“because, as you see, everything is done, and when everything is done it
is quite clear that something cannot be left to be done. The only thing
that is clear is that there is nothing to be done.”

At that the meeting broke up and each went to his own hammock to think
things over, and soon the general cry was: “We must have elbow room.”
And hearing that, the little old man went to work and whittled more
figures of wood, a whole army of them, ten for each living man, woman,
and child, and in voices that creaked like wooden machinery they marched
hither and thither, crying: “Elbow room. Elbow room!”

Soon there was confusion. It was manikin against manikin for a time, the
Elbow-room-ers thrusting and pushing the other working manikins, some
going about their work with frantic haste, others interfering with them,
clutching at them and at the things they carried, a tangled knot of them
sometimes staggering, to go down with a crash. Soon in every house was a
jangling tumult, manikins and men running about in houses and dashing
out into the open spaces outside; the noise of slamming doors and
breaking pots; the clamour of animals. Above all could be heard
everywhere cries of “We want elbow room! We want elbow room!” Soon men
were running away from the houses with those strange swift manikins
hanging to them sometimes beating them, while other manikins threw
things out of the doors and through windows, food and household things.
And excited children fled too, while their manikins ran at their sides,
some chattering, some acting the clown as was their duty, some telling
stories as they ran, while other strange little figures of wood ran
bearing heavy burdens. It was all a dreadful mix-up with no one knowing
what to do, no one knowing where to go, and everywhere the manikins who
were guardas, or order keepers, ran about, tripping people and manikins
alike in the effort to stop the rush. But when the day was near its end
there were no people in the houses and the hammocks swung idly, for all
the men and women and children, even the white-haired grandfathers and
grandmothers, had fled to the further side of the lake, where they could
have elbow room, leaving the houses and all that was in them to the
manikins.

The next day, the people plucked their fruit for themselves and it
seemed as though fruit was never sweeter. The water that they carried
from the lake tasted better and cooler than water had for many a long
day, and when night came they were happily tired and slept well, without
any manikin to swing their hammocks and sing to them. And in the morning
they woke early to discover the pink and gold of the sunrise most
wonderful to see, and there was music in the sound of the wind among the
grasses. So as the day passed they were both amazed and astonished at
the wonderful and beautiful things that they had almost forgotten, the
sight of butterflies fluttering from flower to flower, the shadows
chasing across the hills, the richness of the green earth and the
blueness of the sky, the gold of sunlight on the leaves, the rippling
water and the bending trees; indeed the memory of the manikin days was
like a fearful nightmare. Very light-hearted then they grew and the
world was full of the music of their laughter and song, and briskly they
worked, enjoying it all, building new houses and making things to put in
them.

Meanwhile in the village things had gone queerly. For one thing the
Elbow-room-ers kept up their crowding and pushing, so that the manikins
trying to work at their old tasks (and there were many who went on just
as before) were sadly hindered. There were other figures of wood with
nothing to do, since the people they served were gone, and these fell to
quarrelling among themselves and grew mischievous. For instance, the pot
makers and the pot cleaners fell out, and the pot cleaners started to
break the pots so that the pot makers would have more work to do. That
meant that the clay gatherers and the clay diggers had to work harder,
then because they worked harder, though to be sure all their work meant
nothing and was little more than idle bustle, they grew hungrier and
wanted more to eat. Because of all that the fruit gatherers had more to
do and the water carriers had to work harder and the cassava bread
makers had to bake as they had never baked before. That brought the fire
builders into it, and of course the wood gatherers also, for they too
had to work harder and to eat more, so still more work came on the food
bringers. And all the time the Elbow-room-ers rushed about, always in
groups of ten, driving and commanding, rushing on workers and sweeping
them aside. So everywhere were little figures hurrying one after the
other, going to and fro, busy about nothing, quarrelling about nothing,
fighting about nothing.

The trouble came when the Elbow-room-ers interfered with the dogs and
the cats, the goats and the hens, pushing and hustling them. For the
animals, disliking all the disorder and clatter, fell upon the manikins,
workers and idlers alike. Seeing that, the household utensils took a
hand and the very pots and kettles ran or rolled or fell, spilling hot
water over the wooden things with pump-handle tails. The very embers
from the fires leaped into the fray. All the while from the metates in
which the corn had been ground came a low growling, and the growling
formed itself into words:

                    Day by day you tortured us—
                    Grind, grind, grind.

                    Holi! Holi!
                    Huqui! Huqui!
                    Grind, grind, grind.

                    Bring to us the torturers—
                    Grind, grind, grind.

                    Let them feel our power now—
                    Grind. _Grind._ G R I N D !

So the metates turned and turned, going round and round without hands,
and presently an Elbow-room-er that was struggling with a corn-grinder
stumbled, and both fell between the grinding stones and in a moment were
crushed to powder. In a flash house utensils and animals learned the new
trick, and in every house manikins were pushed into the grinding stones.
Then sparks began to fly and roofs to catch on fire and manikins bolted
here and there in confusion, sometimes jamming in doorways, there were
so many and all in such disorder. Then came dazzling, flickering
lightning and a great rain, so that for very safety the manikins fled to
the forest and climbed the trees. And there they have lived ever since,
for they grew hair and became monkeys. But the remembrance of all that
passed stayed with them, and in their hearts to this very day is no love
for man, and for that very reason when a Christian passes through a
forest he must look well to himself, lest the manikins in revenge try to
hurt him by casting nuts and branches at his head.

                       RAIRU AND THE STAR MAIDEN

PERHAPS my friend Pedro of Brazil told me the story of Rairu and the
Star Maiden for much the same reason that hungry men fall to talk of
meals that they have eaten. When I say hungry men I do not mean men with
an appetite, but men who have long been on the verge of
starvation—shipwrecked sailors, men lost in the desert, and such like.
The truth is that what the heart hungers for, the tongue talks of. So my
friend Pedro told me many tales of his own warm land where spice-laden
breezes blow gently soft, and at the time he told me his tales we two
were in the midst of the snows of Tierra del Fuego, when the winds
shrieked like a thousand demons and the frost-giant had bound river and
lake.

