The Magic of Abu-Samar
That night Vera Battiscombe dreamed a peculiar dream; peculiar
because she rarely dreamed at all, and doubly peculiar because she had
no memory of ever falling off to sleep or, in fact, waking after it.
She had been lying, her hands clasped behind her head, staring up at
the oblong patch of white cotton from which the mosquito-curtains were
suspended, thinking over the events of the past twenty-four hours. It
had been an eventful day, in all conscience, she reflected, and
allowed the principal characters in a drama for which she herself had
been primarily responsible to pass before her eyes in quick
succession. Abu-Samar, Armourer, Jim--posing so ridiculously as the
injured husband and coming conveniently into line in the end--and the
sacrificed Dick Moberly, deservedly sacrificed at the altar of his own
indiscretions.
She wondered idly what the planter would say when he discovered the
Crimson Butterfly in the parcel--whether he would return it
immediately or keep it until he had found an opportunity of seeing her
and demanding an explanation. The thought of the Butterfly brought her
back to Dr. Samar. If what the Commissioner had told her husband were
true, the fact that he had merely induced her to accompany him to his
house and frightened her was all the more to be wondered at. It
flashed across her mind that his rather unusual conduct was not
without its motive, but what that motive was she could not for the
life of her discover.
A sense of uneasiness crept over her.
It was quiet outside, and the house was unusually still. The perpetual
droning of insects, the shrill whine of a mosquito seeking some flaw
in the netting, the deep, rhythmic snoring of her husband in the
adjoining room--all these familiar sounds seemed to be receding into
the distance.
Suddenly a fierce gust of hot wind blew in through an open window, and
the little lamp by her bed flickered and went out. She knew the wind
was hot, for it fanned her cheek, and yet, by every known law, the
breeze at that early hour of the morning should have been cool. The
dog on the verandah gave a peculiar yelp and moved restlessly on the
cane chair upon which it invariably reposed.…
She shut her eyes resolutely and turned over on to her side and a
queer noise broke upon her ears like the rushing of waters. There was
a dry sensation in her mouth and the heat was becoming unbearable. She
sat up, intending to reach for the quinine, firmly convinced by this
time that she was in for a dose of fever. Her eyes hurt her, and, even
before she raised the lids, she was conscious of a bright red light.
Groping for the bottle, she discovered that the mosquito-curtains had
disappeared. She opened her eyes wide and, at the sight that met her
gaze, endeavoured to scream; but no sound came.
It was as if, by some extraordinary miracle, everything with which she
was familiar had been spirited away. The four walls within which she
had lain secure--the roof even--had vanished.
She found herself reclining upon a divan of orange-coloured silk, with
the great stars blinking down at her from a violet dome, and in the
red light from a tall brazier at the foot of her couch a myriad of
winged creatures fluttered. By the base of the brazier a native girl
lay asleep.
Gradually, as her frightened eyes accustomed themselves to the outer
gloom, she discerned the vague outlines of rocky crags and the more
distant tips of tall trees.
She dropped back on to her elbows and her voice returned to her.
She called to the girl in Malay, and the brown form stirred. Her face
came round and Mrs. Battiscombe recognised the girl she had seen at
Samar’s bungalow.
“Goddess of the Crimson Butterfly, I hear!”
She uttered a little cry and clutched at her breast. Her fingers
closed over the pendant that Battiscombe had insisted on sending to
Moberly.
It was then that she saw that she herself wore a _sarong_--a sheath of
shiny black powdered with gold that swathed her from her breasts to
just below her knees--and that her arms, her neck and her ankles were
hung with treasures that resembled those which Abu-Samar had produced
from his cedar-wood coffer.
“Where am I?” she asked faintly.
“In your temple, O goddess!” returned the brown girl, and threw
something into the brazier which sent its flames flaring to the
heavens.
Mrs. Battiscombe sat bolt upright and beckoned.
“Come here,” she said. “I want you to tell me why I am here and who
brought me.”
