THE ESSENTIAL MELVILLE - 160+ Titles in One Edition. Герман Мелвилл

as it stands; but had you made six words of it, instead of six syllables, you had uttered a better and a deeper.”

CHAPTER 70

      THE MINSTREL LEADS OFF WITH A PADDLE–SONG; AND A MESSAGE IS RECEIVED FROM ABROAD

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      From seaward now came a breeze so blithesome and fresh, that it made us impatient of Babbalanja’s philosophy, and Mohi’s incredible legends. One and all, we called upon the minstrel Yoomy to give us something in unison with the spirited waves wide-foaming around us.

      “If my lord will permit, we will give Taji the Paddle–Chant of the warriors of King Bello.”

      “By all means,” said Media.

      So the three canoes were brought side to side; their sails rolled up; and paddles in hand, our paddlers seated themselves sideways on the gunwales; Yoomy, as leader, occupying the place of the foremast, or Bow–Paddler of the royal barge.

      Whereupon the six rows of paddle-blades being uplifted, and every eye on the minstrel, this song was sung, with actions corresponding; the canoes at last shooting through the water, with a violent roll.

      (All.)

      Thrice waved on high,

      Our paddles fly:

      Thrice round the head, thrice dropt to feet:

      And then well timed,

      Of one stout mind,

      All fall, and back the waters heap!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      The wild sea song, to the billows’ throng,

      Rising, falling,

      Hoarsely calling,

      Now high, now low, as fast we go,

      Fast on our flying foe!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      Dip, dip, in the brine our paddles dip,

      Dip, dip, the fins of our swimming ship!

      How the waters part,

      As on we dart;

      Our sharp prows fly,

      And curl on high,

      As the upright fin of the rushing shark,

      Rushing fast and far on his flying mark!

      Like him we prey;

      Like him we slay;

      Swim on the fog,

      Our prow a blow!

      (Bow–Paddler.)

      Who lifts this chant?

      Who sounds this vaunt?

      (All.)

      Heap back; heap back; the waters back!

      Pile them high astern, in billows black;

      Till we leave our wake,

      In the slope we make;

      And rush and ride,

      On the torrent’s tide!

      Here we were overtaken by a swift gliding canoe, which, bearing down upon us before the wind, lowered its sail when close by: its occupants signing our paddlers to desist.

      I started.

      The strangers were three hooded damsels the enigmatical Queen Hautia’s heralds.

      Their pursuit surprised and perplexed me. Nor was there wanting a vague feeling of alarm to heighten these emotions. But perhaps I was mistaken, and this time they meant not me.

      Seated in the prow, the foremost waved her Iris flag. Cried Yoomy, “Some message! Taji, that Iris points to you.”

      It was then, I first divined, that some meaning must have lurked in those flowers they had twice brought me before.

      The second damsel now flung over to me Circe flowers; then, a faded jonquil, buried in a tuft of wormwood leaves.

      The third sat in the shallop’s stern, and as it glided from us, thrice waved oleanders.

      “What dumb show is this?” cried Media. “But it looks like poetry: minstrel, you should know.”

      “Interpret then,” said I.

      “Shall I, then, be your Flora’s flute, and Hautia’s dragoman? Held aloft, the Iris signified a message. These purple-woven Circe flowers mean that some spell is weaving. That golden, pining jonquil, which you hold, buried in those wormwood leaves, says plainly to you — Bitter love in absence.”

      Said Media, “Well done, Taji, you have killed a queen.” “Yet no Queen Hautia have these eyes beheld.”

      Said Babbalanja, “The thrice waved oleanders, Yoomy; what meant they?”

      “Beware — beware — beware.”

      “Then that, at least, seems kindly meant,” said Babbalanja; “Taji, beware of Hautia.”

CHAPTER 71

      THEY LAND UPON THE ISLAND OF JUAM

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      Crossing the lagoon, our course now lay along the reel to Juam; a name bestowed upon one of the largest islands hereabout; and also, collectively, upon several wooded isles engulfing it, which together were known as the dominions of one monarch. That monarch was Donjalolo. Just turned of twenty-five, he was accounted not only the handsomest man in his dominions, but throughout the lagoon. His comeliness, however, was so feminine, that he was sometimes called “Fonoo,” or the Girl.

      Our first view of Juam was imposing. A dark green pile of cliffs, towering some one hundred toises; at top, presenting a range of steep, gable-pointed projections; as if some Titanic hammer and chisel had shaped the mass.

      Sailing nearer, we perceived an extraordinary rolling of the sea; which bursting into the lagoon through an adjoining breach in the reef, surged toward Juam in enormous billows. At last, dashing against the wall of the cliff; they played there in unceasing fountains. But under the brow of a beetling crag, the spray came and went unequally. There, the blue billows seemed swallowed up, and lost.

      Right regally was Juam guarded. For, at this point, the rock was pierced by a cave, into which the great waves chased each other like lions; after a hollow, subterraneous roaring issuing forth with manes disheveled.

      Cautiously evading the dangerous currents here ruffling the lagoon, we rounded the wall of cliff; and shot upon a smooth expanse; on one side, hemmed in by the long, verdent, northern shore of Juam; and across the water, sentineled by its tributary islets.

      With sonorous Vee–Vee in the shark’s mouth, we swept toward the beach, tumultuous with a throng.

      Our canoes were secured. And surrounded by eager glances, we passed the lower ends of several