Short Stories - - (story books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: -
- Performer: -
Book online «Short Stories - - (story books to read .TXT) 📗». Author -
At last the moon rose and in the open space in the center of the douar, I saw some tapers placed in parallel lines forming a sort of avenue of light. On either side the women scooped out little holes in the sand, and executed a few dancing steps. The men squatted alongside of the rows of tapers, but the women stood in the background, looking like dark phantoms. I sat with my host and some persons of distinction at the end and in the middle of the road. Opposite us sat Fatma and Zeineb, half-reclining in a group of halfa; beyond them a royal profile was visible. It was she! The words I had heard in the morning rang in my ears: “Thy heart will be burnt out!” Already the fires kindled as I looked at her. The flutes discoursed a tender strain. Zenieb and Fatma were whirling about each other, blue as the sky, shining with golden stars. Only in the shadow could I see her form outlined softly beneath the folds of a great piece of white silk which enveloped her.
What said the flutes now? The space was empty. The crackling briars shot flames up higher than the tents. The flutes called with imperious vibrating accents, in sad supplications, in wild outbursts, while the dull thud of the drums in the interval seemed to fire the soul with a holy enthusiasm.
Khamissa lifted her arms, tossed aside the haïk which enveloped her and slowly rose. She took several steps and then paused, her elbows pressed to her sides, her two hands folded against her cheeks, her head inclining somewhat to the left, her eyes half-closed—it was the attitude of prayer. She sparkled from head to foot, and, in her attitude of absolute repose, she looked like a splendid idol.
Her robes were of red, silver and gold. The scarlet drapery, cunningly drawn about her in thick folds, reached all the way to the ground. A belt of embossed silver, high under the breasts but low at the sides, encompassed her like a piece of armor. Upon her bosom lay numerous golden chains dependant from both sides of her head, which was crowned by a lofty headdress. This coiffure was made of a black silk turban and tresses of wool, over which were worn two diadems of gold with pendants that twinkled upon her forehead. A long white veil parted at her temples and fell backward over her shoulders to the ground. Neither her hair nor her ears nor her neck were visible. The perfect oval of her face, her beautiful cheeks and her long eyes were framed in gold. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks were touched with saffron and with rose, her eyelids were colored blue. It was only when she held out her arms that I saw the velvet whiteness of her flesh, and yet these arms were laden to the elbows with huge bracelets of silver that bristled with points.
Was it Pallas-Athene? Was it a Byzantine madonna? Was it a painted statue from the Acropolis? Who was this coming toward us with slow steps that glided softly over the sand keeping time with the thunder of the gongs and the wild flutes that rent the air? She swayed gently and turned her hands reddened with henna, now holding her head to the right while her wide-open eyes shone like stars. Her tall and supple body was invisible, but its movements communicated a divine grace and harmony to the garments she wore. She swayed to and fro by an insensible movement. To the young men who gazed upon her, she seemed a goddess! She advanced in this way till she stood within a few steps of my fascinated eyes; then she paused and fell back into her first attitude, the pose of a Virgin in a cathedral window. I watched her deliberately. The pendant of her diadems were golden fish, the symbols of Jesus Christ, our Saviour; in the center of her forehead hung the Christian cross; on her chin which was sculptured out of purest marble, the cross of Buddha lay; on her blood-colored hands were the seven darts of Solomon’s candlestick; around her thumbs were two blue threads, the Egyptian symbol of eternal life. This marvelous creature was unconsciously consecrated to all religions of the world.
She turned about to retire as slowly as she had advanced. Her long white veil trailed on the ground. Then she came back with a new rhythm in her movements, yet still gliding quickly, softly, subtly like a ray of sunlight. Her steps were longer now. Her lips parted in a charming smile; her head was half-turned to one side; now the right, now the left arm was extended to give a playful little tap to some lover or adorer as she advanced in the midst of beseeching shadows. Again she paused before the group of which I was a part, turned with suspended motion and then retreated. As yet not an Arab had stirred. They were squatting there with their knees pressed against their chins, half-hidden by their barnous. When she advanced for the third time, the scene changed. Then she was truly superb!
