CHAPTER II
THE SPRING OF LIFE
It was a moment when memories were stirring. An-ina searched thedistance with eyes untroubled and full of a glad content. Had she notevery reason for content? Oh, yes. She knew.
It was the same scene she had gazed upon for many seasons, for manyyears, and the limit of her vision had become practically the limits ofher world. There stretched the white snow-clad valley with the stillfrozen river winding its way throughout its length to the north andsouth. There were the far-off hills beyond, white, grey; and purpling asthe distance gained. Dark forest patches chequered the prospect. It wasthe same all ways, north, south, and west.
For all the few changings of aspect with the passing of the seasonsthere was no weariness in the woman's heart. She was bound up to theexclusion of all else with the human associations which were hers. Noprison could hold bondage for her, so long as those associations werenot denied her.
Out of the tail of her eyes she glanced at the great figure that wasstanding near her in the gateway of the fort. It was a figure, the sightof which filled her with a great sense of pride, and joy, and gratitude.In her simple way she understood something of the debt owed her for heryears of untiring, watchful care of the small body which had grown tosuch splendid manhood. But the thought of its discharge never occurredto her uncalculating mind. That which she beheld more than repaid.
Marcel was great for Indian eyes to gaze upon. Tall as was the woman,comely in her maturing years, she was left dwarfed beside the youthfulmanhood she had watched grow from its earliest days. The young man hadthe erect, supple, muscular body of a trained athlete and the face ofthe mother who had long since been laid to rest in the woods of theSleeper Indians. He had moreover the strength of the father's unspoiledcharacter, and all the purposeful method which the patient upbringing of"Uncle Steve" had been capable of inspiring. He was a simple humanproduct, unspoiled by contamination with the evil which lurks under theveneer of civilization, yet he possessed all the trained mind that bothSteve and he had been able to achieve from the wealth of learning whichhis father's laboratory had been found to contain.
Beyond this, the bubbling springs of youth were in full flood, and thetide ran strong in his rich veins. A passionate enthusiasm was theoutlet for this tide. A buoyant, fearless energy, a youthful pride instrenuous achievement. It was with these he faced the bitterness of thecruel Northland which he had grown to look upon like the Indians, whoknew no better, as the whole setting of human life and all that was tobe desired.
He was a hunter and a man of the trail before all things. His everythought was wrapt up in the immensity of the striving. He had absorbedthe teachings of Steve, and added to them his own natural instincts. Andin all this he had raised himself to that ideal of manhood which naturehad implanted in An-ina's Indian heart. If she had thought of him as shewould have thought of him years ago in the teepees of her race, shewould have been content that he was a great "brave" and a "mightyhunter." As it was her feelings were restricted to an immense pride thatshe had been permitted the inestimable privilege of raising a real whitechild to well-nigh perfect manhood.
Marcel knocked out the pipe he was smoking. It was with something likereluctance he withdrew his gaze from the far distance.
"I've only two days more, An-ina," he said. "The outfit's ready to thelast ounce of tea and the filling of the last cartridge. The Sleepersare wide awake, and squatting around waiting for the word to 'mush.' Wejust daren't lose the snow for the run to our headquarters. I wish UncleSteve would get around. I just can't quit till he comes."
"No."
The squaw's reply was one of complete agreement. She understood. Thelong summer trail was claiming the man. The hunter in him was clamouringfor the silent forests, where King Moose reigned supreme, the racingmountain streams alive with trout and an untold wealth of salmon, theopen stretches of plain where the caribou browsed upon the weedy, tuftedNorthern grass, the marsh land and lakes, where the beavers spend theopen season preparing their winter quarters. Then the traps, and thewealth of fox pelts they would yield, while the eternal dazzle of themuch-prized black fox was always before his eyes. But stronger than allwas his thought for Steve. No passion, so far, was greater in his lifethan his regard for this man who had been father, mother, and mentor tohim in the years of his helplessness.
An-ina pointed down the course of the winding river where it came out ofthe southern hills.
"He come that way," she said. Then she smiled. "The same he come always.The same he come long time gone, when Marcel hide by waters and make bigshout. Him much scared. Marcel think? Oh, yes."
The man laughed in a happy boyish way.
"I'd like to, but I just can't," he said. Then he added: "You alwaysthink of that, An-ina. No," he went on with a shake of the head. "Iremember riding Uncle Steve's back. Seems it was for days and days. Isort of remember sitting around and watching him while he looked down ata pair of feet like raw meat, with the flies all trying to settle onthem. The sort of way flies have. Then there were his eyes. I've stillgot the picture of 'em in my mind. They were red--red with blood, itseemed. They were sort of straining, too. And they shone--shone like theblazing coals of a camp-fire."
