IN THE SWIRL OF THE RAPIDS
The warning to Bomba came too late.
The tree had been undermined by the current, swelled by the recent
rain. It had probably been tottering to its fall when Bomba climbed it,
and his weight and his movements among the branches determined its fate.
Bomba was too high to jump. From such a distance he would surely have
broken a limb and possibly his neck. He could only cling tightly to the
bough on which he found himself and trust to chance.
Slowly the tree toppled, and then, with a tremendous splash, fell into
the river. Its momentum carried it for a moment beneath the surface.
Then it came up again with Bomba, drenched and sputtering, still
holding tightly to the bough.
Fortunately he had been on the landward side of the tree, so that he
was on the upper side as the tree swirled in the current.
Now, as his eyes cleared, he found that he was not alone. Ashati and
Neram had been standing at the foot of the tree, and as its great
roots tore loose from the ground they caught the two ex-slaves and
flung them with the force of a catapult far out into the stream.
They had made for the tree as the nearest haven of safety, and now
climbed up into the branches and drew as near as they could to Bomba.
The lad’s first impulse, when he found himself afloat, was to plunge
into the river and swim for the bank, two hundred feet away. But even
as the thought came into his mind he caught sight of the scaly body and
horrid head of an alligator between him and the shore. The brute would
have had him before he had gone twenty feet.
By this time the tree had been caught in the rapids, those terrible
rapids of the River of Death whose power Bomba had already tested.
Had it been merely the trunk of a tree on which they found themselves,
they would have been tossed off in a moment. But the great spreading
branches kept it from turning over. Even at that, it was tossed about
like a chip, and great waves broke over it, threatening at any moment
to dislodge Bomba and his two companions, who had to hold on with all
their might to prevent being swept away.
The horror of their position was intensified by the presence of a swarm
of alligators, whose eyes had detected them and looked upon them as
certain prey. The monsters swam about the tree on every side, at times
dashing up from underneath with wide open jaws, in the hope of reaching
them and pulling them down.
Ashati and Neram thought that their last hour had come, and Bomba was
inclined to agree with them. The tree might stay there, buffeted back
and forth, for days. They could not guide it. They dared not leave it.
From the contemplation of his own plight, his thoughts turned to those
on shore. He was thankful that they were safe for the moment. Hondura
was there to lead them, and the wily chief knew all the lore and
craft of the jungle. With the start he had over his enemies and the
probability that he would soon fall in with his own warriors coming to
his rescue, Hondura would probably win through.
And Bomba knew that the old chief and his people would take good care
of Casson. Good old Casson! Would he ever see the old man again, the
lad wondered.
But a different and more welcome turn was given to his thoughts when
Bomba discovered that the fierce tossing had ceased. The tree had been
thrown from the rapids into smoother water, and was now drifting in the
grip of a strong current in the same direction that Bomba’s canoe had
taken two days before.
In a little while the point of land resembling a finger had been
reached and passed, at so little distance that it would have been easy
to swim to it, had it not been for the monster caymen that still kept
pace with them.
Ashati and Neram had recovered their spirits, now that they had escaped
the grip of the rapids.
“The Spirit of the Jungle is good!” exclaimed Ashati.
“It will not be long before we touch land somewhere,” prophesied Neram,
hopefully.
“Yes,” said Bomba, as his eyes caught sight of Sobrinini’s domain
looming up before them, “and the land will be Snake Island.”
At this name of ominous import a shudder ran through Bomba’s companions.
“The island of the witch woman!” exclaimed Ashati, making cabalistic
signs to ward off evil.
“The woman with the evil eye which brings death to everyone on whom it
falls!” said Neram with a shiver.
“Listen!” said Bomba. “You talk like foolish men. Is Bomba dead? Yet
Sobrinini’s look fell upon Bomba. She is a wise woman. Did she not say
that I would come back to Snake Island? And is Bomba not going back? I
do not like her snakes. But she has done no evil to Bomba, and she will
do no hurt to Bomba’s friends. And Ashati and Neram are my friends.”
The boy’s words brought some reassurance to his companions, but not
enough to banish their fears wholly, and it was with great trepidation
that they viewed the dreaded island as the tree drew ever nearer.
As for Bomba himself, he was almost glad at the accident which had at
the time seemed so disastrous. He would not of his own accord have
taken the time just now to visit Sobrinini again, eager as he was to
renew his questioning. She had been on the very point of telling him
what he wanted to know when Nascanora and his braves had broken in upon
them. Perhaps this time he would be more fortunate.
He was immersed in these thoughts when to their ears came a wailing
cry, so weird, so uncanny, so long drawn out, that it chilled their
blood.
It came from the direction of the island, but, strain their eyes as
they might, they could detect no human figure from whom the cry might
have issued.
The sound was the signal for another outbreak of fear on the part of
the ex-slaves. They were brave enough when facing human or animal foes,
as they had shown in their combat with the jaguars, but when brought in
contact with what they regarded as supernatural, their hearts melted
within them.
They whimpered and cowered and glanced at the water, as though they
were almost willing to take their chances with the alligators rather
than approach the island they deemed accursed.
But they had drawn nearer now and they could detect an agitated,
tumultuous group of figures on the shore.
The wailing cry came again, so near this time that Ashati and Neram
nearly lost their grip on the boughs.
Then from out the fringe of trees that lined the shore shot a small
canoe, paddled with frantic energy by a withered old woman, her
straggling locks streaming behind her head, her face convulsed with
fear.
“Sobrinini!” cried Bomba.