by Don Wilcox
“And now, most noble King, I have performed,” I said, “and if this loop of death, bound tight with death, is hung from the highest branch of the highest tree. . .”
I broke off, for the dancer, coming very close, had whispered something to me—in English!
“Meet me on the trail, John, as soon as you can get away—on the cliff above the fork—”
The music was beating a swift, throbbing dance, and there was nothing for her to do but to dance away from me.
I was a bit staggered. I tried to regain my balance and go on with my speech to the King. But the attendants hurried to me, took the looped snake from my hands, and raced away through the crowd to ascend the cliff.
As for the King, he wasn’t listening to me. And he wasn’t looking about for the wife of Parroko. His sad, soggy eyes were glued fast upon one person—the new dancing girl who had portrayed this Death ritual so effectively. His eyebrows lifted.
CHAPTER VII
The Kisqv Must Do the Deed
I lost sight of Sandra in the shuffle.
And no wonder. Her costume and make-up were so well done that if she were among a hundred shadowy natives a few yards away from the firelight she was simply one of them.
But she had dared to make herself conspicuous by that dance, and I feared she would find herself trapped if she didn’t make a break for the trail at once.
For my own part, I couldn’t make the break immediately. These magic-mongers had me. I was their god more than ever, after this successful ceremony. The instant it was over, scores of these superstitious jungle denizens were surrounding me with questions: “Whose garment was it that the snake received?”
That was the first and most insistent question. And while I knew that the rumors had already run rife concerning the King’s designs on Parroko’s wife, still no one knew for certain that it was Parroko I had ceremonially destroyed.
“Tell me that it was not me,” someone called over the heads of the throng. “I once had a red garment. But I have done nothing to deserve death.”
“Was it Parroko?” someone else asked bluntly. “His wife is in a panic.” The dread uncertainty was a panic for several persons, whether beset by guilt because of a secret hatred of the King—or the Queen—or whether suspicious that any innocent person who possessed a red garment might have been the object of my destruction.
“Silence, you chattering birds,” I commanded. “I will not tell you who the victim was. You may wait and see who shall die as the result of my ritual. Or—if you dare—you may go to the King with your questions. He may tell you who his personal enemy is, if he wishes. But I mil not tell.”
This calmed them and earned the respect for me that I badly needed. But it didn’t free me from the firelight huddle that had gathered around. The questions took on a new note. Persons who had waited in silence, hoping for a private word with me, now voiced their pleadings.
“Wish a son for me,” one of them cried, “I desire to have a son.”
“Wish for me big game when I go on my hunt. The gods have cheated me,” another requested.
“Please wish for my husband who lies abed with a broken back these many months. Please wish that he will walk again.”
It was awful. Such tales of woe and misfortune. It ate your very heart out to realize how much was needed. And how pitifully inadequate was your cheap little pretense of magic to meet the desperate needs.
“Tomorrow, my people. Tomorrow or the next day.” That was all I could say. “No more magic tonight. I must take myself away to restore my powers. Go to your homes. Sleep until morning.”
But, alas, there wasn’t to be much sleep on that night. Certainly not for me.
Cautiously I inquired about the new dancer who had so fittingly interpreted my magic pronouncements. No one seemed to know much about her. Someone suggested that she had strayed into the village from some outlying district. Another hinted that I must have known her and brought her myself, for it appeared that our ceremony had been rehearsed.
“She is the new favorite of the King,” was the confident judgment of one old lady. “Didn’t you see how he watched her? Some of these times the Queen will commit murder.”
“Where did the dancer go?” I asked. “Most likely with all the other dancers. You may be sure the King and Queen are entertaining them with more feasting and drink at one of the royal houses.”
“Yes, no doubt.” But I thought to myself, Okay, I’ll find her at the forking of the trail waiting for me with our phonograph records and good clothes. Tomorrow we’ll board the Clipper.
But one more disturbing question detained me. Doubly disturbing because it came from one of the attendants who had run the errand to a certain corpse and returned with strips of flesh.
“Tell me, Kisqv, have you seen the Death Verse of another Kisqv?”
“The Death Verse?” I must have paled through the stain around my white mask. That parchment, of course! Who strikes the Kisqv strikes a five-fanged serpent.
“Need I explain,” the attendant said rather quizzically, “that any Kisqv who feels a premonition of approaching Death will write his last magic will in a Death Verse? And is it not also true that every Kisqv is visited by such a premonition before that Death strikes—even if the Death is to come by way of murder?”
These words created nothing short of a sensation among the dozen listeners who were still tagging at my heels. I had to stop and face them all without knowing what I dared say.
But they turned their alarmed questions on the talkative attendant. “What has happened? Has a Kisqv died? Has one been murdered?”
“I am not saying what has happened,” the attendant replied stubbornly. “But I will say that Safsaf and we attendants are on the lookout. We believe a Death Verse will be found.”
“From what source? Not the corpse from which you took the sinews?” they said.
“We are not saying.”
“Where was that corpse?”
“If you must know, it was on the trail,” said the attendant, and he proceeded to state the exact location, still asserting that he would tell nothing.
