IN THE SHADE OF THE LONELY PALM
Persian opium of good quality contains from ten to fifteen percent
morphine, and _chandu_ made from opium of Yezd would contain perhaps
twenty-five per cent of this potent drug; but because in the act of
smoking distillation occurs, nothing like this quantity of morphine
reaches the smoker. To the distilling process, also, may be due the
different symptoms resulting from smoking _chandu_ and injecting
morphia—or drinking tincture of opium, as De Quincey did.
Rita found the flavor of the preparation to be not entirely unpleasant.
Having overcome an initial aversion, caused by its marked medicinal
tang, she grew reconciled to it and finished her first smoke without
experiencing any other effect than a sensation of placid contentment.
Deftly, Mrs. Sin renewed the pipe. Silence had fallen upon the party.
The second “pill” was no more than half consumed when a growing feeling
of nausea seized upon the novice, becoming so marked that she dropped
the ivory pipe weakly and uttered a faint moan.
Instantly, silently, Mrs. Sin was beside her.
“Lean forward—so,” she whispered, softly, as if fearful of intruding
her voice upon these sacred rites. “In a moment you will be better.
Then, if you feel faint, lie back. It is the sleep. Do not fight
against it.”
The influence of the stronger will prevailed. Self-control and judgment
are qualities among the first to succumb to opium. Rita ceased to think
longingly of the clean, fresh air, of escape from these sickly fumes
which seemed now to fill the room with a moving vacuum. She bent
forward, her chin resting upon her breast, and gradually the deathly
sickness passed. Mentally, she underwent a change, too. From an active
state of resistance the ego traversed a descending curve ending in
absolute passivity. The floor had seemingly begun to revolve and was
moving insidiously, so that the pattern of the carpet formed a series
of concentric rings. She found this imaginary phenomenon to be soothing
rather than otherwise, and resigned herself almost eagerly to the
delusion.
Mrs. Sin allowed her to fall back upon the cushions—so gently and so
slowly that the operation appeared to occupy several minutes and to
resemble that of sinking into innumerable layers of swansdown. The
sinuous figure bending over her grew taller with the passage of each
minute, until the dark eyes of Mrs. Sin were looking down at Rita from
a dizzy elevation. As often occurs in the case of a neurotic subject,
delusion as to time and space had followed the depression of the
sensory cells.
But surely, she mused, this could not be Mrs. Sin who towered so
loftily above her. Of course, how absurd to imagine that a woman could
remain motionless for so many hours. And Rita thought, now, that she
had been lying for several hours beneath the shadow of that tall,
graceful, and protective shape.
Why—it was a slender palm-tree, which stretched its fanlike foliage
over her! Far, far above her head the long, dusty green fronds
projected from the mast-like trunk. The sun, a ball of fiery brass,
burned directly in the zenith, so that the shadow of the foliage lay
like a carpet about her feet. That which she had mistaken for the
ever-receding eyes of Mrs. Sin, wondering with a delightful vagueness
why they seemed constantly to change color, proved to be a pair of
brilliantly plumaged parrakeets perched upon a lofty branch of the
palm.
This was an equatorial noon, and even if she had not found herself to
be under the influence of a delicious abstraction Rita would not have
moved; for, excepting the friendly palm, not another vestige of
vegetation was visible right away to the horizon; nothing but an ocean
of sand whereon no living thing moved. She and the parrakeets were
alone in the heart of the Great Sahara.
But stay! Many, many miles away, a speck on the dusty carpet of the
desert, something moved! Hours must elapse before that tiny figure,
provided it were approaching, could reach the solitary palm.
Delightedly, Rita contemplated the infinity of time. Even if the figure
moved ever so slowly, she should be waiting there beneath the palm to
witness its arrival. Already, she had been there for a period which she
was far too indolent to strive to compute—a week, perhaps. She turned
her attention to the parrakeets. One of them was moving, and she noted
with delight that it had perceived her far below and was endeavoring to
draw the attention of its less observant companion to her presence. For
many hours she lay watching it and wondering why, since the one bird
was so singularly intelligent, its companion was equally dull. When she
lowered her eyes and looked out again across the sands, the figure had
approached so close as to be recognizable.
