Muriel and Philippe sat down on the ground. The breeze seemed to be descending from the stars, and that carnivorous night, when beasts and men had been slaughtered—that night full of menace and horror—settled into a peace so gentle that the young people almost forgot the barbaric law of the world.
“Oh, Muriel!” he sighed. “See how good life is…”
“It is good! We must accept the proofs to which the Lord subjects his creatures. I sense that we shall be saved!”
She bowed her head and raised a humble human supplication to the heavens—and Philippe’s heart, turned upside-down by love, softened, astonished by that fabulous reality…
“Are they attacking?” stammered Dick Nightingale, who had just woken up with a start.
Dawn had broken. The fleeting tropical twilight had scarcely enchanted the lake, and the red furnace of the Sun had already appeared between two hills.
“No,” said Kouram. “They’re a little closer. They’re blocking the route completely. We shall have to disperse them or beat a retreat.”
“How many are there?”
“I don’t know, Master. Warzmao has shown twice ten times the fingers of both hands.”
“There are 200, then?”
“How was he able to count them?” Dick put in, in a surly tone.
“I don’t suppose he has counted them,” Philippe said. “He’s probably calculated their number by deducting the dead, the wounded and the captives.”
“Also dead,” muttered Nightingale, “since they’ve been eaten.”
“Warzmao still has between 70 and 75 sound men. You, Master, Mr. Nightingale and the riflemen are worth at least 100 men.”
“Oh, much more!” Dick exclaimed, forcefully.
“But how can we engage in battle?” the man went on. “They’ll draw back, invisibly, to the river, while harassing us. There, we’ll need to cross over, and they’ll be able to remain in the reeds, and inflict a great deal of damage on us.”
The threat was enigmatic and annoying. The Sun rose, still partly veiled, and climbed swiftly over the lake, spreading its salutary and redoubtable energy over the waves.
Philippe, Warzmao, Dick and Kouram tried to spot the enemy forces. For the moment, they were all invisible. At length, two fuzzy heads emerged furtively, on the crest of a small hill. Reassured by the distance—more than 300 meters—the two warriors stood up. They were both tall men. The taller brandished an assegai and proffered words that the accompanying gestures almost rendered intelligible to the white men.
“He’s challenging the Goura-Zannkas!” said Dick.
“That’s the chief,” said Kouram, after exchanging signs with Warzmao. “If you can hit him, Master, the warriors will be frightened.”
Philip had raised his gun. He hesitated. He did not have the same motives for hatred against the unknown native that he had against the Squat Men. He resolved merely to wound him, but, understanding that it was necessary to maintain his prestige, he said to Kouram: “I’m going to hit him in the shoulder. Try to make Warzmao understand that it’s a warning to the enemy.”
Disappointed, Kouram gestured abundantly. Warzmao was astonished—but he howled in a voice as loud as a lion’s roar. “The lives of the Sons of the Red Rhinoceros are in the hands of our allies. The chief will be wounded.”
These words, the meaning of which the white men and Kouram understood, caused the enemy chief to burst out laughing. He did not complete the fit of laughter. Philippe had fired, and the tall man, hit in the shoulder, dropped his assegai.
“The allies of the Goura-Zannkas are infallible and their weapons have the power of thunderbolts!” Warzmao shouted. “If the Gou-Anndas withdraw, their lives will be spared.”
The enemy chief and his companion had disappeared. There was a long silence. Here and there, dark bodies could be seen crawling through the long grass. Then whistles sounded, which drew replies from the lake to the first baobab precursors of the forest.
Finally, three couriers presented themselves before Warzmao, who started to laugh, and signaled to Kouram that the enemies were beating a retreat. The Goura-Zannkas’ advance guard was already under way again.
“What if it’s a trap?” asked Philippe, looking at Muriel.
“We’re preceded by invisible watchers,” Kouram replied. “At the slightest alarm, the warriors will halt.”
Philippe gave the signal to depart—but the threat had not disappeared. The Gou-Anndas’ retreat might conclude with an ambush.
They advanced slowly. The column stopped several times.
“The warriors are still there!” said Dick.
After an hour’s march, the alarm was given. The warriors held their assegais at the ready and there was a suggestion that the enemy had moved round to the rear. Soon, that became certain: the Goura-Zannkas were surrounded!
The situation was going bad. Because of Muriel, a violent anguish weighed upon Philippe. Nevertheless, the march continued—a slow, infinitely prudent march, protected by a circle of scouts.
Suddenly, savage cries were raised.
“The attack!” cried Dick Nightingale, preparing to fire.
The cries had died away. A stormy atmosphere enveloped the men. In the distance, the sound of a trumpet was audible.
Then an enormous clamor erupted. All around the column they saw the scouts rise to their feet.
“What is it?” cried Philippe.
Warzmao was yelling victory cries.
“It’s the Goura-Zannkas’ giant trumpet!” said Kouram. “We’re saved!”
Philippe went pale and looked at Muriel, his gaze sparkling with the joy of deliverance.
Already, the Gou-Anndas could be seen emerging from cover and fleeing in disarray. A group of Goura-Zannkas pursued them with thrown assegais, and the Blue Eagle’s advance guard came in view.
Muriel uttered a loud yell, and extended her arms toward the Occident; Ironcastle was coming, with Sir George and the colossal Guthrie.
VII. Life and Death
It was the hour when the shadows were lengthening: Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae.37
In the sacred clearing, the Goura-Zannkas were gathering for the nocturnal feast. The fires were ready. Twenty Squat Men and 20 Gou-Anndas were still soaking in the lake, in order that their flesh might be more tender and flavorsome.
It was a day of supreme victory. In less than a month, the Goura-Zannkas had triumphed over the Sons of the Red Rhinoceros, the Sons of the Black Lion and their millennial enemies the Squat Men, the masters of caves and underground tunnels.
The Blue Eagle marched toward the camp of the Chiefs with Colorless Faces. There too the fires had been disposed for the trap-filled night.
The Blue Eagle contemplated Guthrie’s immense stature admiringly, and turned to Ironcastle with an earnest expression. Repeating his words in gestures, he proclaimed, amicably: “This night will be the Goura-Zannkas’ greatest night since Zaoiuma took possession of the forest. Twenty Squat Men and 20 Gou-Anndas will give their strength and courage to the Goura-Zannkas. Ouammha would be pleased to share the flesh of the vanquished with the great Phantom chiefs, for he is their friend, and he knows that they are the masters of death. Would the chief of Wisdom, the Giant chief and the chiefs who strike at a greater distance than the voice of the Sonorous Trumpet can carry care to take part in the great feast?”
Hareton understood the speech. He replied, in words and gestures: “Our clans do not eat human flesh, and it is forbidden to watch it being eaten.”
The Blue Eagle’s face displayed an immense astonishment. “How is that possible?” he said. “What do you do with the vanquished? Your life must be sad!” He realized that this must be the reason for their colorless faces—but because it is necessary to respect strength, and because he was full of gratitude, he limited himself to saying, perhaps with an obscure irony: “Ouammha will send his friends antelopes and warthogs…”
In the green shade, amid the tremulous reflections of the river, Philippe contem
plated Muriel’s fair-haired grace. Beneath her tresses woven from sunlight and moonlight, the daughter of Angels evoked blonde goddesses, oread nymphs and undines springing from the mysterious lakes of the North. She gathered around her the beautiful desires of man and the sacred fictions that made the humble primitive female into an enchanted creature.
Their eyes met. He stammered: “Muriel…perhaps you know…that without you, darkness extends over my future…”
“I’m a poor small thing,” she murmured, “and I owe you my life…”
“Then,” he said anxiously, “if I hadn’t come, out there…”
“Oh! No, Philippe—it wasn’t necessary for you to save my life…”
A breath of creation passed through the air; the river seemed to emerge from that garden of dreams in which the first rivers ran, and the trees were newly-born on an Earth recently sprung from the waters.
