 Part 4 of the Song of Hugh Glass by John Nighart. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com The Song of Hugh Glass by John Nighart. Part 4, The Return of the Ghost. Not long you let the lust of vengeance nor upon him idling, though the tale he told and what report proclaimed him were as gold to buy a winter's comfort at the post. I cannot rest, fry him, but the ghost of someone murdered by a friend, he said. So long as yonder traitor thinks me dead, I buried in the bellies of the crows and coyotes. For upon said one of those who heard him noting how the old man shulkers with a chill, God fend that one should look with such a blizzard of a face for me. For he went grayer, like a poplar tree that shivers ruffling to the first faint breath of storm, while yet the world is still as death, save where far off the kenneled thunders bay. So brooding, he grew stronger day by day until at last he laid the crutches by, and then one evening came a rousing cry from where the years last kill-boat, hope and view around the bend, it swore this sweating, crew slant to the shouldered line. Men sang that night, in kia war, by the ruddy light of leaping fires amid the wooden walls, the cups went round, and there were merry brawls of bearded lads, no older for the beard, and laughing stories vied with tales of weird by stream and prairie trail and mountain pass, until the tipsy bourgeois bawled for glass to shame these with a man's tale fitted to hear. The greybeard, sitting where the light was blear with little heart for revelry, began his story, told as of another man who loving late loved much and was betrayed. He spoke unwitting, how his passion played upon them, how their eyes grew soft or hard with what he told, yet something of the bard he seemed in his the purpose that is arts, whereby men make a vintage of their hearts and with the wine of beauty dead in pain. Lotoned insistent as October rain his voice bit on, and now and then would flit across the melancholy grey of it. A glimmer of cold fire that, like the flare of soundless lightning, showed a world made bare, green summer slain and all its leafage stripped, and bronze jaws tightened, brawny hands were gripped as though each hearer had a thickle friend. But when the old man might have made an end rounding the story to a peaceful close at Gaiawall, song like his voice arose the grinning grey mask lifted and the eyes burned as a bards who sees and prophesies conning the future as a time long gone, swaying to rhythm the dizzy tale plunged on even to the cutting of the traitor's throat and ceased, as though a bloody strangling smote the voice of that grey chanter drunk with doom, and there was shuddering in the blue smeared gloom of fallen fires. It seemed the deed was done before their eyes who heard. The morrow's sun lay over legs of frost enchanted plains saw glass upon his pilgrimage again, northbound as hunter for the keelboat's crew, and many times the wide autumnal blue burned out and darkened to a deep of stars and still they toiled among the snags and bars those lean upstream men straining at the rope lashed by the doubt and strengthened by the hope of backward winter engines wrought of bone and muscle, painting for the yellow stone bend after bend and yet more bends away. Now was the river, like a sandy bay at Hebtide and the far off cut banks, boom, mocked them in shallows. Now it was like a flume with which the toilers barely creeping strove and bend by bend the self-same popular grove set on the self-same headland, so it seemed confronted them as though they merely dreamed one drear point, so on and up passed where the tawny titan gulps the cup of cane waters past the morrow's mouth and still rye leg and stubborn leg fell south, becoming haze and weary memory, then passed the empty lodges of the reed that gaited cornfields plundered by the soot, and their old times came mightily on you, for much of him was born and buried there. Some troubled glory that wind-tossed hair was on the trampled corn the lonely skies, so haunted with the blue of Jamie's eyes, seemed taunting him and through the frosted wood along the flat where once their tent had stood a chill wind sorrowed and the blackbird's brawl amid the funeral torches of the fall ran rockously a desecrating dim. Past where the cannon ball and heart came in they laboured, now the north-west bellowed back the trumpet blast of charging winds that made the sandbar's smoke. To breathe now was to gulp fine sand and choke the stinging air was sibilant with whips, leaning the moor and with the firmer grips still northward the embattled toilers pressed to where the river yours into the west there stood the mandan village. Now began the chaining of the titan, drift ice ran the winged hounds of winter ceased to bay the stupor of a doom completed lay upon the world, the biting darkness fell out in the night resounding as a whirl they heard the deck planks popping in a vise of frost all night the smithies of the ice. Re-ackered with the grinding jar and clink of ghostly hammers whirling link to link and mourning found the world without a sound. There lay the stubborn prairie titan bound to wait the far off