Within three minutes three or four dozen villagers struck out on the mountain trail with torches.
For my part, I made swift footsteps in the direction of the lower trail. But I didn’t get far. I ran into Safsaf, who was apparently anticipating a meeting with me.
At the narrowed passage where the westbound path followed along between a stream and a wall of rock, Safsaf approached, waving a torch at me. His face was expressionless, as always, and by torchlight it had the hardness of rock; and the coldness of steel was in his eyes.
“Do not go away from us, Kisqv,” he said in his low, authoritative voice. “You have not finished your part of the Death ceremony.”
“My magic is done,” I said.
“I think it is not enough for you to wish.”
“What more do you expect of a Kisqv?” I asked.
“In your case,” he said slowly, “the magic will be more certain if you go directly to the hut where Parroko is sleeping and finish the deed with a knife I will lend you my knife.”
CHAPTER VIII
To Kill or Not to Kill
“‘You doubt my magic,” I said to Safsaf. “But I have completed the ritual. The victim will be dead by morning; He is probably dead, already.”
“Dead asleep,” Safsaf said. “Come, men, we will accompany the Kisqv to the hut where Parroko is sleeping.”
Two attendants appeared from out of the darkness of the trail ledge. I sensed that my status was very nearly that of a prisoner. I retraced my steps and Safsaf and his men followed close behind me.
When we reached the house they lifted their torches and bade me look in through the window.
The light gleamed down on a shining spear lying on the floor. Then I made out the shadowy form beside it to be the handsome warrior, Parroko, sleeping peacefully. One arm was under his head for a pillow. The light bothered him. He shook his dar
k hair out of his eyes and reached for the spear. His hand rested on it, then he went on sleeping.
“Now is your chance to kill him, Kisqv,” said Safsaf.
“I tell you my magic will kill him if he deserves to be killed.”
The attendants looked to Safsaf to apply pressure. But Safsaf was studying me, not too sure of his suspicions. I knew that ever since I had smeared a bit of grape stain off my throat he had suspected me. He had guessed that I was not a dark-skinned man, but a white in disguise. Still, he couldn’t be sure that I was an imposter when it came to magic.
I played my bluff as far as I dared.
“When you met me in the pass a few minutes ago,” I said, “I was on my way to the fork in the trail, there to sing a song alone, to enhance my magic powers.”
“Most Kisqvs go to the great five-fanged serpent in the third chamber of the cavern to enhance their powers,” said Safsaf skeptically.
“I commune with a much larger serpent that crawls unseen through the heavens,” I said. “He has fifty-five fangs.”
They allowed me to go to the fork in the trail and sing my song. They went with me, of course, for they were growing more curious about my own private angles on this magic business.
I sang to the stars—in English, of course. For I hoped that I was singing to Sandra, hiding somewhere among the rocks. I sang words that made my captivity dear to her, and gave her a chance to answer, by croaking like a frog, or whistling like a bird, or tumbling rocks across the trail—if she were there within hearing.
No response. Sandra was not there.
Where, then, if not in the clutches of the King?
We made our way back through the narrows and through the village clearing. My spirits were lower than a serpent’s belly. I was trapped—yes, trapped by my own soft-heartedness. For now, I realized, the only way to get rid of Safsaf and his two strong-arm buddies was to go through with this ugly deal involving Parroko.
If I would kill Parroko, Safsaf would be satisfied that the reputation of the Kisqvs would not suffer. My magic, it would seem to the villagers, would have turned the trick. Then I would be free to go about my business—which, let no one doubt, was to find Sandra and get her away from this jungle of iniquity.
She would go with me, of course. She would be glad to shake the dust of this land off her feet. That weird dance of hers hadn’t meant anything. It hadn’t meant that the gruesome fascination of these primitive customs was getting a grip on her. Her father’s love for the bizarre, ways of savages would not get a choke-hold on her—not to the extent of her wanting to stay here. No, no, no, she couldn’t possibly be persuaded by any offer of the King—
“You do not answer me, Kisqv,” Safsaf was saying, holding the torch near my face and looking at me, curiously. Where had my dreadful thoughts travelled? He repeated his question, “Are you prepared to kill Parroko now if he is not already dead from your magic?” We were at the window again. Parroko was breathing softly. His fingers lay lightly upon the handle of the spear.
Safsaf pressed the handle of his knife against the flat of my hand.
“Will you take it and do the deed?
Or shall I remove your mask and see the face of the man who murdered the real Kisqv?”
I thought of Parroko’s beautiful wife. I wondered where she was, and whether she might be watching over my own wife. I thought of the kindnesses she and Parroko had done for us. I thought of her lovely smile, and I looked upon the masculine handsomeness of this man who was her husband.
And then I thought of the soggy, sadeyed, bloated King, and the cunning and evil behind his mask.
“I do not wish to kill Parroko,” I said.
The knife was pressed against my hand but I did not close my fingers over it. It fell. Safsaf stared icily. One of the attendants picked it up and began idly chopping at a banana he had picked. Safsaf struck the fruit from his hand and seized the knife. His long arm thrust forward, and I found the point of the blade touching my throat. “So you do not wish to kill Parroko!”
