_By Orville R. Emerson_
The end of this story was first brought to my attention when Fromwiller
returned from his trip to Mount Kemmel, with a very strange tale indeed
and one extremely hard to believe.
But I believed it enough to go back to the Mount with “From” to see if
we could discover anything more. And after digging for awhile at the
place where “From’s” story began, we made our way into an old dugout
that had been caved in, or at least where all the entrances had been
filled with dirt, and there we found, written on German correspondence
paper, a terrible story.
We found the story on Christmas day, 1918, while making the trip in
the colonel’s machine from Watou, in Flanders, where our regiment was
stationed. Of course, you have heard of Mount Kemmel in Flanders: more
than once it figured in newspaper reports as it changed hands during
some of the fiercest fighting of the war. And when the Germans were
finally driven from this point of vantage, in October, 1918, a retreat
was started which did not end until it became a race to see who could
get into Germany first.
The advance was so fast that the victorious British and French forces
had no time to bury their dead, and, terrible as it may seem to those
who have not seen it, in December of that year one could see the
rotting corpses of the unburied dead scattered here and there over the
top of Mount Kemmel. It was a place of ghastly sights and sickening
odors. And it was there that we found this tale.
With the chaplain’s help, we translated the story, which follows:
* * * * *
“For two weeks I have been buried alive! For two weeks I have not seen
daylight, nor heard the sound of another person’s voice. Unless I can
find something to do, besides this everlasting digging, I shall go mad.
So I shall write. As long as my candles last, I will pass part of the
time each day in setting down on paper my experiences.
“Not that I need to do this in order to remember them. God knows that
when I get out the first thing I shall do will be to try to forget
them! But if I should _not_ get out!...
“I am an Ober-lieutenant in the Imperial German Army. Two weeks ago my
regiment was holding Mount Kemmel in Flanders. We were surrounded on
three sides and subjected to a terrific artillery fire, but on account
of the commanding position we were ordered to hold the Mount to the
last man. Our engineers, however, had made things very comfortable.
Numerous deep dugouts had been constructed, and in them we were
comparatively safe from shell-fire.
“Many of these had been connected by passageways so that there was a
regular little underground city, and the majority of the garrison never
left the protection of the dugouts. But even under these conditions our
casualties were heavy. Lookouts had to be maintained above ground, and
once in a while a direct hit by one of the huge railway guns would even
destroy some of the dugouts.
“A little over two weeks ago--I can’t be sure, because I have lost
track of the exact number of days--the usual shelling was increased a
hundred fold. With about twenty others, I was sleeping in one of the
shallower dugouts. The tremendous increase in shelling awakened me with
a start, and my first impulse was to go at once into a deeper dugout,
which was connected to the one I was in by an underground passageway.
“It was a smaller dugout, built a few feet lower than the one I was in.
It had been used as a sort of a storeroom and no one was supposed to
sleep there. But it seemed safer to me, and, alone, I crept into it. A
thousand times since I have wished I had taken another man with me. But
my chances for doing it were soon gone.
“I had hardly entered the smaller dugout when there was a tremendous
explosion behind me. The ground shook as if a mine had exploded below
us. Whether that was indeed the case, or whether some extra large
caliber explosive shell had struck the dugout behind me, I never knew.
“After the shock of the explosion had passed I went back to the
passageway. When about half-way along it, I found the timbers above
had fallen, allowing the earth to settle, and my way was effectually
blocked.
“So I returned to the dugout and waited alone through several hours of
terrific shelling. The only other entrance to the dugout I was in was
the main entrance from the trench above, and all those who had been
above ground had gone into dugouts long before this. So I could not
expect anyone to enter while the shelling continued; and when it ceased
there would surely be an attack.
“As I did not want to be killed by a grenade thrown down the entrance;
I remained awake in order to rush out at the first signs of cessation
of the bombardment and join what comrades there might be left on the
hill.
“After about six hours of the heavy bombardment, all sound above ground
seemed to cease. Five minutes went by, then ten; surely the attack
was coming. I rushed to the stairway leading out to the air. I took
a couple of strides up the stairs. There was a blinding flash and a
deafening explosion.
“I felt myself falling. Then darkness swallowed everything.”
* * * * *
“How long I lay unconscious in the dugout I never knew.