hurrah-clean thorn. Though still in silent rage he strove to gnaw the ragged shackles knitting at his breast and so the boatman won a winter's rest among the mandan traders but for Hugh there yet remained a weary work to do across the naked country west by south his purpose called him at the bighorn's mouth three hundred miles of winging for the crow but by the river trail that he must go to a seven hundred winding miles at least so now he turned his back upon the feast snuggies pleasant tale merry mood and took the barefoot sounding solitude north westward long they watched him from the post skyed on a bluff rim fading like a ghost at grey cob-crow and hooded in his breath he seemed indeed a fugitive from death on whom some tatter of the shroud still clung blank space engulfed him now the moon was young when he set forth and day by day he strode his scarce hill wounds upon him like a load and dusk by dusk his fire out flared at the moon that waxed until it wrought a spectral noon at nightfall and he came to wear a whirl with springs while rage the snow-born Titan girl a sky wonder on her virgin face receives the thorough Yellowstone's embrace and bears the lusty seeker for the sea a bleak horizon wide serenity clung round the valley where the twain lay dead a winding sheet was on the marriage bed to his warmer now the sky grew overcast and as you strode south westward all the vast grey void seemed suddenly a stir with wings and multitudinary whisperings a muffled sibilance of tumbling snow it seemed no more might living waters flow moon gleam stargland dawn smolder through birds sing wherever any fair familiar thing be so again the outworn winds were filled weird weavers of the twilight of a world wrought thread on kissing thread at the web of doom grown insubstantial in the knitted gloom the bluffs loomed eerie and the scanty trees widwindled to remote dream traceries that never might be green or shield nest all day with swinging stride who forged south west along the Yellowstone smooth pave and stream a dream shape moving in a troubled dream and all day long the whispering weavers wove and close on dark he came to bear a grove of cottonwoods rose tall and shadow thin against the northern bluffs he camped therein and with cut bowels made shelter as he might close pressed the blackness of the snow choked night about him and his fire of plumwood heard the water soft and numeral drows he heard the tumbling snowflakes sighing all around till sleep transformed it to a summer sound of boyish memory sussurrant bees the south wind in the tussled apple trees and slumber flowing from their leafy gloom he wakened to the cottonwoods deep boom black fury was the world the north west's roar as of a surf upon a shipwreck shore plunged high above him from the sheer bluffs verge and like the wood sucking of the surge far fled the sobbing of the wild snow spray black blindness grew white blindness and to his day all being now seemed narrowed to a span that held a sputtering wood fire and a man beyond was tumult and a whirling maze the trees were but a roaring in a haze the sheer bluff wall that took the blizzard's charge was thunder flung along the hidden mage of chaos stridden by the ghost of light white blindness grew black blindness and to his night where through nor moon or any star might grow two days since he had killed an antelope and what remained suffice to the time of storm the snow banked round his shelter kept him warm and there was water to burn the many a day the third dawn easing through a smudge of grey awoken it was growing colder fast still from the bluff I over boomed the blast but now it took the road with numbing wings by noon the woven mystery of things frayed raggedly and through a sudden rift at length you saw the beatling bluff wall lift a sturdy shoulder to the flying rack slowly the sense of distances came back as with the waning day the great wind fell the pale sun set upon a frozen hill the wolves howled you had left the man in town when heffa horned the maiden moon lies down beside the sea now she rose scar faced and staring blankly on the snows while yet the twilight tarried in the west and more and more she came a tardy guest as Hugh pushed onward through the frozen waste until she stole on midnight shadow faced a haggard spectre then no more appeared it was on that time the man of hoary beard paused in the early twilight looming loam upon a bluff rim of the yellowstone and peered across the stream to the south ridden the flatland at the big horn's mouth the new fort stood that Henry's men had built what perfect peace for such a nest of guilt what satisfied immunity from woe on spalling shadow pied with candle glow and plumed with sparkling wood smoke might have been a homestead with the children gathered in to share its bounty through the holidays you saw their faces round the gay father in a mood for yarns or boastful of the plenty of his barn's fruitage of honest toil and grateful lands and half a stranger to her folded hands the mother with October in her hair an august in her face one moment there you saw it then the monstrous brutal fact wiped out of the dream and goaded him to act though