THE HOME OF THE HOLY FLOWER
Half an hour or so passed, during which I was engaged alternately in
thinking over our position and in listening to Stephen’s rhapsodies.
First he dilated on the loveliness of the Holy Flower that he had caught
a glimpse of when he climbed the wall, and secondly, on the beauty of
the eyes of the young lady in white. Only by telling him that he might
offend her did I persuade him not to attempt to break into the sacred
enclosure where the orchid grew. As we were discussing the point, the
gate opened and she appeared.
“Sirs,” she said, with a reverential bow, speaking slowly and in
the drollest halting English, “the mother and the father--yes, the
father--ask, will you feed?”
We intimated that we would “feed” with much pleasure, and she led the
way to the house, saying:
“Be not astonished at them, for they are very happy too, and please
forgive our unleavened bread.”
Then in the politest way possible she took me by the hand, and followed
by Stephen, we entered the house, leaving Mavovo and Hans to watch
outside.
It consisted of but two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping. In
the former we found Brother John and his wife seated on a kind of couch
gazing at each other in a rapt way. I noted that they both looked as
though they had been crying--with happiness, I suppose.
“Elizabeth,” said John as we entered, “this is Mr. Allan Quatermain,
through whose resource and courage we have come together again, and this
young gentleman is his companion, Mr. Stephen Somers.”
She bowed, for she seemed unable to speak, and held out her hand, which
we shook.
“What be ‘resource and courage’?” I heard her daughter whisper to
Stephen, “and why have you none, O Stephen Somers?”
“It would take a long time to explain,” he said with his jolly laugh,
after which I listened to no more of their nonsense.
Then we sat down to the meal, which consisted of vegetables and a large
bowl of hard-boiled ducks’ eggs, of which eatables an ample supply was
carried out to Hans and Mavovo by Stephen and Hope. This, it seemed, was
the name that her mother had given to the girl when she was born in the
hour of her black despair.
It was an extraordinary story that Mrs. Eversley had to tell, and yet a
short one.
She _had_ escaped from Hassan-ben-Mohammed and the slave-traders, as the
rescued slave told her husband at Zanzibar before he died, and, after
days of wandering, been captured by some of the Pongo who were scouring
the country upon dark business of their own, probably in search of
captives. They brought her across the lake to Pongo-land and, the former
Mother of the Flower, an albino, having died at a great age, installed
her in the office on this island, which from that day she had never
left. Hither she was led by the Kalubi of the time and some others who
had “passed the god.” This brute, however, she had never seen, although
once she heard him roar, for it did not molest them or even appear upon
their journey.
Shortly after her arrival on the island her daughter was born, on which
occasion some of the women “servants of the Flower” nursed her. From
that moment both she and the child were treated with the utmost care and
veneration, since the Mother of the Flower and the Flower itself being
in some strange way looked upon as embodiments of the natural forces of
fertility, this birth was held to be the best of omens for the dwindling
Pongo race. Also it was hoped that in due course the “Child of the
Flower” would succeed the Mother in her office. So here they dwelt
absolutely helpless and alone, occupying themselves with superintending
the agriculture of the island. Most fortunately also when she was
captured, Mrs. Eversley had a small Bible in her possession which she
had never lost. From this she was able to teach her child to read and
all that is to be learned in the pages of Holy Writ.
Often I have thought that if I were doomed to solitary confinement
for life and allowed but one book, I would choose the Bible, since,
in addition to all its history and the splendour of its language,
it contains the record of the hope of man, and therefore should be
sufficient for him. So at least it had proved to be in this case.
Oddly enough, as she told us, like her husband, Mrs. Eversley during all
those endless years had never lost some kind of belief that she would
one day be saved otherwise than by death.
“I always thought that you still lived and that we should meet again,
John,” I heard her say to him.
