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Child of Storm

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    Child of Storm

    by: Thanakorn Papan 1 6

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    Child of Storm by H. R. Haggard

    For a while I contemplated the roof and sides of the hut by the light
    which entered it through the smoke-vent and the door-hole, wondering
    whose it might be and how I came there.

    Then I tried to sit up, and instantly was seized with agony in the
    region of the ribs, which I found were bound about with broad strips of
    soft tanned hide. Clearly they, or some of them, were broken.

    What had broken them? I asked myself, and in a flash everything
    came back to me. So I had escaped with my life, as the old dwarf,
    "Opener-of-Roads," had told me that I should. Certainly he was an
    excellent prophet; and if he spoke truth in this matter, why not in
    others? What was I to make of it all? How could a black savage, however
    ancient, foresee the future?

    By induction from the past, I supposed; and yet what amount of induction
    would suffice to show him the details of a forthcoming accident that
    was to happen to me through the agency of a wild beast with a peculiarly
    shaped horn? I gave it up, as before and since that day I have found it
    necessary to do in the case of many other events in life. Indeed,
    the question is one that I often have had cause to ask where Kafir
    "witch-doctors" or prophets are concerned, notably in the instance of a
    certain Mavovo, of whom I hope to tell one day, whose predictions saved
    my life and those of my companions.

    Just then I heard the sound of someone creeping through the bee-hole
    of the hut, and half-closed my eyes, as I did not feel inclined for
    conversation. The person came and stood over me, and somehow--by
    instinct, I suppose--I became aware that my visitor was a woman. Very
    slowly I lifted my eyelids, just enough to enable me to see her.

    There, standing in a beam of golden light that, passing through the
    smoke-hole, pierced the soft gloom of the hut, stood the most beautiful
    creature that I had ever seen--that is, if it be admitted that a person
    who is black, or rather copper-coloured, can be beautiful.

    She was a little above the medium height, not more, with a figure that,
    so far as I am a judge of such matters, was absolutely perfect--that of
    a Greek statue indeed. On this point I had an opportunity of forming an
    opinion, since, except for her little bead apron and a single string
    of large blue beads about her throat, her costume was--well, that of
    a Greek statue. Her features showed no trace of the negro type; on the
    contrary, they were singularly well cut, the nose being straight and
    fine and the pouting mouth that just showed the ivory teeth between,
    very small. Then the eyes, large, dark and liquid, like those of a
    buck, set beneath a smooth, broad forehead on which the curling, but not
    woolly, hair grew low. This hair, by the way, was not dressed up in any
    of the eccentric native fashions, but simply parted in the middle and
    tied in a big knot over the nape of the neck, the little ears peeping
    out through its tresses. The hands, like the feet, were very small and
    delicate, and the curves of the bust soft and full without being coarse,
    or even showing the promise of coarseness.
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