AMID WRITHING SERPENTS
The sight that met Bomba’s eyes was horrible beyond anything he had
ever seen or imagined.
At the extreme end of the island, in mud that oozed about her ankles,
an old withered crone was performing a weird dance, singing to herself
as she did so in a language that was strange to Bomba.
But that was not the part of the performance that held Bomba
spellbound, horror-stricken.
It was the snakes, the ropes of slimy, hideous reptiles that the old
woman wound about her arms, her waist, her neck, even her face, as she
danced faster and ever faster to the strains of her weird, high-pitched
song.
It was then that fear entered into Bomba, a fear such as had never
been felt by him when he battled with the wild beasts of the jungle.
Then he had fought with things of flesh and blood, with something he
could understand. But what he saw now seemed to be tinctured by the
supernatural. His flesh crawled. The scene was revolting and horrible
beyond description.
This must be Sobrinini, this hag that played with and fondled and
petted these hissing reptiles that wound their coils about her body.
She must be a witch, as the native had claimed. How otherwise could she
do a thing like this and remain unharmed?
And if she was a witch--and to Bomba’s primitive, half-taught mind this
did not seem at all impossible--she might have it within her power to
lay a spell upon him, if she wished. Perhaps she might turn him into
one of those very snakes that hissed and writhed about her.
At the thought, Bomba was tempted to flee from the spot. But something
in him, stronger even than his fear, drew him resistlessly toward that
weird figure on the river bank.
He worked the canoe in as far toward the island as he dared and wedged
it tightly among the rushes, trusting that they would hold it for him
until he returned.
He found that the water was shallow, and silently slipped into it
and waded toward the bank. Dread of the piranhas, a dangerous,
sharp-toothed fish, such as infest all the waters of the jungle,
hurried Bomba’s steps so that he was not as cautious in his approach to
Sobrinini as he would otherwise have been.
Although he made for the shore at some distance from the old woman, so
that he might choose his own time for drawing near her after she had
finished with the demon-like dance, he slipped, when he tried for a
footing in the slimy ooze of the river bank, and came down with a heavy
splash.
The sound startled Sobrinini. The weird song died on her withered lips
and she stood staring. The tropic night had fallen now, but a full moon
had risen, and by the light of it Bomba could be seen as he got to his
feet and gained the bank.
At sight of him, a shrill yell pealed from the lips of the old woman,
which brought dark figures running to her from all directions. Bomba
saw one rise up in front of him as though conjured from the earth by
magic. He turned to avoid the outstretched arms of this apparition,
did not see the hole that yawned at his feet, and fell into a nest of
writhing snakes.
He was so paralyzed with horror that he could not move. Perhaps it was
to that that he owed his life. For as the snakes, most of which had
been dozing in the slimy ooze at the bottom of the pit, recovered from
their surprise and coiled to attack, Sobrinini pushed through the crowd
at the edge of the hole and began to sing.
It was a lilting, rhythmic tune, and at the first notes of it the
hideous reptiles surrounding Bomba began to sway to the sound and one
after another slipped over the edge of the pit and slithered away into
the darkness.
Bomba climbed out, with the gray mud plastered over him. Still shaken
at the narrowness of his escape from a terrible death, the lad drew
himself up beside Sobrinini.
The ring of natives, male and female, closed in upon Bomba and the old
witch woman as the sound died on the lips of Sobrinini. Several of the
group carried flaring torches, and by this flickering light the scene
seemed as unreal and fantastic as a dream.
As Sobrinini saw Bomba before her, she turned upon him with a look so
fierce and malignant that the lad involuntarily drew away from her.
“You scared my snakes!” she cried accusingly. “For that you should be
burned by fire and flung into the river for the alligators to feast
on your flesh. It was for their sakes, not yours, that I saved your
life, wicked one. My snakes must not be frightened, my little pets--ha,
ha, ha!” and she went off into such a fit of horrible merriment that
Bomba’s heart froze within him.
If at that moment he could have reached his canoe by any means and left
that fearful place behind him forever, he might have yielded to the
temptation.
But it was too late now. The ring of natives surrounded him, and even
if he succeeded by a bold dash in forcing his way through them, there
was little chance of escape. They would reach him and drag him back
before he could get the canoe clear of the bushes and head for the open
stream.
The impulse to flee lasted but a moment. The next, Bomba pulled himself
together and was his cool, courageous self once more.
Sobrinini had worked herself into a frenzy of fury. She danced about
Bomba in a hideous way, shaking her shriveled fists in the air and
mouthing horribly.
Now she came close to the lad and pushed her wrinkled face in his.
She raised an arm above her head as though to strike him. Bomba stood
unflinching.
She paused suddenly, arrested apparently by something she saw in his
face.
“Ah!” she cried. “Bring the torches nearer.”
The command rang out in a strikingly clear voice and instantly there
was a stir among the natives. Evidently she was accustomed to being
obeyed without question.
