Rhamon/Chapter 11

by Heluiz Chandler Washburne

Chapter XI

A Mountain Storm

The day Rhamon started on his great adventure, the sky was dark and the rain was falling, falling. There was sunshine in his heart though, for was he not going to see the big city of his dreams? He hopped out of his father's shikara on the muddy river bank and waved good-by. By the time he reached the big automobile that was to take him down the mountains, his clothes were wet, and big clumps of red clay stuck to his sandals. But when he was settled in the front seat next to the friendly Indian driver, Rhamon was quite happy and he hugged the precious perfume jar tight in his arms. The Sahib and Mem Sahib climbed into the back and they were off.

This was Rhamon's first ride in a car, and he was so excited he could hardly sit still. Mile after mile they drove, along a wide road between two rows of tall green poplar trees. In the fields on each side peasants were working in the rice fields.

An hour passed and still it rained. They were climbing now and the mountain roads grew narrower and more winding. Rhamon looked at the great cliffs that stretched up and up on one side. Then he looked down on the other side at the Jhelum River that rushed along its noisy way, far, far below them.

It grew darker and darker. Lightning ripped the sky apart in blinding zigzag flashes. The pouring rain hammered against the car. Great claps of thunder shook the air and echoed

Lightning ripped the sky apart

through the valleys. The wind whistled and shrieked. Rhamon saw huge trees crash and tumble down the mountainsides.

Sometimes the car rushed dizzily around a narrow curve and up to the edge of nothing. Then Rhamon caught his breath and his heart stood still as he gazed through space. But before he knew it they were past the curve and safely on their way again.

At last the storm died away. The black clouds lifted, and the mountains, fresh washed, sparkled in the sunshine. Rhamon could see the flocks of long-haired goats scrambling up and up. High in the blue sky was a soaring eagle, on its way perhaps to some lonely mountain nest. Through the green valley down below ran the chattering river, foaming over the rocks. On the hillsides rested the pink and white clouds of blossoming fruit trees.

The car was climbing now, up and up into the mountains. The air grew colder and Rhamon snuggled down under a warm woolen blanket. Soon they reached the high Pir Panjal Pass between the mountains. Great peaks rose in silence above them. Patches of snow lay in the shadows.

Then they started down on the other side. As they went lower the air grew warmer, and Rhamon came out from under his blanket. The roads here were dusty, for it had not rained on this side of the pass. Rhamon grew thirsty. How he longed for a drink of the water that tumbled down in shining waterfalls!

Just then they whirled around a bend in the road. In front of them he saw a fairy spot where clear spring water fell like a sheet of sparkling rain. It dripped through a mass of green vines and hanging ferns. The car stopped and Rhamon sprang out. In a moment he was splashing the cool water on his face and drinking it from the cup of his hands.

While they rested there an old man wandered up to the car. His clothes were ragged and his white turban was covered with dust. In his hands he carried a queer little three-stringed instrument. Standing by the edge of the cliff he began to play.

As he drew his bow across the strings a sweet strange music filled the air. It told of fairies dancing in the moonlight, of running water, of springtime flowers and sunshine. Rhamon stood beside him and listened. Now the music sang of the loneliness of the mountains, of the coldness of their icy peaks, of cruel storms and of people lost.

Rhamon would have liked to stay longer, but he heard the Sahib calling his name, so he ran to the car and climbed into his seat. Soon they were driving down the narrow mountain road once more. The music of the strolling player was lost in the distance.