now to act seemed strangely like a dream descending from the stream the dry snow fighting to his eager stride reaching the fort stockade he paused to bide the passing of a whimsy was it true or was this but the fretted wraith of Hugh his flesh had fed the coyotes long ago still through a chink he saw the candle glow so like an eye that brazened out or wrong and now became a flight of muffled song the rhythmic thudding of a booted heel that timed a squeaking fiddle so real how swiftly men forget the spawning earth is fat with graves and what is one man worth that fiddles should be muted at his fall he should have died and did not that was all well let the living jiggered he would turn back to the night the spacious unconcern of wilderness that never played the friend now came the song and fiddling to an end and someone laughed within the old man winced listened with disconvinced to his jamie laughing once again he heard joy filled a hush twixed heartbeats like a bird and like a famished cat his lurking hate bounced crushingly he found the outer gate beat on it with his shoulder raised to cry no doubt it was deemed a fit for wind went by none stirred but when he did not cease to shout a door creaked open and a man came out amid the spilling candle glimmer raised the wicked in the outer gate and gazed one moment on a face as white as death because the beard was thick with frosted breath made mystic by the stars then came a gasp the clatter of the falling wickets hasp the crunch of panic feet along the snow and someone stammered huskily and low my god I saw the old man's ghost out there to spoken as one speaks who feels his hair prickled the scalp and then another said it seemed like Henry's voice the dead are dead what talk is this Le Bon you saw him die who's there you strove to shout to give the light to those within but could not fetch a sound just so he dreamed of lying underground beside the ground and hearing overhead the talk of men or was he really dead and all this but a maggot in the brain then suddenly the clatter of a chain aroused him and he saw the portal yawn and saw a bright rectangular patch of dawn as through a grave in his mouth no it was candlelight poured through the open doorway on the night and those were men before him bulking black against the glow reality flashed back he straight ahead and entered at the door a falling fiddle jangled on the floor and left a deathly silence on his bench the fiddler shrank row of eyes of lynch with terror ran about the naked hall and there was one who huddled by the wall and hid his face and shivered for a spell that silence clung and then the old man well is this the sort of welcome that I get it was not my time to feed the coyotes yet run the pot and stew a chunk of meat and you shall see how much a ghost can eat up journeyed far if what I hear be true now in that none might doubt the voice of hue nor yet the face however it might seem a blurred reflection in a flowing stream a buzz of wonder break the transit red could God the major gasped we thought you did too many have testified they saw you die if they speak truth you answered then I lie both here and by the grand if I be right then too lie here and shall lie from this night which are they you Henry answered you on is one the old man set the trigger of his gun and gazed on jewels who cowered by the wall eyes blinked expectant of the hammers fall ears strained anticipating of the shore but hue walked leisurely across the floor and kicked the croucher saying come get up and wave your tail I couldn't kill a pup in turning round I had a faithful friend no doubt he too was with me to the end where's Jamie started out before the snows fratkinson end of part four recorded by Nathan at antipedianwriter.wordpress.com part five of the song of hue glass by John Nyhard this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for information or volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Nathan at antipedianwriter.wordpress.com a song of hue glass by John Nyhard hard five Jamie the country of the crows through which the big horn and the rose-bone run sees over mountain peaks the setting sun and southward from the yellow stone flung wide it broadens ever to the morning side and has the powder on its vague frontier about the subtle changing of the year air even favoured valleys felt the stir of spring and yet expectancy of her was like a pleasant rumour or repeat yet none may prove the sound of horses feet went eastward through the silence of that land but then it was there rode a little end of trappers out of Henry's post to bear dispatchers down to Atkinson and there to furnish out a killboat for the horn and four went lightly but the fifth seemed worn as with a heavy heart for that was he who should have died but did not silently he heard the careless parley of his men and thought of how the spring should come again that garish strumpet with her world old lure to waken hope where nothing may endure to quicken love where loving is betrayed yet now and then some dream of Jamie made slow music in him for a little while and there he rode beside him saw a smile glimmer upon that ruined face of grey as