Iraçéma: the Honey-lips, a Legend of Brazil/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
The day was born and dead. The fire, companion of the night, already shone in the Wigwam of Araken. The stars, daughters of the moon, rolled their slow and silent courses in the blue heavens, awaiting the return of their absent mother.
Martim gently rocked himself; and his soul, like the white hammock which waved from side to side, wavered between one and another thought. There the pale-faced virgin awaited him with chaste affection. Here the dark maiden smiled upon him with ardent love.
Iraçéma leant languidly against the head of the hammock; her large black eyes, tender as those of the Sabiá-thrush, sought the stranger and pierced his soul. The Christian smiled. The virgin, trembling like the Sahy-bird[1] fascinated by the serpent, bent her yielding form and reclined upon the warrior՚s bosom.
He strained her passionately to his heart, his lips sought her longing lip, and thus they celebrated in this sanctuary of the soul the hymen of love.
In a dark obscure corner sat the Pagé, plunged in the contemplation of things remote from this world. He heaved one long sad sigh. Did his heart forebode that which his eyes could not see? Or was it some ill-omened presentiment concerning the future of his race which re-echoed in the soul of Araken?
No one ever knew!
The Christian gently repelled the Indian girl. He would not leave a trail of disgrace in the hospitable Wigwam. He closed his eyes that he might not see her, and endeavoured to fill his thoughts with the name and the fear of God.
Christ !—Jesus !—Mary !
A calm returned to the warrior՚s breast, but every time his eye rested upon the Tabajára virgin he felt the blood course through his veins like liquid fire. Thus when the thoughtless child stirs the live embers, its sparks fly out and consume its flesh.
The Christian shut his eyes, but amid the darkness of his thoughts the Tabajára virgin ever arose, and ever more beautiful. In vain his heavy lids invoked sleep. They opened despite all his endeavours. An inspiration from Heaven at last descended upon his troubled mind.
"Beautiful maid of the desert! this is the last night of thy guest under the roof of Araken. Would that he had never come there! For thy sake and for his own, make his sleep glad and happy."
"Let the warrior command, and Iraçéma will obey. What can she do to make him glad?"
The Christian murmured low that the old Pagé might not hear him.
"The Virgin of Tupan keeps the dreams of the Jurema, which are sweet and pleasant!"
A sad smile was Iraçéma՚s answer.
"The stranger is going to live for ever encircling the white virgin.[2] Never more will his eyes behold the daughter of Araken; yet he wishes that sleep should close his lids, and that dreams should convey him back to the land of his brothers!"
"Sleep is the warrior՚s rest," said Martim, "and dreams are the gladness of his soul. The stranger would not bear sadness with him from the Land of Hospitality, nor would he leave it in the heart of Iraçéma."
The virgin sat unmoved.
"Go! and return with the wine of Tupan."
When Iraçéma came back, the Pagé was no longer in the Wigwam. She drew from her bosom the bowl which she had hidden under her Carioba[3] of cotton interwoven with feathers. Martim seized it from her hands, and drained the few drops of bitter green liquid. Presently the hammock received his torpid form.
Now he may live with Iraçéma, and gather the kisses from her lips which ripened there amidst smiles, like the fruit in the corolla of the flower. He may love her, and may savour the honey and perfume of this love without leaving its poison in the virgin՚s breast.
The joy was life, only more real and intense. The evil was a dream, an illusion; to him the maiden was an image, a shadow.
Iraçéma withdrew, silent and sorrowful. The warrior՚s arms opened, and his lips gently murmured her name.
The Juruty flitting about the forest hears the tender cooing of her mate. She flutters her wings and flies to meet him in the warm nest. Thus the virgin of the desert nestled in the warrior՚s arms.
When morning came, it found Iraçéma sleeping like a butterfly in the petals of the beautiful cactus. Her cheek was suffused with the blushes of modesty, and as the first sunbeam sparkles through the early dawn, on her brightened face shone the happy smile of the bride, the aurora of happy love.
Martim seeing Iraçéma still pressed to his heart, thought that the dream continued, and closed his eyes not to disturb it.
The Poçema-trump of the braves thundering through the valley awoke him from the sweet illusion. He knew then that he was alive and awake. His cruel hand smothered the kiss which expanded like a flower on the bride՚s lips.
"The kisses of Iraçéma are sweet in dreams. The white warrior fills his soul with them. But in life the lips of the Virgin of Tupan are bitter and painful like the Jurema-thorns."
The daughter of Araken hid her joy in her heart. She was hushed and startled like the bird which feels the coming storm. She quickly withdrew from the Wigwam, and plunged into the river according to custom.
The Jandaia never returned to the Wigwam, and Tupan no longer owned his Virgin in the Tabajára land.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
| Original: |
This work was published before January 1, 1931, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse |
|---|---|
| Translation: |
This work was published before January 1, 1931, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse |
