by Sax Rohmer
“I am in the news,” said Smith in a low voice, “but I can gather no more. You see, I know what may be termed my ‘signature tune’.”
Then, mounted on a mule, clearly outlined against the pearly moon, a figure rode slowly by. Apart from a sensation of lowered temperature, it was impossible to mistake the angular figure — impossible to mistake the profile.
It was Dr. Fu-Manchu.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. THE SONG OF DAMBALLA
“Smith,” I whispered, “did you see? Did you see? It was Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“I saw.”
“I could have shot him!”
“That would have been a tactical blunder. But apparently he did not see us. There is even a possibility that he does not know that we are on this road. You noticed his retinue?”
“Six or eight thick-set fellows seemed to be preceding and as many to be following him.”
“His Burmese bodyguard.”
“But what does this mean? That the Voodoo ceremony is organized by Fu-Manchu? That we are walking into a trap?”
“Somehow I don’t think so, Kerrigan, although I admit I may be wrong. But the presence of Fu-Manchu in person rather confirms the theory on which I am acting.”
The eerie throbbing of the drums was now unbroken, a sort of evil pulse as of a secret world awakening. Figures, mostly on foot, singly and in groups passed the shadowed bay in the rocks which shielded us. Sometimes, but rarely, a mounted man or woman went by.
“Surely, Smith,” I said, “we should have kept him in view?”
“That would have been too dangerous. Moreover, it is reasonable to assume that he is bound for the same destination as ourselves. Great Caution is indicated. We carry our lives in our hands, although I have not failed to take suitable steps to prevent the worst befalling. I may add that I don’t like the look of the mountain path which now lies before us, but nevertheless we must push on.”
We resumed our journey along a path cut from the face of a sheer precipice, a path which at no point was more than ten feet wide and at many, less. No wall or parapet was present, and the donkeys. Smith’s leading, after the way of their kind resolutely refused to hug the rugged wall and picked their ambling way along the very rim of the road.
I found it to be quite impossible to look down into that moon-patched valley below. I concentrated on the path ahead, where, emerging from shadow into silvery light, countless figures toiled onward and upward, their going marked by torch or lantern. Clearly one could trace it — a jewelled thread woven at a dizzy height into the mountain side.
Now, there was a frosty nip in the air, and I was thankful for the advice of Father Ambrose, acting upon which we had wrapped ourselves warmly beneath our ancient drill jackets. Once — and my throat grew dry — a more speedy party overtook us on the way; a group of three Haitians swinging along with lithe, almost silent tread. Having attempted to urge my donkey to the inner side of the path and succeeded only in inducing him to kick a number of stones into the yawning chasm below, I was compelled to allow them to pass on my left. They were tall, powerful fellows, and it occurred to me that a good thrust from any one of them would have precipitated me and the obstinate little brute I rode into the depths beneath. Others there were on the path behind; but they did not seem to be overtaking us.
Then, from that seemingly endless procession, from thousands of feet above, and from behind, where the tail of the pilgrimage straggled up from the valleys, arose a low chanting. It seemed to mingle with the throb of the drums, to be part of the black magic to which this night was consecrated.
“Do you hear it?” came Smith’s voice.
“Yes — it’s horrible.”
“It is known, I believe, as the Song of Damballa. Of course, it is purely African in character.”
He spoke as one who criticizes some custom depicted upon a movie screen or mentioned by a travelled member in the bar of a club. Knowing, and I knew it well, that we were surrounded by devil worshippers, by those who delighted in human sacrifice, among whom, if they suspected our purpose, our lives would not be worth a sou, I was amazed. Often enough I had been amazed before at the imperturbable self-possession, a concentration on the job in hand, a complete disregard of personal hazard, which characterized this lean and implacable enemy of Dr. Fu-Manchu. And I confess that above all other perils I feared Dr. Fu-Manchu.
Discovery by the woman called Queen Mamaloi was a prospect bad enough, but recognition of the fact that the Chinese doctor was possibly directing this black saturnalia frankly appalled me. And now from far in the rear came a new sound.
There were cries, greetings. Above the Song of Damballa, the throbbing of drums, I detected the clatter of horse’s hoofs.
“This may be difficult,” said Smith, speaking over his shoulder. “Some senior official is apparently approaching; and it is just possible—”
“God help us!” I groaned.
“We can probably manage,” Smith replied, “assuming that he is Haitian — although I confess I should prefer to have my back to the wall. You have no Chinese or Hindustani?”
“Not a word.”
“Arabic, then. This has a powerful effect on these descendants of West Africans. It has come down to them as the language of their oppressors.”
“Yes, I have a smattering of Arabic.”
“Good. If anyone addresses you, reply in Arabic. Say anything you can remember — don’t stop to consider the meaning.”
Now, the outcry grew nearer. The horseman was forcing his way up the mountain path, passing the slow moving pilgrims to the shrine of Voodoo. I looked back. We had just negotiated a dizzy bend and I could see nothing of the approaching rider.
