OOMAH, THE STORY-TELLER

The approach of Siluk, the Storm-God, brought terror not only to the animals of the boundless wilderness. Besides the creatures that lived in the treetops, in the air, on the floor of the forest and under the rubbish that littered the ground were other living beings, no less wild, no less savage than the ones that shared their jungle homes.

They were the Indians, living in scattered tribes, some numerous, others so few in numbers that they verged on extinction. They roamed the vast hinterland in bands, subsisting on the bounty of the land when food was plentiful, suffering hunger in less propitious seasons, and sleeping on the ground where night overtook them.

The dry season was their time of harvest, of care-free existence and of abundance. No sooner had the heavens ceased to drench the long-enduring earth with its tears than they followed the receding floods to the lower regions where the forest ended.

Then came long days of brilliant sunshine, of balmy breezes, and of feasting beside the great rivers that were the very arteries of life of the great Amazon country.

Well-filled stomachs were conducive to friendlier dispositions. Old enmities were forgotten or at least held in abeyance. Each tribe was too busily engaged in the enjoyment of life to spend precious days in warfare on its neighbors with all the attendant hardships and suffering.

It was only after the skies had been leaden for days at a time; when rain in torrents beat unceasingly upon the hastily erected shelters and found its way in rivulets through the palm-leaf roofs so that the earthen floors were converted into basins of mud; when game retreated to unknown or inaccessible places so that the procuring of food became an increasingly difficult problem; it was then, after the weeks of brooding and confinement that nerves snapped and the picture of war formed itself as a saving diversion before the blood-shot eyes of the savages.

At this stage no one was safe. The war party might at any moment find itself ambushed by the very ones it hoped to surprise. The snap of a twig; the dropping of a fruit from some tall tree; each sudden sound was interpreted as the twang of a hostile bow. Overwrought nerves peopled the jungle with spectral enemies; they found relief in combat and destruction.

And, above all the scenes of desolation, above the turmoil and the strife, the grim storm god ruled supreme, heartlessly sending new deluges and crashing bolts in answer to the prayers for deliverance.

The Cantanas had ventured farther down the river than was their wont. The season had been a remarkable one. Never had there been such abundance along the stream that for many years had served as their annual camping-ground. They revelled in the luxury of a care-free existence. Fish teemed in the water; turtles came in hordes to visit the sandbank; and birds in countless numbers filled the air with twinkling wings and harsh screams. They had only to take, to eat, and to make merry for it was not their nature to look too seriously upon the morrow.

And then, like a fateful omen of troubled times on the horizon came the first sign, the first warning of the impending change.

The tribe was small, reduced in numbers by the periodical inroads made upon it by some of its neighbors. Also, led by an aged man who relied more on charms and incantations than upon valor, it stood in a fair way of utter extermination.

Among the men was a youth of promise, Oomah by name. He was a general favorite, praised by the men for his deeds of courage and daring, admired by the women and beloved by the children.

Oomah was only seventeen. Still, at that early age he stood half a head above any other member of the tribe and was built in proportion. It had been hinted on more than one occasion that he was to be their next leader. But, if he knew of it, he gave not the slightest evidence of the fact. He went about his affairs as stolidly as ever, indifferent to all but the urge of the water, the lure of the forest and those other things that rounded out the well-filled days of the annual period of recreation.

And now the time had arrived when that period must soon come to a close. But the sun was shining still, the wind blew and the birds shrieked in their revels overhead.

The men were dozing in their hammocks; the women had built fires over which to roast the turtle meat for the evening meal. And the children played in the sand.

A shout went up suddenly from one of the group.

“Here comes Oomah now.”

“Yes! We will run to meet Oomah,” another said. “See, he brings birds from the forest.”

They raced toward the oncoming figure still a few hundred yards away on the edge of the sandbank. Each wanted to be the first to reach his side and to hear from his lips the story of the afternoon’s hunt.

“Oh, look,” the leader said in wide-eyed wonder when they all came to a stop in front of the mighty hunter. “A gura and a chapla. Tell us, Oomah, how did you get them?”

“In the forest, high up in the trees,” the youth replied with a smile. “Now look at the birds and tell me what you see.”

A chorus of answers came instantly, for close observation of all things is part of the life training of the wild people.

“One has a short tail,” said one.

“The big one has a long tail,” said another.

“The feathers on its head are all curled and twisted,” added a third. “And they both have long necks and long legs.”

“Listen,” said Oomah, “and I will tell you why these things are true.”

He sat down in the sand and crossed his legs and the group of eager urchins dropped down in a semi-circle before him.

“In the very beginning of things, many, many changes of the season ago, the gura and the chapla were just alike,” Oomah said impressively, holding up one hand for further emphasis. “They were married one day just as the rains were about to stop for good and the floods were going back into the rivers where they belonged. But, they were not happy. Before long they quarrelled. The gura,” holding up the trumpeter, which was like a turkey without a tail, for such it was, “was forever cackling and scolding and the chapla” pointing to the curassow, which resembled a turkey with a long tail, “resented this and answered in loud squawks. Then they began to fight. The chapla pushed the gura into the fire over which she was cooking and burned off her tail. In rage, the gura pushed her husband into the fire, scorching the feathers on his head so that they curled up. Now, Wallaha, god of the forest saw the fight and it made him angry. ‘For shame,’ he said, ’fighting like that when you should be peaceful and happy. I will punish you. You will bear the marks of your disgrace with you forever.’ And that is why the gura has a short tail and the feathers on the head of the chapla are singed even to this day.”