We were gold digging on the upper Santa Maria and there came without
warning a fierce blizzard, the snow falling for the best part of two
days and two nights, and in the morning we could not move from our tent,
though we had pitched it in a quiet nook of the hills. We had little to
eat, nothing to read, and no light but the fire-glow, and the world
seemed to narrow about us, the mountains to close in and the leaden sky
to drop. And all the while Pedro talked of his gentler land, telling me
the glory of hills all purple and green, of sunlit waters and
flower-crowned children. So, soon we forgot the black south wind and the
destroying cold. Pedro half forgot, I think, that hope which led him to
the Far South; it was a hope long cherished, that he might find gold
enough to enable him to live in quiet in his own land among the books
that he loved.

However, you may think this wearisome talk, judging it better that I
tell the tale told by Pedro. But I have felt it best to set it down as I
have, because Pedro never saw his own land again; so the writing of the
story is in some measure done in affection for my friend. As soon as the
snow ceased to fall he went away on foot, our horses having wandered
before the storm, and his intention was to win his way to a shack some
eight miles away where he might get some food which we needed sorely
enough. I in the meantime, we agreed, would take my rifle and try to
shoot a huanaco or some other thing. But another storm came on and it
was not until five days had passed in search that I found Pedro. And he
was frozen.

As I write I see the scene again—the snow-swept hills, the gray sky,
the white-laden bushes, and Pedro. I made what haste I could to bury him
in the ice-bound earth and put up a rough cross to mark the place, and I
had barely finished when a white storm swept up and hid both mound and
cross.

Here is the tale he told, one of many, and he said that he had heard it
often and often when he was a child.

                               _The Tale_

Of all things, nothing pleased Rairu more than to watch the ways of the
living things of the forest, to bend over a flower and drink in its
beauty, to lie by the side of a leaf-hidden pool and follow some shaft
of sunshine as it shot to the depth, or to stand breathless when a wild
bird broke into song. His father, very bitter against what he deemed
idleness, often said harsh things, telling Rairu that he would do well
to attend to matters more enduring. Still, Rairu was what he was. Before
the sunlight came over the world he would seek the forest deeps and
there, hidden in green thickets, would lose himself in the music of the
birds. And as time passed and Rairu grew into young manhood another joy
came to him, and the glory of the star-sprinkled sky filled him with
wonder. Night after night he would wait in a favourite place by a little
cascade, a place bare of trees, eagerly impatient for the soft light of
the first star in the violet sky.

Watching thus Rairu found a thought rise in his mind, a thought that the
world would be well only when that order was among men which was in the
skies. More, it seemed to him that of all living creatures that walked
the earth man was the most destructive, the most wasteful, and the most
untrustful. Then one night as he lay at the foot of a palm tree, his
heart was full of gladness because of the song of a night-bird, and it
came to him somehow to believe that the stars sang to the bird as the
bird sang to the stars, so he looked up to find, if possible, which star
heard that bird, and he saw one that hung low, one far more beautiful
than her fellows. Thereafter, when the sky grew soft and dark, his eyes
sought the Silver One and he waited until the night-bird sang. Like
jewels, like living sparks of sound, the music went up, and like a
maiden the Silver One listened. When the star dropped in the west and
the song-bird ceased, then Rairu was sad and alone, alone as one in a
seagirt land whom none may visit.

One day, it was a day of cloud-flecked sky and humming life, Rairu met
an old man, thin-haired and bearded, and the stranger hailed him,
calling him by name. After some talk, much of which seemed riddlesome to
the lad, the old man asked him what of all things, had he his wish,
would he choose.

After thinking awhile, Rairu said:

“If the Silver One would come from her place in the sky and go with me
so that I might admire her beauty both day and night, I would be the
happiest man on earth.”

Hearing that, the old man bade Rairu go to sleep that night on a high
hill which was not far away. “And,” said he, “if it be that you desire
the Silver One for her beauty alone and not that others may envy you in
your possession, then it may be that your wish shall be granted.” No
more he said, but walked away, singing to himself softly as he went.

All that day Rairu spent in the forest, eager for the night and the
stars, and in the noonday heat sat in the shade of the trees with eyes
fast closed, trying to make a song in which he might tell the world of
the Silver One and her great beauty, for it vexed him that so few looked
to her; but no words came to him to satisfy. Only this, which he thought
but a poor thing:

           When men sorrow and rage,
           When the hearts of men grieve,
           When arrows of sharp words wound,
           When there is none to pity pain,
           In the order of heaven there is sweet delight.

           In the night hushed and still,
           When is neither weeping nor laughter,
           In the night-time between two empty days,
           The Silver One is riding in the sky
           Singing hand in hand with her sister stars,
           Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.

When darkness was about to spread he went up the rocky path to the
hilltop, as the old man had bidden him, and lay there looking at the
opal fires in the western sky, watching the change to sea-green and
gold, from orange to pink, and waiting, waiting until the stars should
come forth. Now and then he sang the lines of the song he had made, the
last lines:

        In the night-time between two empty days,
        The Silver One riding in the sky
        Singing hand in hand with her sister stars,
        Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.

When at last the stars pricked the dark, great was his grief to find
that the Silver One was not among them. He searched well, thinking that
she hid perhaps behind a leaf, but soon he knew that her sisters went
their way alone. Long and long he looked, and at last, wearied and sad
at heart, fell asleep, weeping that he had lost the thing to him most
dear.

As he slept he dreamed that the earth was bathed in a great white light,
a light that was both light and music, at which he became wonderfully
happy. He dreamed that he was lifted up as on a cloud, lifted up high
into the heavens and could see, far below him, countless sweetly turning
spheres of light; and across great dark spaces and gulfs of blackness
were other and new stars; and from the edge of nothingness to the edge
of nothingness all was a-tune. Still, for all that, his heart was heavy,
because in all that stardust there was no Silver One. What was most
strange was this: though his heart was heavy, yet a joy was in him, a
sad joy for that he felt himself as a tight-stretched golden string that
quivered in tune with the music all about. So he awoke and saw standing
by his side a maiden clothed in white, whose eyes looked into his heart
with deep love.

“Arise, Rairu,” said she, “for I have come to cheer and to comfort. I am
the Silver One and you may keep me with you.” So saying she became
small, small but none the less beautiful, so small indeed that she might
have stood in the palm of Rairu’s hand.