“But after what seemed like a long time, I practically grew conscious
of a dull ache in my left arm. I could not move it. I opened my eyes
and found only darkness. I felt pain and a stiffness all over my body.
“Slowly I rose, struck a match, found a candle and lit it and looked at
my watch. It had stopped. I did not know how long I had remained there
unconscious. All noise of bombardment had ceased. I stood and listened
for some time, but could hear no sound of any kind.
“My gaze fell on the stairway entrance. I started in alarm. The end of
the dugout, where the entrance was, was half filled with dirt.
“I went over and looked closer. The entrance was completely filled with
dirt at the bottom, and no light of any kind could be seen from above.
I went to the passageway to the other dugout, although I remembered it
had caved in. I examined the fallen timbers closely. Between two of
them I could feel a slight movement of air. Here was an opening to the
outside world.
“I tried to move the timbers, as well as I could with one arm, only to
precipitate a small avalanche of dirt which filled the crack. Quickly
I dug at the dirt until again I could feel the movement of air. This
might be the only place where I could obtain fresh air.
“I was convinced that it would take some little work to open up either
of the passageways, and I began to feel hungry. Luckily, there was a
good supply of canned foods and hard bread, for the officers had kept
their rations stored in this dugout. I also found a keg of water and
about a dozen bottles of wine, which I discovered to be very good.
After I had relieved my appetite and finished one of the bottles of
wine, I felt sleepy and, although my left arm pained me considerably,
I soon dropped off to sleep.
“The time I have allowed myself for writing is up, so I will stop for
today. After I have performed my daily task of digging tomorrow, I
shall again write. Already my mind feels easier. Surely help will come
soon. At any rate, within two more weeks I shall have liberated myself.
Already I am half way up the stairs. And my rations will last that
long. I have divided them so they will.”
* * * * *
“Yesterday I did not feel like writing after I finished my digging. My
arm pained me considerably. I guess I used it too much.
“But today I was more careful with it, and it feels better. And I am
worried again. Twice today big piles of earth caved in, where the
timbers above were loose, and each time as much dirt fell into the
passageway as I can remove in a day. Two days more before I can count
on getting out by myself.
“The rations will have to be stretched out some more. The daily amount
is already pretty small. But I shall go on with my account.
“From the time I became conscious I started my watch, and since then
I have kept track of the days. On the second day I took stock of the
food, water, wood, matches, candles, etc., and found a plentiful supply
for two weeks at least. At that time I did not look forward to a stay
of more than a few days in my prison.
“Either the enemy or ourselves will occupy the hill I told myself,
because it is such an important position. And whoever now holds the
hill will be compelled to dig in deeply in order to hold it.
“So to my mind it was only a matter of a few days until either the
entrance or the passageway would be cleared, and my only doubts were as
to whether it would be friends or enemies that would discover me. My
arm felt better, although I could not use it much, and so I spent the
day in reading an old newspaper which I found among the food supplies,
and in waiting for help to come. What fool I was! If I had only worked
from the start, I would be just that many days nearer deliverance.
“On the third day I was annoyed by water, which began dripping from the
roof and seeping in at the sides of the dugout. I cursed that muddy
water, then, as I have often cursed such dugout nuisances before, but
it may be that I shall yet bless that water and it shall save my life.
“But it certainly made things uncomfortable; so I spent the day in
moving my bunk, food and water supplies, candles, etc., up into the
passageway. For a space of about ten feet it was unobstructed, and,
being slightly higher than the dugout, was dryer and more comfortable.
Besides, the air was much better here, as I had found that practically
all my supply of fresh air came in through the crack between the
timbers, and I thought maybe the rats wouldn’t bother me so much at
night. Again I spent the balance of the day simply in waiting for help.
“It was not until well into the fourth day that I really began to feel
uneasy. It suddenly became impressed on my consciousness that I had not
heard the sound of a gun, or felt the earth shake from the force of a
concussion, since the fatal shell that had filled the entrance. What
was the meaning of the silence? Why did I hear no sounds of fighting?
It was as still as the grave.
“What a horrible death to die! Buried Alive! A panic of fear swept over
me. But my will and reason reasserted itself. In time, I should be able
to dig myself out by my own efforts. It would take time but it could be
done.
“So, although I could not use my left arm as yet, I spent the rest of
that day and all of the two following days in digging dirt from the
entrance and carrying it back into the far corner of the dugout.