A chorus of “Oh’s” escaped the cluster of eager listeners. “Tell us another story.”

“What do you want me to tell about?” Oomah asked indulgently.

“Tell us about the rivers.”

The youth was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he began.

“The little streams that come from the mountains so far away and rush through the forest are always talking, always babbling. They are never silent. Have you not noticed that?”

“Yes, and they are always in a hurry,” came the prompt reply. “What are they saying?”

“They are praying,’Father of Waters,’ they are pleading, ’wait for us and take us into your arms and carry us away with you to the great sea where the land ends. We are small and cannot travel the distance alone; the hungry ground would drink us up or the wind would dry us up. But in your embrace we will safely reach our home.’”

“Tell us, Oomah,” one of the boys said in an awestruck tone, “are there still greater rivers than the Father of Waters we know?”

“The Father of Waters is but as a drop compared to the great sea into which it empties,” Oomah said wistfully. “It is so large that there is no other side. The fish in it are bigger than the tallest tree and when the wind blows the waves are high as mountains.”

“Oh, did you see these things Oomah,” the eager listeners asked.

“No,” came the reply, regretfully.

“Then, who did see them? Who told you of them?”

“Long, long ago the Cantanas were a powerful people. They built the largest canoes and travelled to the river’s end. They saw them. The story of their wandering came to me from my mother.”

“When we are men,” one of the boys said, “we will make a great canoe. Then you will take us to see the water that is so broad it has no other side.”

“No,” Oomah said sadly. “It is impossible, for since that day white men have come in countless numbers and settled along the borders of the Father of Waters. Little by little they are pushing up the river. Some day they will be even here.”

“Not so long as there is a Cantana alive,” the oldest of the youths replied. “We will fight them and drive them back.”

“I am glad to hear you say that and I would that I could be the leader against them. But, that too is not possible,” regretfully. “The white men are numerous as the stars in the heavens. They fight with sticks that roar like thunder and throw the lightning that kills instantly. Their boats vomit fire and smoke and are longer than from here to the water’s edge.”

“What terrible savages they must be,” one of the boys said breathlessly.

“Some day,” Oomah continued, a strange light brightening his face, “I will take you down the river to the border of the region where the white men live. We will travel at night and hide by day. From our places of concealment we will watch them but they shall not see us.”

“What would Choflo say?” one of the more timid ones asked.

“We will not ask Choflo,” another promptly replied. “He says too many things and always makes us do the things we hate to do.”

“You forget,” Oomah advised them, “that Choflo is leader of the tribe. So long as he lives he must be obeyed.”

This calmed the threatened insurrection. Oomah’s words had been calculated to uphold their respect for the one who was their leader and they had accomplished their purpose, so the subject was dismissed.

“Would you hear more?” the youth asked.

“Yes, yes,” came the response in a chorus of eager voices. “Tell us another story.”

“This, also have I not seen,” the storyteller continued, “nor do I hope ever to see it. But it has been known that at certain intervals of time a mysterious spirit appears in the forest a huge black being, so powerful and so ferocious that every living thing shrinks from it in terror. Our sharpest arrows, shot from the most powerful bows do not harm it. It roars at night so that the sound of its voice may be heard a distance of a full day’s travel and it slays on sight but does not devour the men it kills.”

The hearers drew closer together. They were too interested for speech.

“It is said that the terrible monster is a phantom, sent by Tumwah, God of Drought to punish us for our evil deeds. It takes the form of the tiger but of a black color. May none of you ever come under the spell of this vile spirit.”

The tale was interrupted at this time. A shadow flashed past them on the sand.

“See, see,” Oomah shouted, jumping to his feet. He pointed to a black bird, a vulture, that was circling over their heads.

“The omen never fails. Siluk is coming; he is upon us. Look! look!”

He was now pointing to the fleeting shadow on the sand. Some of the bird’s primary feathers were gone so that the wings cast a barred shadow.

“When the vulture sheds his wing-feathers the rains have started to fall in the mountains. Run, all of you, to the high banks and remain there. I will go to warn the others. Soon the flood will be upon us.”

The urchins fled without further urging. And Oomah started on a run toward the cluster of hovels on the margin of the water.

His cries brought out the men and women before he reached their midst, and it required but a moment to deliver his message.

“Impossible,” Choflo replied with a malicious gleam in his eyes. “The sign did not appear to me.”

“But, I saw it. The children saw it. Gather up what you can and run for your lives.”

“No!” The leader raised his hands. “The flood will not reach us. I will stop it.”

He raised his voice in a low, droning chant but before he had uttered a dozen words there came a distant roar, dull but unmistakable, that drowned the sound of his incantation.

The Indians needed no further evidence of the truth of Oomah’s warning. Abandoning everything, they rushed in a body toward the distant bank that meant safety; and Choflo, despite his years, well held his place among them.

They were just in time. Scarcely had the last man gained the higher ground than the wall of water thundered down the riverbed, engulfing everything in its path. Their weapons were lost; the turtles in the corrals were swept away; their cooking utensils had vanished. Had they heeded Oomah without delay it would have been different.

They had escaped with nothing but their lives; but, even for this they were grateful even though it meant days of suffering in the rain-drenched forest before they could again replace their loss.