Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew by R. M. Ballantyne (free e books to read .txt) đź“•
Read free book «Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew by R. M. Ballantyne (free e books to read .txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Read book online «Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew by R. M. Ballantyne (free e books to read .txt) 📕». Author - R. M. Ballantyne
“Yes, I have hope,” answered the Eskimo, with a touch of enthusiasm in his tone. “I know not why. I know not how. Perhaps the Great Spirit who made me put it into me. I cannot tell. All around and within me is beyond my understanding—but—the Great Spirit is all-wise, all-powerful, and—good. Did you not say so?”
“Yes, I said so; and that’s a trustworthy foundation, anyhow,” returned the sailor meditatively; “wise, powerful, and good—a safe anchorage. But now, tell me, what chances, think you, have we of deliverance?”
“I can think of only one,” said Angut. “If the pack sets fast again, we may walk over it to the land. Once there, we could manage to live—though not to continue our pursuit of Ujarak. That is at an end.”
In spite of himself, the poor fellow said the last words in a tone which showed how deeply he was affected by the destruction of his hope to rescue Nunaga.
“Now my friend seems to me inconsistent,” said Rooney. “He trusts the Great Spirit for deliverance from danger. Is, then, the rescue of Nunaga too hard for Him?”
“I know not,” returned Angut, who was, how ever, cheered a little by his friend’s tone and manner. “Everything is mystery. I look up, I look around, I look within; all is dark, mysterious. Only on this is my mind clear—the Great Spirit is good. He cannot be otherwise. I will trust Him. One day, perhaps, He will explain all. What I understood not as a little boy, I understand now as a man. Why should there not be more light when I am an older man? If things go on in the mind as they have been going ever since I can remember, perfect light may perhaps come at last.”
“You don’t think like most of your countrymen,” said Rooney, regarding the grave earnest face of his friend with increased interest.
There was a touch of sadness in the tone of the Eskimo as he replied—
“No; I sometimes wonder—for their minds seem to remain in the childish condition; though Okiok and Simek do seem at times as if they were struggling into more light. I often wonder that they think so little, and think so foolishly; but I do not speak much about it; it only makes them fear that I am growing mad.”
“I have never asked you, Angut—do your tribes in the north here hold the same wild notions about the earth and heavens as the southern Eskimos do?”
“I believe they do,” replied Angut; “but I know not all they think in the south. In this land they think,”—here a smile of good-natured pity flickered for a moment on the man’s face—“that the earth rests on pillars, which are now mouldering away by age, so that they frequently crack. These pillars would have fallen long ago if they had not been kept in repair by the angekoks, who try to prove the truth of what they say by bringing home bits of them—rotten pieces of wood. And the strange thing is, that the people believe them!”
“Why don’t you believe them, Angut?”
“I know not why.”
“And what do your kinsmen think about heaven?” asked Rooney.
“They think it is supported on the peak of a lofty mountain in the north, on which it revolves. The stars are supposed to be ancient Greenlanders, or animals which have managed in some mysterious way to mount up there, and who shine with varied brightness, according to the nature of their food. The streaming lights of winter are the souls of the dead dancing and playing ball in the sky.”
“These are strange ideas,” observed Rooney; “what have you to say about them?”
“I think they are childish thoughts,” replied the Eskimo.
“What, then, are your thoughts about these stars and streaming lights?” persisted the seaman, who was anxious to understand more of the mind of his philosophical companion.
“I know not what I think. When I try to think on these things my mind gets confused. Only this am I sure of—that they are, they must be, the wonderful works of the Good Spirit.”
“But how do you know that?” asked Rooney.
Angut looked at his questioner very earnestly for a few moments.
“How does Ridroonee know that he is alive?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, as to that, you know, everything tells me that I am alive. I look around, and I see. I listen, and I hear. I think, and I understand—leastwise to some extent,—and I feel in mind and heart.”
“Now will I answer,” said Angut. “Everything tells me that the Great Spirit is good, and the Maker of all things. I look, and I see Him in the things that exist. I listen, and I hear Him in the whispering wind, in the running water, in the voice of man and beast. I think, and I understand Him to some extent, and I feel Him both in mind and heart.”
“I believe you are right, Angut, and your words bring strongly to my remembrance many of the words of the Great Spirit that my mother used to teach me when I was a little boy.”
From this point in the conversation Angut became the questioner, being anxious to know all that the Kablunet had to tell about the mysterious Book, of which he had spoken to him more than once, and the teachings of his mother.
It was long past midnight when the descending moon warned them to turn their steps towards the ice-cave where they had left their slumbering companions.
“The frost is sharp to-night,” remarked Rooney as they were about to enter.
Angut turned round, and cast a parting glance on sea and sky.
“If it holds on like this,” continued the sailor, “the ice will be firm enough to carry us to land in the morning.”
“It will not hold on like this,” said Angut. “The Innuit are very ignorant, but they know many things about the weather, for they are always watching it. To-morrow will be warm. We cannot escape. It will be safest and wisest to remain where we are.”