Also her own and her daughter’s spirits were mysteriously supported,
for after the first shock and disturbance of our arrival we found them
cheerful people; indeed, Miss Hope was quite a merry soul. But then
she had never known any other life, and human nature is very adaptable.
Further, if I may say so, she had grown up a lady in the true sense of
the word. After all, why should she not, seeing that her mother,
the Bible and Nature had been her only associates and sources of
information, if we except the poor slaves who waited on them, most of
whom were mutes.
When Mrs. Eversley’s story was done, we told ours, in a compressed form.
It was strange to see the wonder with which these two ladies listened to
its outlines, but on that I need not dwell. When it was finished I heard
Miss Hope say:
“So it would seem, O Stephen Somers, that it is you who are saviour to
us.”
“Certainly,” answered Stephen, “but why?”
“Because you see the dry Holy Flower far away in England, and you say,
‘I must be Holy Father to that Flower.’ Then you pay down shekels (here
her Bible reading came in) for the cost of journey and hire brave hunter
to kill devil-god and bring my old white-head parent with you. Oh yes,
you are saviour,” and she nodded her head at him very prettily.
“Of course,” replied Stephen with enthusiasm; “that is, not exactly,
but it is all the same thing, as I will explain later. But, Miss Hope,
meanwhile could you show us the Flower?”
“Oh! Holy Mother must do that. If you look thereon without her, you
die.”
“Really!” said Stephen, without alluding to his little feat of wall
climbing.
Well, the end of it was that after a good deal of hesitation, the Holy
Mother obliged, saying that as the god was dead she supposed nothing
else mattered. First, however, she went to the back of the house and
clapped her hands, whereon an old woman, a mute and a very perfect
specimen of an albino native, appeared and stared at us wonderingly.
To her Mrs. Eversley talked upon her fingers, so rapidly that I could
scarcely follow her movements. The woman bowed till her forehead nearly
touched the ground, then rose and ran towards the water.
“I have sent her to fetch the paddles from the canoe,” said Mrs.
Eversley, “and to put my mark upon it. Now none will dare to use it to
cross the lake.”
“That is very wise,” I replied, “as we don’t want news of our
whereabouts to get to the Motombo.”
Next we went to the enclosure, where Mrs. Eversley with a native knife
cut a string of palm fibres that was sealed with clay on to the door
and one of its uprights in such a fashion that none could enter without
breaking the string. The impression was made with a rude seal that she
wore round her neck as a badge of office. It was a very curious object
fashioned of gold and having deeply cut upon its face a rough image of
an ape holding a flower in its right paw. As it was also ancient, this
seemed to show that the monkey god and the orchid had been from the
beginning jointly worshipped by the Pongo.
When she had opened the door, there appeared, growing in the centre of
the enclosure, the most lovely plant, I should imagine, that man ever
saw. It measured some eight feet across, and the leaves were dark green,
long and narrow. From its various crowns rose the scapes of bloom. And
oh! those blooms, of which there were about twelve, expanded now in the
flowering season. The measurements made from the dried specimen I have
given already, so I need not repeat them. I may say here, however, that
the Pongo augured the fertility or otherwise of each succeeding year
from the number of the blooms on the Holy Flower. If these were many
the season would prove very fruitful; if few, less so; while if, as
sometimes happened, the plant failed to flower, drought and famine were
always said to follow. Truly those were glorious blossoms, standing as
high as a man, with their back sheaths of vivid white barred with black,
their great pouches of burnished gold and their wide wings also of gold.
Then in the centre of each pouch appeared the ink-mark that did indeed
exactly resemble the head of a monkey. But if this orchid astonished me,
its effect upon Stephen, with whom this class of flower was a mania, may
be imagined. Really he went almost mad. For a long while he glared at
the plant, and finally flung himself upon his knees, causing Miss Hope
to exclaim:
“What, O Stephen Somers! do you also make sacrifice to the Holy Flower?”
“Rather,” he answered; “I’d--I’d--die for it!”