Then Rairu was the happiest of mortals. He cast about him for a casket
in which to keep his treasure, but finding none worthy, bethought him of
his gourd, a thing which he had carved and adorned with much excellent
skill. Having cleaned it well, so well that not a grain of dust was in
it, he set it on the ground on its side in a clean place and the Silver
One stepped into it, resting lightly on a bed of light-green moss. All
that day Rairu went about, now and then taking the cover from the gourd
to look within and gaze with delight at the eyes of the Silver One
looking up at him. Whenever he did that, from the gourd there came a
sound of melting music, so entrancing a sound that Rairu felt himself to
be a part of all things—a part of the very heavens and the stars and
the sun and the moon. Even of the forest with its animals and birds, its
trees and its pools, he was a part.

Day and night strange things the Silver One told Rairu, and of those
things that which he found most sad was her telling that when the day
came on which he took his eyes from her and thought of other things on
which she would not look, things which hid from her in dark places and
under roofs, then there would be a dividing and she would become to him
but as an aching memory. At that Rairu, after pondering awhile, always
laughed, telling her that no sword could sever the thread that bound
them.

There came a day when the Silver One told Rairu that it would be well if
they visited the sky-world for a season, and to do that Rairu was quite
willing. So at her bidding Rairu sat among the leaves of a palm tree and
the Silver One crept out of the gourd and took her place by his side.
With a little stick she touched the tree, and at that it grew rapidly,
grew until it carried them into a place all bare and treeless, without
birds or flowers. The Silver One told Rairu to wait a while and she
would return. She sped away and Rairu kept her in his sight, for her
light did not dim.

Soon, to his astonishment he saw, close at hand, a beautiful city with
shining towers and moving lights of many colours, and about it went a
joyful procession of young men and maidens, dancing and singing and
playing instruments. Many beckoned to him to follow them, which he did.
Soon he came to a great hall, and as he entered a great burst of music
sounded, whereupon all there fell to dancing, whirling wildly. Wilder
and more wild grew the music; it became a welter of sound, a boiling
flood of strange noise that set his brain on fire. From corners leaped
evil and ugly things, bats, swine, evil-eyed carrion-birds, blunt-tailed
and mud-coloured serpents and great white toads, soft and clammy. In the
wild dance they joined and the din grew louder, so that it seemed to
Rairu that his ears must crack. But more fearful things there were, so
that Rairu fled to the place where he had stood when the Silver One left
him.

She was there waiting for him, but her eyes, though still full of love,
were filled with sad tears. Very gently she chided him for his
disobedience, and Rairu hung his head in sorrow and shame, knowing that
he must leave the Silver One for a season. It needed no words to tell
that the thread was broken. Hand clasped hand then, the more
passionately because they knew that there would be a parting.

“Go then, Rairu,” said she. “But mind well that a little toil, a little
striving, and thou shalt find me again. In the darkness lean on me, the
more because thou knowest thyself to be weak. Under the shadow of death,
dear Rairu, a fainting love is revived.”

So Rairu returned to earth, but great was his desire to find again that
which he had lost. And he told his fellow-men of all that he had seen,
saying that he must again find his star. Soon, with searching, he found
his Silver One and the clear light led him, clothing all that he said
and did with beauty.

                       THE CAT AND THE DREAM MAN

THIS is a tale that I heard when I was gold digging in Tierra del Fuego,
and if you want to get to the tale and skip the introduction, you may.
To do that, stop here—and pass over everything until you come to the
three stars * * * and begin at “Many years ago.” But if you want
information and all that kind of thing, read straight on and learn that
the man who told me the tale was named Soto, Adolpho Soto. He called
himself a Bolivian and said that it was a tale of Bolivia, but he had
never been to that country. His parents were Bolivian, but he had been
born and reared in inland Patagonia, on the east side of the Cordilleras
and north of the great shallow gulf that runs inland from the Strait of
Magellan. Anyway, he had heard the tale from others who knew all about
the three great stones and how they looked. Certainly he had not read
the story, for books meant nothing to him and he would not as much as
look at a picture. And it was quite clear to me that he believed every
word of the tale. Indeed, I am almost sure that he was doubtful in his
mind as to the wisdom of telling me all of it, thinking that I would not
believe it. Perhaps that is why he told me the tale in two parts, as if
in some manner I might thus get used to the shock of it. Mind you, on
the other hand, I am certain that he did not believe all that I told
him, though he was too polite to express unbelief. For instance, he
could not quite see how carriages went without horses, nor how men sent
messages over miles of wire, nor how the sound of a human voice could
come from a little box, without magic; for in the country that Adolpho
came from there were no railways, no telegraphs, and no phonographs. So
to the tale, or rather the first part of it, if you choose to hear it.

                              *    *    *

                            _The First Part_

Many years ago, said Soto, there came into the world a cat. It was in
the days when all creatures were harmless; when the teeth and claws of
the jaguar did not hurt; when the fang of the serpent was not poisonous;
when the very bushes had no thorns. But this cat was of evil heart and
unmerciful and a curse to the world, for she went about teaching
creatures to scratch and to bite, to tear and to kill, to hide in shady
places and leap out on unsuspecting things. Even a sheep she did not
leave to its own ways, but commenced to teach that gentle thing to fight
by butting with its head, though as it came to pass most luckily, the
cat came to a place where its mischief was stopped, as you shall hear
soon, so that señor sheep was left with his lesson half or less than
half learned, so that the youngest child now need not fear a whole
flock.

But for the most part the cat slept in the daytime, so did not make all
the mischief that she might have made, although she dreamed mischief,
let it be remembered. But this was the bad thing of it: her dream came
to life and walked the earth in the shape of a man with a fox-face, and
a very terrible monster was he, for being a dream man he could not be
killed. That you may see for yourself.

Sometimes he appeared among men, dressed in fine robes in a way of a
rich man, clothes wonderfully fine, as fine as those that you may see
about the men pictured on the playing cards. Sometimes it was otherwise
and he came as one all worn and travel-stained. Sometimes he came as a
head without a body, making mouths or looking slantwise; sometimes he
ran at people, did this dream man, ran with hooked fingers and claw
nails and made it so that the one he chased could not run at all, or
running, moved but slowly. For such must be the nature of the dreams of
cats, as everyone knows who has seen a cat with a mouse. But whichever
way the dream man came, mischief of some kind walked with him, and for
the most part he did his evil work by granting men their wishes. For you
must know that no man knows the thing that is best for him and for his
welfare, and many are apt to see some little things as desirable, the
which in time work out for their own undoing. Thus, once there was a man
who was a woodcutter, and growing weary of hard work he sat him down
under a tree and sighed, saying that though he worked hard, yet his work
was never done, and there were many mouths to feed. Then who should
appear before him but the fox-faced man, which of course was but the
cat-dream come to life, the cat meantime being asleep in the sun. So
this happened:

“Why do you complain?” asked the fox-faced one, who knew very well what
was afoot.

