to a more open part; but though it was nice to feel the sunshine on him
again, the underwood and grass and creepers trailing over the ground
made it difficult and tiring to walk, and in this place a curious thing
happened. Picking his way through the tangled herbage, an animal his
footsteps had startled scuttled away in great fear, and as it went he
caught a glimpse of it. It was a kind of weasel, but very large--larger
than a big tom-cat, and all over as black as the blackest cat. Looking
down he discovered that this strange animal had been feasting on eggs.
The eggs were nearly as large as fowls', of a deep green colour, with
polished shells. There had been about a dozen in the nest, which was
only a small hollow in the ground lined with dry grass, but most of them
had been broken, and the contents devoured by the weasel. Only two
remained entire, and these he took, and tempted by his hunger, soon
broke the shells at the small end and sucked them clean. They were raw,
but never had eggs, boiled, fried, or poached, tasted so nice before! He
had just finished his meal, and was wishing that a third egg had
remained in the ruined nest, when a slight sound like the buzzing of an
insect made him look round, and there, within a few feet of him, was the
big black weasel once more, looking strangely bold and savage-tempered.
It kept staring fixedly at Martin out of its small, wicked, beady black
eyes, and snarling so as to show its white sharp teeth; and very white
they looked by contrast with the black lips, and nose, and hair. Martin
stared back at it, but it kept moving and coming nearer, now sitting
straight up, then dropping its fore-feet and gathering its legs in a
bunch as if about to spring, and finally stretching itself straight out
towards him again, its round flat head and long smooth body making it
look like a great black snake crawling towards him. And all the time it
kept on snarling and clicking its sharp teeth and uttering its low,
buzzing growl. Martin grew more and more afraid, it looked so strong and
angry, so unspeakably fierce. The creature looked as if he was speaking
to Martin, saying something very easy to understand, and very dreadful
to hear. This is what it seemed to be saying:--
"Ha, you came on me unawares, and startled me away from the nest I
found! You have eaten the last two eggs; and I found them, and they were
mine! Must I go hungry for you--starveling, robber! A miserable little
boy alone and lost in the forest, naked, all scratched and bleeding with
thorns, with no courage in his heart, no strength in his hands! Look at
me! I am not weak, but strong and black and fierce; I live here--this is
my home; I fear nothing; I am like a serpent, and like brass and
tempered steel--nothing can bruise or break me: my teeth are like fine
daggers; when I strike them into the flesh of any creature I never loose
my hold till I have sucked out all the blood in his heart. But you, weak
little wretch, I hate you! I thirst for your blood for stealing my food
from me! What can you do to save yourself? Down, down on the ground,
chicken-heart, where I can get hold of you! You shall pay me for the
eggs with your life! I shall hold you fast by the throat, and drink and
drink until I see your glassy eyes close, and your cheeks turn whiter
than ashes, and I feel your heart flutter like a leaf in your bosom!
Down, down!"
It was terrible to watch him and seem to hear such words. He was nearer
now--scarcely a yard away, still with his beady glaring eyes fixed on
Martin's face: and Martin was powerless to fly from him--powerless even
to stir a step or to lift a hand. His heart jumped so that it choked
him, his hair stood up on his head, and he trembled so that he was ready
to fall. And at last, when about to fall to the ground, in the extremity
of his terror, he uttered a great scream of despair; and the sudden
scream so startled the weasel, that he jumped and scuttled away as fast
as he could through the creepers and bushes, making a great rustling
over the dead leaves and twigs; and Martin, recovering his strength,
listened to that retreating sound as it passed away into the deep
shadows, until it ceased altogether.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Eight_
_The Flower and the Serpent_
His escape from the horrible black animal made Martin quite happy, in
spite of hunger and fatigue, and he pushed on as bravely as ever. But it
was slow going and very difficult, even painful in places, on account of
the rough thorny undergrowth, where he had to push and crawl through the
close bushes, and tread on ground littered with old dead prickly leaves
and dead thorny twigs. After going on for about an hour in this way, he
came to a stream, a branch of the river he had left, and much shallower,
so that he could easily cross from side to side, and he could also see
the bright pebbles under the clear swift current. The stream appeared to
run from the east, the way he wished to travel towards the hills, so
that he could keep by it, which he was glad enough to do, as it was nice
to get a drink of water whenever he felt thirsty, and to refresh his
tired and sore little feet in the stream.