“You are likely to before all is done,” I remarked with energy, for I
hate to see a grown man make a fool of himself. There’s only one thing
in the world which justifies _that_, and it isn’t a flower.
Mavovo and Hans had followed us into the enclosure, and I overheard a
conversation between them which amused me. The gist of it was that Hans
explained to Mavovo that the white people admired this weed--he called
it a weed--because it was like gold, which was the god they really
worshipped, although that god was known among them by many names.
Mavovo, who was not at all interested in the affair, replied with a
shrug that it might be so, though for his part he believed the true
reason to be that the plant produced some medicine which gave courage or
strength. Zulus, I may say, do not care for flowers unless they bear a
fruit that is good to eat.
When I had satisfied myself with the splendour of these magnificent
blooms, I asked Mrs. Eversley what certain little mounds might be that
were dotted about the enclosure, beyond the circle of cultivated peaty
soil which surrounded the orchid’s roots.
“They are the graves of the Mothers of the Holy Flower,” she answered.
“There are twelve of them, and here is the spot chosen for the
thirteenth, which was to have been mine.”
To change the subject I asked another question, namely: If there were
more such orchids growing in the country?
“No,” she replied, “or at least I never heard of any. Indeed, I have
always been told that this one was brought from far away generations
ago. Also, under an ancient law, it is never allowed to increase. Any
shoots it sends up beyond this ring must be cut off by me and destroyed
with certain ceremonies. You see that seed-pod which has been left to
grow on the stalk of one of last year’s blooms. It is now ripe, and on
the night of the next new moon, when the Kalubi comes to visit me,
I must with much ritual burn it in his presence, unless it has burst
before he arrives, in which case I must burn any seedlings that may
spring up with almost the same ritual.”
“I don’t think the Kalubi will come any more; at least, not while you
are here. Indeed, I am sure of it,” I said.
As we were leaving the place, acting on my general principle of making
sure of anything of value when I get the chance, I broke off that ripe
seed-pod, which was of the size of an orange. No one was looking at the
time, and as it went straight into my pocket, no one missed it.
Then, leaving Stephen and the young lady to admire this Cypripedium--or
each other--in the enclosure, we three elders returned to the house to
discuss matters.
“John and Mrs. Eversley,” I said, “by Heaven’s mercy you are reunited
after a terrible separation of over twenty years. But what is to be
done now? The god, it is true, is dead, and therefore the passage of the
forest will be easy. But beyond it is the water which we have no means
of crossing and beyond the water that old wizard, the Motombo, sits in
the mouth of his cave watching like a spider in its web. And beyond
the Motombo and his cave are Komba, the new Kalubi and his tribe of
cannibals----”
“Cannibals!” interrupted Mrs. Eversley, “I never knew that they were
cannibals. Indeed, I know little about the Pongo, whom I scarcely ever
see.”
“Then, madam, you must take my word for it that they are; also, as I
believe, that they have every expectation of eating _us_. Now, as I
presume that you do not wish to spend the rest of your lives, which
would probably be short, upon this island, I want to ask how you propose
to escape safely out of the Pongo country?”
They shook their heads, which were evidently empty of ideas. Only John
stroked his white beard, and inquired mildly:
“What have you arranged, Allan? My dear wife and I are quite willing to
leave the matter to you, who are so resourceful.”
“Arranged!” I stuttered. “Really, John, under any other
circumstances----” Then after a moment’s reflection I called to Hans and
Mavovo, who came and squatted down upon the verandah.
“Now,” I said, after I had put the case to them, “what have _you_
arranged?” Being devoid of any feasible suggestions, I wished to pass on
that intolerable responsibility.
“My father makes a mock of us,” said Mavovo solemnly. “Can a rat in a
pit arrange how it is to get out with the dog that is waiting at the
top? So far we have come in safety, as the rat does into the pit. Now I
see nothing but death.”
“That’s cheerful,” I said. “Your turn, Hans.”
