Wagram awoke, feeling strangely strong and well, considering all he had
gone through. Moreover, he felt hungry. The stuff that had been
administered to him must have worked wonders, for to it he attributed
his sudden cure. He must have slept more than the whole round of the
clock, for now there was no mistaking the feeling of early morning.
He rose and looked outside. The sun had not yet risen, and there was a
freshness in the atmosphere not to be missed even in the most torrid
climate just at the hour of dawn. He stepped forth and looked around.
The town seemed wrapped in slumber, and now he was able to take in
something like its extent. There seemed no end to the palmetto huts,
not only filling a large open space but straggling into the surrounding
foliage--the whole not devoid of a certain picturesqueness, but utterly,
unqualifiedly, savage. A shadow fell between himself and the now rising
sun.
He turned, to behold a tall, evil-looking barbarian armed with a
formidable axe. In him he thought to recognise one of the two who had
visited him the day before, and now he strove to convey by signs that he
wanted water for a wash. Clearly he was understood, for the other
lifted up his voice in a harsh guttural shout. Immediately there
appeared a woman, an ugly, brutal-looking creature, whose countenance
bore no more human an expression than that of the male. She, in
obedience to an order, withdrew, soon to reappear with a big calabash
bowl of cloudy water. Into this he gratefully plunged his head, and
managed to indulge in a fairly invigorating splash; the while the pair
stood watching him with wooden indifference. Then he made signs that
food would be acceptable. These, too, were understood, for presently a
big platter of cooked grain was brought. This he attacked with an
avidity surprising even to himself; and, while thus engaged, more and
more collected, standing round, eyeing him with the same indifference,
the while exchanging a few remarks among themselves, whose burden, could
he have understood, would have utterly put to flight his new-born
appetite there and then. But he did not, and as the said appetite began
to experience satiety he found himself taking in with considerable
interest the outward characteristics of his hosts or captors, or
whatever they might be.
But the result was not encouraging; in fact, it was depressing. All
were much of the same type as the first he had seen--large, fine
specimens physically, but in type of countenance bestial. Young or old,
male or female, there was not a single pleasing countenance among the
lot. They were utter animals, and evil-looking animals at that.
The hut he had occupied had, in common with the others, a sort of
extended porch or verandah running all round. Seated in the shade of
this he fell to ruminating over his position. The savages soon grew
tired of watching him, and dispersed. Yet others who happened to pass
all glanced at him with a stare of curiosity. First of all, where was
he, and how soon could he effect a return to civilisation? That he
would be able to do this hope now began to tell him. After all, these
people, though unprepossessing, had treated him with a certain rough
hospitality. No doubt a promise of substantial reward would induce some
of them to guide him to some post inhabited by his fellow-countrymen, or
at any rate by Europeans. But how was he to convey such promise to
their intelligence? You can make signs that you want food or drink, but
when it comes to effecting a negotiation of that sort, why, the matter
takes on a totally different aspect. Where was he? He assumed that he
had been cast ashore somewhere on the west coast of Africa; but, then,
that was a sufficiently vague, not to say wide, limitation. Again, was
he on the mainland or on an island--and in any case, how far from the
sea? He had absolutely no idea at all as to the time which had been
consumed in bringing him hither, or even whether he had been taken off
the submerged hulk by these natives in their canoes, or whether the
derelict had actually gone ashore with him, and they had found him
there.
With the thought of the negotiations he put a hand into an inner pocket
in search of his notecase. It was not there. Hurriedly, eagerly he
searched his other pockets--with like results. It was gone, and with it
all means of purchasing anything, for it had contained his stock of
ready money for the voyage, and something beyond; in fact, a
considerable sum in bank notes. It could not have got lost in the
water, for he remembered placing it in a thoroughly secure inner pocket;
and this had been nearly the extent of his preparation when it became
known they would have to take to the boats. Clearly he had been
relieved of it since, and during his unconsciousness, and yet--and yet--
what attraction could bank notes--mere slips of uncoloured paper--have
for these savages, who seemed to have not the slightest glimmering of
civilisation among the lot? With gold it might have been different.
However, it was gone, and the consciousness of this was unpleasant, for
a penniless man is akin to an unarmed man--helpless--and, however remote
from civilisation he may be, the lack of the power of the purse counts
for something.
Slowly, wearily, the heat of the day passed, and night drew down once
more. To the captive--or guest, whichever he might be--the day was one
of intense and depressing monotony. The natives were no more
communicative than before; certainly no more friendly. He would have
given a great deal for one companion in adversity--no matter whom--even
the lowest sample of the forecastle or stoke-hole of the _Baleka_. He
would likewise have given a great deal to have been among the castaways
which constituted her boatloads; yet here he was, in comparative safety,
on dry land, while they even now might be suffering the last extremities
of starvation and thirst. Night drew down, but brought with it no
restfulness; instead it brought forth innumerable cockroaches of large
size, which scurried around and over him in the darkness; for, of
course, there was no means of lighting the interior of the hut, short of
making a fire, and for this it was too hot already.
