Occasionally, a frisson agitated her breast. The jackals that were following her with a prudent effrontery were the symbol of everything in the savage land that was on the lookout for life in order to destroy and devour it. They were led by the eternal hunger that makes a promise to the belly of every living creature.
Dawn was approaching when a shrill voice pierced the air—and Muriel saw a long body gliding slyly through the grass. Its eyes darted two emerald gleams.
The young woman watched the terrifying thing coming: the flesh that coveted her flesh…
The jackals had stopped, their ears pricked, simultaneously full of dread, desire and hope. Muriel felt the immense solitude, and all the cruelty of the universe, weighing upon her…
Browning in hand, she murmured; “Lord, thou art my strength and my shield!”
Meanwhile, troubled by Muriel’s gaze and her upright stature, the feline did not attack. The rule of its race dictated that it must take any prey capable of defending itself by surprise.
In the blue night, the human eyes held the ferocious eyes in check. Muriel was ready to fight. The predator, stretching itself out, glided through the grass like a fluid…
VI. The Scaly Men
When Hareton opened his eyes, at dawn, he remained in a kind of torpor for some time. A mist floated before his eyes. His companions were still asleep, as was the gorilla…
Vague forms were moving in the tent, like shadows on a wall. They became more precise—and Hareton, after a start that woke him up completely, discerned extraordinary creatures. Were they animals? Were they men?
Like men, they were vertical in stature, even though their feet were like the trotters of wild pigs and their legs were like the legs of lizards. Their bodies were covered with translucent plates, mixed with green fur, and their heads were not precisely reminiscent of any human or animal head: cylindrical, with a sort of mossy cone at the summit, they were the color of malachite. The triangular mouth seemed to have three lips; the nose was reduced to three elliptical holes; and the eyes were sunk into hollows whose edges were toothed like a saw. Those eyes emitted a variable phosphorescence, with purple, orange and yellow glints. Their hands had four claws, opposable to three others, but no palms…
Hareton tried in vain to stand up. Lianas as slender as cotton thread, and very numerous, bound his limbs. Slightly elastic, they stretched when the American made an effort.
Ironcastle’s astonishment did not last long. As the clarity of his memory increased, he mentally recapitulated Samuel Darnley’s notes and realized that these fantastic beings were those which, in this land replaced humans.
Instinctively, he tried to talk to them. “What do you want?” he said.
His voice caused the cavernous eyes to turn toward him, and whistling sounds rose up: deep whistling sounds that were reminiscent both of the chirping of blackbirds and the sound of gross panpipes.
Their faces were mobile, but only in a single direction, in such a way as only to form vertical wrinkles. In consequence, their expressions were quite unlike any familiar expressions.
Philippe woke up in response to the sound, and then Sir George and Guthrie. All three were bound, like Ironcastle. The lamentations of the men went up from the neighboring tents.
“What’s this?” growled Guthrie, gripped by fury. His powerful muscles distended the lianas to the point that they seemed to be on the point of breaking. Ten scaly men precipitated themselves toward the colossus—but the bonds did not give way. “Where did these monsters spring from?” he howled. “By comparison, the Squat Men were celestial creatures!”
“They’re human, or nearly,” said Hareton, sadly, “who hold us captive!”
The natives were making a frightful racket; at intervals, the growl of the gorilla could be heard.
“Are they prisoners too?”
Suddenly, Ironcastle uttered a howl of distress, almost immediately echoed by Philippe. Muriel was not in the tent. Horror and somber dread infected him.
“What do these monsters want?” Guthrie exclaimed, after a silence.
Philippe was weeping, and Ironcastle was sobbing. “I have tempted the Lord,” the latter moaned. “Oh Lord, let my sin fall back on myself alone!”
They were soon certain that the “monsters” were pseudo-humans. One by one, the travelers, the gorilla and the majority of the natives were dexterously and methodically loaded on to camels. The claws manifested an extraordinary vigor and complexity of gestures. Guthrie howled insults. Sir George, still impassive, muttered: “Where are they taking us? Do they know how to make use of animals?”