“On the seventh day after regaining consciousness I was tired and stiff
from my unwanted exertions of the three previous days. I could see by
this time that it was a matter of weeks--two or three, at least--before
I could hope to liberate myself. I might be rescued at an earlier
date, but, without outside aid, it would take probably three more weeks
of labor before I could dig my way out.
“Already dirt had caved in from the top, where the timbers had sprung
apart, and I could repair the damage to the roof of the stairway only
in a crude way with one arm. But my left arm was much better. With a
day’s rest, I would be able to use it pretty well. Besides, I must
conserve my energy. So I spent the seventh day in rest and prayer for
my speedy release from a living grave.
“I also reapportioned my food on the basis of three more weeks. It
made the daily portions pretty small, especially as the digging was
strenuous work. There was a large supply of candles, so that I had
plenty of light for my work. But the supply of water bothered me.
Almost half of the small keg was gone in the first week. I decided to
drink only once a day.
“The following six days were all days of feverish labor, light eating
and even lighter drinking. But, despite all my efforts, only a quarter
of the keg was left at the end of two weeks. And the horror of the
situation grew on me. My imagination would not be quiet. I would
picture to myself the agonies to come, when I would have even less
food and water than at present. My mind would run on and on--to death
by starvation--to the finding of my emaciated body by those who would
eventually open up the dugout--even to their attempts to reconstruct
the story of my end.
“And, adding to my physical discomfort, were the swarming vermin
infesting the dugout and my person. A month had gone by since I had had
a bath, and I could not now spare a drop of water even to wash my face.
The rats had become so bold that I had to leave a candle burning all
night in order to protect myself in my sleep.
“Partly to relieve my mind, I started to write this tale of my
experiences. It did act as a relief at first, but now, as I read it
over, the growing terror of this awful place grips me. I would cease
writing, but some impulse urges me to write each day.”
* * * * *
“Three weeks have passed since I was buried in this living tomb.
“Today I drank the last drop of water in the keg. There is a pool
of stagnant water on the dugout floor--dirty, slimy and alive with
vermin--always standing there, fed by drippings from the roof. As yet I
cannot bring myself to touch it.
“Today I divided up my food supply for another week. God knows the
portions were already small enough! But there have been so many
cave-ins recently that I can never finish clearing the entrance in
another week.
“Sometimes I feel that I shall never clear it. But I _must_! I can
never bear to die here. I must will myself to escape, and _I shall
escape_!
“Did not the captain often say that the will to win was half the
victory? I shall rest no more. Every waking hour must be spent in
removing the treacherous dirt.
“Even my writing must cease.”
* * * * *
“Oh, God! I am afraid, _afraid_!
“I must write to relieve my mind. Last night I went to sleep at nine
by my watch. At twelve I woke to find myself in the dark, frantically
digging with my bare hands at the hard sides of the dugout. After some
trouble I found a candle and lit it.
“The whole dugout was upset. My food supplies were lying in the mud.
The box of candles had been spilled. My finger nails were broken and
bloody from clawing at the ground.
“The realization dawned upon me that I had been out of my head. And
then came the fear--dark, raging fear--fear of insanity. I have been
drinking the stagnant water from the floor for days. I do not know how
many.
“I have only about one meal left, but I must save it.”
* * * * *
“I had a meal today. For three days I have been without food.
“But today I caught one of the rats that infest the place. He was a
big one, too. Gave me a bad bite, but I killed him. I feel lots better
today. Have had some bad dreams lately, but they don’t bother me now.
“That rat was tough, though. Think I’ll finish this digging and go back
to my regiment in a day or two.”
* * * * *
“Heaven have mercy! I must be out of my head half the time now.
“I have absolutely no recollection of having written that last entry.
And I feel feverish and weak.
“If I had my strength, I think I could finish clearing the entrance in
a day or two. But I can only work a short time at a stretch.
“I am beginning to give up hope.”
* * * * *
“Wild spells come on me oftener now. I awake tired out from exertions,
which I cannot remember.
“Bones of rats, picked clean, are scattered about, yet I do not
remember eating them. In my lucid moments I don’t seem to be able to
catch them, for they are too wary and I am too weak.
“I get some relief by chewing the candles, but I dare not eat them all.
I am afraid of the dark, I am afraid of the rats, but worst of all is
the hideous fear of myself.