“Oh! Baas,” replied the Hottentot, “for a while I grew clever again when
I thought of putting the gun _Intombi_ into the bamboo. But now my head
is like a rotten egg, and when I try to shake wisdom out of it my brain
melts and washes from side to side like the stuff in the rotten egg.
Yet, yet, I have a thought--let us ask the Missie. Her brain is young
and not tired, it may hit on something: to ask the Baas Stephen is no
good, for already he is lost in other things,” and Hans grinned feebly.
More to give myself time than for any other reason I called to Miss
Hope, who had just emerged from the sacred enclosure with Stephen, and
put the riddle to her, speaking very slowly and clearly, so that she
might understand me. To my surprise she answered at once.
“What is a god, O Mr. Allen? Is it not more than man? Can a god be bound
in a pit for a thousand years, like Satan in Bible? If a god want to
move, see new country and so on, who can say no?”
“I don’t quite understand,” I said, to draw her out further, although,
in fact, I had more than a glimmering of what she meant.
“O Allan, Holy Flower there a god, and my mother priestess. If Holy
Flower tired of this land, and want to grow somewhere else, why
priestess not carry it and go too?”
“Capital idea,” I said, “but you see, Miss Hope, there are, or were, two
gods, one of which cannot travel.”
“Oh! that very easy, too. Put skin of god of the woods on to this man,”
and she pointed to Hans, “and who know difference? They like as two
brothers already, only he smaller.”
“She’s got it! By Jingo, she’s got it!” exclaimed Stephen in admiration.
“What Missie say?” asked Hans, suspiciously.
I told him.
“Oh! Baas,” exclaimed Hans, “think of the smell inside of that god’s
skin when the sun shines on it. Also the god was a very big god, and I
am small.”
Then he turned and made a proposal to Mavovo, explaining that his
stature was much better suited to the job.
“First will I die,” answered the great Zulu. “Am I, who have high blood
in my veins and who am a warrior, to defile myself by wrapping the skin
of a dead brute about me and appear as an ape before men? Propose it to
me again, Spotted Snake, and we shall quarrel.”
“See here, Hans,” I said. “Mavovo is right. He is a soldier and very
strong in battle. You also are very strong in your wits, and by doing
this you will make fools of all the Pongo. Also, Hans, it is better that
you should wear the skin of a gorilla for a few hours than that I, your
master, and all these should be killed.”
“Yes, Baas, it is true, Baas; though for myself I almost think that,
like Mavovo, I would rather die. Yet it would be sweet to deceive those
Pongo once again, and, Baas, I won’t see you killed just to save myself
another bad smell or two. So, if you wish it, I will become a god.”
Thus through the self-sacrifice of that good fellow, Hans, who is the
real hero of this history, that matter was settled, if anything could
be looked on as settled in our circumstances. Then we arranged that
we would start upon our desperate adventure at dawn on the following
morning.
Meanwhile, much remained to be done. First, Mrs. Eversley summoned her
attendants, who, to the number of twelve, soon appeared in front of
the verandah. It was very sad to see these poor women, all of whom were
albinos and unpleasant to look on, while quite half appeared to be deaf
and dumb. To these, speaking as a priestess, she explained that the god
who dwelt in the woods was dead, and that therefore she must take the
Holy Flower, which was called “Wife of the god” and make report to the
Motombo of this dreadful catastrophe. Meanwhile, they must remain on the
island and continue to cultivate the fields.
This order threw the poor creatures, who were evidently much attached
to their mistress and her daughter, into a great state of consternation.
The eldest of them all, a tall, thin old lady with white wool and pink
eyes who looked, as Stephen said, like an Angora rabbit, prostrated
herself and kissing the Mother’s foot, asked when she would return,
since she and the “Daughter of the Flower” were all they had to love,
and without them they would die of grief.