on a winter fog the groping day pours glory through a momentary rift yet never did the gloom that bound him lift he seemed as one who feeds upon his heart and finds despite the bitter and the smart a little sweetness and is glad for that now up the powder striking for the plat across the bleak divide the horseman went attained that river where its course is bent from north to east and spurring on a place along the wintry valley reached the place where from the west flows in the Laramie and spearing to encounter with the reed they headed eastward through the barren land to where fleet footed down a track of sand the neo-vrara races for the mourn a point-lawned rumour here at length was born upon the southern slopes the baby spring a timid fretful you'll be gotten thing a suckle at the winter's withered paps not such as when announced by thunderclaps and ringed with swords of lightning she would ride the haughty victrix and the mystic ride clad splendidly as never she was queen before her marching multitudes any bannered triumph grudging slow amid the fraying fringes of the snow the bunch grass sprouted and the air was chill along the northern slopes twas winter still and no root dreamed what triumph over death was nurtured now in some bleak Nazareth beyond the crest to sunward on they spurred through vacancies that waited for the bird and everywhere the odic presence dwelt the south west blue the snow began to melt and they reached the valley of the snake the neobrara's ice began to break an all night long and all day long it made a sound as of a random cannonade with rifles snarling down a skirmish line the geese went over every tree and vine was dotted thick with leaf bumps when they saw the little river of the kia paw grown mighty for the moment then they came one evening when all thickets were aflame with pale green witchfires and flowers blue to where the headlong neobrara threw his speed against the swollen Missouri's flank and hurled him roaring to the further bank a giant staggered by a pygmy's sling thence plunging ever deeper into spring across the greening prairie east by south they rode and just above the platts wide mouth came weary with the trail to Atkinson there all the vernal wonder work was done no carefree heart might find ought lacking there the doves call wandered in the drowsy air a love dream brooded in the lucent haze prior pic revelers the shrieking jays held mystic worship in the secret shade woodpeckers briskly plied their noisy trade along the tree bowls and their scarlet hoods flashed flame like in the smoky cotton woods what lacked not sweetness in the sun lulled breeze the plum bloom murmurous with bumblebees drifted deep in every draw and slew not color witcheries of gold and blue the dandelion and the violet wove in the green might not the sad forget the happy here have nothing more to seek lo yonder by that pleasant little creek how one might lull upon the grass and fish and build the temple of one's wildest wish twix nibbles surely there was quite enough of wizard timber and of wonder enough to rear it nobly to the blue domed roof yet there was one whose spirit stood aloof from all this joyousness a grey old man no nearer now than when the quest began to what he sought on that long winter trail I Jamie had been there but when the tale that roving trappers brought from kyle war was told to him he seemed as one who saw a ghost and could but stare on it they said until one day he mounted horse and fled into the north a devil-ridden man I've got to go and find him if I can was all he said for days before he left and what a few so long of love bereft so long sustained and driven by his hate a touch of roof now made him desolate no longer eager to avenge the wrong with not enough of pity to be strong and just enough of love to choke and sting a grey old hulk amid the surge of spring he floundered on a leash shore of the heart but when the boat was ready for the start up the long watery stairway to the horn you joined the party and the year was shorn of blooming girlhood as they forged a mane into the north the late green mantled plain grew shallow and the ruthless golden shower of summer wrought in lust upon the flower that withered in the endless martyrdom to seed the scarlet quickened on the plum about the heart's mouth when they came there too among the mandan scrapes were turning blue and they were purple at the Yellowstone a frosted scrub oak standing out alone upon a barren bluff top gazing far above the crossing at the powder's bar were spattered with the blood of summer slain so it was autumn in the world again all those months of toil had yield in nought to hue how often is the seeker sought by what he seeks a blind heart breaking game for always had the answer been the same from roving trapper and at trading post high one who seemed to stare upon a ghost and followed willy-nilly where it led had gone that way in search of hue they said a haggard blue-eyed yellow-headed chap and often had the old man thought may have he'll be at Henry's post and we shall meet and too forgive and too forget were sweet tis for its nurse that vengeance wets the tooth and though the golden time