“All day I cut and chop, and chop and cut, but at the end of the day
little is the work that I have done, and my very children for whom I
toil, and for whom my wife toils, do but grumble that I am not rich,”
answered the poor fellow, who was indeed a very worthy man.

“Lucky for you, then, is it that you have seen me,” said fox-face. “For
know that I have it in my power to grant you a wish. What then would you
have?”

Hearing that, the woodcutter was thoughtful, for, in the manner of those
who see a dream man, everything seemed right and proper. Still, while he
had in his life wished for many things from day to day, when the time
came to make a wish he had none ready. Then his eye fell on his ax and
he said without thinking: “For one thing I wish that my ax was an ax so
that when I cut a stick or anything, I would have two as big as the
first one.”

To be sure, had he given thought he might have seen how foolish a wish
was that, as both cat and fox-face knew. But he spoke as the wind blew.
Then fox-face said some words which the woodcutter did not understand,
and added: “Try now your ax.”

So the man took a stick about the size of a man’s arm and brought down
his ax in the middle of it, and lo, there were two sticks, each the size
of a man’s arm, instead of two pieces each the half of that. The man
looked up, open-mouthed and surprised, to say something, but fox-face
had vanished, for the cat had wakened and so her dream ceased.

But greatly amazed was the man, for, as he soon saw, all his chopping
was of no account, for a tree cut down became at once two trees and one
of those trees cut in halves became two trees again. As for cutting
smaller wood, that, too, soon became impossible, seeing that each stick
grew to two sticks, so that soon he had to cease work because of the
wood all about him. Worse still, as he went to the place where he lived,
there came across his path a poisonous serpent, and forgetting for a
moment the power of his ax he cut the snake in two, and there, hissing
before him, were two snakes. So he fled to his people and told them the
tale, at which they wondered greatly. But to make sure that the ax would
do no mischief, and in truth somewhat fearing it, they hung it in a
tree, and each man told his son the story of it, so that all might come
to know it as a thing best left alone.

                                   II

Now in the course of time there came to that place a very wise man who
had seen many wonders. It had come to his ears that the cat was a
creature of darkness, teaching harmless things evil tricks, but of the
fox-faced man he knew nothing. The cat only, he considered. So the wise
man walked the mountains for many days, and one day when the sky was low
and it was a day of rain, an unpleasant day for the cat, he came upon
the evil-minded creature hurrying somewhere.

“Why in so great a hurry?” asked the wise man. “Sit awhile with me and
talk.”

“No. No,” said the cat. “I like not your water and I seek a place where
there is shelter, so that I may be dry and warm.” Indeed, the cat looked
very miserable indeed.

“Well, how would you like to have a house of stone?” asked the wise man.

“That I should like very much indeed,” answered the cat. “But it must be
a house large enough for me, and with no room for any other creature,
for I am not fond of company. But a house in which I could sit and
dream, and where no noises might disturb, would be very pleasant. Make
me such a one and I shall teach you something. Or how about a wish?
Would you like to have claws like an owl? Or would you like to drink
blood like a vampire bat? Or would you like to spit poison? Or would you
like to bristle like a porcupine?”

“Thank you, no,” said the wise man. “I want nothing. But by to-morrow
there shall be a house ready for you.”

“Where is it to be built?” asked the cat. “First, it must be in a quiet
place where men do not go.”

“It shall be that,” answered the wise man. “But just now I do not know
where the place may be. I must seek a proper place.”

“Then how shall I find it?” asked the cat.

“Attend,” said the wise man. “I shall put a thread about the world, a
thread that no man may break with his hands, and when you see that
thread, follow it and so come to the stone house.”

“Agreed,” said the cat. “But let the house be just big enough for me.
Let it be in a quiet place. Also, let it be of such fashion that I can
slip out backward or leap out forward should an enemy come.”

So that being said and no more to come, man and cat parted.

But mark well what followed. On the next day the cat chanced to see the
thread and followed it, walking down hill and up hill, down mountain and
up mountain, until she arrived at a high place where stood the wise man.
At his feet were three flat stones, two standing upright, the third
across the top of the two, so that it was like two sides of a little
house, roofed and of a comfortable size for the cat. So after looking
about carefully and suspiciously, the cat entered into it and coiled her
tail about her, blinked her eyes once, twice, thrice, then slept. And as
soon as she was well asleep the wise man fastened the thread about her
neck, the same thread which went about the world and which no man could
break with his hands, there being magic about it, and señora cat was
bound for years, and would have been bound for ever, had it not been for
Nasca, about whom you shall hear.

That ends the tale of the cat, though there is much more to come. And if
you are in a hurry to get to the rest of the tale, you may skip from
this—to the three stars * * * again, without losing much.

I said that it ended the tale of the cat, but it does not. It ends the
first part only, for Adolpho went only thus far, and the telling took
the whole of an evening, for there was much looping and winding in his
telling and he added much that had nothing to do with the tale. Indeed,
you should be very grateful indeed to me for trimming all the
uninteresting stuff away. And let me tell you this: it was not at all
easy to get Adolpho to tell the rest of the tale, and the place in which
we sat when we talked was not comfortable. It was no house with
radiators and electric lights, or bathtubs and bookshelves. Indeed, the
only furniture that we had was a frying-pan without a handle and an iron
pot. As for our house, it looked more like a short stout bottle than a
dwelling. For the truth is that we were careless builders and had made
our house out of sods of earth; but while we started to build a square
house, we did not take care of the corners, and the house came roundish
and the walls leaned inward as they went higher, so we left the top open
by way of chimney, for our fire was built in the middle of the floor.
Thus such was the shape of our house that we had to sleep curved and we
had to stand curved, though we rarely stood, because of the smoke, I
assure you.