“My mind is breaking down. I must escape soon, or I will be little
better than a wild animal. Oh, God, send help! I am going mad!”
“Terror, desperation, despair--is this the end?”
* * * * *
“For a long time I have been resting.
“I have had a brilliant idea. Rest brings back strength. The longer
a person rests the stronger they should get. I have been resting a
long time now. Weeks or months, I don’t know which. So I must be very
strong. I feel strong. My fever has left me. So listen! There is only a
little dirt left in the entrance way. I am going out and crawl through
it. Just like a mole. Right out into the sunlight. I feel much stronger
than a mole. So this is the end of my little tale. A sad tale, but one
with a happy ending. Sunlight! A very happy ending.”
* * * * *
And that was the end of the manuscript. There only remains to tell
Fromwiller’s tale.
At first, I didn’t believe it. But now I do. I put it down, though,
just as Fromwiller told it to me, and you can take it or leave it as
you choose.
“Soon after we were billeted at Watou,” said Fromwiller, “I decided
to go out and see Mount Kemmel. I had heard that things were rather
gruesome out there, but I was really not prepared for the conditions
that I found. I had seen unburied dead around Roulers and in the
Argonne, but it had been almost two months since the fighting on Mount
Kemmel and there were still many unburied dead. But there was another
thing that I had never seen, and that was the _buried living_!
“As I came up to the highest point of the Mount, I was attracted by
a movement of loose dirt on the edge of a huge shell hole. The dirt
seemed to be falling in to a common center, as if the dirt below was
being removed. As I watched, suddenly I was horrified to see a long,
skinny human arm emerge from the ground.
“It disappeared, drawing back some of the earth with it. There was a
movement of dirt over a larger area, and the arm reappeared, together
with a man’s head and shoulders. He pulled himself up out of the very
ground, as it seemed, shook the dirt from his body like a huge, gaunt
dog, and stood erect. I never want to see such another creature!
“Hardly a strip of clothing was visible, and, what little there was,
was so torn and dirty that it was impossible to tell what kind it had
been. The skin was drawn tightly over the bones, and there was a vacant
stare in the protruding eyes. It looked like a corpse that had lain in
the grave a long time.
“This apparition looked directly at me, and yet did not appear to see
me. He looked as if the light bothered him. I spoke, and a look of fear
came over his face. He seemed filled with terror.
“I stepped toward him, shaking loose a piece of barbed wire which had
caught in my puttees. Quick as a flash, he turned and started to run
from me.
“For a second I was too astonished to move. Then I started to follow
him. In a straight line he ran, looking neither to the right or left.
Directly ahead of him was a deep and wide trench. He was running
straight toward it. Suddenly it dawned on me that he did not see it.
“I called out, but it seemed to terrify him all the more, and with one
last lunge he stepped into the trench and fell. I heard his body strike
the other side of the trench and fell with a splash into the water at
the bottom.
“I followed and looked down into the trench. There he lay, with his
head bent back in such a position that I was sure his neck was broken.
He was half in and half out of the water, and as I looked at him I
could scarcely believe what I had seen. Surely he looked as if he had
been dead as long as some of the other corpses, scattered over the
hillside. I turned and left him as he was.
“Buried while living, I left him unburied when dead.”
_A Fantastic Story
With An Odd Twist
At The End_
Hark! The Rattle!
_By_ Joel Townsley Rogers
We sat in the Purple Lily--Tain Dirk, that far too handsome young man,
with me.
I drank coffee; Tain Dirk drank liquor--secretly and alone. The night
was drenched with sweating summer heat, but I felt cold as ice.
Presently we went up to the Palm Grove Roof, where Bimi Tal was to
dance.
“Who is this Bimi Tal, Hammer?” Dirk asked me, drumming his fingers.
“A woman.”
“You’re a queer one, Jerry Hammer!” said Dirk, narrowing his cold
yellow eyes.
Still he drummed his blunt fingers. Sharp--_tat! tat! tat!_ Something
deep inside me--my liver, perhaps--shivered and grew white at hearing
that klirring sound.
I didn’t answer him right away. Slowly I sent up smoke rings to circle
the huge stars. We sat in a cave of potted palms close by the dancing
floor. Over us lay blue-black night, strange and deep. Yellow as roses
were the splotches of stars swimming down the sky.