With the dawn of day he arose--unrested and unrefreshed. His physical
wants were cared for, but all efforts to make the people about him
understand his anxiety to return to those of his own colour, and his
willingness to pay, and pay liberally, for those who should be
instrumental in thus returning him, were futile. They could not or
would not understand. Utterly weary of sitting still he made up his
mind, unless actively opposed, to seek some diversion in a little
exploration around on his own account.
He was not opposed, somewhat to his own surprise, and set forth. He
passed through the town openly, and making no attempt at concealment.
The inhabitants looked up to stare at him as he went by, then went on
with what they were doing, this, in most cases, being nothing. Thus he
reached the solitude of the surrounding forest.
This was not thick. Clusters of undergrowth here and there, but for the
most part it was open below. Strange trees of a species unknown to him
afforded an intermittent shade, and here and there an open space,
growing tall grass nearly his own height, had to be crossed. He moved
carefully, always keeping the sun on one shoulder, always being careful
to note any peculiarity of bough or stem, for he had no mind to lose
himself. Then suddenly the whole aspect of the vegetation changed.
Only a ridge had effected the sharp demarcation of this change, a low
ridge surmounted by a few rocks, yet affording no extent of view on
either hand. But here in front the vegetation was thick and profuse,
and in parts tangled. Cool and shady, however, and altogether inviting
it looked, and Wagram made up his mind to penetrate it, though not to
any great depth.
With his wandering a sense of freedom seemed to return to him. It was a
relief at any rate to get a change from that gruesome, depressing,
savage town, with its repulsive and scowling inhabitants. Here at any
rate he was alone with Nature--and there was a certain soothing
solemnity in the thought. Then for the first time he noticed an utter
absence of life. Nothing moved; no insects flew humming by; no birds
piped. Turn his glance which way he would no movement met or distracted
it. He was in a dead forest to all intents and purposes, as far as its
accompaniment of animal or bird or even insect life was concerned. It
began to look a little eerie.
Still, with many a glance back, to make sure of being able to retrace
his steps at will, he moved on. Some irresistible influence seemed to
be drawing him on, and with every step a consciousness came upon him of
that. Moreover, it seemed that he was no longer alone. Could it be
that he was being followed--watched--that the freedom with which he had
been allowed to come hence was no freedom at all, but that spying eyes
had been upon him all the time, that stealthy steps had dogged his own?
And yet, looking back, there was no sign of anything living, let alone
anything human, and, stranger still, the sense of a haunting presence
was in front rather than behind--a presence drawing him on.
A wave of recoil swept over his being, and he would have returned; yet,
strong-minded and of a robust faith as he was, such return under such
circumstances, it seemed to Wagram, would be nothing less than a
concession to the promptings of a vague superstition wholly contrary to
his nature and his creed. He had been ill, he reminded himself, and his
vitality lowered, otherwise no such foolish imaginings could have held
his mind for one single instant. To be scared of a place because it was
silent, and in broad daylight, or at any other time for that matter--
why, the thing was too absurd. He resumed his way.
And yet it was not altogether broad daylight either, for now with every
few yards the overhanging trees became thicker and thicker, and all
beneath lay shrouded in a semi-gloom that was anything but the broad
light of day. An overpowering scent of strange tropical plants filled
the air--fragrant, yet not altogether, for it seemed charged with a
sense of earthiness and decay; and ever above, around, the same deadness
of silence, the same weightiness of oppression, as though he were more
and more getting outside the world.
He had gone far enough; it was time to turn back. Instinctively he
sought his watch, then remembered that it had stopped during his long
immersion. Curiously enough, the savages had refrained from robbing him
of it, although a glittering bauble should have been far more likely to
appeal to their cupidity than a mere collection of apparently useless
and utterly unattractive bits of paper. He was about to turn back,
accordingly, when something in front attracted and held his gaze.
Two straight rocks about twice his own height stood close together,
forming, as it were, a gate--a door, rather--for spanning the aperture
thus formed was a beam, and from it dangled a row of human skulls.
Facing outward they faced him, and seemed to take on a forced and
painful grin, as though still wearing the expression of an agonised
death. Motionless they hung--some touching each other, some apart,
looking ghastly enough in the drear silence of the forest. Wagram
glanced at them with some disgust but no great awe. This, he decided,
was the entrance to some shrine of devil-worship, and he would have
turned away, rather contemptuous than impressed, but a motive, not
altogether one of curiosity, moved him to enter that grim portal.
