# The Shaman/Chapter 16

From the Popular magazine, 07 Feb 1922, pp. 63-66.

### CHAPTER XVI.

Troubled and fatigued I went to our old room and went to sleep. When I awoke the room was in darkness. I climbed out, lighted the lamp and looked at my watch. It was six o'clock in the evening. I had slept the day through. Looking at Jack's bed I discovered him there, sleeping soundly. I made a quick toilet and tiptoed from the room. In the hallway another door opened and from its shaft of light stepped Malitka.
“Ah,” she said, “you have rested. I have just returned from the village.”
“Have they learned about—about what happened up there on the mountain trail?” I asked, keenly alert again.
“Not yet,” she replied; “but—I am worried in view of what may take place when they do.”
She moved ahead of me to the big living room, where the fire blazed in the grate, throwing its quivering shadows over all. I started to light the lamp, but she laid a hand upon my arm and detained me.
“No, not yet,” she said. “I want to talk to you and—I'd rather have the room as it is.”
I tossed the match I had lighted into the grate. She put both hands on my shoulders, looking up at me from the shadows.
“It is about—about your friend,” she said. “I can ask you for the truth. You will neither lie nor evade with me. You are not that kind of a man. I trust you and your honesty, for you are older, wiser than either he or I. You are one who knows much of the world.”
“What is it you want to ask?” I questioned.
We moved nearer the grate and seated ourselves. She did not speak for a moment or two, and when she did looked at the flames rather than at me.
“Come, Malitka,” I said gently, “you want to ask about John—and I can answer. He is clean, brave, loyal, and without guile. He is my dearest friend despite disparity of years.”
“I had no intent to question you as to his character,” she said quietly, “but—but to speak—of mine!”
“Of yours!”
“Oh, Hathaway, I love him!” she cried in distress. “He loves me. He told me so after you left the room to-day. And—I am still young. I have known no great love like this. But—is it fair to him—the man I love—to give way and go with him? Is it better that I send him away and—live and die here alone—knowing that I did not break his career, his possibilities? I can do it! I learned suffering and self-sacrifice long, long ago. He asked me to leave all this—to marry him—to begin life with him anew! He held happiness before my eyes that have known so much of sorrow! He made me forget all that I have been and all that I am! But—is it fair to him? What can I do? What should I do?”
There was a lament of agony and indecision in her voice. It was not easy for me to answer. I was very fond of John Braith and I pitied her. His life, very full of promise, was ahead of him, and hers seemed wrecked, finished. I wondered if it were possible for one who had been such a rebellious soul, such a stormy petrel swirling above the muddy, bloodstained maelstrom of Russian waters, to become helpmate to any man. And then came the recollection that even the stormy petrel when its wings are worn and tired, is eventually driven to rest.
“You have not answered,” she said.
“How can I?” I replied. “How can I know whether, if you desert this solitude, which is after all a secure haven, and venture into the complexities of the world outside, you may not again be involved in futile plots and conspiracies?”
“No, that is impossible,” she declared. “My experience was too bitter, my disillusionment too profound. I still think that some of my ideals were brave ones and clean; but sometimes the potter finds that the clay beneath his thumb will not work. And it is the one who abandons an irrevocable failure and profits by his mistake who is worth while. I see now that it was but a silly conceit to hope that I, insignificant, could alter conditions that have arisen through centuries of growth. One cannot obliterate a pyramid, created by tens of thousands, with his naked hands. No, I could not and would not make any further attempt. As an outcast princess I have no desire to return to a court life, and as an outcast communist I have no desire for that association. All I wish is peace, quietude, and love. And so, knowing all this, can you answer, my friend?”
She arose with the infinite grace of her bodily perfection and dropped upon her knees beside my chair, resting her arms thereon and looking up into my weather-beaten face as if I were a judge about to issue a decree. I put one of my hands over her clasped ones, and, looking into her eyes said, “Malitka, will you promise to abide by that decision?”
“Yes,” she said with an almost childish faith, “I will.”