Suppressing her evident emotion as best she could, the Mother replied
that she did not know; it depended on the will of Heaven and the
Motombo. Then to prevent further argument she bade them bring their
picks with which they worked the land; also poles, mats, and
palmstring, and help to dig up the Holy Flower. This was done under
the superintendence of Stephen, who here was thoroughly in his element,
although the job proved far from easy. Also it was sad, for all these
women wept as they worked, while some of them who were not dumb, wailed
aloud.
Even Miss Hope cried, and I could see that her mother was affected with
a kind of awe. For twenty years she had been guardian of this plant,
which I think she had at last not unnaturally come to look upon with
some of the same veneration that was felt for it by the whole Pongo
people.
“I fear,” she said, “lest this sacrilege should bring misfortune upon
us.”
But Brother John, who held very definite views upon African
superstitions, quoted the second commandment to her, and she became
silent.
We got the thing up at last, or most of it, with a sufficiency of
earth to keep it alive, injuring the roots as little as possible in the
process. Underneath it, at a depth of about three feet, we found several
things. One of these was an ancient stone fetish that was rudely shaped
to the likeness of a monkey and wore a gold crown. This object, which
was small, I still have. Another was a bed of charcoal, and amongst the
charcoal were some partially burnt bones, including a skull that was
very little injured. This may have belonged to a woman of a low type,
perhaps the first Mother of the Flower, but its general appearance
reminded me of that of a gorilla. I regret that there was neither time
nor light to enable me to make a proper examination of these remains,
which we found it impossible to bring away.
Mrs. Eversley told me afterwards, however, that the Kalubis had a
tradition that the god once possessed a wife which died before the Pongo
migrated to their present home. If so, these may have been the bones of
that wife. When it was finally clear of the ground on which it had grown
for so many generations, the great plant was lifted on to a large mat,
and after it had been packed with wet moss by Stephen in a most skilful
way, for he was a perfect artist at this kind of work, the mat was
bound round the roots in such a fashion that none of the contents could
escape. Also each flower scape was lashed to a thin bamboo so as to
prevent it from breaking on the journey. Then the whole bundle was
lifted on to a kind of bamboo stretcher that we made and firmly secured
to it with palm-fibre ropes.
By this time it was growing dark and all of us were tired.
“Baas,” said Hans to me, as we were returning to the house, “would it
not be well that Mavovo and I should take some food and go sleep in the
canoe? These women will not hurt us there, but if we do not, I, who have
been watching them, fear lest in the night they should make paddles of
sticks and row across the lake to warn the Pongo.”
Although I did not like separating our small party, I thought the idea
so good that I consented to it, and presently Hans and Mavovo, armed
with spears and carrying an ample supply of food, departed to the lake
side.
One more incident has impressed itself upon my memory in connection with
that night. It was the formal baptism of Hope by her father. I never saw
a more touching ceremony, but it is one that I need not describe.
Stephen and I slept in the enclosure by the packed flower, which he
would not leave out of his sight. It was as well that we did so, since
about twelve o’clock by the light of the moon I saw the door in the wall
open gently and the heads of some of the albino women appear through
the aperture. Doubtless, they had come to steal away the holy plant they
worshipped. I sat up, coughed, and lifted the rifle, whereon they fled
and returned no more.
Long before dawn Brother John, his wife and daughter were up and making
preparations for the march, packing a supply of food and so forth.
Indeed, we breakfasted by moonlight, and at the first break of day,
after Brother John had first offered up a prayer for protection,
departed on our journey.
It was a strange out-setting, and I noted that both Mrs. Eversley and
her daughter seemed sad at bidding good-bye to the spot where they had
dwelt in utter solitude and peace for so many years; where one of them,
indeed, had been born and grown up to womanhood. However, I kept on
talking to distract their thoughts, and at last we were off.