Following this water he came before very long to a place in the forest
where there was little or no underwood, but only low trees and bushes
scattered about, and all the ground moist and very green and fresh like
a water-meadow. It was indeed pleasant to feel his feet on the soft
carpet of grass, and stooping, he put his hands down on it, and finally
lying down he rolled on it so as to have the nice sensation of the warm
soft grass all over his body. So agreeable was it lying and rolling
about in that open green place with the sweet sunshine on him, that he
felt no inclination to get up and travel on. It was so sweet to rest
after all his strivings and sufferings in that great dark forest! So
sweet was it that he pretty soon fell asleep, and no doubt slept a long
time, for when he woke, the sun, which had been over his head, was now
far down in the west. It was very still, and the air warm and fragrant
at that hour, with the sun shining through the higher branches of the
trees on the green turf where he was lying. How green it was--the grass,
the trees, every tiny blade and every leaf was like a piece of emerald
green glass with the sun shining through it! So wonderful did it seem to
him--the intense greenness, the brilliant sunbeams that shone into his
eyes, and seemed to fill him with brightness, and the stillness of the
forest, that he sat up and stared about him. What did it mean--that
brightness and stillness?
Then, at a little distance away, he caught sight of something on a tree
of a shining golden yellow colour. Jumping up he ran to the tree, and
found that it was half overgrown with a very beautiful climbing plant,
with leaves divided like the fingers of a hand, and large flowers and
fruit, both green and ripe. The ripe fruit was as big as a duck's egg,
and the same shape, and of a shining yellow colour. Reaching up his hand
he began to feel the smooth lovely fruit, when, being very ripe, it came
off its stem into his hand. It smelt very nice, and then, in his hunger,
he bit through the smooth rind with his teeth, and it tasted as nice as
it looked. He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and
then another, and still others, until he could eat no more. He had not
had so delicious a meal for many a long day.
Not until he had eaten his fill did Martin begin to look closely at the
flowers on the plant. It was the passion-flower, and he had never seen
it before, and now that he looked well at it he thought it the loveliest
and strangest flower he had ever beheld; not brilliant and shining,
jewel-like, in the sun, like the scarlet verbena of the plains, or some
yellow flower, but pale and misty, the petals being of a dim greenish
cream-colour, with a large blue circle in the centre; and the blue, too,
was misty like the blue haze in the distance on a summer day. To see and
admire it better he reached out his hand and tried to pluck one of the
flowers; then in an instant he dropped his hand, as if he had been
pricked by a thorn. But there was no thorn and nothing to hurt him;
he dropped his hand only because he felt that he had hurt the flower.
Moving a step back he stared at it, and the flower seemed like a thing
alive that looked back at him, and asked him why he had hurt it.
[Illustration: HE QUICKLY ATE IT, AND THEN PULLED ANOTHER AND ATE THAT,
AND THEN ANOTHER, AND STILL OTHERS, UNTIL HE COULD EAT NO MORE.]
"O, poor flower!" said Martin, and, coming closer he touched it gently
with his finger-tips; and then, standing on tip-toe, he touched its
petals with his lips, just as his mother had often and often kissed his
little hand when he had bruised it or pricked it with a thorn.
Then, while still standing by the plant, on bringing his eyes down to
the ground he spied a great snake lying coiled up on a bed of moss on
the sunny side of the same tree where the plant was growing. He
remembered the dear little snake he had once made a friend of, and he
did not feel afraid, for he thought that all snakes must be friendly
towards him, although this was a very big one, thicker than his arm and
of a different colour. It was a pale olive-green, like the half-dry moss
it was lying on, with a pattern of black and brown mottling along its
back. It was lying coiled round and round, with its flat arrow-shaped
head resting on its coils, and its round bright eyes fixed on Martin's
face. The sun shining on its eyes made them glint like polished jewels
or pieces of glass, and when Martin moved nearer and stood still, or
when he drew back and went to this side or that, those brilliant
glinting eyes were still on his face, and it began to trouble him, until
at last he covered his face with his hands. Then he opened his fingers
enough to peep through them, and still those glittering eyes were fixed
on him.