Brown eyes surveyed her strangely, incredulously.
“The goddess remembers nothing?”
Vera shook her head.
“Nothing; nothing at all. I was in bed at my husband’s house--and the
wind came…”
The girl drew closer and stood presently, with her arms folded,
looking down at the white woman.
“Great goddess,” she said, “I am Dara--and I obey. Once, before the
white man came in his ships across the black waters, there was a white
goddess in the temple of the Crimson Butterfly--so wonderful in her
loveliness that all men who beheld her desired to possess her. She
wore the emblem of the Sacred Butterfly at her throat and no man dared
draw near to her because of it. After a little while, a strange man
came who had not heard that the kiss of the goddess was death--and so
died. There came another and yet another, each sharing the same fate,
until the goddess, wearying of chiefs’ sons, sought to entrap the Sun.
Upon a certain night, the Sun dropped not into the western sea, but
fell into the temple of the Crimson Butterfly--and for many moons
there was nothing but darkness. The Butterfly--whose life was the
Sun--feared to destroy it, and when at last the Sun rose again it was
seen that the goddess, too, had departed. Nevertheless, it was written
that in a thousand moons she would return again to her people.
To-night the prophecy is fulfilled; the fires of the temple burn once
more and there is again a goddess at the shrine of the Crimson
Butterfly.”
Vera Battiscombe moistened her lips.
“And how do you know I am the real goddess?--I might be an impostor.”
The girl shook her head.
“Those who sought you found the symbol at your throat.”
She pointed to the butterfly pendant.
Vera moved impatiently.
“But that’s perfectly ridiculous,” she insisted. “I had never set eyes
upon the Crimson Butterfly until this afternoon. Dr. Abu-Samar made me
take it.”
And still the brown girl shook her head obstinately.
“The prophecy is fulfilled!”
Mrs. Battiscombe sprang from the divan and shook her violently.
“Listen,” she screamed. “This is all a trick, an act of vengeance
because my husband unfortunately insulted Dr. Samar when he came to
him yesterday. I am an Englishwoman. I was born in England. I should
never have come to this wretched island if I hadn’t married. Get me my
proper clothes and take me back.”
She threw the girl from her and looked up into the evil eyes of Dr.
Abu-Samar.
Instinctively aware of the scantiness of her attire, she shrank back
from him.
“Goddess of the Crimson Butterfly,” he taunted her, “I have summoned
you--and you have come. The dog is still sleeping, the little soldiers
in the round hats have not stirred. To Abu-Samar those things are as
nothing. You have sent my gift away, but it will come back to you; it
will always come back--and the kiss of the goddess is death!”
She clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of his voice
and, turning on her heel, ran heedlessly into the darkness. The night
air was cold and moist, and suddenly she realised that she was
standing on the soft earth at the foot of the long flight of steps
that led up to the bungalow.
It was almost light now and the feathery tops of the palm trees showed
like phantom creations above a sea of billowy mist.
She was about to seize the wooden rail and commence the ascent when
she discovered that her hands were full. She was staring with startled
eyes upon a brown-paper packet that had somehow become broken open and
from which protruded the Crimson Butterfly.
The sound of quick footsteps above made her thrust the packet into the
pocket of the pyjama jacket she wore.
James Battiscombe, his face very white, his hair on end, peered down
at her.
“Vera! Where on earth have you been? You gave me the shock of my
life.”
He hurried down the steps and carried her up.
A minute later she was in a long chair, with a blanket wrapped round
her, making faces at the brandy he insisted on forcing between her
lips.
“I thought I heard you moving and went into your room,” he explained,
tapping the cork back into the bottle. “You weren’t there. I didn’t
know what to think. It occurred to me that, after the row we had last
night, you’d got snorky and bolted.” He rested his hands on his hips
and beamed down at her. “You don’t usually walk in your sleep, do
you?”
“No,” she assented weakly, “I don’t think I’ve ever done it before.”
And then, an irresistible drowsiness stealing over her, she fell
asleep.