I arranged that, although it was heavy for them, the two ladies, whose
white robes were covered with curious cloaks made of soft prepared bark,
should carry the plant as far as the canoe, thinking it was better that
the Holy Flower should appear to depart in charge of its consecrated
guardians. I went ahead with the rifle, then came the stretcher and the
flower, while Brother John and Stephen, carrying the paddles, brought up
the rear. We reached the canoe without accident, and to our great relief
found Mavovo and Hans awaiting us. I learned, however, that it was
fortunate they had slept in the boat, since during the night the albino
women arrived with the evident object of possessing themselves of it,
and only ran away when they saw that it was guarded. As we were making
ready the canoe those unhappy slaves appeared in a body and throwing
themselves upon their faces with piteous words, or those of them who
could not speak, by signs, implored the Mother not to desert them, till
both she and Hope began to cry. But there was no help for it, so we
pushed off as quickly as we could, leaving the albinos weeping and
wailing upon the bank.
I confess that I, too, felt compunction at abandoning them thus, but
what could we do? I only trust that no harm came to them, but of course
we never heard anything as to their fate.
On the further side of the lake we hid away the canoe in the bushes
where we had found it, and began our march. Stephen and Mavovo, being
the two strongest among us, now carried the plant, and although Stephen
never murmured at its weight, how the Zulu did swear after the first few
hours! I could fill a page with his objurgations at what he considered
an act of insanity, and if I had space, should like to do so, for really
some of them were most amusing. Had it not been for his friendship for
Stephen I think that he would have thrown it down.
We crossed the Garden of the god, where Mrs. Eversley told me the Kalubi
must scatter the sacred seed twice a year, thus confirming the story
that we had heard. It seems that it was then, as he made his long
journey through the forest, that the treacherous and horrid brute which
we had killed, would attack the priest of whom it had grown weary. But,
and this shows the animal’s cunning, the onslaught always took place
_after_ he had sown the seed which would in due season produce the food
it ate. Our Kalubi, it is true, was killed before we had reached the
Garden, which seems an exception to the rule. Perhaps, however, the
gorilla knew that his object in visiting it was not to provide for its
needs. Or perhaps our presence excited it to immediate action.
Who can analyse the motives of a gorilla?
These attacks were generally spread over a year and a half. On the first
occasion the god which always accompanied the priest to the garden and
back again, would show animosity by roaring at him. On the second he
would seize his hand and bite off one of the fingers, as happened to our
Kalubi, a wound that generally caused death from blood poisoning. If,
however, the priest survived, on the third visit it killed him, for the
most part by crushing his head in its mighty jaws. When making these
visits the Kalubi was accompanied by certain dedicated youths, some of
whom the god always put to death. Those who had made the journey six
times without molestation were selected for further special trials,
until at last only two remained who were declared to have “passed” or
“been accepted by” the god. These youths were treated with great honour,
as in the instance of Komba and on the destruction of the Kalubi, one of
them took his office, which he generally filled without much accident,
for a minimum of ten years, and perhaps much longer.
Mrs. Eversley knew nothing of the sacramental eating of the remains of
the Kalubi, or of the final burial of his bones in the wooden coffins
that we had seen, for such things, although they undoubtedly happened,
were kept from her. She added, that each of the three Kalubis whom she
had known, ultimately went almost mad through terror at his approaching
end, especially after the preliminary roarings and the biting off of the
finger. In truth uneasy lay the head that wore a crown in Pongo-land,
a crown that, mind you, might not be refused upon pain of death by
torture. Personally, I can imagine nothing more terrible than the
haunted existence of these poor kings whose pomp and power must
terminate in such a fashion.
I asked her whether the Motombo ever visited the god. She answered, Yes,
once in every five years. Then after many mystic ceremonies he spent a
week in the forest at a time of full moon. One of the Kalubis had told
her that on this occasion he had seen the Motombo and the god sitting
together under a tree, each with his arm round the other’s neck and
apparently talking “like brothers.” With the exception of certain tales
of its almost supernatural cunning, this was all that I could learn
about the god of the Pongos which I have sometimes been tempted to
believe was really a devil hid in the body of a huge and ancient ape.