“It shows you’ve been away from New York, Dirk, if you don’t know Bimi
Tal. She’s made herself more famous as a dancer than ever was Ynecita.
Some mystery is supposed to hang about her; and these simple children
of New York love mysteries.”
“I’ve been away three years,” said Dirk sulkily, his eyes
contracting....
“That long? It was three years ago that Ynecita was killed.”
“Well?” asked Dirk. His finger-drumming droned away.
“I thought you might have known her, Dirk.”
“I?” His wide, thin lips twitched. “Why, Ynecita was common to half New
York!”
“But once,” I said, “once, it may be assumed, she was true to one man
only, Tain Dirk.”
“I’m not interested in women,” said Dirk.
That was like him. He drank liquor only--secretly and alone.
“I was interested in Ynecita, Dirk. We used to talk together--”
“She talked to you?” repeated Dirk.
“Strange how she died! No trace, no one arrested. Yet she’d had her
lovers. Sometimes I think, Dirk, we’ll find the beast who killed
Ynecita.”
Tain Dirk touched my wrist. His blunt fingers were cold and clammy.
Incomprehensible that women had loved his hands! Yet they were artist’s
hands, and could mold and chisel. Wet clay, his hands!
“What makes you say that, Hammer?”
I looked up at the stars. “It was a beast who killed Ynecita, Dirk.
Some vile snake with blood as cold as this lemon ice. Those marks of
teeth on her upper arm! Deep in, bringing blood! What madman killed
that girl? _Mad_, I say!”
Dirk twisted. He wiped his brown forehead, on which sweat glistened in
little beads like scales. “Too hot a night to talk about such things,
Hammer. Let’s talk of something else. Tell me about this Bimi Tal.”
“You’ll see her soon enough,” I said, watching him. “A girl of about
your own age; you’re not more than twenty-four, are you?”
“Born first of January, ’99.”
“And famous already!”
“Yes,” said Tain Dirk. “I guess you’ve heard of me.”
“Oh, I’ve heard lots of you,” I said; and saw he didn’t like it.
“You’ve heard I’m fast with women, eh?” asked Dirk, after a pause.
“But Ynecita--”
“Why do you talk of _her_?” asked Dirk, irritably. “I never knew her.”
“Those marks of teeth on Ynecita’s arm--two sharp canines, sharp and
hooked; barely scratching the skin--like fangs of a snake, Dirk--”
Tain Dirk’s hand crept to his lips, which were thin, red, and dry. The
light in his eyes darkened from yellow to purple. Softly his blunt
fingers began to drum his lips. _Tat! tat! tat!_ But silent as a snake
in grass.
“A curious thing about teeth, Dirk--you’re a sculptor; maybe you’ve
observed it--a curious thing that no two are quite alike. We took
prints, Dirk, of those marks in the arm of Ynecita--”
Dirk’s thin lips opened. His coarsely-formed, but marvelously
sensitive, fingers felt the hardness of his teeth. That gesture was
sly. At once he knew I’d seen him. He crouched back in his chair, his
strong, broad head drawn in between his shoulders.
“Who are you?” he hissed.
Again the klirring of his fingertips--a dusty drumming.
“Why, I am only Jerry Hammer--a wanderer, and a soldier of bad fortune.”
“_Who are you!_”
“Brother of Stella Hammer, who was known as Ynecita, the dancer.”
Upon the Palm Grove Roof, beneath those gigantic stars the orchestra
began to play. A brass and cymbal tune. The air was hot. From far in
the pit of streets rose up the noises of the city. Loud! Discord shot
with flames. I trembled.
Tain Dirk’s fingers drummed. His head commenced to sway.
_II._
Bimi Tal danced barefooted on the glazed umber tiles of the Roof.
Her dark red hair was free on her naked shoulders. _Stamp! stamp!
stamp!_ her feet struck flatly on the tiles. Her head was bent back
almost to the level of her waist. Bracelets jangled on her wrists and
ankles.
“_I am the daughter of the morning! I shout, I dance, I laugh
away...._”
Shaking her clump of red hair; her strong muscled limbs weaving;
laughing at me with all her eyes. How like she looked to a man dead
long years before! How like her glances to the glances of Red Roane!
On her breasts two glittering shields of spangles. About her waist
a kirtle seemingly woven of long strands of marsh grass, rustling,
shivering with whispers. The sinews of her trunk and limbs rippled
beneath her clear brown skin.