Almost three weeks passed away before Adolpho told me the rest of the
tale and it was a cold night in June when he did. After supper he
commenced, perhaps because it was the kind of stew that he liked best.
For the most of the stew was fish. I said “the most of the stew,”
because our stews were different from those you have. If on Monday we
had a piece of huanaco meat, we put it in the iron pot to stew. There
would be something left over, for we always made a little more than we
required and we never wasted food. So, supper being done, the iron pot
with the remains of the stew was put aside. Perhaps next day we might
have caught or shot a young goose, or something like that. Anyway,
whatever we caught went into the pot by way of stew. So that day there
would be goose stew with a flavour of huanaco. Next day we might add
charqui, which is dried horse-flesh, to the stew, so while the chief
thing would be charqui, there would be a decided flavour of goose and
more than a trace of huanaco. But if we had fish on the fourth day, then
of course it would be strongly fishy stew, with a kind of side taste of
charqui, a flavour of goose, and a mild trace of huanaco. On the whole
it was satisfactory, for toward the end of the week any one might find
something to his liking, though on Saturday we always cleaned out the
pot, as we needed it for our week’s washing. And so, as I say, when we
came one evening to fish stew, Adolpho was in high good humour and told
me the rest of the tale, and this is how his story ran.

                              *    *    *

                     _The Second Part of the Tale_

Now, began Soto, you must remember all that I have told you about the
cat bound on the mountain top, the magic ax hanging in the tree, and the
hundreds and hundreds of years that passed, with the cat growing larger
and larger. As the cat grew, so did the house, for the wise man had
promised that it should be just big enough for the cat, and he kept his
word. But you must also remember that the cat could not move, but could
certainly dream. So she dreamed of many lands, and the dream man was
very active indeed, though he vanished whenever the cat woke.

When you come to think of it, you will see that it was a most excellent
thing that the cat was bound, for had she not been, she would have
worked her mischief on the world and a sheep might have been as terrible
as a wild boar or flies as annoying as mosquitoes or horses as bold as
wild bulls or the very fish as poisonous as serpents. While the cat did
not dream, of course the fox-faced man was nowhere, and then all went
very well and trees put out their blossoms and fruits, the grass was
softly green, the rain was like silver, and gentle were the hearts of
men as they went about their affairs.

But there was a day on which the cat dreamed and the fox-faced fellow
was busy. To the place where lived the people who guarded the magic ax,
there came a stranger. His eyes were aslant and little, the hair of him
was reddish, and he was in rags and tatters and altogether dirty in
appearance. To be sure, no one would look twice at rags and tatters, for
one coming through the forest must needs be torn by thorns and bushes in
all that tangle, but dirt was quite another matter, especially when the
dirt included blood stains, because in that place was much water and
many running streams, nor was the water chill to the skin. So, because
of the uncleanness of the man, people looked at him with unfriendly
eyes, and though they were neither insolent nor rude they hoped that he
would go farther and not stay there. Nor would it have been any great
hardship for him to do so, seeing that it was a place of much fruit and
of many berries, and roots pleasant to the taste and full of
nourishment. As for the night, any man might well stretch himself under
that star-sprinkled sky, nor except for the beasts that the cat had made
unfriendly were there creatures to do harm. But the stranger had no
notion of doing anything to please the people, nor indeed could he do
anything, seeing that he was the creature of the cat’s dream, walking
the world.

For a time then he stood under a tree bewailing his lot and crying out
that all the world was against him and saying that none were kind to
him. Strange things he did, too, as is the manner of dream people,
making himself sometimes shoot far far away so that he looked small,
then coming near again and getting big, or sometimes pointing his finger
at someone, then throwing his arm round and round in great circles, the
finger always pointing, the circles he made growing smaller and smaller,
little by little, but his finger always pointing, until it came close to
the watcher’s eyes. The people thought this an annoying thing for a
stranger to do; but so it was. And always he woefully wailed. So those
there stood about him in a little circle, none going close, but all
wondering much at the great outcry, the like of which none there had
heard before. Then he began to sing, noisily, wildly. This was his song:

                      “Over the world I walk,
                        Alone, for ever alone.
                      Trouble and trial and care,
                        Alone, I bear alone.
                      Torture and pain I bear,
                        Alone, for ever alone.
                      Wandering day and night,
                        Alone, for ever alone.
                      Sad and wretched my plight,
                        Alone, for ever alone.”

Then he gave a long, long cry, like a wolf:

                  “A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!”

Nor did he stop at that, for his song done, he began to act stupidly,
leaping from side to side in rage and fury, mouthing and grimacing,
opening and closing his fists, but making no noise. Then he talked
again, but it was a jabber of idle words, so presently those about him
shook their heads at one another, looking at him as one who had lost his
wits, never thinking of course that he was a cat’s dream.

While all this was going on, there came from the little lake where he
had been fishing a lad named Nasca, bearing a basket of fish, a happy
fellow who always made music and song as he walked, and seeing the
people gathered about the stranger he drew near. No sooner did the
stranger clap eyes on the fish than he leaped at the basket and began
devouring the silvery things, eating them raw, heads, bodies, and tails,
for thus ran the cat’s dream and cattishness must out. But the meal
being done, the stranger redoubled his lamentations, all the time
swinging his arm in circles, sometimes great, sometimes small, with his
finger pointed at the boy.

“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!” he screamed, and the boy
thought that such a fellow well deserved to be alone, but he was too
polite to say so.

“I am hungry and travel-worn,” the stranger went on. “Is there no one
here who will give me shelter? Is there no one in this place with a kind
heart to pity me?”

Hearing that, the heart of Nasca was touched, for never had he, nor
never had his grandmother with whom he lived, turned a hungry creature
away empty. Indeed, so gentle in spirit was Nasca that if the stem of a
flower was broken by a heedless creature he was full of grief. Yet the
doings of the stranger astonished him and troubled him, for the man
without seeming to move his feet thrust his face close to the boy’s,
then somehow took his face far off. That silly trick he did again and
again as dream creatures do, so that seeing him Nasca was well nigh made
dizzy. Then the lad, blushing red as fire because of all the people
thereabouts who did not offer what he offered, said:

“Come home, then, with me. Our house is small but there is room enough.
Believe me, it is not that these people are hard-hearted that they do
not seem to welcome you, but more because you must have been too weary
with walking to wash yourself. But behind the hill and under a tree near
where we live is a still pool, and there doubtless you will clean
yourself.”