Martin wondered if the snake was vexed with him for coming there, and
why it watched him so steadily with those shining eyes. "Will you please
look some other way?" he said at last, but the snake would not, and so
he turned from it, and then it seemed to him that everything was alive
and watching him in the same intent way--the passion-flowers, the green
leaves, the grass, the trees, the wide sky, the great shining sun. He
listened, and there was no sound in the wood, not even the hum of a fly
or a wild bee, and it was so still that not a leaf moved. Finally he
moved away from that spot, but treading very softly, and holding his
breath to listen, for it seemed to him that the forest had something to
tell him, and that if he listened he would hear the leaves speaking to
him. And by-and-by he did hear a sound: it came from a spot about a
hundred yards away, and was like the sound of a person crying. Then came
low sobs which rose and fell and then ceased, and after a silent
interval began again. Perhaps it was a child, lost there in the forest
like himself. Going softly to the spot he discovered that the sobbing
sounds came from the other side of a low tree with wide-spread branches,
a kind of acacia with thin loose foliage, but he could not see through
it, and so he went round the tree to look, and startled a dove which
flew off with a loud clatter of its wings.
When the dove had flown away it was again very silent. What was he to
do? He was too tired now to walk much farther, and the sun was getting
low, so that all the ground was in shadow. He went on a little way
looking for some nice shelter where he could pass the night, but could
not find one. At length, when the sun had set and the dark was coming,
he came upon an old half-dead tree, where there was a hollow at the
roots, lined with half-dry moss, very soft to his foot, and it seemed a
nice place to sleep in. But he had no choice, for he was afraid of going
further in the dark among the trees; and so, creeping into the hollow
among the old roots, he curled himself up as comfortably as he could,
and soon began to get very drowsy, in spite of having no covering to
keep him warm. But although very tired and sleepy, he did not go quite
to sleep, for he had never been all alone in a wood by night before, and
it was different from the open plain where he could see all round, even
at night, and where he had feared nothing. Here the trees looked strange
and made strange black shadows, and he thought that the strange people
of the wood were perhaps now roaming about and would find him there. He
did not want them to find him fast asleep; it was better to be awake, so
that when they came he could jump up and run away and hide himself from
them. Once or twice a slight rustling sound made him start and think
that at last some one was coming to him, stealing softly so as to catch
him unawares, but he could see nothing moving, and when he held his
breath to listen there was no sound.
Then all at once, just when he had almost dropped off, a great cry
sounded at a distance, and made him start up wide awake again. "Oh look!
look! look!" cried the voice in a tone so deep and strange and powerful
that no one could have heard it without terror, for it seemed to be
uttered by some forest monster twenty times bigger than an ordinary man.
In a moment an answer came from another part of the wood. "What's that?"
cried the answering voice; and then another voice cried, and then others
far and near, all shouting "What's that?" and for only answer the first
voice shouted once more, "O Look! Look! Look!"
Poor Martin, trembling with fright, crouched lower down in his mossy
bed, thinking that the awful people of the forest must have seen him,
and would be upon him in a few moments. But though he stared with
wide-open eyes into the gloom he could see nothing but the trees,
standing silent and motionless, and no sound of approaching footsteps
could he hear.
After that it was silent again for a while, and he began to hope that
they had given up looking for him; when suddenly, close by, sounded a
loud startling "Who's that?" and he gave himself up for lost. For he was
too terrified to jump up and run away, as he had thought to do: he could
only lie still, his teeth chattering, his hair standing up on his head.
"Who's that?" exclaimed the terrible voice once more, and then he saw a
big black shape drop down from the tree above and settle on a dead
branch a few feet above his hiding-place. It was a bird--a great owl,
for now he could see it, sharply outlined against the clear starry sky;
and the bird had seen and was peering curiously at him. And now all his
fear was gone, for he could not be afraid of an owl; he had been
accustomed to see owls all his life, only they were small, and this owl
of the forest was as big as an eagle, and had a round head and ears like
a cat, and great cat-like eyes that shone in the dark.
The owl kept staring at Martin for some time, swaying his body this way
and that, and lowering then raising his head so as to get a better view.
And Martin, on his side, stared back at the owl, and at last he
exclaimed, "O what a great big owl you are! Please say _Who's that?_
again."