One great sullen fellow came forward and thrust his flaring torch
almost in Bomba’s face.
Sobrinini peered closely at the lad for a moment, and then shrank back
with a piercing scream.
“You!” she cried, again coming close and staring at him wildly. “How
came you here? Are you a ghost, Bartow?”
Into Bomba’s heart came a swift feeling of amazement.
What was the meaning of this? Like an echo of the words came the memory
of Jojasta’s cry as Bomba had bent above him when he was pinned beneath
the fallen column. Jojasta had called him Bartow and thought he was a
ghost.
He took a step toward Sobrinini, who was still staring at him fearfully.
“What mean you?” he cried.
Seeing the terror into which their priestess had been thrown, a strange
wild singing rose from the native women as they wove in and out in
fantastic mazes, evidently designed to ward off the evil portent.
The bony fingers of Sobrinini closed on Bomba’s arm. Her voice was
shrill and urgent, as she said in his ear:
“Come with me, Bartow. Ghost or not, come with Sobrinini.”
As in a nightmare, his mind in a tumult of conflicting emotions, Bomba
allowed himself to be led away.
They passed through dank, long grass that sprang from the marshy
ground, and in some places grew as high as Bomba’s head. Once he felt
the slimy body of a snake beneath his foot and leaped aside, only to
feel his foot brush another.
“Be not afraid of the snakes. They are my pets and will not harm anyone
that is with Sobrinini,” crooned the old crone at his side.
She knew her way well, for she moved along the winding trail without
ever looking down, keeping her fascinated gaze on Bomba’s face.
Twice Bomba started to ask her what she meant by calling him Bartow and
a ghost, but twice he was halted by a bony, shriveled finger on his
lips and a croaking cry:
“Hush! Speak not, Bartow, or you will break the spell and shatter it
into a thousand tinkling fragments.”
She went on, muttering to herself, until at last they came to a large
wooden building. A flickering light from its gaping windows threw
grotesque shadows upon the ground.
Bomba felt a dread of entering the place. Like the wild things of the
jungle, he felt safer in the open. But Sobrinini’s hand was upon his
arm, and she dragged him through the doorway. Her manner grew ever more
feverish and wild. She seemed possessed by a terrible excitement. Bomba
did not venture to dispute her will.
He found himself in a strange place, the like of which he had never
seen before. Tearing his glance from the withered mask that was the
face of Sobrinini, he looked about him.
Torches flickered and flared in crude receptacles fastened to the walls
and lighted up the bare and desolate room.
Rows of crude chairs stood upon the uneven wooden floor, and above
these, halfway to the patched and leaking roof, a tiny balcony had been
constructed. At either end of this was a small compartment with rounded
front, meant to represent an opera box, though this of course Bomba
could not know.
At the extreme front of the big room was a raised platform, meant to
serve as a stage of this dismal imitation of an opera house.
As Bomba gazed about him, surprised and bewildered, Sobrinini left his
side, and with a horrid simulation of youth skipped to the platform.
Then she turned and made him a low bow, a hideous smirk cracking the
wrinkles of her withered face.
“Come closer, Bartow. Come closer, dear Bartow! Do!” she urged, in a
voice at first soft and coaxing, but that ended in a shrill cackle. “I
will give you a good seat, Bartow--the best seat in the house--in the
first row center. You can hear me better there than from a box. Come!”
she cried, as he hesitated, her simpering giving place to a terrible
frown. “Why do you stand there blinking at me like a fool? Do not
rouse my wrath, Bartow! The wrath of Sobrinini is a terrible thing, as
no one should know better than you.”
Bomba came forward quickly, alarmed by the swift change in the old
crone’s manner. But she simpered and smirked again when he approached,
and, skipping lightly from the platform, forced him with a playfulness
that Bomba found scarcely less terrifying than her wrath into one of
the crazy chairs close to the stage.
“Now I will sing to you!” she cried, and sprang up again upon the
platform.
Bomba watched with a strange fascination while the old woman danced and
sang in a strange language unknown to him. The lilting songs, even when
sung by that cracked and ruined voice, struck a responsive chord in
the boy and filled him with emotions that he could neither analyze nor
understand.
He did not know that that voice, when in its prime, had thrilled great
audiences that included emperors and kings and had given the singer a
reputation as wide as the civilized world.
Suddenly Sobrinini paused, and fixing Bomba with a strange intent gaze,
sang in a voice that had magically lost most of its raucous quality and
for the moment had become the faint, sad echo of something that had
been supremely beautiful--sang a tender, haunting melody that touched
some almost forgotten memory in Bomba’s heart and filled him with an
exquisite pain.
Somewhere, long since, he had heard that melody! But when and where?
Slowly the music drew him step by step toward that fantastic figure on
the stage.
“Tell me!” he cried imploringly. “Tell me, Sobrinini, was that my
mother’s song?”