The head of Tain Dirk swayed sideways, slowly. The drumming of his
fingers on the table was a reiterative rattle. His eyes--liquid,
subtle--dulled with a look near to stupidity, then blazed to golden
fire. Thin and wide were his unsmiling lips. His tongue flicked them.
_Tat! tat! tat!_
“She’s a beauty!” whispered Dirk.
His terrible eyes seemed to call Bimi Tal as they had called other
women. Mesmerism--what was it? Singing, she pranced toward the den of
potted palms where we were sitting. Her skirt rustled like the marshes.
Wind of summer.
Little searchlights, playing colored lights on Bimi Tal, grew darker.
Red and violet deepened to brown and green. Still the hot stars above
us. In that artificial paper Palm Grove, with the silky puffy women and
the beefsteak-guzzling men looking stupidly, was born the mystery of
the great savannahs.
Dirk’s head nodding. Dirk’s thin lips slowly opening. Dirk’s golden
eyes glimmering. _Tat! tat! tat!_ Dirk’s steady fingers.
The great savannahs and the tropic marshes. Bimi Tal dancing.
Stealthily, the music softened from that brass and cymbal tune. It
rustled. It crawled. It reared fanged heads.
For a little while I did not see Bimi Tal nor Dirk, but the steamy
Everglades. Winter noon. Grass leaves silvered by sea-wind; puddles
stirring at the roots of the grasses. Silence booming like the loud
silence of death.
Bimi Tal was dancing her snake dance. Dirk’s lips quivered.
The marsh wind makes a little stir (it is the whispering flute.) The
marsh waters make a little moan (it is the violin).
_III._
Where was the soul of Bimi Tal dwelling that tropic winter so many
years ago? On her mother’s breast, a little bud of love, crooned over
with the song of sleep? Or meshed in bleeding poinsettia or rose? Or a
soul yet unborn?
I close my eyes. The vision does not fade. Florida; the marshlands;
winter noon. January’s first day, 1899. Where was lovely Bimi Tal on
that stifling day we saw the fanged thing coil, and death struck us
there by Okechobee?
Your eyes, Bimi Tal, are the laughing eyes of Red Roane!...
Now the snake dance. The piccolo screams.
Life immortal in your glistening lips, Bimi Tal; in your deep bosom
promise of everlasting fecundity. Passion and power of the earth! Life
is immortal. Your laughing eyes, Bimi Tal, will never dull. Yet I saw
Red Roane die....
Beneath the shifting lights, Bimi Tal leaped and spun, scarcely
treading the floor. Her eyes sparkled at me. She did not see Tain Dirk.
_Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!_ Her bare feet struck the tiles, tightening the
muscles of her calves. Her bangles rang.
I could not keep my eyes from Dirk. His broad brown-and-golden head
swayed continually. His thin lips worked, and I caught the flash of his
teeth. His eyes drowsed, then flashed open with sudden flame. _Tat!
tat! tat!_ The rattling of his fingers was never still.
That swaying head! It was loaded with the wisdom of the serpent that
harkens to the wind, swaying with the marsh grass, winding its golden
coils, curving its neck to the sun--_Hark! The rattle!_
... Red is the sun. Two men plow through the marshes. O endless pain
(the harsh viol quivers), a life struggles in the womb. Who will die,
and what will die, that this new life may be born? Whimpering agony.
And an old crone singing a song....
All people who sat within the Palm Grove were hushed, watching Bimi
Tal. Fat hands fanning powdered breasts; silk handkerchiefs wiping ox
necks; sweat beneath armpits. Still heat. Far away thunder. The stars
going by.
Music swelled. Beneath its discord sounded a steady drumming rhythm.
The arms of Bimi Tal waved about her head. She shouted for joy of life.
The pale eyes of Dirk, basking in mystery, gleamed into fire, blazed up
in fury and hate undying! His dry lips opened. I saw his teeth.
... Through the breast-high grasses surge on the two marching men.
Their boots sough in the muck. (Softly strums the bass viol.) Something
waiting in the marshes! Something with golden eyes and swaying head.
_Hark! The rattle!_ Beware, for death is in the path!...
Bimi Tal was close to Dirk, not seeing him. She laughed and waved her
jangling arms at me. Dirk’s eyes sparkled with madness, his lips were
tightened terribly. Bimi Tal was almost over him. His fingers drummed.