It was that of Mrs. Sin. Rita appreciated the fitness of her presence,
and experienced no surprise, only a mild curiosity. This curiosity was
not concerned with Mrs. Sin herself, but with the nature of the burden
which she bore upon her head.
She was dressed in a manner which Rita dreamily thought would have been
inadequate in England, or even in Cuba, but which was appropriate in
the Great Sahara. How exquisitely she carried herself, mused the
dreamer; no doubt this fine carriage was due in part to her wearing
golden shoes with heels like stilts, and in part to her having been
trained to bear heavy burdens upon her head. Rita remembered that Sir
Lucien had once described to her the elegant deportment of the Arab
women, ascribing it to their custom of carrying water-jars in that way.
The appearance of the speck on the horizon had marked the height of her
trance. Her recognition of Mrs. Sin had signalized the decline of the
_chandu_ influence. Now, the intrusion of a definite, uncontorted
memory was evidence of returning cerebral activity.
Rita had no recollection of the sunset; indeed, she had failed to
perceive any change in the form and position of the shadow cast by the
foliage. It had spread, an ebony patch, equally about the bole of the
tree, so that the sun must have been immediately overhead. But, of
course, she had lain watching the parrakeets for several hours, and now
night had fallen. The desert mounds were touched with silver, the sky
was a nest of diamonds, and the moon cast a shadow of the palm like a
bar of ebony right across the prospect to the rim of the sky dome.
Mrs. Sin stood before her, one half of her lithe body concealed by this
strange black shadow and the other half gleaming in the moonlight so
that she resembled a beautiful ivory statue which some iconoclast had
cut in two.
Placing her burden upon the ground, Mrs. Sin knelt down before Rita and
reverently kissed her hand, whispering: “I am your slave, my poppy
queen.”
She spoke in a strange language, no doubt some African tongue, but one
which Rita understood perfectly. Then she laid one hand upon the object
which she had carried on her head, and which now proved to be a large
lacquered casket covered with Chinese figures and bound by three hoops
of gold. It had a very curious shape.
“Do you command that the chest be opened?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Rita languidly.
Mrs. Sin threw up the lid, and from the interior of the casket which,
because of the glare of the moon light, seemed every moment to assume a
new form, drew out a bronze lamp.
“The sacred lamp,” she whispered, and placed it on the sand. “Do you
command that it be lighted?”
Rita inclined her head.
The lamp became lighted; in what manner she did not observe, nor was
she curious to learn. Next from the large casket Mrs. Sin took another
smaller casket and a very long, tapering silver bodkin. The first
casket had perceptibly increased in size. It was certainly much larger
than Rita had supposed; for now out from its shadowy interior Mrs. Sin
began to take pipes—long pipes and short pipes, pipes of gold and pipes
of silver, pipes of ivory and pipes of jade. Some were carved to
represent the heads of demons, some had the bodies of serpents wreathed
about them; others were encrusted with precious gems, and filled the
night with the venomous sheen of emeralds, the blood-rays of rubies and
golden glow of topaz, while the spear-points of diamonds flashed a
challenge to the stars.
“Do you command that the pipes be lighted?” asked the harsh voice.
Rita desired to answer, “No,” but heard herself saying, “Yes.”
Thereupon, from a thousand bowls, linking that lonely palm to the
remote horizon, a thousand elfin fires arose—blue-tongued and
spirituous. Grey pencilings of smoke stole straightly upward to the
sky, so that look where she would Rita could discern nothing but these
countless thin, faintly wavering, vertical lines of vapor.
The dimensions of the lacquered casket had increased so vastly as to
conceal the kneeling figure of Mrs. Sin, and staring at it wonderingly,
Rita suddenly perceived that it was not an ordinary casket. She knew at
last why its shape had struck her as being unusual.
It was a Chinese coffin.
The smell of the burning opium was stifling her. Those remorseless
threads of smoke were closing in, twining themselves about her throat.
It was becoming cold, too, and the moonlight was growing dim. The
position of the moon had changed, of course, as the night had stolen on
towards morning, and now it hung dimly before her. The smoke obscured
it.