of Jamie's youth that it should darken for a grey beard's whim so hue had brooded till there came on in the pity of a slow rain after drought but at the crossing of the rosebud's mouth the shadow fell upon his growing dream a band of Henry's traders bound downstream who paused to traffic in the latest word down river news for matters seen and heard in higher waters had not met the lad nor yet encountered anyone who had alas the journey back to yesterwiles how tangled are the trails the stubborn miles how wearily they stretch and if one win the long way back in search of what has been shall he find ought that is not strange and new thus wrought the melancholy news in hue as he turned back with those who brought the news for more and more he dreaded now to lose what doubtful seeking and in the time when keen winds stripped the year he came with those to where the poplar joins the greater river their asinoboins rich from the summer's hunting had come down and flung along the flat their ragged town that traders might bring goods and winter there so leave the heartsick grey beard other where the final curtain rises on the play it is dead of winter now for day on day the blizzard wind sounded sweeping wide from Mississippi to the great divide out of the north beyond Saskatchewan brief evening glimmers like an inverse dawn after a long wide night the tempest dies the snow haze lifts now let the curtain rise upon milk river valley and reveal the stars like broken glass on frosted steel above the pagan lodges huddled deep in snow drifts like a freezing flock of sheep a crystal weight the dread cold crushes down and no one moves about the little town that seems to grovel as a thing that fears but see a lodge flap swings a squaw appears hunched with the sudden cold her footsteps creak shrill in the hush she stares upon the bleak white skyline for a moment then goes in we follow her push back the flap of skin enter the lodge inhale the smoke tanged air and blink upon the little faggot flair that blossoms in the centre of the room unsteady shadows haunt the outer gloom wherein the walls are guessed at upward far the smoke vent now and then reveals a star as in a well the ancient squaw a stoop her face light stricken stirs a pot of soup that simmers with a pleasant smell and sound an arled old man cross-legged upon the ground sits brooding near he feeds the flame with sticks it brightens low a leaden upon the wall these heathen eyes though dim have seen the white man's guard and cling to him lest on the sunset trail slow feet should err but look again from yonder bed of fur beside the wall a white man strives to rise he lifts his head with yearning sightless eyes grapes the light a mass of golden hair falls round the face that sickness and despair somehow make hold albeit he is young his weak voice stumbling to the mongrel tongue of traders flings a question to the squaw you saw no black robe tell me what you saw and she read spoken as her race replies eat snow sharp stars a coyote on the rise the blind youth huddles moaning in the furs the firewood spits and pops the boiled pot purrs and sputters on this little isle of sound the sea of winter silence purrs round one feels it like a minutes now the crow dips out a cup of soup and having blown upon it takes it to the sick man there and bids him eat with wild unseeing stare he turns upon her why are they so long I cannot eat I've done a mighty wrong it chokes me oh no no I must not die until the black robe comes his feeble cry sinks to a whisper tell me did they go your kinsmen they went south before the snow they tell the black robe they will tell the crackling of the faggots for a spell seems very loud again the sick man moans and struggling with the weakness in his bones would gain his feet but cannot go again and tell me that you see the bulks of men dim in the distance there the scorer bays returns anon to crouch beside the blaze numb fingered and a shudder from the night the vacant eyes that hunger for the light are turned upon her tell me what you saw or maybe snowshoes sounded up the drawer quick tell me what you saw and heard out there hipped snow sharp stars big stillness everywhere one clutching at thin ice with numbing grip cries while he hopes but when his fingers slip he takes the final plunge without a sound so sinks the youth now hopeless all around the winter silence presses in the walls grow vague and vanish in the gloom that crawls close to the failing fire the pygons sleep night hovers midway down the morning steep the sick man drowses nervously he starts and listens here's no sound except his hearts and that weird melancholy stillness makes but stealthily upon the quiet breaks vague is the coursing of the hero's blood a muffled rhythmic beating thud on thud that growing nearer deepens to a crunch so hungry for the distance snowshoes munch the crusted leagues of winter stride by stride a camp dog barks the hollow world outside rins with the running howl of many cures now wide awake half risen in the thirst the youth can hear low voices and the creek of snowshoes near the lodge his wild thin shriek startles the old folk from their slumberings he comes the