The opium “factory” stood just at the edge of the Ainu village: a mere
palm-thatched shed, with rafters strung along inside, from some of which
double bags of sheeting were suspended. The bags contained the crude
drug or “chick,” which had been standing in linseed oil to prevent
evaporation, and which was now in process of being drained dry. A basin
underneath each bag received the oily residue; but the bags had been
hanging there a good while, and the drippings were only occasional.
In one corner was a vat, half full of a sluggish dark substance which
several Ainu women were patiently kneading with bare feet. Tsuda stood
watching them, critical, keen-eyed.
Presently Mr. King came in. He glanced about sharply, frowned, sniffed.
Tsuda reluctantly dropped on to one knee, while the labourers prostrated
themselves, awaiting a sign from the White Kami which would signify to
them that they might resume their work. King waved an impatient arm, then
moved about restlessly, it almost seemed a bit aimlessly, inspecting the
premises.
His whole bearing appeared somewhat altered. The lordliness, if anything,
was exaggerated, at the same time that he impressed one as being subtly
less in control. Certainly he was noticeably thinner; his former look of
florid fulness was giving place to a muddy pallor, tending to make his
eyes somewhat sunken. Tsuda flashed a glance at him, then looked doggedly
back at the ground.
King approached the vat and investigated with one finger the consistency
of the opium.
“It will soon be tough enough,” he muttered; while Tsuda kept a smile
under judicious control. The overseer cleansed his finger slowly and
meticulously on a cloth, studied his nails a moment with knit brow, drew
out his little notebook and held a pencil poised above one page a long
time; finally with a detached sigh he put it back into his pocket without
having recorded anything at all. He looked about him, his round blue eyes
staring, then strode abruptly out of the shed. Tsuda gazed after him with
a yellowish light in his complex Asiatic face.
A moment later a young savage named Nipek-kem ran in. He had been chosen,
because of superior attainments, as Tsuda’s special aid and lieutenant—a
convenient go-between and secret informer. Out of breath, he was now the
bearer of tidings: the man whose wife had buried the head-dress was dead.
“I expected it,” said Tsuda dryly.
Nipek-kem elaborated: When the man learned his wife had prayed the curse
against him, he raised his arm to strike her dead; but it was already
long that the symbol lay under ground, and his arm dropped; he could not
lift it any more.
For a moment Tsuda’s eyes gleamed. It was a kind of miracle, and the
priest in him would never die. For an instant the worldly side seemed
crowded out, and he saw himself in the sacerdotal robes, in a temple all
a-murmur with the breath of the eternal gods. But the vision passed. With
a sudden cry, as actuated by some swift inner flash, Tsuda seized the
fellow’s arm. He brought his lips close and murmured, trembling with an
excitement of new purpose:
“You know the place in the rocks where the Wife-of-the-Kami sits much of
late?”
Nipek-kem raised both hands to his chest, letting them wave gracefully
downward. Yes, he knew.
“Go and see if she is there now, and come back quickly.”
The savage sped off.
When he was gone, Tsuda sat down beside the opium vat, a look of devious
tenderness in his face.