Then they made their most surprising move. They untied five of the men, including Kouram, and pointed to the tents, and then the animals.
Kouram understood. “Should we obey, Master?” he asked Hareton.
Ironcastle scarcely hesitated. Evidently, the Scaly Men held the lives of the prisoners in their hands, and resistance might unleash an obscure anger. It was better to gain as much time as possible. “Obey!” he said.
Fatalistically, Kouram had the tents dismantled, and when everything was ready for the departure, he led the caravan away, guided by the gestures of the kidnappers.
One of them—an individual scalier and greener than all the rest—seemed to be the chief. About 50 pseudo-humans were marching alongside the caravan; 20 preceded it and they were able to count about 40 bringing up the rear.
Maddened by the anxiety that Muriel’s fate was causing them, Hareton and Maranges observed events imperfectly, while Guthrie was only just beginning to recover his self-composure. Sir George alone had watched everything with profound attention. The intelligence of the monsters seemed evident, their discipline perfect and their language highly-developed. To give an order, the chief did not make any gesture; his finely-modulated whistles were sufficient to make himself understood. He only had recourse to gestures when addressing himself to Kouram, in whom he had quickly recognized an authority superior to that of the other men.
Besides, the Briton thought, he has taken care not to untie any white man. He therefore knows, instinctively or otherwise, that they are different from natives and more dangerous…
The expedition marched parallel to the forest for several hours. Then the Mimosas became more widely spaced; a sort of heathland appeared, where pine-trees, ferns and tall bright green mosses were growing. The Scaly Men set forth into it deliberately.
“Where the Devil are they taking us?” said Guthrie, who was now observing as minutely as Sir George.
Hareton and Philippe had also moderated their agitation.
“They’re taking us home, I assume,” the Englishman replied. “Note that they’re treating the plants here with brutality, whereas, back there, they were careful not to make contact with the trees, or even the bushes.
“There’s not a single Mimosa in this place,” Hareton remarked. “And the majority of the vegetable species seem primitive—cryptogams or gymnosperms…”
“All that doesn’t give us any information as to our fate,” Sydney complained.
“They haven’t killed us,” Sir George retorted, calmly. “They’re taking the trouble to take us with them, and our animals…”
“And our provisions!”
“One can infer, without overmuch temerity, that they intend to keep us alive.”
“At what price?” A furious quiver shook Guthrie’s giant body.
“I assume that we’ll be captives…and that they intend to make use of us…”
“Damn it!” the colossus cursed. What proof is there that we won’t be the fresh meat at a feast? Why shouldn’t these fellows be cannibals, like our friends the Goura-Zannkas? In that case, we’ll have nothing to look forward to.”
The heath broadened out; the mosses became enormous, a breeze stirring them like vast heads of hair; the pines were no more than stinted bushes, while the ferns formed arborescent bouquets where strange sarigues41 and flightless birds the size of bustards took refuge, along with worms lik
e threads of wrought iron.
The expedition went around the fern-thickets without the order of the march being disturbed. Hareton was now observing the Scaly Men as attentively as Sir George. Their armaments were bizarre. Each of them carried a sort of helical harpoon made of red stone, a plate carved into a half-moon, and—in a leather bag—round and spiny projectiles, also red, the form of which resembled sea-urchins. The efficacy of these projectiles became evident when a group of warthogs passed by. Three warthogs, struck by the “sea-urchins,” rolled on the ground and died in convulsive agony. The weapons were evidently steeped in poison.
“You can see that they’re human—and ingenious humans too,” Sir George said to Sydney.
“What prevents there being animals as ingenious as humans?” the giant complained. “They can be anything you want, but not men.”
At about midday, the leader of the expedition gave the signal to halt. They did so in the shade of ferns as tall as plane-trees, whose thick foliage provided shade that was almost cool.
Kouram was then permitted to communicate with his masters and the black prisoners.
“Can you understand them, Kouram?” Ironcastle asked.