An-ina nodded, and into her dark eyes came a look of the dread of thedays he had recalled.
"That so," she said, in a tone of suppressed emotion. "It was bad--sobad. Him carry Marcel. Oh, yes. Carry all time, like the squaw carrypappoose. So you live,--and An-ina glad."
"Yes." The man bestirred himself abruptly. He stood up from his loungingagainst the gatepost, and his great height and breadth of muscularshoulders seemed suddenly to have grown. "So I live. And you are glad.That's it. So I live. It's always that way--with you and Uncle Steve.It's for me. All the time for me. Not a thing for yourselves--ever."
The woman's eyes were suddenly filled with startled questioning andsolicitude.
"Oh, yes? That so," she said simply. "Why not? You all Uncle Steve got.You all An-ina got. So."
"And aren't you both all--I've got?" The man's smile disarmed the suddenpassionate force which had taken possession of his voice and manner."Can't I act that way, too? Can't I sort of carry you and Uncle Steve onmy back? Can't I come along and say, 'Here, you've done all this for mewhen I couldn't act for myself, now it's my turn? You sit around andlook on, and act foolish, like I've done all the time, while I getbusy.' Can't I say this, same as you've acted all these years? No. Youtwo great creatures won't let me. And sometimes it makes me mad. Andsometimes it makes me want to stretch out these fool arms of mine andhug you for the kindest, bravest, and best in the world."
An-ina laughed in her silent Indian fashion, and the delight in her eyeswas a reflection of the joy in her soul.
"You say all those. It make no matter," she said.
"But it does make matter." The man's handsome face flushed, and his keenblue eyes shone with a half angry, half impatient light. With a curiousgesture of suppressed feeling he passed a hand over his clean-shavenmouth, as though to smooth the whiskers that had never been permitted todisfigure it. "It makes me feel a darn selfish, useless hulk of a man.And I'm not," he cried. "I'm neither those things. Say An-ina," he wenton, more calmly, and with a light of humour in his eyes, "Don't you dareto laff at me. Don't you dare deny the things I'm saying. I won't standfor it. For all you're my old nurse I'll just pick you up like nothingand throw you to the dogs back in the yard there. And maybe that'll letyou see I can do the things I figure to. I'm a grown man, and UncleSteve says 'no' every time I ask to take on the work of locating wherethe weed grows, which he hasn't found in fourteen years, and which myfather was yearning to find before he died. 'No,' he says. 'This is forme. It's my work. It's the thing I set out to do--for you.' When I askto do the trade at Seal Bay, it's the same. He guesses the 'sharps'would beat me. Me! who could break a dozen of their heads in as manyminutes. So I'm left to the trail--the summer trail--to gather pelts,and learn a craft I know by heart. I keep the Sleeper boys busy, and ing
ood heart. I'm the big hunter they like to follow. I'm the son of agreat white chief they say, and, for me, they're sort of fool dolls Ipull the strings of, while Uncle Steve does the big man's work. Can youbeat it? It's all wrong. You and Uncle Steve are twice my age. You'vecrowded a life's work--for me. You both reckon to go on--always for me.While I sit around guessing I'm a man because I know a jack-rabbit froma bull-moose. It's got to alter. It's going to alter--after the summer.I want the big scrap, An-ina. The real scrap life can hand a feller thatcan write 'man' to his name. I'm out for it all. I want it all. And ifUncle Steve's right, and I'm wrong, and I go under, I'm ready to takethe med'cine however it comes."
The smile of the woman was full of the mother. It was full of theIndian, too.
"Oh, yes," she said quickly. "What you call him, 'chance.' The 'bigchance.' So it is. It good. So very, very good for the big man. Marcelthe big man. I know. Oh, yes. I know. The chance it come. Maybe easy.Maybe not. It come. So it is always. It come, you take it. You not mustlook, or you find trouble. You take it. Always take it when it come.That how An-ina think."
Marcel laughed. His impatience had vanished before the sun of his happytemperament.
"You've dodged the dogs, An-ina," he cried. "You're too cute for me.You've agreed with me, and haven't handed an inch of ground. But I tellyou right here, you dear old second mother of mine, I'm going to playthe man as I see the game. And I'm going to play it good."
