Tink-a-tink I Cling-clang! Clink —
The little hammers hung suspended in air; the little smiths stood frozen. Speeding from the north came the horn of a great gong, a brazen stroke that seemed to break overhead. It was followed by another and another and another. A wind wailed over the plain; the air grew darker, the vaporous smoky veils quivered and marched closer.
The clangour of the gongs gave way to a strong chanting, the singing of many people; the chanting advanced and retreated, rose and waned as the wind rose and fell, rose and fell in rhythmic pulse. From all the walls the drums of the guards roared warning.
The little smiths dropped their hammers and raced to the lairs. Over all the plain there was turmoil, movement of the golden pygmies racing to the cliffs and to the circling slope to swell the garrisons there.
Through the strong chanting came the beat of other drums. I knew them — the throb of the Uighur kettle-drums, the war drums. And I knew the chant — it was the war song, the battle song of the Uighurs. Not the Uighurs, no — not the patched and paltry people I had led from the oasis! War song of the ancient race! The great race — the Ayjir!
The old race! My people! I knew the song — well did I know it! Often and often had I heard it in the olden days . . . when I had gone forth to battle . . . By Zarda of the Thirsty Spears . . . by Zarda God of Warriors, but it was like drink to a parched throat to hear it again!
My blood drummed in my ears . . . I opened my throat to roar that song . . . “Leif! Leif! What is the matter?” Evalie’s hands were on my shoulders, shaking me| I glared at her, uncomprehending for a moment. I felt a strange, angry bafflement. Who was this dark girl that checked me on my way to war? And abruptly the obsession left me. It left me trembling, shaken at though by some brief wild tempest of the mind. I put my own hands upon those on my shoulders, drew reality from the touch. I saw that there was amazement in Evalie’s eyes, and something of fear. And around us was a ring of the Little People, staring up at me. I shook my head, gasping for breath, “Leif! What is the matter?” ^| Before I could answer, chanting and drums were drowned in a bellow of thunder. Peal upon peal of thunder roared and echoed over the plain, beating back, beating down the sounds from the north — roaring over them, rolling over them, sweeping them back.
I stared stupidly around me. All along the cliffs were the golden pygmies, scores of them, beating upon great drums high as their waists. From those drums came the pealing of thunder, claps and shattering strokes of the bolt’s swift fall, and the shouting reverberations that follow it.
The Thunder Drums of the Little People!
On and on roared the drums, yet through their rolling diapason beat ever the battle chant and those other drums . . . like thrusts of lances . . . like trampling of horses and of marching men . . . by Zarda, but the old race still was strong . . . .
A ring of the Little People was dancing around me. Another ring joined them. Beyond them I saw Evalie, watching me with. wide, astonished eyes. And around her was another ring of the golden pygmies, arrows at readiness, sickled knives in hand.
Why was she watching me . . . why were the arms of the Little People turned against me . . . and why were they dancing? That was a strange dance . . . it made you sleepy to look at it . . . what was this lethargy creeping over me . . . God, but I was sleepy! So sleepy that my dull ears could hardly hear the Thunder Drums . . . so sleepy I could hear nothing else . . . so sleepy . . .I knew, dimly, that I had dropped to my knees, then had fallen prone upon the soft turf . . . then slept.
I awakened, every sense alert. The drums were throbbing all around me. Not the Thunder Drums, but drums that sang, drums that throbbed and sang to some strange lilting rhythm that set the blood racing through me in tune and in time with its joyousness. The throbbing, singing notes were like tiny, warm, vital blows that whipped my blood into ecstasy of life.
I leaped to my feet. I stood upon a high knoll, round as a woman’s breast. Over all the plain were lights, small fires burning, ringing the little altars of the pygmies. And around the fires the Little People were dancing to the throbbing drums. Around the fires and the altars they danced and leaped like little golden flames of life made animate.
Circling the knoll on which I stood was a triple ring of the dwarfs, women and men, weaving, twining, swaying.
They and the burden of the drums were one.
A soft and scented wind was blowing over the knoll. It hummed as it streamed by — and its humming was akin to dance and drum.
In and out, and round about and out and in and back again, the golden pygmies danced around the knoll. And round and round and back again they circled the fire-ringed altars.
I heard a sweet low voice singing — singing to the cadence, singing the song of the drums, singing the dancing of the Little People.
Close by was another knoll like that on which I was — like a pair of woman’s high breasts they stood above the plain. It, too, was circled by the dancing dwarfs.
On it sang and danced Evalie.
Her singing was the soul of drum song and dance — her dancing was the sublimation of both. She danced upon the knoll — cobweb veils and girdle gone, clothed only in the silken, rippling cloak of her blue-black hair.
She beckoned, and she called to me — a high-pitched, sweet call.
The fragrant, rushing wind pushed me toward her as I ran down the mound.
The dancing pygmies parted to let me through. The throbbing of the drums grew swifter; their song swept into a higher octave.
Evalie came dancing down to meet me . . . she was beside me, her arms round my neck, her lips pressed to mine . . . The drums beat faster. My pulses matched them.
The two rings of little yellow living flames of life joined. They became one swirling circle that drove us forward. Round and round and round us they swirled, driving us on and on to the pulse of the drums. I ceased to think — drum-throb, drum-song, dance-song were all of me.
Yet still I knew that the fragrant wind thrust us on and on, caressing, murmuring, laughing.
We were beside an oval doorway. The silken, scented tresses of Evalie streamed in the wind and kissed me. Beyond and behind us sang the drums. And ever the wind pressed us on . . . .
Drums and wind drove us through the portal of the domed rock.
They drove us into the temple of the Little People . . . .
The soft moss glimmered . . . the amethystine cross gleamed . . . .
Evalie’s arms were around my neck . . — I held her close . . . the touch of her lips to mine was like the sweet, secret fire of life. . .
It was silent in the temple of the Little People. Their drums were silent. The glow of the looped cross above the pit of the Kraken was dim.
Evalie stirred, and cried out in her sleep. I touched her lips and she awoke.
“What is the matter, Evalie?”
“Leif, beloved — I dreamed a white falcon tried to dip its beak into my heart!”
“It was but a dream, Evalie.”
She shuddered; she raised her head and bent over me so that her hair covered our faces.
“You drove the falcon away — but then a white wolf came . . . and leaped upon me.”
“It was only a dream, Evalie — bright flame of my heart.”
She bent closer to me under the tent of her hair, lips close to mine.
“You drove the wolf away. And I would have kissed you . . . but a face came between ours . . .”
“A face, Evalie?”
She whispered:
“The face of Lur! She laughed at me . . .