“Then,” said I, “there can be but one way. You must leave here with us. You and my friend must follow the call of the heart. In that way alone lies content.”
To my considerable embarrassment and before I could prevent, she bent forward and kissed my hand, rested her forehead upon it and wept, not as most women weep, with sobs, but quietly, as if through some immense relief and happiness. After a moment and very gently I lifted her up and, with an arm about her shoulders, directed her back to her chair.
Unaccustomed to emotional situations of this character I could only talk to her with the intent of diverting her mind. I fell to discussing projects for our escape and was relieved when, after a time, she was soothed and practical again. But I was to have one more clear glimpse of the directness of her methods when we were unexpectedly interrupted by Jack, who, refreshed, clean, and youthful, entered the room.
“Hello,” he said, pausing inside the door, “afraid to have the lamps lighted?”
Before I could offer any reply she had arisen and walked swiftly across to meet him.
“Jack,” she said scarcely above a whisper, “I have decided. I don't care to live without you. I—I am going with you!”
He caught her in his arms and held her unresisting, and looked down into her face for a very long time; at least it seemed long to me, until, suddenly aware of the indelicacy of my scrutiny, I turned away and stared down into the depths of the fire blaze. Their murmured, almost inaudible words came to me as from a great distance, as if already they had stepped forever from my life, had forgotten me, or in their new compact of love and faith were heedless of my presence. I suppose there are moments in the emotional lives of men and women when, though they might be surrounded by a multitude, they would still be alone. Like Sydney Carton and the frail little seamstress in that marvelous “A Tale of Two Cities,” who interchanged a tender, pitiful farewell at the foot of the guillotine and were heedless of their appallingly murderous surroundings.
I was thinking of this when they came to me, one on each side, and each caught me by an arm and then by a hand. And so, standing there, I looked from one to the other, gravely considering my share of responsibility in perhaps piloting them together for what might be a fair or disastrous voyage. And yet, studying them as we stood there together, I felt that my advice had been sound.
That is a long time ago! I am old and have gained such wisdom as comes from age. But to this hour I have no regret for throwing my weight in the scales that so nicely balanced their fate. I flatter myself that this tiny weight of mine was thrust on the right side.
It was not until after supper that we returned to the hard realities and to planning how best we could escape from this semibarbarous environment to the open trails. We would have given much then for the sage counsel of the shaman who lay fast asleep. We could arrive at no decision without him. And so, in suspense, we at last retired.
Long companionship with vicissitude is a stern teacher. It cultivates and renders acute many senses that are, I presume, dormant and never stimulated in those who lead placid, humdrum lives. Either because of that or because I am no light sleeper, any way, I awakened at an early hour upon hearing through log walls the alarm of village dogs. I was on my feet and at the window wiping away a tiny coating of frost before fully alert; and then, peering through, I saw two men coming down the gold trail. In the wan light of arctic morning they appeared as black spots of evil sliding wearily across the pallor of the snow. They advanced abreast and disappeared from sight around the corner of the Great House like ghosts of ill omen. The clamor of the dogs increased in crescendo to full cry, and then died away. I went back to my bed, pictured to myself for a time their advent in the native houses which must be their destination, the excitement aroused by their recountal of a tragic tale, and the slow spreading, as morning advanced, of native agitation and discussion to determine our fate. I had neither further desire nor ability to sleep, but lay awake for a long time. From the interior of the house came sounds of movement in a habitual routine, but from the outland of the village nothing loud enough to be audible. At last I awakened Jack.
“I'm getting up, old man,” I said, “and perhaps it might be wise for you to do the same. I saw two runners from the gold camp an hour or so ago.”
He sat up in his bed and gained the floor.
“Well, whatever is coming will come, then, and we haven't long to wait,” he said.