No, there was one more thing which I quote because it bears out
Babemba’s story. It seems that captives from other tribes were sometimes
turned into the forest that the god might amuse itself by killing them.
This, indeed, was the fate to which we ourselves had been doomed in
accordance with the hateful Pongo custom.
Certainly, thought I to myself when she had done, I did a good deed in
sending that monster to whatever dim region it was destined to inhabit,
where I sincerely trust it found all the dead Kalubis and its other
victims ready to give it an appropriate welcome.
After crossing the god’s garden, we came to the clearing of the Fallen
Tree, and found the brute’s skin pegged out as we had left it, though
shrunken in size. Only it had evidently been visited by a horde of the
forest ants which, fortunately for Hans, had eaten away every particle
of flesh, while leaving the hide itself absolutely untouched, I suppose
because it was too tough for them. I never saw a neater job. Moreover,
these industrious little creatures had devoured the beast itself.
Nothing remained of it except the clean, white bones lying in the exact
position in which we had left the carcase. Atom by atom that marching
myriad army had eaten all and departed on its way into the depths of the
forest, leaving this sign of their passage.
How I wished that we could carry off the huge skeleton to add to my
collection of trophies, but this was impossible. As Brother John said,
any museum would have been glad to purchase it for hundreds of pounds,
for I do not suppose that its like exists in the world. But it was too
heavy; all I could do was to impress its peculiarities upon my mind by
a close study of the mighty bones. Also I picked out of the upper right
arm, and kept the bullet I had fired when it carried off the Kalubi.
This I found had sunk into and shattered the bone, but without
absolutely breaking it.
On we went again bearing with us the god’s skin, having first stuffed
the head, hands and feet (these, I mean the hands and feet, had been
cleaned out by the ants) with wet moss in order to preserve their shape.
It was no light burden, at least so declared Brother John and Hans, who
bore it between them upon a dead bough from the fallen tree.
Of the rest of our journey to the water’s edge there is nothing to tell,
except that notwithstanding our loads, we found it easier to walk down
that steep mountain side than it had been to ascend the same. Still our
progress was but slow, and when at length we reached the burying-place
only about an hour remained to sunset. There we sat down to rest and
eat, also to discuss the situation.
What was to be done? The arm of stagnant water lay near to us, but we
had no boat with which to cross to the further shore. And what was that
shore? A cave where a creature who seemed to be but half-human, sat
watching like a spider in its web. Do not let it be supposed that this
question of escape had been absent from our minds. On the contrary, we
had even thought of trying to drag the canoe in which we crossed to
and from the island of the Flower through the forest. The idea was
abandoned, however, because we found that being hollowed from a single
log with a bottom four or five inches thick, it was impossible for us to
carry it so much as fifty yards. What then could we do without a boat?
Swimming seemed to be out of the question because of the crocodiles.
Also on inquiry I discovered that of the whole party Stephen and I alone
could swim. Further there was no wood of which to make a raft.
I called to Hans and leaving the rest in the graveyard where we knew
that they were safe, we went down to the edge of the water to study the
situation, being careful to keep ourselves hidden behind the reeds and
bushes of the mangrove tribe with which it was fringed. Not that there
was much fear of our being seen, for the day, which had been very hot,
was closing in and a great storm, heralded by black and bellying
clouds, was gathering fast, conditions which must render us practically
invisible at a distance.
We looked at the dark, slimy water--also at the crocodiles which
sat upon its edge in dozens waiting, eternally waiting, for what, I
wondered. We looked at the sheer opposing cliff, but save where a black
hole marked the cave mouth, far as the eye could see, the water came
up against it, as that of a moat does against the wall of a castle.