Then Nasca led the way and the stranger went with him, yet not walking,
but leaping up and down as he went, and sometimes not touching the
ground at all. Nasca was not comfortable with the stranger by his side,
for he felt him to be more like a shadow than a man, and a shadow that
hung over him and tormented him, a shadow that might pounce upon him.

Having come to the place where his grandmother was, Nasca was sorely
troubled to see the old woman fall to trembling when she heard the voice
of the stranger, who was making an idle jabber of words again. Indeed,
after a time she put her hands to her face and wept, though that was
after the man having eaten had left the place to rest under a tree.
Nasca comforted her as best he could, then asked her to tell him the
cause of her grief. Be it remembered that she was very, very old and her
eyes were weak and dim with age.

“Tell me,” she said, taking Nasca’s hand, “has this man eyes aslant,
like the eyes of a fox?”

“Indeed and he has,” answered Nasca. Then his heart bade him say some
good of the fellow, and he added: “Yet no man makes his own face,
wherefore must some be pitied.”

“Tell me,” said the grandmother eagerly, “has he sharp teeth like a
cat?”

“That he has,” said Nasca, then wondering, asked: “Have you seen this
man, then, when your eyes were bright and strong?”

“No, Nasca,” she answered, “never have I set eyes on him, yet I greatly
fear him; and long, long ago I heard stories about such a creature and
it was said that much evil he wrought, yet none could slay him.” She was
silent for a little, then again she asked this: “Did you see his ears,
Nasca, and are they pointed, like those of a fox?”

“Yes,” said Nasca.

At that answer the old woman was sad again and Nasca had to comfort her
with sweet words, telling her that she should come to no hurt, since he
was there, for he would die defending her.

“That I know, Nasca,” she said. “If the hurt came to me alone, glad
would I be, for I have seen my golden days and now there is little left
for me but the brief sunset hour. But I fear for others. Of such a
creature I have heard it said that he comes from nowhere and goes into
nothing, but somehow looses evil upon men. Because of that I fear. So,
Nasca, promise me that if this man asks anything of you, you will do
nothing that promises hurt to any living thing.”

That Nasca promised gladly enough, then said: “Yet it may be that this
man is not the evil creature you have heard of. It may well be some
unfortunate whose wits are loose. True, his face is far from pleasant to
see, but a rough face may go with a good heart, and a man’s face may
change.”

“Yes, with wickedness,” said the old woman, “but in truth it has been
said that a man’s face and his character both go with him to the grave,
if indeed there is any grave for such as this.”

                                   II

Now all that talk Nasca remembered well the next day when a strange
thing happened. For the stranger went about among the people, asking
this one and that what he most desired. But there were none to make a
wish for a time, because life there was pleasant and easy and the
possessions of men were few, so all that the stranger said went for
nothing. Then, as it chanced, there came one of the people a little put
out because he had lost sleep that morning. He was a man much given to
rest and slumber, a slow and heavy man, and that morning he had been
awakened by the singing of the birds. To make matters worse, going away
from the place where he had lain, in too great a hurry, he chanced to
scratch himself on some thorns. So, taking it all in all, his humour was
not a pleasant one; yet had it not been for the stranger, he might have
forgotten his troubles. As it was, he heard the stranger’s speech and
the offer to grant any wish, so he spoke without considering his words.

“If you grant wishes, there is one that I would have,” he said, nodding
to his friends in the manner of one who had a matter of weight to tell
of.

“Say it,” said the stranger, and he grinned queerly so that his lip went
up and his tusky teeth shone yellow.

“This morning I was disturbed by birds and scratched by thorns, so I
wish that nothing might come near me to disturb me in the future.”

“As you wish,” said the stranger, and gabbled what seemed to be idle and
meaningless words.

Then a strange thing happened, for as the man who had made the wish
stood looking at the stranger, his mouth wide open, all living things
about him suddenly fell away. Within the stretch of a man’s arm from him
the grass yellowed and died, and the flowers shrank and withered, and a
butterfly that fluttered over him fell to earth, dead. And the people
cried out, seeing that, but soon it became clear that not even sounds
could come within that magic circle. The air bore no noise to the
charmed man, not even the sweet noise of the songs of birds nor the
chirping of insects, and the man was, in very truth, in such case that
nothing could be nigh him to disturb him. Indeed, as he moved, all
things died within the stretch of his arms, seeing which his friends
fled from him, all fearful of his nearness. Afraid of his loneliness the
man walked to a tree, but no sooner did he touch it than the very leaves
folded themselves and turned black, then dropped off and fluttered down,
so that the arms of the good tree stood skeleton-bare against the sky.
At that all hope in the man was gone and he turned and fled into the
forest, a space opening before him as he ran, a track of death
everywhere behind him.

Nasca saw all that, and his grandmother’s fears came to his mind.
Indeed, he told many there of what the old woman had said, but some of
them held that the stranger had but granted the wisher his wish, and if
there was fault in the matter the fault lay with the wisher, not with
the granter of the wish. As for the grandmother, when she heard the tale
she was in great trouble and threw herself on the ground weeping, and
though Nasca did what he could to comfort her, yet she wept and wept.

“Nasca,” she said presently, “surely we must do what we can to rid the
place of this fearful creature. For it is as I thought, and he is a
black-hearted thing, not of this world of men, and one who will
assuredly bring hate and fear and trouble. Find, then, if there is any
means by which he may be made to go away, even to the point of helping
him, if need be, but see to it that you think not of yourself and your
own gain, and see to it that anything that you do at his request will
bring no harm to any living creature, even the smallest.”

All this Nasca promised, and in the early dawn of the next day went up
to the hills to see the sun rise, as indeed did all brave and strong men
and fair maidens in that place. Then he swam a little while, and ate
some fruit and thought a while, and after sought out the stranger.

“Stranger,” said he, “be it known to you that there are many here who
fear your presence among us and who would be glad to see you gone from
here.”

“Ho! Ho! What bold words are these I hear?” roared fox-face, full of
wrath at Nasca’s words.

“I speak but the truth,” said the lad boldly enough, though his heart
beat against his ribs. “Tell me, then, what can be done so that you may
be persuaded to leave us.”

