed his woe. And passively the stars shone on, nor heeded him. The parts of nature, so imperturbable, so enduring, so changeless,—were they satisfied? Had they received enough of God? Oh, surely, yes! On all save him had the Creator showered blessings, to all given gifts and mercies. He, only, was marked out for constant woe, constant disappointment, constant misery. Having thus grieved through long hours, the outcast finally closed his eyes upon his first day of probation, and once more slept.

On the morrow he found himself able to make less progress. His nature, lately accustomed to over-nourishment, demanded something more substantial than fruit and nuts. He began to realize that, until he became inured to this life, he must occasionally have a little grain, or meat. Also, the utter loneliness of the vast jungle through which he travelled, began to appall him. He had so lately known the constant companionship of many men, that there hung over him a sense of direst oppression, in this uninhabited wilderness. His recently engendered dread and hatred of humankind was already giving way to an unconquerable longing for the sight of a human face.

On the third morning he woke almost to desperation. Should nothing happen to him to-day, he felt that he must break under the strain of thought:—that empty, beating thought—of nothing. Meantime, there crept upon him the insidious desire to try again, only once again, if men would not accept him; if, knowing nothing of him, his mark must be apparent to a point of instinctive aversion. And, at the same time with this, he was coming to something that he had not had to endure before. He was beginning to hate himself for what he was. His restless longing to be respected among men turned him away from that rebellion against them which had long possessed him; and, in the revulsion, he went to the other extreme: hating himself because he could not be as others.

The whole afternoon of the third day he spent in toiling up a great hill, the summit of which was reached at sunset; and from this height he gained recompense for the long travail. Around him—to the south—to the east—to the west, rolled great hills, verdure-clad. No sign of plain or level land was visible. On three sides of him the hills stretched away, a little lower than that on which he stood. But in front, to the north, rose a series of gigantic, rocky heights, which towered infinitely upward, bringing him a realizing sense of his own pygmy unimportance. And now his eyes, travelling downward, perceived the deep ravine that separated him from the first of the high mountains; and, looking, his heart leaped within his breast. For there, in that gulf, were houses:—mud huts, wooden ones—two, three, a score; and beside them ran a swift mountain stream, the murmur of which rose up to him through the stillness.

“I will go down! I will go down to them, for they are built of men!” he said to himself, eagerly, like a child. And forthwith he began his descent, walking with a new buoyance. As he proceeded, his way grew difficult. The houses, far below, were hidden from his view in the thickness of the undergrowth. The light was melting away; for the sun lay on the edge of the horizon, behind the hills. Still he pressed on, a tempered joy in his heart that was not to be stilled by reason.

Though he hurried, darkness was on him before he reached the level; and then, indeed, it seemed as if he must resign himself to another night of solitude. Nevertheless he fought, still refusing to abandon his hope. And suddenly, from a more open space on the slope, he looked down and saw, but a little way below, half a dozen shining lights—flames of sacrificial fires. And after that no falls, no bruises, no difficulties of the precipitous way, could keep him back. An hour after sunset he stood at the edge of the clearing where the village was.