When the birds fly south

by Stanton A. Coblentz

It was early September, more than seven weeks after my arrival in Sobul, when at last I was ready for the expedition.

Accompanied by three of the Ibandru, I started out along a slender trail that ran straight toward the jutting northern slope of "The Mountain of Vanished Men." But these three were quickly increased to four; we had hardly started when an auburn-haired girl came tripping behind us, joining us in defiance of the scowls of the men. For my own part, I was far from displeased at her presence; with her gleaming eyes to encourage me, I found it just a little easier to accomplish the abrupt and perilous climb. And both perilous and abrupt it was, for when we were not crawling on hands and knees up gigantic broken natural stairways of rock, we were winding single-file in long horseshoe curves between a precipice and a cliff, or skirting the treacherous verge of a glacier.

Straight up and up we went, for hours and hours, until we stood but a few hundred yards below the great stone image, which loomed mighty as a hill, like some old Egyptian colossus magnified many times and miraculously transported to the mountain top. When we had approached our nearest to it, we came to a halt and the natives dropped to the ground and swayed their arms toward it as though entreating a favor. Then, mumbling solemnly, they continued on their way around the mountain, and the stone figure gradually dwindled and retreated.

Now from time to time we caught glimpses of the southern valley, another bowl-like hollow scooped out in the core of the mountains. It was with mixed emotions that I observed this spot where I had bidden my friends farewell—farewell for how long? And it was with the return of an unreasoning horror that I surveyed those very slopes where I had been imprisoned in the fog. Yet I was eager to descend, so eager that several times I forgot caution in my impatience; once one of the men jerked me back violently as I set foot on a stone which gave way beneath me and went hurtling down a thousand feet; and once Yasma caught my arm as something long and shiny unwound itself from beneath my feet and disappeared hissing among the rocks.

But though I drew upon every particle of my energy, I was so slow that frequently the others had to pause and wait for me along the steep, narrow trails; while occasionally they helped me over a difficult slope. Because I was the weakest of the party, it was I that set the pace; and consequently our expedition was protracted hours beyond their reckoning. Even though we had set out at dawn and stopped but a few minutes to consume some fruit and small native cakes, sunset found us only at the timber line of the second valley.

Here we had to make camp; and here we dined sparingly from the provisions carried by my guides, quenched our thirst from a clear, swift-running stream, built a campfire, and prepared for our night on the open ground. Shortly after dark I noted that Yasma was no longer among us; but when I questioned the men they appeared unconcerned, replying that she knew how to take care of herself.

This statement proved true enough; the first thing I was aware of, after a chilly and restless night, was the sound of Yasma's voice. She had come with the earliest birds to awaken us; and, herself like a bird in the lithe grace with which she tripped and fluttered about, she urged us to be up and starting almost before the last golden embers had turned ashen above the eastern semi-circle of peaks.

My whole being was in a tumult as we set forth, for it seemed to me that today was to decide my fate. Should I receive some word from my friends, some clue to guide me back to civilization? Or should I find myself abandoned in the wilderness? An hour or two more should tell the tale, since already we had discovered the winding little path Damon and I had followed on our fateful expedition.

But as we glided silently in single file along the trail, I felt hope dying within me. All things about us seemed deserted; scarcely a living creature could be heard amid the dense brush; scarcely a dead leaf stirred, scarcely a bird chirped or twittered. It was as if I had invaded a realm of the dead, a realm of specters and shadows.... By the time we had reached a remembered pine-grove beside a clear-bubbling rivulet, I was almost in a despondent mood, which was only accentuated when I observed that the grove was forsaken. Yet how well I recalled the enthusiasm with which Damon and I had set forth from this very spot!

While Yasma and the men waited cross-legged on the ground, I began carefully to explore the grove. Actually, I expected to find nothing, and at first I found what I expected. Then one by one I came across various relics, insignificant in themselves, which pained me like the opening of old wounds. First it was merely a bent and rusting tin; then the ashes of a campfire, a scrap of old newspaper, the stub of a cigarette, or a broken penknife clinging to the bark of a tree; and, finally, a half-used and forgotten notebook and pencil, which I picked up and bore away for possible future needs.