A Move in the Right Direction
James Battiscombe’s long experience as a magistrate in remote
districts had taught him the value of stage-management where native
religions were concerned.
Consequently, when he and the professor, with their handful of men,
joined the tribesmen who squatted outside the breastwork, he led Dara
forward, holding a lamp so that its light fell upon her face and
shoulders and upon the sacred emblem that glittered at her throat.
The natives, who had risen at their approach, stared in hushed
amazement at her coming and presently prostrated themselves before
her.
She folded her arms and addressed them in their own tongue, and the
fervour of their mingled responses inspired the magistrate with hope.
The girl turned to him.
“I have told them,” she said in Malay, “that I was spirited away from
them by Abu-Samar; that he is a bad man and that, before the sun rises
again in the east, he must die.”
Battiscombe nodded.
“And the men said,” pursued Dara, “that my words were wise ones and
that they would take me back to my temple and tell the others what I
have already told them.”
“All that is good,” returned Battiscombe, “except that this man Samar
should die before dawn. Very surely he will die, but there are wise
men at the coast who would speak with him first. Listen, Dara: When
the white lady has been given over to me and we have placed you again
in the temple in the hill, then shall the chieftains deliver Abu-Samar
into my hands.”
She did not answer.
“You hear me, Dara?”
“I hear you, great _Tuan_, and I understand.”
They moved forward presently, under a violet dome where stars hung
like jewelled ornaments amid wind-blown clouds. Battiscombe and the
professor walked in front, with the native girl between them; a few
paces behind them came the leader of the tribesmen--a man of enormous
height, clad in a leopard skin, a blow-pipe, with a spearhead
attached, slung across his shoulders. He was followed by Kuraman and
six soldiers, who marched in double file, while the remaining natives
fell in irregularly at the rear.
The first half-mile was rough going, and then, on the far side of a
gorge, they wheeled on to a recognised track, which, in spite of
fragments of stone occurring at frequent intervals, offered them
better foothold.
Wild and mountainous country this, broken by rare strips of sparse
vegetation and occasional clumps of stunted trees.
Banks of heavy clouds hung on the horizon, and at a little after
eleven the moon came up.
“Blowing up for rain,” declared Standen suddenly.
“Yes,” said Battiscombe. “Vance’ll be glad. He wants it for his young
rubber.”
They relapsed into silence again.
They climbed a stiff hill and began descending into a valley where a
keen wind met them, carrying to their cheeks the spray from an
adjacent cataract.
The native who spoke Malay caught them up.
“We will stop at the foot of the slope, _Tuan_. On the other side of
the hill is the road by which our people must pass on their way to the
temple.”
“_Baik_,” replied Battiscombe shortly, and pressed onward.
They called a halt in the hollow and the professor selected a boulder
upon which he promptly sat.
“This is all very well for you younger fellows,” he laughed, “but it
soon begins to tell upon a man of my age.”
Dara reclined at his feet, while the magistrate strolled off to
interview his guide.
“O _Tuan_,” said the brown girl to Standen, “you are the man with the
beard who is wiser than all other white men.”
The professor, who understood enough Malay to follow her meaning,
bestowed upon her the look a father might give to a very young child.
“I would hardly like to say that,” he murmured in his own tongue, and
then, so that she could understand him: “Who told you this, Dara?”
“The _Tuan-Hakim_ who is sick.”
“Armourer, eh? Well, that was really uncommonly nice of him!”
She surveyed him through half-closed eyes.
“The _Tuan-Hakim_ made me a promise; he said that, when the time had
arrived, you and he would explain to the priests and the headman how
it was that Abu had taken me away, and that you would kill this Abu,
so that the prophecy might be fulfilled.”
Standen was puzzled.
“What prophecy, Dara?”
“That he who touches the goddess of the Crimson Butterfly--dies.
Otherwise,” she added, “men will say that I went with him willingly,
and will believe that I am a goddess no longer.”
The professor beckoned to Battiscombe, who was already on his way back
to them.
“I say, Battiscombe! This girl has taken advantage of your absence to
try and drive a hard bargain with me. As far as I can gather, she
wants me to agree to have Samar killed and handed over to the natives
to prove that the penalty for embracing this dusky goddess is death.”
The magistrate turned to Dara.
“We are moving on in but a little while,” he told her, “and there is
no time to discuss this thing. But, when the white _mem_ has been
restored to me, I shall see that these people believe and take you
back again.”
She observed him doubtfully.
“If Abu does not die,” she declared, “very surely they will kill me
after you have gone.”
Battiscombe did not answer.
“Some of their fellows have gone ahead to explain the position to any
of their friends they may encounter in the road,” he remarked to
Standen. “If they’re not back in a quarter of an hour, I’m starting
without them. My interpreter thought it best to get a decent number of
’em on our side, in case our mission got misunderstood and we were
attacked. On the whole I fancy he’s right.”
“It appears very sound to me,” said the other.
“We want a good backing,” continued the magistrate. “We’re not going
to put up much of a show, if it comes to fighting, with seven men and
a bunch of others who won’t know quite on whose side they are. They
tell me the far side of the ridge is just teeming with the
black-skinned blighters. Wouldn’t some of our padres at home give
their cassocks and waistcoat buttons for a congregation like this?”
“By Gad, they would!” chuckled the professor.
“And think of the collection!”
Standen blew his nose vigorously.
“I suppose they have one?”
“You bet they do. Witch-doctors, _juju_-merchants and high-priests of
native cults don’t just hang around producing mysteries for nothing.”
“What form do you suppose it takes. I mean they wouldn’t bring money.”
“No,” said Battiscombe, “they probably trot along a bunch of bananas,
some nuts, or a coconut or two--and the priests await an opportunity
and dispose of it in bulk to the first merchant that crosses the
interior. There’s usually a commercial side to all these things.
Nobody grumbles as long as there’s a good show. Your native likes his
show. That’s why Dara’s position presents complications. We’ve got to
convince the priests--or whatever they style themselves--that she’s
the genuine article--and we’ve to convince them in such manner as not
to arouse too many suspicions in the native mind. Their principal
creed is that the butterflies protect their goddess and that no man
who tampers with her survives the experiment. We can’t produce a
butterfly and make it sting Abu-Samar, and we haven’t time to find and
dispose of him and tattoo on him a fair imitation of the mark the
Butterfly makes when it does sting. If we’re driven to extreme
measures, we may have to pick the beggar off with a rifle-bullet, just
to show ’em that the man who abducted Dara did die anyway.”
“It wouldn’t be sufficient, I suppose,” asked Standen, “to assure them
that Abu-Samar will die in any case?”
Battiscombe produced a pouch and began filling his pipe.
“I’m afraid not. If I could only manage to get away with that, I’d
consider I’d fulfilled my duty to the letter.--Hullo! here are some of
our men back. We’ll fall the fellows in and get on.”