I was the first one out and with a fur parka thrown over my shoulders unbarred the front door and stepped upon the veranda. From the village below me smoke climbed upward from each chimney. Off in the distance, far beyond the end of the street, the white gates of the hills stood clear against the cold blue of the morning skies. A star or two was still visible as if proud of final resistance against advancing daylight. Here and there a fur-clad figure moved from house to house. There was nothing to indicate either physical or human storm. Malitka, with a newly found confidence of camaraderie, joined me and put a trusting arm through mine before I was aware of her presence.
“Why up so early? Has anything happened?” she asked.
I told her what I had seen and of my fears. She stared thoughtfully at the village.
“One can never know. But—I don't think we can do more than wait to see how the news will affect them. They are so like children, after all. Children with great physical strength and immature minds. I hope—no—I think!—that I can control them. We shall see.”
We breakfasted undisturbed, talking as only those in suspense can talk, and still there was no sign of excitement in the village beyond a visible movement of more visitations than were customary. Malitka went to the shaman, returned to say that he was much improved and wished to see me, and I immediately went to his room. He had propped himself up on his pillows, and his black eyes twinkled as he looked at me.
“So,” he said in the native tongue, “you have learned to speak this language or at least to understand it?”
I nodded and grinned back at him with as much cheerfulness as his own.
“Also thou speakest, friend, my other native tongue of Russian?” he went on, using the Russian tongue and the friendly diminutive. “Ah, Grayhead, there lurks much beneath that old thatch of thine! Thou hast the wisdom of the silent tongue and the swift ear. What talks thou and I might have had could I have known this sooner. Strange tales of many lands; stories that I cannot speak in my halting English; news for which I hunger of cities that thou hast visited since I strode through their streets.”
I was astonished by his manner of speech, indicating that his was no mean education in that difficult tongue of the white czar's land. I blurted something to this effect, and he lifted deprecating hands.
“My father was a well-educated man. He did not neglect me in my childhood. For two years I earned my way in a Moscow university by humble service, despite the contumely of my classmates for one of my birth. There I was a despised menial. Here I have been, if not a king, at least a prime minister to a queen.”
He chuckled derisively, and then abruptly his face became grave and his eyes searching.
“What do you and your friend propose to do?” he asked.
I hesitated momentarily, wondering if it were wise in his condition to run the risk of exciting him. He appeared to read my thought and added, “Speak then, friend—for thou art that, I have proof. Be not afraid that these scratches can cause fever to one of my physical constitution. Tell me all. Decisions must be made.”
Requiring no further assurance I told him bluntly that our sole desire was to escape back to the coast, our mission having been performed. Of that mission also I told him, while he rested quietly, now and then asking a terse question, now and then uttering a comment. But I reserved until the very last that information that I feared might arouse him to an angry refusal.
“Madame Malitka intends to accompany us,” I said. “She is betrothed to my friend.”
Somewhat to my astonishment he betrayed nothing more than a thoughtful consideration of this phase of our affairs, and for a time shifted his eyes from mine and looked absently at the window's light. He seemed pondering like some wise old philosopher before passing judgment.
“Well,” he said at last with a sigh, “whether I like it or not, it cannot be helped. I guessed their affection or at least hers from the very solicitude with which she bade me care for him when you started away from the village; from the evasion in her eyes when she mentioned his name; from her distress when I brought you back. Compared with us, Old Grayhead, they are young. It is the way of youth to love, to mate, to have great and mutual visions. I have played a good hand, but fate has re-dealt the cards. The time comes when I must play alone. I must think how best to serve. The way may be difficult. I must think!”
He turned his head away and I took it as a dismissal. I left him there brooding over his new problem, and returned to the living room. I entered just in time to hear Jack, who was standing at the window, exclaim, “Malitka, they're coming!”
Both she and I hastened to the window and looked out to see, suddenly emerging from nearly every house as if belched out in response to some signal, a mob of men, while squaws stood in the doorways restraining their children as if it had been previously agreed that whatever was afoot was too serious for their participation. A tall native with a bandage about his head was haranguing them and shaking his fists in our direction. And then, taking the lead, he moved rapidly toward the Great House followed by his crowd of adherents. The menace was upon us.