“You are making a mistake, Safsaf. I do not wish to kill him, because I wish my magic to have a chance. I wish—”
I caught myself. The very word wish, it seemed, caused the magic heat to throb between my temples. That headdress—how did I know that it was not somehow amplifying the electrical vibrations of my every wish?
“I will kill him,” I said. “Give me the knife.”
I crawled through the window.
My bare feet rested on the warm mat. I placed one foot firmly over the spear. The sleeping warrior passed his fingers over the handle lightly. He turned a little and lifted his spear arm, then slowly brought his hand down over his eyes to protect them from the light.
I took the knife. Safsaf reached through with the torch to give me a clearer view. Parroko’s chest was bare. I crouched. I raised the knife. A false start—I was only gauging for the exact spot over the heart. I looked at the blade, I turned it a little so that it would slice squarely between Parroko’s ribs.
Then I raised my arm swiftly and struck—and Safsaf struck at the same time. He struck my arm to spoil my aim. The knife plunged through the mat beside the spear handle.
“What—what’s the matter?”
“Someone is coming,” said Safsaf. “Listen!”
I drew the blade out of the mat, I crept away from Parroko. So near to an everlasting sleep, he was now stirring as if he might waken. Safsaf had turned away from me with the light and he and the attendants were moving away from the window. I crawled out and—although I didn’t realize it—I was for a moment free. I might have run.
I was too weak to run. But what I saw now, moving along from house to house under the light of torches, was enough to freeze me like a stone.
“It’s the old lady with the pig,” Safsaf’s low voice was almost breathless. “But it’s not a pig. It’s her son.”
I saw what they saw, and with Safsaf’s words I knew. This old woman was going from house to house, waking up her neighbors, telling them that she had her son again.
“He’s been changed back! He is no longer a beast! He’s my little boy!” She was so joyful she was in tears. Every neighbor she awakened, however groggy with sleep, rejoiced with her, in laughter or tears or both. And the little boy, as handsome a little savage as you ever saw, was talking a blue streak, dancing up and down, almost too happy and excited to contain himself.
It was a changed Safsaf that faced me now.
“Your magic has restored the child,” he said. “Your magic is-no longer to be doubted.”
“Yes,” I said weakly.
“It will kill Parroko.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
Do you doubt your own power?”
I was groping. The impact of this power made me want to faint. If everything I wished for, ceremonially or otherwise, had a chance to come true, I had better hold tight and count my thoughts like thousand dollar bills—or diamonds—or human lives.
“It will kill Parroko only if he deserves to die,” I said stubbornly. “But look well, Safsaf. What has just happened came at the very moment when
I might have killed Parroko. Does that mean anything to you?”
“What could it mean?” Safsaf was very much ready to listen.
“It means that Parroko is not meant to die. There has been a slip somewhere. A mistake—”
From across the clearing came a messenger on the run, and he was calling for Safsaf. We hailed him and he came over to us, panting and puffing.
“News from the King,” he said. “The King has made a mistake about his enemy, Safsaf! He wants you to bring the Kisqv to him at once.”
“What has happened?”
“The King’s personal enemy He has decided it is someone else. It is not Parroko. If the Kisqv is willing, there is no need for Parroko to die.”
CHAPTER IX
A Question of Five-Fangs
The King didn’t want to see me half as much as I wanted to see him�
�or so I thought. I could have embraced him with kindness for letting me spare Parroko. But on the other hand if he were making any kind of trouble for my Sandra, I was certainly in the mood to borrow Safsaf’s knife.
Dancing girls were leaving the fire-lit grounds in front of one of the royal buildings as we arrived. The Queen, they said, had left in a fit of anger soon after the “new dancing girl” had left. It seems the King’s attentions to this new girl (Sandra, of course) had set the Queen off in a jealous rage.
“But this new girl,” I said, “where did she go?”
“Away with the wife of Parroko,” they answered. “No one seems to know just who she is or where she came from. But there’s no question that she’s the King’s favorite.”
A few minutes later I faced the King. He glared through the wreaths of smoke from his oriental pipe, and had me sit by the firelight and listen to his troubles. While the rest of the tribe slept, he said, was a good time for him to settle the most important affairs of his kingdom—which consisted chiefly, at the moment, of how to get rid of his sarcastic, hissing wife, and how to win the beauty of his heart for his new Queen.
“I have talked with this new beauty,” he confided to me. “She is much lovelier than the wife of Parroko, and cleverer. I think I will not sleep again until I have done away with her husband so that I can conveniently marry her.”
“She told you, then, that she has a husband?” I said, pushing my voiceless words out with the greatest difficulty.
“She revealed, in answer to my catch questions,” said the King, “that her husband was actually present at our Death ritual tonight, and that he watched her dance and saw the whole performance—not knowing that he was to be the victim”
“But how can he be—” I broke off with a gulp. What did this old codger mean, trying, to make out that I, Sandra’s one and only husband, should take the rap involved in that stuffed snake?