* * * * *
The expression on the man's dusky face was deadly earnest. His leanbrown hands were spread out over the fire for warmth. His fur-clad bodywas hunched upon his quarters, as near to the glowing embers as safetypermitted. And as he talked a look of awe and apprehension dilated hisusually unexpressive eyes.
"The fire run this way--that way," he cried, in a voice of monotonouscadence, but with a note of urgency behind it. "The man stand by dogs.He look--look all the time. Fire all same everywhere. It burn up all.Nothing left. Only two men. Boss Steve and Julyman. Oh, yes. They stan'.They look, too. They no fear. So they not burn all up. The man by thedogs much scare. He left him club, an' beat all dogs. So they all crazedwith him club. They run. Oh, yes. An' the man turn. He run, too. ThenOolak see him face. Oh, yes. Him face of Oolak. Him eyes big with fear.Him cry out. So him run lak hell so the fire not get him."
The silent Oolak had committed himself to speech. He had talked long outof the superstitious dread that beset his Indian heart. He had dreamed adream that filled him with fear of the future, towards which he lookedfor its fulfilment.
The grey dawn was searching the obscurity of the fringe of woody shelterin which the camp was made--the last camp on the return journey fromSeal Bay to the fort. The smell of cooked meat rose from the pan whichJulyman held over the fire. Steve sat on a fallen log, smoking, andlistening tolerantly to the man's recital, while the sharp yapping ofthe dogs near by suggested the usual altercation over their daily mealof frozen fish. The cold was intense, but the cracking, splittingbooming which came up out of the heart of the woods told of thereluctant yielding of the tenacious grip of winter.
Something of Oolak's awe found reflection in the eyes of Julyman. He,too, was an easy prey to the other's primitive superstition. Steve aloneseemed untroubled. He understood these men. They were comrades on thetrail. There was no distinction. There was no master and servant here.They fought the battle together, the Indians only looking to him forleadership. Thus he restrained the lurking smile of irony as he listenedto the awesome recital of a dream that filled the dreamer with seriousapprehension.
"And this fire? Where did it come from?" he demanded, with a seriousnesshe by no means felt.
Oolak met his gaze with a look of appeal.
"The earth all fire," he said. "The hills, the valleys, the trees. Allsame. Him fire everywhere. Oh, yes. It run so as water. It fill 'em upall things--everywhere. An' it burn all up. Not boss Steve an' Julyman.Oh, no."
Steve meditated awhile. Oolak needed an interpretation of his dream, or,anyway, must listen to the voice of comfort. He understood this as hegazed upon the partially crippled body of the man who was still a gianton the trail.
The passing of years had touched Steve lightly enough. Time might almosthave stood still altogether. A few grey hairs about the temples. Athinning of his dark hair perhaps. Then the lines of his face hadperhaps deepened. But in the fourteen years that had elapsed since hisreturn to Unaga the raw muscle and the powerful frame of his youthfulbody had only gained in mass and left him the more capable ofwithstanding the demands which his life on the merciless plateau madeupon his endurance.
Julyman, too, was much the Julyman of bygone years. The only change inhim was that opportunity had robbed him of many of those lapses he hadbeen wont to indulge in. But he was still no nearer the glory of a halo.Oolak alone displayed the wear and tear of the life that was theirs. Hisbody was slightly askew from the disaster of the return from the firstvisit to Unaga, and one leg was shorter than the other. But the effectof these things was only in appearance. His vigour of body remainedunimpaired. His silence was even more profound. And his mastery of thetrail dogs left him a source of endless admiration to his companions.
Steve dipped some tea into a pannikin.
"Oolak had a nightmare, I guess," he said, feeling that a gentleridicule could do no harm.
Julyman grinned his relief that the white man saw nothing serious inthat which all Indians regard as the voice of the spirits haunting theirworld.
"Oolak eat plenty, much," he observed slyly.
Steve helped himself to meat from the pan and dipped some beans from thecamp kettle beside the fire.
"Dreams are damn-fool things, anyway," he said. Then he laughed, "Guesswe've dreamed dreams these fourteen years. And we're still sittingaround waiting for things to happen."
Despite his concern Oolak tore at the meat with his sharp teeth, and atewith noisy satisfaction.
"Him all fire. Burn up all things. Oh, yes. Bimeby we find him," he saiddoggedly.
Steve was in the act of drinking. He paused, his pannikin remainingpoised.
"You guess----"
"Him fire," said Oolak, wiping the grease from his lips on the sleeveof his furs. "Him big fires. Oolak know. Him not eat plenty. Him seethis thing. The spirits show him so he know all time."