Fox-face thought awhile, then he said: “On a far mountain is a gentle
creature bound with a magic thread which no man’s hand can break. Yet
magic fights magic, and the magic ax can sever the thread. Also, at the
moment the thread is cut, so will the man who is prisoned in air be
free, but not before. Now the bound creature is my companion and no
fierce thing at all. Come with me, Nasca, bringing the magic ax, and
when you have seen the cat, then perchance shall the spell be broken.”

All of that seeming fair to Nasca, he went to the tree where hung the
magic ax, though he had much ado to climb through the tangle all about
the tree, for no man had been there for many a year. He took the ax and
fastened it well in his sash, and returned to the side of the stranger.
Then fox-face took a mat made of feathers of the night owl and the hair
of the skunk, and spread it on the ground, but it was so small that
there was scarce place for Nasca and the man too, so the lad cut it with
the magic ax and there were two mats, which was more to Nasca’s taste,
for he had no liking to stand on the mat and hold on to fox-face. No
sooner had they taken their places on the mats than they rose in the
air, and in a swift moment both of them were so high that the country
lay spread at their feet with trees like grass and with rivers that
looked like silver threads. Nor could the swiftest condor move with the
speed with which they flew through the air. So at last they came to a
place where everywhere were bare rocks and hard stone, with no blade of
grass to be seen, and it was a place among mountain peaks, with stony
ridge rising above stony ridge, and on a mountain peak the two rested.

“Now look away to the far hill,” said the stranger, and while the place
to which he pointed was very far off, yet because of the clearness of
the air it seemed but a short distance away. Looking steadily Nasca saw
the three great rocks, for they were tremendously grown now, after so
many hundreds of years, but to Nasca they seemed no higher than a man’s
knee, and sitting under them was the cat.

“That is the companion I seek,” said fox-face. “By magic she is bound
and by magic only can she be loosed, and I promise you that if you will
but loose her I shall be seen no more in your land.”

“Fair enough,” said Nasca. “But I must be assured of a return to my own
place, for it is far from home on these hills.”

“That is well enough,” answered fox-face. “Have you not your flying mat?
Though to be sure, as soon as you take your foot from it it will
vanish.”

Nasca thought for a little while, and the more he thought the more it
seemed to him to be a good thing and not an evil to loose the cat, so he
asked the stranger to show him the bond that held her. At that fox-face
pointed, and there almost at his feet Nasca beheld a slender thread,
like a hair, that ran this way and that as far as the eye could see. So
with a blow of the magic ax he cut the thread, and there was a noise
like thunder and the thread ends slid away like swift snakes. Nor did
the stranger play Nasca false, for in a flash he found himself back
again at the foot of the tree where the magic ax had hung, and so
swiftly had the journey been made that a man who had stooped to fill his
calabash at a pool when Nasca left, was even then straightening himself
to go away, his calabash being filled. As for the fox-faced stranger, no
one ever saw him again, for the cat being awakened, her dream had ended.
And at the moment when the thread was cut, the man who had been bound in
air came back again, his enchantment finished, and the things that had
died about him, because of invisible forces, sprang to life again.

But what of the cat? For Nasca little thought that he had loosed a
fearful thing on the world, a frightful form of giant mould of a size
bigger than a bull. Nor did he know until one evening, as he sat by the
fire, it being chill in that high place at times, he turned his head as
the robe that hung at the door bulged into the house. He looked to see
his grandmother, but instead a great cat filled the doorway, a cat with
green eyes, each the size of an egg. Indeed so great was the cat that it
had to crouch low to enter. And when within, the room was filled with
it, a sight that made the heart of Nasca stand still. A gloomy terror it
was, and most fiendish was the look that it gave the lad. But Nasca,
though terror-stricken, yet showed no sign of fear. Instead, he made
room for the cat by the fire as though he saw cats like that every day.
So the cat sat by the fire and close to Nasca, sometimes looking at the
blaze without winking, sometimes turning its great head to look for long
and long at the boy. Once Nasca stood up, saying that he would go
outside and bring in more wood for the fire, privately thinking to get
out of the place in safety, but the great paw of the cat shot out with
claws that looked like reaping hooks, whereupon Nasca sat down again
saying that, after all, the fire would live awhile. But he thought and
thought and the cat looked and looked, and the place was as still and
quiet as a midnight pool.

Presently Nasca found heart to say something.

“If you want to stay here and rest,” he said to the cat, “I shall go
away.”

“You must not go away,” said the cat in a soft voice, stretching out one
of her paws with the cruel claws showing a little.

After that a long time passed and the fire flamed only a little, and the
shadow of the cat was big and black on the wall, and Nasca thought and
thought and the cat looked and looked. Then the firelight danced and the
big black shadow seemed to leap and then grow small, and the cat’s eyes
were full of a cold fire as they rested on Nasca.

Then suddenly Nasca broke into a laugh, though, to be sure, the laugh
did not come from his heart.

“Why do you laugh?” said the cat.

“Because you are so big and I am so little, but for all that I can run
ten times faster than you,” answered Nasca, and his words sounded bold
enough. He added: “All living creatures would agree in that.”

“That is nonsense,” said the cat, her jealousy at once aroused. “I am
the fastest creature on earth. I can leap over mountains and I take
rivers at a step.”

“It does not matter what you can do,” said Nasca, growing bolder every
second. “Let me tell you this: While a man stooped to fill his calabash,
I went from this place to a far mountain, cut the thread that bound you,
and returned before the man with the calabash had straightened himself,
and if you do not believe it, I will bring the man.”

Nasca said all this with some idea of getting an excuse to go from
there, but the words struck deep and the cat wondered.

“Why did you loose me?” asked the cat.

“Because I wanted to run a race with you,” answered Nasca.

“If we run a race it must be for a wager,” said the cat. “If you lose I
make a meal of you. Is it agreed?”

“Fairly spoken,” said Nasca, “though to be sure if you lose I make no
meal of you.”

“Let us run to-morrow then,” said Nasca. “And I shall sleep well under
the tree and be fresh in the morning.”

“Not so,” said the cat. “If we run, we run at midnight and under the
cold white moon.”

“So be it,” answered Nasca. “Where shall we run?”

“Across the mountains and back again, seven times,” said the cat,
choosing the highlands, because she knew that she could leap over hills
and cañons, while Nasca would have to climb up and down, and choosing
night because she could see better in the dark than Nasca. For the cat
was very wise. But Nasca on his part thought of little more than getting
away from the cat for a while. So he told the cat that he would bring a
basket of fish for her supper, which he did, and while the cat ate he
went outside and sought his grandmother.