black robe now the door flap swings and briefly one who splutters pig and bars the way then it is now the patch of stars is darkened with a greater bulk that bends beneath the lentil peace be with your friends and peace with him ear in who suffers pain so speaks the second comeer of the twain a white man by his voice and he who lies beside the wall with empty groping eyes turned to the speaker there can be no peace for me good father till this gnawing cease the gnawing of a great wrong I have done the big man liens above the youth my son run husky with the word the deep voice breaks and for a little spill the whole man shakes as with the clinging cold have faith and hope it is often nearest dawn when most we grope does not the good book say who seek shall find but father I am broken now and blind and I have sought and I have lost the way to which the stranger what would Jesus say in the silence of the heart the sweetness of the feeble sped the humblest feet are surest for the gold the blind shall see the city of the soul lay down your burden at his feet tonight now while the fire replenished bathes in light the young face scrawled with suffering and care flinging ironic glories on the hair inventing on dull eyes that once flashed blue the sick one tells the story of old Hugh to him whose face averted from still lurks in gloom the winds of battle blow once more along the steep again one sees the rescue from the fury of the reeds the gray beards fondness for the gay lad then the west with March with major Henry's men with all that happened there upon the ground and so we hit the trail of Henry's band the youth continues for we feared to die and dread of shame was ready with the lie we carried to our comrades he was dead and buried there beside the ground we said could any doubt that what we said was true they even praised our courage but I knew the nights were hell because I heard his cries and saw the crows are pecking at his eyes the coyotes tearing at him oh my god I tried and tried to think him under sod but every time I slept it was the same and then one night I lay awake he came I say he came I know I hadn't slept amid a light like rainy dawn kept out of the dark upon his hands and knees the wind he got that day among the reeds was like red fire a snarl of bloody hair hung round the eyes that had a pleading stare and down the ruined face and gory beard big teardrops rolled he went as he appeared trailing a fog of light that died away and I grew old before I saw the day oh father I had paid too much for breath the devil traffics in the fear of death may God pity anyone who buys what I have bought with treachery and lies this rat like gnawing in my breast I knew I couldn't rest until I buried Hugh and so I told the major I would go to Atkinson with letters air the snow had choked the trails jewels wouldn't come along he didn't seem to realise the wrong he called me foolish couldn't understand I rode alone not south but to the grand day long the sod accusing me and all my prayers to God seemed flung in vain at bolted gates of brass and in the night the wind among the grass hissed endlessly the story of my shame I do not know how long I rode I came upon the grand at last and found the place and it was empty not a sign or trace was left to show what end had come to Hugh and oh that grave it gaped upon the bluer death wound pleading for the slain I filled it up and fled across the plane and somehow came to Atkinson at last and there I heard the living Hugh had passed along the river northward in the fall oh father he had found the strength to crawl that long heart breaking distance back to life though jewels had taken blanket steel and knife and I his trusted comrade had his gun they said I'd better stay at Atkinson because old Hugh was surely hunting me white hot bull I did not want to flee or hide from him I even wished to die if so this aching cancer of a lie might be torn out forever so I went as eager as the homesick homeward bent in search of him and peace but I was cursed for even when his stolen rifle burst and spewed upon me this eternal night I might not die as any other might but God so willed that friendly pygons came to spare me yet a little shame oh father is there any hope for me great hope indeed my son so huskily the other answers I recall a case like yours no matter what the time and place it was somewhat like the story that you tell each seeking and each sword and both in hell but in the tale I mind they met at last the youth sits up white faced and breathing fast they met Hugh say what happened quick oh quick the old man found the ear-lead blind and sick and both forgave it was easy to forgive for oh we have so short a time to live we're out of the youth who's here the black robes gone his voice is this the gray of winter dawn now creeping round the door flap lights the place and shows thin fingers groping for a face deep scarred and horny with the frost of years we're over runs a new spring tide of tears oh Jamie Jamie Jamie I am Hugh there was no black robe yonder will I do end of part 5 end of the song of Hugh Glass by John Knowhart recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com