But before the owl said anything Martin was fast asleep in his mossy
bed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Nine_
_The Black People of the Sky_
Whether or not the great owl went on shouting _O look! look! look!_ and
asking _What's that?_ and _Who's that?_ all night, Martin did not know.
He was fast asleep until the morning sun shone on his face and woke him,
and as he had no clothes and shoes to put on he was soon up and out.
First he took a drink of water, then, feeling very hungry he went back
to the place where he had found the ripe fruit and made a very good
breakfast. After that he set out once more through the wood towards
sunrise, still following the stream. Before long the wood became still
more open, and at last to his great joy he found that he had got clear
of it, and was once more on the great open plain. And now the hills were
once more in sight--those great blue hills where he wished to be,
looking nearer and larger than before, but they still looked blue like
great banks of cloud and were a long distance away. But he was
determined to get to them, to climb up their steep sides, and by and by
when he found the stream bent away to the south, he left it so as to go
on straight as he could to the hills. Away from the waterside the
ground was higher, and very flat and covered with dry yellow grass. Over
this yellow plain he walked for hours, resting at times, but finding no
water and no sweet roots to quench his thirst, until he was too tired to
walk any further, and so he sat down on the dry grass under that wide
blue sky. There was not a cloud on it--nothing but the great globe of
the sun above him; and there was no wind and no motion in the yellow
grass blades, and no sight or sound of any living creature.
Martin lying on his back gazed up at the blue sky, keeping his eyes from
the sun, which was too bright for them, and after a time he did see
something moving--a small black spot no bigger than a fly moving in a
circle. But he knew it was something big, but at so great a height from
the earth as to look like a fly. And then he caught sight of a second
black speck, then another and another, until he could make out a dozen
or twenty, or more, all moving in wide circles at that vast height.
Martin thought they must be the black people of the sky; he wondered why
they were black and not white, like white birds, or blue, and of other
brilliant colours like the people of the Mirage.
Now it was impossible for Martin to lie like that, following those
small black spots on the hot blue sky as they wheeled round and round
continuously, without giving his eyes a little rest by shutting them at
intervals. By-and-by he kept them shut a little too long; he fell
asleep, and when he woke he didn't wake fully in a moment; he remained
lying motionless just as before, with eyes still closed, but the lids
just raised enough to enable him to see about him. And the sight that
met his eyes was very curious. He was no longer alone in that solitary
place. There were people all round him, dozens and scores of little
black men about two feet in height, of a very singular appearance. They
had bald heads and thin hatchet faces, wrinkled and warty, and long
noses; and they all wore black silk clothes--coat, waistcoat and
knickerbockers, but without shoes and stockings; their thin black legs
and feet were bare; nor did they have anything on their bald heads. They
were gathered round Martin in a circle, but a very wide circle quite
twenty to thirty feet away from him, and some were walking about, others
standing alone or in groups, talking together, and all looking at
Martin. Only one who appeared to be the most important person of the
company kept inside the circle, and whenever one or more of the others
came forward a few steps he held up his hand and begged them to go back
a little.
"We must not be in a hurry," he said. "We must wait."
"Wait for what?" asked one.
"For what may happen," said the important one. "I must ask you again to
leave it to me to decide when it is time to begin." Then he strutted up
and down in the open space, turning now towards his fellows and again to
Martin, moving his head about to get a better sight of his face. Then,
putting his hand down between his coat and waistcoat he drew out a knife
with a long shining blade, and holding it from him looked attentively at
it. By and by he breathed gently on the bright blade, then pulling out a
black silk pocket handkerchief wiped off the stain of his breath, and
turning the blade about made it glitter in the sun. Then he put it back
under his coat and resumed his walk up and down.
"We are getting very hungry," said one of the others at length.
"Very hungry indeed!" cried another. "Some of us have not tasted food
these three days."
"It certainly does seem hard," said yet another, "to see our dinner
before us and not be allowed to touch it."
"Not so fast, my friends, I beg," exclaimed the man with the knife. "I
have already explained the case, and I do think you are a little unfair
in pressing me as you do."
Thus rebuked they consulted together, then one of them spoke. "If, sir,
you consider us unfair, or that we have not full confidence in you,
would it not be as well to get some other person to take your place?"