Louder played the music.
... _Hark! The rattle!_ Gaily the two men plow through the bladed
grasses. The coiled thing waits, hate within its eyes. They are
nearer--nearer! (Drums begin to beat)....
In an avalanche of sound, crashed viol and violin, and stammering drum.
Dirk’s drawn head lunged upward with his shoulders, his lips opened and
lifted.
Venomous his look. Deathly his intensity.
_IV._
Strong and young, fresh from the Cuban wars, Red Roane and I went north
from the keys through the Everglades of Florida.
Through the fens as in God’s first day. Through the reptile age, alive
yet and crawling. Through strangling vegetation, which steams and rots
beneath eternal suns. Through the everlasting Everglades, with their
fern and frond and sorrowful, hoary cypress, Red Roane and I went
north. Onward with laughter. What joy lay in our hearts! We sang many
songs.
Fern and flower embracing in fecundity. Grasses thick with sap.
Blossoms wilting at a touch. Mire teeming with creeping life. Above
all, the gay sun. Beneath all, the coiling serpent eyes and the opened
fangs. _Hark! The rattle!_
We sailed lagoons in crazy craft; dreamt on shady shores through sultry
noons; shouted to the dead logs on river banks till they took fear, and
dived and splashed away. We pitched our tents by black waters. We beat
brave trails through the fens.
“I’d like to stay here forever,” said Red Roane.
By what way I go, with what drinks I drink, in what bed I lie down, I
remember you who got your prayer, Red Roane--you who are in the swamp
grass and swamp water forever.
Beating our way slow and heavily, at high noon, of the new year’s first
day in 1899, near Okechobee in the marshes, came we two on a hidden
hut. It was fashioned of the raff of the slough--dead fronds, rotting
branches, withered marsh grasses. Its sad gray-green were in the living
wilderness like a monument to death. Better the naked swamp. Better the
clean quagmire for bed.
An old crone, moaning within that dreary hut, drowned out the sharp,
short gasps of another woman. Red Roane came up singing, slapping his
deep chest, swinging his muscular arms. Sunlight on his brown face, and
sunlight in his red hair. At the hut’s door, facing us, lounged a man
with yellow eyes. Poor white trash. A gun was in his arm’s crook. He
spat tobacco juice at the earth. There was loathing, murder venom in
his face!
Red Roane faltered back from that stare. He stopped short, and laughter
left him. His brave eyes were troubled by that madman’s hate. Yellow
eyes staring--eyes of a rattlesnake!
An old Indian crone peered out beneath the crooked elbow of the ruffian
in the doorway, she who had been dolorously singing. With a scream, she
thrust out her skinny old arm, pointing it at Red Roane.
“He dies!” she screamed. “We want his soul!”
Another woman, hidden, moaning within the hut; a woman in her travail.
New life from the womb--a life must die! I grasped the arm of Red Roane.
“Come away!” I said, “Come away from these mad witches!”
In three steps that gray-green hovel was hidden in the cypresses. A
dream it seemed. But we could yet hear the old witch woman singing.
Something dragged at our heels, and it was not suction of the muck.
Toe to heel, Red Roane paced me, and we sang a song together. A crimson
flower, short-stemmed, yellow-hearted, was almost beneath my boot. I
stooped--who will not stoop to pick a crimson wild flower? A rattling,
like the shaking of peas. A klirring like the drumming of a man’s
fingertips. _Hark! The rattle!_
A yawning head flashed beneath my hand, striking too low. Heavy as a
hard-flung stone, the snake’s head struck my ankle; yawning gullet,
white-hooked fangs of the deathly rattlesnake. Out of the crimson
flower that beast of gold and brown. Its yellow eyes flickered. Its
thin lips were dry. How near I had touched to death!
“Thank God for those heavy boots, Jerry!”
With blazing eyes the snake writhed, coiling for another strike. Its
sharp tail, pointed upward, vibrated continuously with dusty laughter.
Its golden rippling body was thick as my arm.
Red Roane swung down his heavy marching stock. _Crash!_ Its leaden
end struck that lunging mottled head. Halted in mid-strike, that evil
wisdom splattered like an egg, brain pan ripped wide.
The rattler lashed in its last agony, its tremendously muscular tail
beating the ground with thumping blows, its yellow eyes still blazing
with hate, but closing fast in doom.