But was this smoke obscuring the moon? Rita moved her hands for the
first time since she had found herself under the palm tree, weakly
fending off those vaporous tentacles which were seeking to entwine
themselves about her throat. Of course, it was not smoke obscuring the
moon, she decided; it was a lamp, upheld by an ivory figure—a lamp with
a Chinese shade.
A subdued roaring sound became audible; and this was occasioned by the
gas fire, burning behind the Japanese screen on which gaily plumaged
birds sported in the branches of golden palms. Rita raised her hands to
her eyes. Mist obscured her sight. Swiftly, now, reality was asserting
itself and banishing the phantasmagoria conjured up by _chandu_.
In her dim, cushioned corner Mollie Gretna lay back against the wall,
her face pale and her weak mouth foolishly agape. Cyrus Kilfane was
indistinguishable from the pile of rugs amid which he sprawled by the
table, and of Sir Lucien Pyne nothing was to be seen but the
outstretched legs and feet which projected grotesquely from a recess.
Seated, oriental fashion, upon an improvised divan near the grand piano
and propped up by a number of garish cushions, Rita beheld Mrs. Sin.
The long bamboo pipe had fallen from her listless fingers. Her face
wore an expression of mystic rapture like that characterizing the
features of some Chinese Buddhas.
Fear, unaccountable but uncontrollable, suddenly seized upon Rita. She
felt weak and dizzy, but she struggled partly upright.
“Lucy!” she whispered.
Her voice was not under control, and once more she strove to call to
Pyne.
“Lucy!” came the hoarse whisper again.
The fire continued its muted roaring, but no other sound answered to
the appeal. A horror of the companionship in which she found herself
thereupon took possession of the girl. She must escape from these
sleepers, whose spirits had been expelled by the potent necromancer,
opium, from these empty tenements whose occupants had fled. The idea of
the cool night air in the open streets was delicious.
She staggered to her feet, swaying drunkenly, but determined to reach
the door. She shuddered, because of a feeling of internal chill which
assailed her, but step by step crept across the room, opened the door,
and tottered out into the hallway. There was no sound in the flat.
Presumably Kilfane’s man had retired, or perhaps he, too, was a
devotee.
Rita’s fur coat hung upon the rack, and although her fingers appeared
to have lost all their strength and her arm to have become weak as that
of an infant, she succeeded in detaching the coat from the hook. Not
pausing to put it on, she opened the door and stumbled out on to the
darkened landing. Whereas her first impulse had been to awaken someone,
preferably Sir Lucien, now her sole desire was to escape undetected.
She began to feel less dizzy, and having paused for a moment on the
landing, she succeeded in getting her coat on. Then she closed the door
as quietly as possible, and clutching the handrail began to grope her
way downstairs. There was only one flight, she remembered, and a short
passage leading to the street door. She reached the passage without
mishap, and saw a faint light ahead.
The fastenings gave her some trouble, but finally her efforts were
successful, and she found herself standing in deserted Duke Street.
There was no moon, but the sky was cloudless. She had no idea of the
time, but because of the stillness of the surrounding streets she knew
that it must be very late. She set out for her flat, walking slowly and
wondering what explanation she should offer if a constable observed
her.
Oxford Street showed deserted as far as the eye could reach, and her
light footsteps seemed to awaken a hundred echoes. Having proceeded for
some distance without meeting anyone, she observed—and experienced a
childish alarm—the head-lights of an approaching car. Instantly the
idea of hiding presented itself to her, but so rapidly did the big
automobile speed along the empty thoroughfare that Rita was just
passing a street lamp as the car raced by, and she must therefore have
been clearly visible to the occupants.
Never for a moment glancing aside, Rita pressed on as quickly as she
could. Then her vague alarm became actual terror. She heard the brakes
being applied to the car, and heard the gritty sound of the tires upon
the roadway as the vehicle’s headlong progress was suddenly checked.
She had been seen—perhaps recognized, and whoever was in the car
proposed to return to speak to her.
If her strength had allowed she would have run, but now it threatened
to desert her altogether and she tottered weakly. A pattering of
footsteps came from behind. Someone was running back to overtake her.
Recognizing escape to be impossible, Rita turned just as the runner
came up with her.
“Rita!” he cried, rather breathlessly. “Miss Dresden!”
She stood very still, looking at the speaker.
It was Monte Irvin.