* * * *
“Have your gun ready,” said Smith, and brought his donkey to a halt.
I did the same, although the iron-jawed little beast was strongly disinclined to pull up. The horseman was now not fifty yards behind.
“If he is looking for us,” said Smith, “and we are recognized, don’t hesitate.”
Looking back, I could make out dimly that the pilgrims between ourselves and the perilous bend had halted their march and were standing back against the rocky wall to give passage to the horseman. A moment later he rounded the corner, riding a lean bay mare and obviously indifferent to the chasm which yawned beneath him. As he passed each of the standing figures he bent in his saddle and seemed to scrutinize features. A moment later he had reached us.
He partly reined up and bent, looking into my face. I sat in the shadow, the moon behind me, but its light shone directly upon the features of the mounted man.
He was that fierce-eyed mulatto whom we had passed on our way to the house of Father Ambrose, who had stared so hard into the car!
He shouted something in a strange patois, and remembering Smith’s injunction:
“Imshi! rüah! bundtikîyah!” I replied sharply.
The mulatto seemed to hesitate; when, as the prancing bay almost lashed the flanks of my donkey:
“Yâlla! Yâlla!” cried Smith
The mulatto spurred ahead.
“Move!” said Smith; “or the others will overtake us.”
And once again we proceeded on our way.
We presently came to a welcome break or bay in that perilous mountain road, and here I saw that numbers of the marching multitude had halted for a rest. An awesome prospect was spread at our feet. We were so high, the moon was so bright, and shadows so dense, that I seemed to be looking down upon a relief map illuminated by searchlights. Eastward, at a great distance, shone a lake resembling a mirror, for in it were the inverted images of mountains which I assumed must lie beyond the Dominican border. As I reined up and gazed at this breath-taking prospect, a hand was laid upon my saddle. Swiftly I glanced down at a man who stood there.
He was a pure Negro, and when he spoke he spoke in halting English.
“You come from Pétionville — yes?” he asked.
“Kattar khérak,” I replied, and extended my hand
in a Fascist salute.
Smith edged up beside me.
“El-hamdu li’llah!” he muttered and repeated my gesture.
The Negro touched his forehead, stepped aside and was swallowed in shadow.
“So far,” said Smith, speaking cautiously, “we are doing well, but it is fairly obvious that when we have mounted another two or three thousand feet, we shall arrive at the real gateway to the holy of holies. There we must rely upon our amulets. Above all, Kerrigan, never speak a word of English, and pray that we meet no one who speaks a word of Arabic!”
He was looking about him at dimly perceptible groups who had paused there to rest. Of the mounted mulatto there was no trace, nor — and of this above all things I was fearful — of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Many of the pedestrians were refreshing themselves, seated upon the ground. Newcomers arrived continuously. Chanting had stopped, but from near and far came the throbbing of the drums.
“A drink is perhaps indicated,” said Smith, “and then for the next stage.”
As we extracted flasks from our pockets, I was watching the silver and ebony ribbon speckled with moving figures which led higher and higher towards the crest of the Magic Mountain. What awaited us there? Should I learn anything about Ardatha? What was the meaning of this monstrous congregation patiently toiling up the slope of Morne la Selle? That it was something of interest to Dr. Fu-Manchu we knew; but what was the mystery behind it all — and who was the Queen Mamaloi?
Smith was very reticent throughout the halt. I recognized the fact that he was afraid of being overheard speaking English, and I fully appreciated the danger. So, our flasks stowed away, we presently started again with scarcely a word exchanged, the Padre’s donkeys obediently ambling along at our command.
The chanting began again as we ascended the mountain: the drums had never ceased.
CHAPTER THIRTY. THE SEVEN-POINTED STAR
“This,” said Smith, “I assume to be the Voodoo Custom House. Here we shall be called upon to produce our passports.”
We were up, I suppose, between seven and eight thousand feet. We had traversed some of the most perilous mountain paths I had ever met with, but I had learned that the little donkeys, provided one did not attempt to interfere with them, particularly with their fondness for walking upon the extreme outer edge of the precipice, were sure-footed as goats.
For the past two or three miles the road had led through a pass or gorge to which no moonlight penetrated. A mountain stream raged and splashed at the bottom and the path lay some little way above it. The darkness at first seemed impenetrable; but the procession wound on without interruption and our plodding steeds proceeded with unabated confidence. And so presently, through that velvety blackness dotted with moving torches, I too began to discern the details of the route.
Now it opened with dramatic suddenness upon what seemed to be an almost Circular valley, hemmed in all around by mountain crests. Its slopes were densely wooded, but immediately facing the gorge there was a clearing as flat as a sports stadium and fully half a mile across. Torches moved among the trees; there were drums very near to us, now; and I saw hundreds of figures gathered before a long, low building which blazed with lights. Away on the right there was a sort of compound where horses, mules and donkeys were tethered. Towards these horse-lines Smith led the way.
“Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.
The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys:
“A dollar for the two.”
“Imshi, hâmmâr!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.