“Sometimes, Master. I know, therefore, that they want me to give you something to drink and eat.” The man spoke in a weary and miserable tone. He sensed a threat hanging over him direr than death—and the white man’s prestige had disappeared. Another, unnamable, prestige had arisen to oppress the guide’s superstitious soul…
Aided by his free companions, Kouram helped his masters to eat and drink, and then took care of the immobilized natives.
The halt was not long. The expedition got under way again, and the landscape underwent a further metamorphosis. Chains of rocks emerged from the ground; they advanced in shadow through a bleak gorge, as red as fresh blood.
When sunset approached, another halt was commanded. The melancholy prisoners considered an immense scarlet ring sealed by high cliffs, with no other exit than the gorge from which they had emerged.
“Is this where these monsters live?” Guthrie exclaimed. “I don’t see any sign of shelter.”
“I assume they live in the rock,” Sir George replied.
The chief’s whistling interrupted them. They saw the Scaly Men of the escort form a circle around the caravan and other individuals appeared at the base of the red cliffs, as if they were actually emerging from the rocks.
An intense whistling replied to the chief’s whistles. The camels having been relieved of their animate and inanimate burdens, Hareton, Sir George, Philippe, Sydney, Dick Nightingale and Patrick Jefferson were set down in a group with the bound natives. Then, half a dozen Scaly Men brought dry wood, with which they lit a fire, which they sprinkled with a yellowish liquid.
“This bodes ill,” said Hareton, sadly, on seeing the flames spring up. “Just in case, my friends, let’s say farewell!”
The monsters drew away, driving the beasts of burden to the far end of the enclosure.
“I’m guilty of having brought you all to this,” Ironcastle went on. “I ask your forgiveness.”
“Come on, Uncle Hareton,” said Guthrie. “We’re men, and we intend to take responsibility for our own actions.”
The fire was blazing more powerfully; an aromatic odor spread through the atmosphere. Philippe thought desperately about Muriel and his sister Monique.
“It’s a wise precaution to prepare oneself for death,” said Sir George, “but all is not lost.”
“Let’s pray,” said Hareton.
The increasing flames threw an orange light into the shadow of the rocks; the odor became more penetrating; a strange languor took hold of the men.
In the distance, the Scaly Men abandoned themselves to fantastic rhythmic movements, punctuated by long whistles.
One by one, the prisoners collapsed on the ground and became still.
VII. Muriel in the Unknown
The beast had only one bound to make to reach Muriel, and the packs of jackals, moving closer, awaited the denouement with a voracious impatience. The prey was too large for there not to be flesh, entrails and blood left over once the large predator was sated; they would have their turn then.
In this tragic situation it was not so much fear that motivated Muriel but an incommensurable sadness and a curious bitter humility. The daughter of dominant races that had enslaved animals and plants, she was no more than a feeble victim, vanquished flesh that was coveted by a cat, a hyena and jackals. Her entire sense of existence was inverted, as if the ancient ages had returned, when the fate of humans was confounded with that of other animals.
The unknown beast growled, and Muriel, resigned and combative at the same time, did not miss a single one of its movements. Still attempting to take the prey by surprise, the feline moved around her, and then drew closer in such a way that the young woman thought it was attacking and decided to fire.
Two shots rang out. Wounded and furious, the beast leapt at Muriel and knocked her over. A mouth with sharp canines opened above the white throat…
At that moment, a raucous cry—a fantastic clamor simultaneously reminiscent of the sound of a torrent and the howl of a wolf—rose up on the plain. Two singular animals appeared on a mound. Their scaly bodies bore some analogy to the body of a Newfoundland dog; their cubic heads were almost as large as a lion’s.
The feline recoiled; the jackals and the hyena beat a retreat and the monstrous beasts ran forward. When they were no more than a few meters away, the feline fled desperately, and Muriel got to her feet.
A more mysterious danger was menacing her. Dazedly, she contemplated the creatures, as chimerical as winged bulls, unicorns, fauns and sirens. All resistance seemed vain. Muriel folded her arms and waited for the attack.
There was no attack.