Footfalls brushed the grass. Hareton Ironcastle appeared on the bank and saw their emotion. Placing his hand on Philippe’s shoulder, he said: “You may entrust yourself to her, my son! Her heart is pure, her soul constant and she fears the Eternal!”
Part Three
I. The Plant Kingdom
“What a strange world!” Guthrie exclaimed.
The expedition was moving slowly through a savannah whose grasses were blue and violet. As the caravan passed by, these grasses, tall and thick, emitted a euphonic sound that was vaguely reminiscent of the music of violins. At intervals, there was a clump of palm-trees with indigo foliage, or banyans with amethyst leaves. A yellow vapor covered the ground, harmonizing with the hues of the foliage and the grasses.
“We’ve entered the Empire of the Plants!” said Hareton, who was observing the fantastic plain avidly.
He had given orders that the animals were to be prevented from grazing, but the orders were unnecessary. The camels and the goats, and especially the donkeys, sniffed the blue cereals and violet sainfoins mistrustfully. The gorilla manifested a grim anxiety; his round eyes were scrutinizing the locale with an ardent vigilance.
“The animals will die of hunger!” Sir George complained.
“Not yet!” Hareton replied, pointing to the forage with which the camels and donkeys were laden.
“Yes, you’ve made preparations,” said Guthrie, “but there’s one evening meal and one morning meal at the most…”
“They’re desert animals…and if they’re put on rations, they won’t suffer much for several days.”
Guthrie shrugged his shoulders carelessly. A very slow and gentle breeze had begun to blow; faint voices rose up from the entire plain—the voices of minuscule violins, the voices of naïve harps and the evanescent voices of mandolins, which formed a kind of charming and confused symphony.
“One might take it for a concert of Trilbys,” remarked Muriel.38
“Of hobgoblins!” added Maranges.
Whenever they drew near to an island of palm-trees or banyans the voices swelled slightly, like those of muffled organs.
The yellow vapors, thick and low-lying, seemed to prolong a plain of amethysts and sapphires with a plain of topazes. Occasionally, there was a patch of bare ground—purple ground—endowed with a metallic sheen, which would not even support lichens.
Enormous flies went past, the largest of which were the size of blue tits. Their red-brown swarms followed the caravan and swirled around the animals, humming like beetles. Several of them settled on the donkeys and camels, running over their coats at a fantastic speed, but they were evidently harmless.
Minuscule birds sprang up from the grass, scarcely larger than scarabs; perched on grass-stems, a few of them were chirping in shrill tones. The flies pursued them. They were not as agile, but they occasionally captured one of the tiny creatures anyway, and disappeared with their prey into the depths of the long grass.
“That’s frightful!” cried Muriel, who had just seen a fly seize a little bird.
Guthrie burst out laughing. “It’s surely their turn! How long have the birds been swallowing flies? It’s better for us than if they were venomous.”
The plain extended indefinitely, shiny and redoubtable.
“We can withstand hunger for a long time,” Sir George remarked, “but what about thirst?”
“A river flows from east to west,” Hareton replied. “We’re bound to run into it soon. We’ll reach it tonight or tomorrow. Our waterskins are more than half full.”
The caravan stopped in the middle of the day on one of the strips of red rock from which the plants were banished.
“Here we’re sure not to transgress any mysterious laws,” Hareton remarked, while the natives were preparing a meal.
Thanks to the cloud cover that hid the Sun, they were able to remain outside the tent. The anxiety was manifest. This land seemed stranger than anything they had imagined.
“Uncle Hareton,” said Guthrie, when lunch had been served, “if we can’t eat the plants, what are we going to do? I have a suspicion that we’re facing a danger worse than the Squat Men.” He swallowed a vast slice of smoked meat and started laughing, for nothing could deprive him of a part of his joy.
“Don’t worry,” Hareton replied. “We’ll find green plants—or, rather, plants partly red and partly green…and our animals will eat. If all plants or parts of plants were taboo, how would the animals of this land live? In the meantime, our camels, donkeys and goats can’t graze a single stem from this immense meadow.”