The wise old woman laughed when she heard the story. “To a cat her
cattishness,” she said, “but to a woman her wit. All falls out well
enough. Haste, run and bring me the magic ax.”

“But no,” said Nasca. “To use that would but make two terrible cats, and
one is more than enough.”

“Heed me, Nasca, and bring the ax,” she repeated.

At that the boy ran swiftly and brought the ax.

“Now stand, Nasca, and fear not,” said the old woman, and lifted the ax.
So the lad stood, closing his eyes when he saw her raise the ax to
strike.

Then with a swift blow she brought the weapon down on Nasca’s head,
cutting him in two, and in a moment there stood before her two Nascas,
each as like the other as one blade of grass is like another. Surely and
well had the ax done its work. One Nasca was as shapely as the other,
one as fair-skinned as the other.

“Now,” said the old woman, “happy was I with one Nasca, so doubly happy
shall I be with two. So stay you here, Nasca the first, and Nasca the
second must come with me. Oh, a merry world and a glad will it be now,
since joy and gladness are doubled.”

At that she remembered that she had told neither lad anything, in her
delight, so she turned again to the first Nasca.

“Wait here for the great cat,” she said. “Go with her to the great cañon
where the race must start, and when the cat makes to leap across, which
she will do, do you climb down a little way, then hide yourself until
the cat returns. Doubtless we shall be able to manage matters at the
other end. But see to it that you chide the cat for her slowness when
she returns after the first run, and we shall see what we shall see.”

Having said that, the old woman set off with Nasca the second, walking
bravely over the ridges and hills that rose one behind the other like
the waves of the sea. And when they had come to a far place where the
mountain dropped down like a great stone wall to a fearful depth, they
sat them down to wait, Nasca the second being in plain sight, the old
woman hiding behind a rock.

But as soon as the moon rose the great cat walked to where Nasca the
first stood, her eyes glaring terribly and her hair all a-bristle. So
horrible a sight was she that for a moment Nasca went deadly pale, but
he spoke boldly enough, nevertheless, for the brave one is not he that
does not fear, but rather he that fears and yet does the thing that he
has set out to do.

“One thing,” said Nasca to the cat. “Is it right that you should leap
over the cañon, going from one side to the other like a bird, while I
must climb down and then up again? Let us make things fairer in the
race, and do you climb down and up the other side with me.” But all this
he said in a kind of spirit of mischief, knowing full well that the cat
would give him no chance at all.

“Ha! What is to do now?” said the cat with a hiss and a sneer. “Does
your heart fail you already? Are you terror-tormented at the start? A
fine racer, you, indeed! No, no, my fine lad. We race for a supper and
you must supply the meal.”

To that Nasca answered nothing, so there was a little silence, broken
only by the hooting of the owl who was, indeed, trying to tell the cat
the truth of matters. But the cat was too full of her own notions and
had no ear for others. She lay crouched on the ground, ready to make a
spring, and Nasca wondered whether her jump would be at him or across
the cañon. Suddenly, in a voice like thunder, the cat called: “START!”
and at the word, leaped across the valley and was off and away, without
as much as giving a glance at the lad. But he made a great deal of fuss
on his part, climbing down the face of the cañon wall. The cat, on
landing on the other side, looked back, then gave a cry of triumph,
seeing the poor start that Nasca had made. “Come on! Come on!” she
called. “The run will sharpen my appetite,” and even as she said that,
she was a distance off, then bounding away up hill and down hill, over
the ridges, over the rocks, over the streams, taking a hundred yards at
a bound. So in a very short space of time she came to the place where
Nasca the second stood, and was mightily astonished to see her opponent,
as she thought, there before her.

“Too easy, señora cat, too easy,” said Nasca the second, speaking as the
grandmother bade him. “I thought cats were swifter. Doubtless you play,
though.”

Hearing that speech the cat was full of anger and in a voice that shook
the mountains, she roared: “BACK! BACK AGAIN! I’ll show you.”

Off ran Nasca the second then, but the cat passed him like lightning,
her very whiskers streaming behind, and as soon as she was over the
first hill the lad went back to the place where his grandmother was.
Señora cat knew nothing of that, though, and went bounding as before,
tearing up hill and down hill, over the ridges, over the rocks, over the
streams, taking two hundred yards at a leap, and at last came to the
place of beginning, to behold Nasca, who stood smiling and wiping his
brow lightly, as if he had been running.

“Much better, señora cat,” he said. “You almost caught me that time. A
little faster and you would have won. But still I have more speed in me
to let loose. Come on.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he started off, making as
though to climb down the cañon wall, and the cat gave a screech that
shook the very skies and made the pale moon quiver. So fast she went
that the very trees and bushes that she passed were scorched, and as for
the rocks over which she flew, they were melted by the heat of the air.
Every leap that she took was four hundred yards. Up hill and down hill
she went, over the ridges, over the rocks, over the streams, and so at
last she came once more to where the second Nasca stood.

“A good run that, señora cat,” he said. “I think that we shall finish
the race soon and in a way that I may live and be happy, though for me
you must go supperless. Certainly I must try, for to lose will profit me
nothing.”

But the cat was at her wits’ end, supposing that Nasca ran faster than
she. She opened her mouth to shriek, but fast upon her came a great
feebleness, and she faltered and reeled and then fell down in a faint,
seeing nothing at all. No time then did the second Nasca and the old
woman lose. Putting themselves to the task, they rolled the cat to the
edge of the great rock wall that ran down straight. Then after a pause
to gain breath they gave another push, and the body of the giant cat
fell over the edge and was broken to pieces on the sharp rocks below. So
that was the end of the cat and the end of her dreams.

The two Nascas and the old woman went to their own place and told the
people all that had happened, so there was great rejoicing, and laughter
and song and weaving of garlands, and everybody was happy. And ever
since there has been kindness and good fellowship in that land. And for
those who would see signs of the tale there stand the three great rocks
on the highlands, each so heavy that two hundred men could not lift
them, and wise men wonder much what manner of men put them there. But
only those who are not wise and learned know the truth of the matter, as
you may test for yourself by asking any very wise men who come to visit
you.

                                THE END

                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.