"Yes, I am ready to do that," returned the important one promptly; and
here, drawing forth the knife once more, he held it out towards them.
But instead of coming forward to take it they all recoiled some steps,
showing considerable alarm. And then they all began protesting that they
were not complaining of him, that they were satisfied with their choice,
and could not have put the matter in abler hands.
"I am pleased at your good opinion," said the important one. "I may tell
you that I am no chicken. I first saw the light in September, 1739, and,
as you know, we are now within seven months and thirteen days of the end
of the first decade of the second half of the nineteenth century. You
may infer from this that I have had a pretty extensive experience, and I
promise you that when I come to cut the body up you will not be able to
say that I have made an unfair distribution, or that any one has been
left without his portion."
All murmured approval, and then one of the company asked if he would be
allowed to bespeak the liver for his share.
"No, sir, certainly not," replied the other. "Such matters must be left
to my discretion entirely, and I must also remind you that there is such
a thing as the _carver's privilege_, and it is possible that in this
instance he may think fit to retain the liver for his own consumption."
After thus asserting himself he began to examine the blade of his knife
which he still held in his hand, and to breathe gently on it, and wipe
it with his handkerchief to make it shine brighter in the sun. Finally,
raising his arm, he flourished it and then made two or three stabs and
lunges in the air, then walking on tip-toe he advanced to Martin lying
so still on the yellow grass in the midst of that black-robed company,
the hot sun shining on his naked white body.
The others all immediately pressed forward, craning their necks and
looking highly excited: they were expecting great things; but when the
man with a knife had got quite close to Martin he was seized with fear
and made two or three long jumps back to where the others were; and
then, recovering from his alarm, he quietly put back the knife under his
coat.
"We really thought you were going to begin," said one of the crowd.
"Oh, no; no indeed; not just yet," said the other.
"It is very disappointing," remarked one.
The man with the knife turned on him and replied with dignity, "I am
really surprised at such a remark after all I have said on the subject.
I do wish you would consider the circumstances of the case. They are
peculiar, for this person--this Martin--is not an ordinary person. We
have been keeping our eyes on him for some time past, and have witnessed
some remarkable actions on his part, to put it mildly. Let us keep in
mind the boldness, the resource, the dangerous violence he has displayed
on so many occasions since he took to his present vagabond way of life."
"It appears to me," said one of the others, "that if Martin is dead we
need not concern ourselves about his character and desperate deeds in
the past."
"_If_ he is dead!" exclaimed the other sharply. "That is the very
point,--_is_ he dead? Can you confidently say that he is not in a sound
sleep, or in a dead faint, or shamming and ready at the first touch of
the knife to leap up and seize his assailant--I mean his carver--by the
throat and perhaps murder him as he once murdered a spoonbill?"
"That would be very dreadful," said one.
"But surely," said another, "there are means of telling whether a person
is dead or not? One simple and effectual method, which I have heard, is
to place a hand over the heart to feel if it still beats."
"Yes, I know, I have also heard of that plan. Very simple, as you say;
but who is to try it? I invite the person who makes the suggestion to
put it in practice."
"With pleasure," said the other, coming forward with a tripping gait and
an air of not being in the least afraid. But on coming near the supposed
corpse he paused to look round at the others, then pulling out his black
silk handkerchief he wiped his black wrinkled forehead and bald head.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's very hot today."
"I don't find it so," said the man with the knife. "It is sometimes a
matter of nerves."
It was not a very nice remark, but it had the effect of bracing the
other up, and moving forward a little more he began anxiously
scrutinizing Martin's face. The others now began to press forward, but
were warned by the man with a knife not to come too near. Then the bold
person who had undertaken to feel Martin's heart doubled back the silk
sleeve of his coat, and after some further preparation extended his arm
and made two or three preliminary passes with his trembling hand at a
distance of a foot or so from the breast of the corpse. Then he
approached it a little nearer, but before it came to the touching point
a sudden fear made him start back.
"What is it? What did you see?" cried the others.
"I'm not sure there wasn't a twitch of the eyelid," he replied.
"Never mind the eyelid--feel his heart," said one.
"That's all very well," he returned, "but how would you like it
yourself? Will _you_ come and do it?"
"No, no!" they all cried. "You have undertaken this, and must go through
with it."