Once within he gazed around with an increased curiosity. He was in an
oval space barely a hundred yards in length. The centre was open, and
constituted an amphitheatre, the sides sloping steeply upward, and grown
with thick bush. Above this he could see a rough but strong stockade,
and surrounding it, disposed at intervals, were more human skulls. He
crossed the open space to the farther end of the enclosure cautiously,
but there was nothing in the shape of an altar of sacrifice or any
implement of death or destruction. At the farther end was a large flat
stone, flush with the ground. That might be worth examining.
And now curiosity began to awaken vividly within him. This place was
obviously a temple--a court, rather--used for the heathenish and
idolatrous rites of this tribe--whatever it might be. He bent over the
stone. It was rudely hewn into something of an oblong, and was covered
with a dark and greasy coating which might have been dried blood. Yes;
it looked like that, and he straightened himself up again, nauseated by
the idea.
And then something like a deep, soft sigh fell upon his ears. It came
from right in front, and seemed within scarce a yard of him. He looked
up, startled, then resisted an impulse to turn and flee. Before him the
bush, thick and green, was as an impenetrable wall. Could the sound
have proceeded thence? He started again. In the dim recesses formed by
the interlacing fronds two eyes were staring at him--two large beady
eyes--not shining, but dull and black, and yet more full, more
penetrating, than if they had glared.
Every instinct of self-preservation moved him to fall back. The same
instinct moved him to keep his own eyes fixed upon that dull,
penetrating, fiend-like stare as he did so. What on earth was the
thing? he asked himself. A reptile? No; for the eyes were larger than
those of the largest serpent known to zoology. Human? No; not that
either. He was conscious of a ghastly chilling of the blood within him
as he met that horrible stare fixed upon him within the mysterious
darkness of the bush screen. He was conscious of something more--that
his first instinct of retreat had left him, and was now succeeded by an
impulse that compelled him forward, that constrained him to look closer
into those awful eyes; and then that same soft, heavy sigh was repeated.
He moved a step forward. One foot was on the flat stone. In a moment
the other would have followed it--drawn, impelled by an irresistible
force--when a strange humming noise behind him--low, but growing louder
and louder--made him pause. Someone was approaching, and that by the
way he had come. A quick instinct warned him that it would not be well
to be found here prying into what was doubtless some sacred if ghastly
temple of mystery held in awe by a race of devil-worshippers. The spell
was broken. Withdrawing his one foot from the stone he looked back,
then quickly took cover within the thick bush that lined the slopes of
the amphitheatre.
His conjecture proved correct. Hardly was he in hiding than a man
appeared, entering through the same opening which had admitted himself--
a tall, black man, yet not altogether wearing the same appearance as
those among whom his own lot seemed cast. The new arrival scarce
glanced from left to right, and, still humming his strange, weird croon,
advanced straight to the stone even as he himself had done. Then he
halted.
In his place of concealment Wagram was no more than a dozen yards from
the new-comer, whose every movement and every expression he could
distinguish. The man was unarmed, and nearly naked--a fine, well-built,
stalwart savage. He seemed to be gazing before him in expectation
mingled with disappointment. Then to the hidden watcher's ears came
again that soft, weird sigh.
He in the open heard it too, for a change came over his face and
bearing. Uttering a deep-breathed "Ah!" he straightened himself up,
then bent forward, and seemed gazing upon exactly the place where those
dreadful eyes had appeared. Then his behaviour was strange. Once more
he rose erect, and withdrew his foot from the stone, and passed one
black hand over his own eyes, as though to shut out those others. Then
he moved unsteadily to right and to left, and half turned away--but no.
It seemed that some compelling force was upon him too, precluding
retreat. Back he would come to the centre again and peer forward, then
break away as before. This was repeated several times; then, all at
once, he stood motionless. His foot was again raised and placed on the
stone, his gaze again bent in eager fascination upon that which lay
beyond--then the other foot followed. One step forward--then two--and
then--
Something darted forward with lightning-like glance from the bush
screen--something long and steel-like and gleaming. It transfixed the
dazed savage as he stood, then withdrew almost before the heavy thud of
his body sounded on the hard stone surface. There it lay, the limbs
twitching in muscular spasms. A final shudder and all was still, except
the drip, drip of the life-blood falling upon the surface of the stone.
The spectator's own blood froze within him as he looked. The sight was
ghastly and horrifying enough in any case, but looked at in the light of
his own circumstances it was doubly so; added to which he now knew the
fate from which he himself had escaped. As he took his way out of this
hell-pit of horror and cruelty, taking care to keep well within the
shelter of the bushes until he should gain the gruesome door by which he
had entered, he was wondering what hideous rite of devil-worship he had
just witnessed, and recalled with a shudder the weird fascination that
had well-nigh compelled him to stand in the other's place.
"The dark places of the earth are full of cruelty," he recalled as he
hurried through the sombre gloom of the silent forest--a hundred times
more sombre now--and the air itself seemed weighed down with a scent of
blood. In very truth he was in one of "the dark places of the earth."
How, and when, would he find deliverance therefrom?