“Not enough! not enough!” he exclaimed.
“Etla bárra! Gehânnum!” I growled and gave the Fascist salute.
As before, this singular behaviour proved effective. He looked from face to face, pocketed the money, glanced at the donkeys and walked away.
“So far so good,” muttered Smith. “Now let us take our bearings and make our plans. Here, you observe, is a perfect landing ground.”
We walked slowly towards the verandah of the lighted house on the further side of the clearing; and it soon became apparent that the place was a sort of rest-house or caravanseri. All around in the extensive space before it, pilgrims were squatting on the ground, devouring refreshments which they had brought with them. But, as I saw, the more prosperous were entering the building. Many already were seated upon the verandah, and I could see movement in a room beyond. The front of the house was masked in shadow, and Smith grasped my arm as we stepped into the dark belt.
“You see what this is, Kerrigan; a separation of the sheep from the goats. Judging from the sound of the drums our real objective is beyond.”
I stood there listening.
In some manner which I find myself unable to explain, this continuous throbbing of drums had wrought a sort of change of the spirit. It had stirred up something Celtic and buried, provoked urges of which hitherto I had been unconscious. My desire for Ardatha had become a fever; my hatred of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu-Manchu, of all those who held her captive, had increased hour by hour until now it was a burning fiery torrent. This recognition, or rather, I suppose, the unassuming of control by the conscious over the subconscious, rather shocked me. Unperceived by my Christian self I had been reverting to savagery!
“Yes,” I spoke with studied calmness. “As you say, here is the gateway. The Queen Mamaloi is somewhere beyond.”
“Here is the gateway,” Smith replied, “and here is our test. Remember, stick to Arabic.”
Whereupon, still grasping my arm, he moved forward to the verandah of the lighted building.
As we mounted three wooden steps, I was thinking of Ardatha.
* * * *
Crossing the verandah I found myself in a long, low room which in many respects resembled a canteen. One glance convinced me, in spite of the light complexions of some of those present, that Smith and I were the only people in the place of non-African blood. There were a number of chairs and tables spread about the unpolished floor, and I think nearly as many women as men were present.
Their behaviour was so strange that I wondered what they had been drinking — for at one end of the room there was a counter presided over by two coloured women. I saw that in addition to a quantity of solid fare, most of it unfamiliar and from my point of view unappetizing, bottles of rum, gin and whisky were in evidence. In some of the faces a sort of ecstasy began to dawn; and watching, I realized the fact that they were responding to the drums.
Movements of shoulders and arms, shuffling of feet, and already a muted chanting, told me that at any moment all the great coloured throng might obey that deep tribal impulse which is part of Africa, and throw themselves wildly into the abandonment of a ritual dance.
Smith spoke in my ear.
“Don’t seem to be curious,” he whispered, “and remember — nothing but Arabic. Let us stand here for a while and smoke. I see that some of the men are smoking.”
I lighted a cigarette whilst he began to load his briar. I cannot say if it was the drums, the overstrung human instrument represented by those about me, or something else. But I was tensed to a pitch of excitement which I knew to be supernormal. I tried, as I lighted the cigarette, to drag myself down to facts; to watch Smith calmly loading his pipe; to study those about me; to appreciate our perils and how we were to deal with them.
“Hang on to yourself, Kerrigan,” said Smith in a low voice. “We are near to the Master Drums. They have a queer effect — even upon Europeans.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have been watching your eyes.�
�� He replaced the pouch in his pocket and lighted his pipe, his penetrating glance fixed upon me over the bowl. “It’s a kind of hypnotism, but you mustn’t let it touch you.”
His words acted like a cold douche. Yes, it was a fact. In common with the Negroes and Negresses about the place, I had been reacting to those satanic drums! I knew it now, and knowing, knew also that the insidious influence could never prevail upon me again.
“Thanks, Smith,” I said. “I agree. It was getting me.”
“I am particularly interested,” he went on, “in the fact that there seems to be no one in the room whom we know. But the traffic at the bar has curious features.”
“What are they?”
“Well, if you watch, you will be able to check my own impressions. You will observe, I think, that certain customers go there, give an order, and then almost immediately head for that door on the left and go out. The others either remain at the bar, or carry their purchases back to their table. Just watch this pair for example.”
A man and a woman coming in from the verandah outside crossed straight to the counter. The girl was a full-blooded Negress and physically a beautiful creature; her male companion was light brown, his complexion pitted like that of a smallpox patient, his small yellow eyes darting from right to left suspiciously as he crossed the room. But, failing other evidence, his hair, for he wore no hat, must have betrayed his African origin.
“Watch,” said Smith.
I watched.
The pair walked to the counter; the man gave an order to one of the women. Glasses were filled and set before them. But as payment was made I detected a change of attitude on the part of the server. She glanced swiftly at the girl and then at her companion. In a businesslike way which momentarily made me think that we had intruded upon some harmless feast day frolic, she handed change to the man.
“Now,” whispered Smith, “watch closely.”