“O, Heaven! Wonderful! May God bless thy mother! God keep misery from all who belong to thee!”
Thus the men exclaimed as they pressed each other for a better view, and the women stifled the you-yous in their throats, pressing their hands to their eyes.
With a backward motion, she drew off her veil; a quick movement unfastened the first row of chains from her breast. She turned her head, spread her arms in a semi-circle, bent her round bust upon her body, and, as though inspired by the beating of the drums, she tapped the earth with her naked feet. She came forward with a simple movement, with no seductive oscillation of the body, yet perfectly intoxicating! Her eyes shot sparks which fell to her very ankles where circlets of gold were flashing. It would not have surprised me, had some one of the young brigands who watched her, snatched her up in his iron grasp, swung her into his saddle and galloped away. But they seemed content simply to foreswear and ruin themselves for her. They tossed under her feet every bit of silver the holy pilgrim had left them; the sand shone with coins—five franc pieces, the boudjous of Tunis, and old Spanish douros. Now and then, she would pause and start anew, smiling more radiantly each time she threw out her arms. I shut my eyes for a moment; I felt she was before me. I saw her kneeling, her breast swelling beneath the golden chains, raising her blue eyelids, showing her white teeth set in coral. I leaned toward her; I felt her warm breath fan my cheek. I laid three gold pieces on her brow and one on either cheek.
“Khamissa!” I murmured. “Lovely one! Leave me not!”
She smiled her alluring smile. The flutes burst forth in a passionate appeal. I held out my arms, but she was gone!
(Edward Marshall: For Short Stories.)
She was not a pretty sight ... an old woman tottering under sixty years of poverty ... and now was the worst poverty of all. Her hand, which gathered a grimy plaid shawl at her throat, trembled ceaselessly from privation, and the vile liquor privation had brought. She was hungry; it seemed to her that she had never eaten. She was cold; it seemed to her that she had never known warmth.
She crept into a little hallway on the water front. The breeze from the river was not a strong one; but to her it was a hurricane. The drizzling rain hurt her. The minor tones of a bell from a ship at the near-by docks told that it was midnight. With inarticulate moans she crouched down in a corner, closing the door to keep out the wind and rain.
Something was in the corner, she felt it with her benumbed hands. It was soft and warm to her touch. A plaintive mew followed. The something was a cat. At first she rather resented its presence. Then she gathered it up in her arms and pressed it against the bosom of her ragged old dress. Here was a creature as miserable as she. It was only a cat, but she felt less lonely with it in her arms. When she had been a little girl she had had a pet kitten.
Each was cold—the cat and the woman—but each found some warmth in the other. The cat stopped mewing and the woman stopped moaning. The wind had shifted and the rain had ceased. The door swung open again and the moon hanging calmly beautiful among the clouds, shone through the tangle of masts and cordage and into the hallway.
The woman, crouched in the corner, held the cat as she would have held a child. By-and-by she began to rock slowly to and fro. The clouds drifted away, and the stars joined the moon in peeping through the door.
The woman’s eyes were closed and she was crooning an old-fashioned lullaby. The cat was very faintly purring and one of its paws rested on her bare neck. The moon sank slowly out of sight and new clouds obscured the stars.
When the policeman peered in the hallway just before daybreak, the woman and the cat were asleep.
And they are still sleeping.
(James E. Kinsella: Chicago News.)
Little Timmy Mulligan was very sick. Some of his chums said in an awed whisper: “He is dyin’ dis time, sure pop.”
No more would his 9-year-old war-whoop resound around the corner. No more would the lake front know Timmy, his bare feet, and his stone bruises. Never again would he occupy the pitcher’s box and captain the “Red Hots, de champeens uv all de 9-year-olds on de wes’-side”—a nine which, through Capt. Timmy’s masterly inshoots, had attained proud preëminence. Never again would Timmy refresh his jaded spirits by throwing rocks at the Italian on the
Comments (0)