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. A
calmer inspection showed a necessity for caution;--the surface was alive
with tadpoles and insects: prudence, however, had little power at that
time, we drank, and drank, and then drank again. As our mules had fallen
with avidity upon the grass, I proposed to pass a few hours near the well.
My companions, however, pleading the old fear of lions, led the way to a
deserted kraal upon a neighbouring hill. We had marched about thirty miles
eastward, and had entered a safe country belonging to the Bahgoba, our
guide's clan.
At sunrise on the 28th of January, the Donkey, whose limbs refused to
work, was lifted into the saddle, declaring that the white man must have
been sent from heaven, as a special curse upon the children of Ishak. We
started, after filling the water-bottle, down the Gogaysa valley. Our
mules were becoming foot-sore, and the saddles had already galled their
backs; we were therefore compelled to the additional mortification of
travelling at snail's pace over the dreary hills, and through the
uninteresting bush.
About noon we entered Wady Danan, or "The Sour," a deep chasm in the
rocks; the centre is a winding sandy watercourse, here and there grassy
with tall rushes, and affording at every half mile a plentiful supply of
sweet water. The walls of the ravine are steep and rugged, and the thorny
jungle clustering at the sides gives a wild appearance to the scene.
Traces of animals, quagga and gazelle, every where abounded: not being
however, in "Dianic humour," and unwilling to apprise Bedouins of our
vicinity, I did not fire a shot. As we advanced large trees freshly barked
and more tender plants torn up by the roots, showed the late passage of a
herd of elephants: my mule, though the bravest of our beasts, was in a
state of terror all the way. The little grey honey-bird [9] tempted us to
wander with all his art: now he sat upon the nearest tree chirping his
invitation to a feast, then he preceded us with short jerking flights to
point out the path. My people, however, despite the fondness for honey
inherent in the Somali palate [10], would not follow him, deciding that
on, this occasion his motives for inviting us were not of the purest.
Emerging from the valley, we urged on our animals over comparatively level
ground, in the fallacious hope of seeing the sea that night. The trees
became rarer as we advanced and the surface metallic. In spots the path
led over ironstone that resembled slag. In other places the soil was
ochre-coloured [11]: the cattle lick it, probably on account of the
aluminous matter with which it is mixed. Everywhere the surface was burnt
up by the sun, and withered from want of rain. Towards evening we entered
a broad slope called by the Somal Dihh Murodi, or Murodilay, the
Elephants' Valley. Crossing its breadth from west to east, we traversed
two Fiumaras, the nearer "Hamar," the further "Las Dorhhay," or the
Tamarisk waterholes.
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