Steve gulped his tea down, and set the pannikin on the ground.
"That's crazy," he declared. "It's not spirits who show Oolak. It's asJulyman says. He eats plenty. So he dreams fool things that don't mean athing. Oolak doesn't need to believe the spirits are busy around himwhen he sleeps."
He laughed in the face of the unsmiling Oolak. But his laugh was cutshort by the Indian's stolid response.
"Boss white man know all things plenty," he said, with the patient calmof a mind made up. "He big man. Oh, yes. Him bigger as all Indian man.Sure. But he not know the voice of the spirits that speak much withIndian man. Oolak know him. So. An' the father of Oolak. Oh, yes. So wefind this fire sometime. We find him. This fire of the world. Thespirits tell Oolak, so him not afraid nothing."
Julyman set a pannikin down with a clatter. He raised a brown handpointing. He was pointing at Oolak, and his eyes were wide withinspiration.
"He dream of Unaga--him fire of Unaga! So!"
Steve started. In a moment, at the challenge of Julyman, his mind hadbridged a gulf of fourteen years. He was gazing upon a scene he hadalmost forgotten. A strange, magnificent scene in the heart of a whiteworld where snow and ice held nature's wonderful creation buried deep inits crystal dungeons. The distant, towering spire rising sheer above asurrounding of lofty mountains. The pillar of ruddy smoke and mistpiercing deep into the heart of a cloud belt lit with the vividreflection of blazing volcanic fires. The splendour of it had beenawesome, terrific. He remembered it now.
All thought of ridicule had died within him. For the inspiration ofJulyman had stirred his own inspiration beyond all reason. In a momenthis mind was a surge of teeming thought, with
Unaga--the fires ofUnaga--the centre of a vivid, reckless imagination.
For fourteen years a wealth of dogged effort had been expended in anaccumulation of failure, as he had admitted to Lorson Harris only a fewweeks back in Seal Bay. The whole purpose of his life on Unaga had beendenied him. Where he had sought and striven for Marcel, he had onlypartially made good. The promised fortune was amassing only slowly,painfully, while the child had grown to manhood with a rapidity that faroutstripped it. The source of the elusive Adresol had remained hidden.Nature, and the Sleeper Indians, had refused him their secret.
For fourteen years the winter trail had been faced under the direstperils. And in all that time never once had the memory of the Spire ofUnaga come to inspire him. He had pursued his endless search along thelines which the learning of the dead chemist had laid down. He hadsought to trap the secret of the Sleeper men by every means in hispower. But always and everywhere he had run upon the blank wall offailure.
Now--now, at a time when he had learned in Seal Bay disquieting newssuggesting jeopardy for his whole enterprise, a flash of imagination hadstirred in him an inspiration, which, against all reason, had changedthe whole outlook of the future.
Unaga! Could it be? Was that the secret hiding-place of Nature? Could hemake it? How far? Where? Somewhere within the boundaries of the Arcticice? Maybe. He could not tell. The Spire was for all to see. Somewherebeyond. Somewhere lost in the grey world of the North. A lure to--what?A hundred miles. Two. Three. Four. No, he could not estimate. He didnot know. All he knew was that it was there, a fiery pillar, the simplesight of which set the heart of the Indian quaking. Was it there thatthe secret of the Adresol plant lay hidden? Was it there that the sturdySleepers dared the summer trail for their priceless treasure? Whatmonstrous conditions had produced it? What amazing anachronism hadNature created in the far-off Arctic world?
And the terror of that journey in the dead of winter. It was a journeyinto the unknown, unguessed heart of a world's desolation. Was itpossible? Was it within human powers of endurance? If the land of firewere the nursery whence the Sleepers drew their supplies of Adresol theymade the journey. But it was in summer. Winter? Was it possible?
Yes. It was possible. It must be made possible. If it were not, if theeffort were too great he could always pay the price. Marcel had grown tomanhood. Fourteen years of failure had elapsed since the taking of hisgreat decision. Here was a prospect. Here was a chance. Had he not inthe past fourteen years taken every chance? Well, it was no time toshrink before the fiery heart of Unaga.
The men devoured their food. Steve had no desire to talk of his new-borninspiration. Bald words would never convince these primitive creatures.They looked to him for leadership. It was for him to dictate. It was forthem to follow. To discuss the project he contemplated would weaken hisauthority.
So he smoked on in silence, with a tumult of thought passing behind thesteady eyes gazing so deeply into the heart of the fire.