Two paces away from the young woman, the animals stopped. Almost immediately, more individuals appeared—but this time, they belonged to the familiar universe. They were three natives, tall in stature, and armed with rifles, so similar to the men of the caravan that for a moment, Muriel thought they had come to look for her. Merely by their accoutrements, she realized that she was mistaken; one might have thought that they were clad in polished glass, but a glass as flexible as linen or hemp. Their costume consisted of a kind of close-fitting jacket, and a short skirt, hanging down to mid-thigh, a hat with a flat rim, and a kind of belt in which a knife and a hatchet were visible.
They waved their arms, and one of them exclaimed: “Don’t be afraid! Friends!”
Stunned with amazement, she waited for them to come down from the mound.
When they were closer, the one who had spoken—who bore a vague resemblance to Kouram—asked: “American?”
“Yes,” she said, nervously.
The man had soft, tranquil eyes. “Me too,” he said.
There was a pause. The scaly animals prowled around the young woman; the men examined Muriel attentively.
Suddenly, she had an inspiration, and murmured: “Do you know Mr. Samuel Darnley?”
“He’s my master.”
“We’re looking for him.”
“I thought so,” said the man, laughing and clapping his hands. “In that case, Miss…or Mrs…?”
“Miss Ironcastle.”
“Come on—it’s this way.”
“Is it far?”
“Two hours’ march.”
It was one of those times when it was necessary to risk everything. She did not hesitate; she went with the men.
They led her over a savannah, and then traversed—with minute precautions—a forest in which baobabs and banyans alternated with Mimosas. Otherwise, the march was easy, the trees being spaced out or forming islets that they went around.
They came to a stream, whose bank the men followed to a place where enormous stones, not very far apart, permitted them to cross over.
“We’re nearly there,” said the one who had accosted Muriel.
The plants had become sparse; red ground
stretched away, bounded by a rocky wall.
At that moment, the scaly beasts made their fantastic voices heard.
A tall man appeared in the shadow of the rocks. His sunburned complexion, which almost seemed black, made a striking contrast with his hair and beard, which were as blond as Muriel’s hair. His ultramarine eyes fixed themselves on the young woman, and he exclaimed, in amazement: “Miss Ironcastle!”
“Mr. Darnley!” she exclaimed. She was gripped by such emotion that she nearly fainted.
Having advanced toward her, Samuel Darnley took her hands and squeezed them tenderly. Then an anxiety creased his tanned face. “Where’s Hareton?” he asked.
“He’s back there…with the expedition,” she stammered, “plunged in a lethargic sleep…we’ve been unable to move any further forward since yesterday…”
Darnley shook his head, and frowned. “It’s them!” he muttered. “You’ve strayed into a region that’s temporarily forbidden…they’ve defended themselves…”
“Who?”
“The Mimosas. It’s necessary to know them and obey them…”
Muriel listened fearfully, but not astonished. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide. Other natives had just emerged, along with indefinable creatures. Because of their upright stature, they were broadly reminiscent of humans, but their pachyderm-like feet, their lizard-like legs, the scales with which they were covered, mixed with coarse hair, their heads like cylinders of bark surmounted by a mossy cone, their triangular mouths and their sunken eyes, which emitted a multicolored phosphorescence, was not precisely reminiscent of an animal or human form. In spite of having experienced so many extraordinary events and spectacles, Muriel was momentarily stupefied.
“They’re human!” said Darnley, in response to the young woman’s glance. “Or rather, they play the role of humans in this region. Strictly speaking, their organisms are as different from ours as those of a baboon and, for instance, a dog. Don’t be afraid, Miss Ironcastle—they’re my allies, absolutely reliable, incapable of the slightest treason. It’s only necessary to fear those with whom I haven’t yet been able to forge an alliance.” He interrupted himself, his brows furrowed. “Let’s think about Ironcastle and his friends! Since you were able, in spite of everything, to get out of the afflicted territory, the acceleratory energy must already have diminished. I think, therefore, that our friends are now awake and on the move. Let’s go look for them.”
The Mysterious Force Page 30
