CONVALESCENCE
Hal took no stock in that, of course, but, during the long nights of the
week following, he was more than once inclined to be credulous in the
matter. Not a night passed that he did not hear the sad cries issuing
from some point beyond the _maloka_. And though he questioned both the
women and the warriors who came and stared curiously at him, none could
do more than shrug their shoulders and make meaningless gestures in
answer.
Consequently, he was glad when his strength returned and enabled him to
walk as far as the door of the _maloka_. Two young but stalwart warriors
had now taken the place of his female guardians and on this first day of
his convalescence they hovered about constantly, and he was at a loss to
know whether it was because of their tender solicitude for his uncertain
gait or whether they considered him a prisoner.
In any event, he got absolutely no encouragement from either warrior
when he motioned them to show him where the weird night cries
originated. They simply shrugged their shoulders and gestured in such a
way as to indicate that the Indian considered the supernatural to be an
evil manifestation and all evil was to be shunned.
But by and large, Hal got on not so badly with them. He had learned,
after the first day, a series of gestures which indicated his wants, his
likes, and his dislikes. To be sure, all the food they gave him, he
disliked intensely, but as he was likely to starve unless he ate what
was given him, he put a good face upon the matter and took what came as
a rule. Also, he felt eternally grateful to them for having rescued him
from a certain horrible death and nursed him back toward health.
Every few hours during the day the medicine man, a fat, pot-bellied old
warrior, had come and sat at his side droning weird incantations over
his recumbent body and making all sorts of fantastic gestures. Then he
would proceed to delve into a calabash that he had brought with him, and
bring out a smeary-looking mixture which he plastered on the patient’s
wounded leg and hand. And before he terminated his visit he would raise
another calabash to Hal’s lips, nodding for him to drink deeply of the
bitter, herb-tasting fluid which it contained.
[Illustration: A FAT MEDICINE MAN MADE ALL SORTS OF FANTASTIC GESTURES
OVER HAL.]
Nevertheless, Hal continued to get better and, whether or not it was
because of the medicine man’s mysterious magic, he was quite able to
hobble out of the _maloka_ on the second day of his convalescence.
It was, of course, quite a gala day in the little settlement. Men,
women, and children stood about in a staring circle to watch their guest
emerge. All small of stature, they looked up with awe at Hal’s towering
physique and shock of red, curly hair.
He hobbled about the clearing, smiling brilliantly, though feeling dizzy
and weak from his sickness and long confinement in the gloomy _maloka_.
Nevertheless, he could not help smiling, for he felt ridiculous in his
soiled and wrinkled flannels and a ten days’ growth of golden beard.
For quite a time the natives continued to follow him about, but seemed
to tire of it toward afternoon and went back to their various pursuits.
Meanwhile, Hal saw something that gladdened his heart—a river, which his
guardians explained, with violent grunts and gestures, was a little
river to the big river, or in other words, a small tributary.
The larger of the two Indians (his head just reached Hal’s elbow), whom
Hal dubbed “Big Boy,” motioned to a canoe pulled up on the bank. After a
series of gestures which represented a man paddling down the river, he
looked straight up at the tall young man.
“You mean that canoe is for me?” Hal motioned the question. “For _me_ to
go back?” he added, pointing to himself and then to the river.
Big Boy nodded assent.
Hal partook of the evening meal with a little more relish than he
ordinarily would. He sat with the tribe outside the _maloka_ mincing on
the unpalatable _beiju_ pancakes, which were a distinctly Indian
concoction, and thinking of the day near at hand when he could turn his
face toward _Manaos_. He nibbled on the _pimenta_, with which _beiju_ is
always eaten, and forgot that it usually burned his civilized throat.
All his thoughts were on his uncle and how overjoyed he would be to know
that he was alive and well, after he had been given up for lost. For
certainly he must be thought lost and dead. Even his mother must think
it by now. His mother....
Hal got up from the communal supper circle to be alone with the thought
of his mother. The rest of the natives, busy appeasing their hunger,
seemed not to notice him hobbling away toward the surrounding jungle,
particularly his guards.
Hal did not seem to notice this relaxation of their guardianship. In
point of fact, he thought nothing at all about it, so filled were his
thoughts of the day on which he could get word to his mother that all
was well with him.
He found the dimness of the jungle trail inviting and hobbled along deep
in his own reflections. Tomorrow or the next day he would be well enough
to start his journey, he felt sure of it. And he would leave the little
settlement with a heart full of gratitude. Indeed, he had already
tendered to the chief of the tribe his empty gun as a token of deep
appreciation, and with much bowing and grunting, the gift was received
in good spirit.
There was nothing to mar his joy then, so much did he appreciate
recovering from the fever. He stopped, stretched his long arms
delightedly and happened to notice through the trees a small thatched
hut. Before it, stretched out on the ground asleep, was one of the
natives.
Several monkeys disported themselves on the branches of the tree over
the hut and were about to pelt the sleeping native with some nuts. Hal
tried to frighten them off by waving his long arms but they paid no
heed. Instead they set up a chatter and let go a rain of the hard nuts
which fortunately missed their intended victim and hit Hal instead.
“Ouch!” Hal cried as several of the nuts hit his tender head. “For the
love of Mike!”
The words had barely been uttered when out of the gloomy hut came a
heart-rending cry, muffled and unintelligible, yet full of poignancy and
human wretchedness. Hal did not miss its pleading note—in point of fact,
the utter misery of it seemed to make him powerless to do aught but
wonder.
What was it?