“Remaining means starving,” said the sailor in a desponding tone.
“It may be so; we cannot tell,” returned the Eskimo.
With these uncomfortable reflections, the two men entered the cavern quietly, so as not to disturb their comrades. Spreading their bearskins on the ice-floor, they laid heads on ice-pillows, and soon fell into that dreamless, restful slumber which is the usual accompaniment of youth, health, and vigour.
Angut was a true prophet. When Rooney awoke next morning, his ears told him that the rushing of ice-cold rivulets through ice-valleys, and the roar of ice-born cataracts had increased considerably during the hours of darkness.
The warmth which caused this did not, indeed, at first strike him, for the air of the cavern and the character of his bed had chilled him so much that he was shivering with cold. On glancing at his still sleeping comrades in misfortune, he observed that these tough creatures slept with the peaceful aspect of infants, whom, being both fat and rotund, they resembled in nearly everything except size.
Rising and going quietly out, he beat his arms vigorously across his chest until circulation was fully restored. Then he mounted a neighbouring ice-ledge, and saw at a glance that their case had become desperate.
“Angut was right,” he murmured bitterly, and then stood for a long time contemplating the scene in silence.
Considered apart from their circumstances, the scene was indeed glorious. Not only had the warmth of the air begun to swell the rivulets which leaped and brawled down the pale-green slopes around him, but the pack had opened out, so as to completely change the aspect of the sea. Instead of being clothed with ice, showing only a lane of water here and there, it was now an open sea crowded with innumerable ice-islets of every fantastic shape and size.
It added something to the bitterness of the poor man’s feelings that this state of things would, he knew, have been the very best for their escape in kayaks and oomiaks, for a profound calm prevailed, and the sea, where clear of ice, glittered in the rising sun like a shield of polished gold.
He was roused from his meditations by the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning quickly, he beheld Ippegoo holding his jaws with both hands and with an expression of unutterable woe on his face.
“Halo, Ippe, what’s wrong with you?”
A groan was the reply, and Rooney, although somewhat anxious, found it difficult to restrain a laugh.
“I’ve got—oh! oh! oh! oh!—a mad tooth,” gasped the poor youth.
“A mad tooth! Poor fellow!—we call that toothache where I come from.”
“What care I whether you call it mad tooth or tootik?” cried Ippegoo petulantly. “It is horrible! dreadful! awful!—like fire and fury in the heart.”
The sufferer used one or two more Eskimo expressions, suggestive of excruciating agony, which are not translatable into English.
“If I only had a pair of pincers, but—look, Ippe, look,” said Rooney, pointing to the sea, in the hope of distracting his mind from present pain by referring to threatening danger; “look—our kayaks being lost, we have no hope of escaping, so we must starve.”
His little device, well-meant though it was, failed. A groan and glance of indifference was the Eskimo’s reply, for starvation and danger were familiar and prospective evils, whereas toothache was a present horror.
We fear it must be told of Ippegoo that he was not celebrated for endurance of pain, and that, being fond of sympathy, he was apt to give full vent to his feelings—the result, perhaps, of having an over-indulgent mother. Toothache—one of the diseases to which Greenlanders are peculiarly liable—invariably drew forth Ippegoo’s tenderest feelings for himself, accompanied by touching lamentations.
“Come, Ippe, be more of a man. Even your mother would scold you for groaning like that.”
“But it is so shriekingly bad!” returned the afflicted youth, with increasing petulance.
“Of course it is. I know that; poor fellow! But come, I will try to cure you,” said Rooney, who, under the impression that violent physical exertion coupled with distraction of mind would produce good effect, had suddenly conceived a simple ruse. “Do you see yon jutting ice-cliff that runs down to a point near the edge of the berg?”
“Yes, I see,” whimpered Ippegoo.
“Well, it will require you to run at your top speed to get there while you count fifteen twenties. Now, if you run there within that time—at your very top speed, mind—” Rooney paused, and looked serious.
“Yes; well?” said Ippegoo, whose curiosity had already begun to check the groans.
“If you run there,” continued the seaman, with a look and tone of deep solemnity, “at the very toppest speed that you can do, and look round that ice-point, you will see—”
“What?” gasped Ippegoo excitedly—for he was easily excited.
“Something,” returned Rooney mysteriously. “I cannot tell exactly what you will see, because I am not an angekok, and have no torngak to tell me; but I am quite sure that you will see something! Only, the benefit of seeing it will depend on your running as fast as you can. Now, are you ready?”
“Yes, quite ready,” exclaimed the youth, tightening his girdle of sealskin eagerly.
“Well then—away!” shouted Rooney.
Off went Ippegoo at a pace which was obviously the best that he was capable of putting forth. Rooney counted as he ran, and in a much shorter time than had been specified he reached the point, for the level track, or what we may style sea-shore, of the berg was not a bad race-course. Suddenly, however, he came to an abrupt halt, and threw up his arms as if in amazement. Then he turned round and ran back at a pace that was even greater than he had achieved on the outward run. Rooney was himself greatly surprised at this, for, as the youth drew
Comments (0)