“Oh!” Muriel exclaimed. Her extended hand was pointing at a strange creature that was visibly observing the diners. It was a toad as large as a cat—a hairy toad—whose beryl eyes were fixed on the travelers. Even more than its size and coat, the voyagers were fascinated by its third eye, with occupied the top of its skull and could swivel in any direction.
“Prodigious!” Philippe exclaimed.
“Why?” asked Hareton. “Don’t we find a rudimentary eye—hidden, it’s true—in the majority of reptiles? That atrophied eye was probably functional among the ancestral reptiles—and batrachians are close relatives of reptiles.”
The toad had taken a stride—a stride as ample as the bound of a hare. They saw it disappear into a cleft in the rocky ground.
“There must be water underground,” Sir George remarked. “Which explains the prosperity of the violet and blue grasses.”
The minuscule birds went by occasionally, with little cries. One of them settled not far from Muriel. Hypnotized by the presence of the humans, it did not hear the flight of a giant fly, which suddenly descended upon it and got ready to devour it.
“Oh! No...no!” exclaimed the young girl, horrified.
She ran forward, frightening the insect—but the little bird, wounded at the base of a wing, from which a few drops of blood sprang forth, let out to a feeble chirp. Muriel picked it up gently. In the narrow extent of its body, the tiny creature had the beauty of a sunset, the brightness of clouds of beryl, purple, amethyst and topaz. No Vanessa butterfly had more delicately-tinted wings, and its scarlet head, speckled with malachite dots, seemed to be made of some unknown, infinitely precious material.
“What embroiderer, water-colorist or goldsmith could have wrought such a masterpiece in such a limited space?” said Hareton.
“Which cruel nature allowed to be devoured by flies!” said Philippe.
Throughout that day the caravan moved south-westwards. The plain continued, interminably, with its violet and blue grasses, beneath gold and amber clouds, and the strange music of the vegetation brushed by the breeze.
“A frightful monotony!” Guthrie declared. “The blue and violet are making me nauseous—I have a stomach ache!”
“They’re wearisome colors,” agreed Sir George. “We ought to have yellow or orange spectacles.”
“But I have some—and I’d forgotten them!” said Hareton. “Yes, I hadn’t given them a thought since the beginning of the voyage. My excuse is that we all have perfect eyesight—not a myopic or presbyopic individual among us.”
“Not a single hypermetrope. Not a single astigmatic!” Sydney joked.
Dusk was approaching. They made camp on another red islet.
“This rests the eyes!” said Philippe.
“Yes…but what about the river?” asked Sir George. “I can’t see any end to this plain. Tomorrow evening, our waterskins will be empty…”
“The animals won’t be able to drink more than once, on half-rations!” said Guthrie, supportively.
“The Lord will provide!” Hareton replied. “There’s certainly water underground.” He pointed to two colossal toads that were disappearing into a fissure in the earth.
“Good!” said Philippe. “A jackal might just about get through that—but not a man.”
“Especially me,” mumbled the giant.
They were men with solid arteries and confident souls. In spite of the threat of the terrain, they enjoyed their evening meal. The men were pensive; a mysterious dread was weighing upon their imagination.
Philippe and Muriel isolated themselves at the edge of the camp. Among the amber vapors, a fabulous Moon rose like a copper and vermilion medallion. Philippe was intoxicated by the presence of his lithe companion. In her clear visage—a compound of young lilies, nacre and April clouds—the eyes of sapphire, with flecks of jade, had a sensitive sweetness, and her hair shone like ripe wheat.
“We shall be glad to have survived ordeals and seen this strange land!” she said. “The future is less redoubtable than back there, when you were in pursuit of monsters.”
“How I should like to see you again among people of our own kind! I need you to be safe, Muriel!”
“Who knows?” she said, dreamily. “There is no safety. Perhaps this savage land has allowed us to avoid graver evils. We’re poor little things, Philippe…it requires no more than one false step to kill a man who has escaped lions. God is everywhere—and everywhere, He rules our destinies.”
“You’re not a Muslim, though!” he said, with faint irony.
The Mysterious Force Page 27
