The history of Zarka, the blue-eyed
witch of the Jadis tribe, who seized Yemamah by her gramarye, and our
Scotch tale of Birnam wood's march, are Asiatic and European facsimiles of
African "Moga's Tooth."
At 7 A.M. we started through the mist, and trotted eastwards in search of
a well. The guide had deceived us: the day before he had promised water at
every half mile; he afterwards owned with groans that we should not drink
before nightfall. These people seem to lie involuntarily: the habit of
untruth with them becomes a second nature. They deceive without object for
deceit, and the only way of obtaining from them correct information is to
inquire, receive the answer, and determine it to be diametrically opposed
to fact.
I will not trouble you, dear L., with descriptions of the uniform and
uninteresting scenery through which we rode,--horrid hills upon which
withered aloes brandished their spears, plains apparently rained upon by a
shower of stones, and rolling ground abounding only with thorns like the
"wait-a-bits" of Kafir land, created to tear man's skin or clothes. Our
toil was rendered doubly toilsome by the Eastern travellers' dread--the
demon of Thirst rode like Care behind us. For twenty-four hours we did not
taste water, the sun parched our brains, the mirage mocked us at every
turn, and the effect was a species of monomania. As I jogged along with
eyes closed against the fiery air, no image unconnected with the want
suggested itself. Water ever lay before me--water lying deep in the shady
well--water in streams bubbling icy from the rock--water in pellucid lakes
inviting me to plunge and revel in their treasures. Now an Indian cloud
was showering upon me fluid more precious than molten pearl, then an
invisible hand offered a bowl for which the mortal part would gladly have
bartered years of life. Then--drear contrast!--I opened my eyes to a heat-
reeking plain, and a sky of that eternal metallic blue so lovely to
painter and poet, so blank and deathlike to us, whose [Greek _kalon_] was
tempest, rain-storm, and the huge purple nimbus. I tried to talk--it was
in vain, to sing in vain, vainly to think; every idea was bound up in one
subject, water. [8]
As the sun sank into the East we descended the wide Gogaysa valley. With
unspeakable delight we saw in the distance a patch of lively green: our
animals scented the blessing from afar, they raised their drooping ears,
and started with us at a canter, till, turning a corner, we suddenly
sighted sundry little wells. To spring from the saddle, to race with our
mules, who now feared not the crumbling sides of the pits, to throw
ourselves into the muddy pools, to drink a long slow draught, and to dash
the water over our burning faces, took less time to do than to recount.
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