Obviously, therefore, the only line of escape ran through this cave,
for, as I have explained, the channel by which I presume Babemba reached
the open lake, was now impracticable. Lastly, we searched to see if
there was any fallen log upon which we could possibly propel ourselves
to the other side, and found--nothing that could be made to serve, no,
nor, as I have said, any dry reeds or brushwood out of which we might
fashion a raft.
“Unless we can get a boat, here we must stay,” I remarked to Hans, who
was seated with me behind a screen of rushes at the water’s edge.
He made no answer, and as I thought, in a sort of subconscious way,
I engaged myself in watching a certain tragedy of the insect world.
Between two stout reeds a forest spider of the very largest sort had
spun a web as big as a lady’s open parasol. There in the midst of this
web of which the bottom strands almost touched the water, sat the spider
waiting for its prey, as the crocodiles were waiting on the banks, as
the great ape had waited for the Kalubis, as Death waits for Life, as
the Motombo was waiting for God knows what.
It rather resembled the Motombo in his cave, did that huge, black
spider with just a little patch of white upon its head, or so I thought
fancifully enough. Then came the tragedy. A great, white moth of the
Hawk species began to dart to and fro between the reeds, and presently
struck the web on its lower side some three inches above the water. Like
a flash that spider was upon it. It embraced the victim with its long
legs to still its tremendous battlings. Next, descending below, it began
to make the body fast, when something happened. From the still surface
of the water beneath poked up the mouth of a very large fish which quite
quietly closed upon the spider and sank again into the depths, taking
with it a portion of the web and thereby setting the big moth free.
With a struggle it loosed itself, fell on to a piece of wood and floated
away, apparently little the worse for the encounter.
“Did you see that, Baas?” said Hans, pointing to the broken and empty
web. “While you were thinking, I was praying to your reverend father the
Predikant, who taught me how to do it, and he has sent us a sign from
the Place of Fire.”
Even then I could not help laughing to myself as I pictured what my
dear father’s face would be like if he were able to hear his convert’s
remarks. An analysis of Hans’s religious views would be really
interesting, and I only regret that I never made one. But sticking to
business I merely asked:
“What sign?”
“Baas, this sign: That web is the Motombo’s cave. The big spider is the
Motombo. The white moth is us, Baas, who are caught in the web and going
to be eaten.”
“Very pretty, Hans,” I said, “but what is the fish that came up and
swallowed the spider so that the moth fell on the wood and floated
away?”
“Baas, _you_ are the fish, who come up softly, softly out of the water
in the dark, and shoot the Motombo with the little rifle, and then the
rest of us, who are the moth, fall into the canoe and float away. There
is a storm about to break, Baas, and who will see you swim the stream in
the storm and the night?”
“The crocodiles,” I suggested.
“Baas, I didn’t see a crocodile eat the fish. I think the fish is
laughing down there with the fat spider in its stomach. Also when
there is a storm crocodiles go to bed because they are afraid lest the
lightning should kill them for their sins.”
Now I remembered that I had often heard, and indeed to some extent
noted, that these great reptiles do vanish in disturbed weather,
probably because their food hides away. However that might be, in an
instant I made up my mind.
As soon as it was quite dark I would swim the water, holding the little
rifle, _Intombi_, above my head, and try to steal the canoe. If the old
wizard was watching, which I hoped might not be the case, well, I
must deal with him as best I could. I knew the desperate nature of the
expedient, but there was no other way. If we could not get a boat we
must remain in that foodless forest until we starved. Or if we returned
to the island of the Flower, there ere long we should certainly be
attacked and destroyed by Komba and the Pongos when they came to look
for our bodies.
“I’ll try it, Hans,” I said.
“Yes, Baas, I thought you would. I’d come, too, only I can’t swim and
when I was drowning I might make a noise, because one forgets oneself
then, Baas. But it will be all right, for if it were otherwise I am sure
that your reverend father would have shown us so in the sign. The moth
floated off quite comfortably on the wood, and just now I saw it spread
its wings and fly away. And the fish, ah! how he laughs with that fat
old spider in his stomach!”