by Sax Rohmer
“We are covered, Kerrigan,” said Smith. “Did you note that man?”
“Yes.”
“One of the Voodoo doctors, beyond doubt. Drums will beat feverishly tonight.”
He said no more right up to the moment that we reached the priest’s house, a long, low, creeper-clad building, flowers climbing above a verandah which overlooked a tropical garden where humming birds hovered and butterflies of incredible colours flitted from flower to flower. As we descended from the car:
“The Father has comfortable quarters,” murmured Smith.
We were met by the genial priest and shown into a cool and spacious study. I thought, looking about me at the plain unpainted shelves laden with works in many languages, at the littered working-desk, a typewriter on a side table and a large crucifix upon a white wall, that here, probably, was the headquarters of Rome in its battle against African superstition, an advance post of Christianity all but hemmed in by the forces of ancient and evil gods.
* * *
When dusk fell Smith and I, with Father Ambrose, were in the garden. I looked into the crimson sunset and wondered what the new dawn would bring. With dramatic suddenness, the sky became a mirror of glorious colour—light jade, deep purple and a shell-like pink—all merging as I watched into an inverted casket of blue velvet, holding a million diamonds. A queenly moon rode in that serene heaven.
“It is time we went in,” said Father Ambrose.
Back in the study, now electrically lighted, for there was a small Kohler engine installed in the garage, I stood staring at Smith and he stared at me. We were heavily sun-burned, yet, except in the dusk, no man, I think, could have been deceived by our substitutes, two trustworthy lads selected by the priest who, wearing our clothes, had gone back in the consul’s car and would sleep in his compound that night. It was hoped, in this way, to lead spies to believe that we had returned to Port au Prince.
Smith wore an ill-fitting drill suit and a straw hat. I was similarly attired, except that I boasted a scarlet pullover beneath my jacket. My own headgear was a pith helmet of sorts.
“How many spare rounds in your belt?” Smith snapped.
“Twelve.”
He nodded grimly.
“More would be useless.”
As he began to load his pipe, Father Ambrose closed gauze shutters before the windows.
“The light attracts many nocturnal insects,” he explained; “some are beautiful, but others are unpleasant.”
Smith lighted his pipe and standing by the desk took from his pocket two objects. One was the green snake lent to us by the priest: the other was a jewel in the form of a seven-pointed star.
“This is the amulet from Barton’s collection,” he said, “to which I referred, Father.”
Father Ambrose changed his glasses and sitting down carefully examined the glittering jewel. Presently he looked up.
“The snake emblem, as I have told you,” he said, “denotes a shepherd, papaloi, or—shall we say?—a lodge master. But this—” he touched it gingerly—“is the badge of a high adept, or grand master. Strange how the significance of 7 haunts the pagan mysteries. I cannot imagine where Sir Lionel obtained it.”
Smith laughed.
“The same has been said of many pieces in Barton’s collection! But I may take it that these tokens will pass?”
“I have little doubt of that, but grave doubt of my wisdom in countenancing this thing. Both are emblems of Damballa, the serpent god, and are anti-Christ, like the swastika. However, I have promised and I do my part. I have shown you the way to the spot where the donkeys are tethered, and when we have sampled a glass each of my rum cordial—a very special honour, I assure you—I fear you must set out.”
We sampled his rum cordial in the lamp-lit room, a book-lined oasis in a Haitian jungle, and anxiously he gave us final advice, unwittingly displaying, as he did so, a vast knowledge of this country in which he was absorbed. Finally, glancing at a clock upon his desk: “It is time that you started,” he said. “I should like to give you my blessing.”
A queer dignity invested the stout priest, as laying down his vast calabash pipe on a tray, he stood up. Although neither Smith nor I were communicants of his Church we knelt as though prompted by one instinct whilst, his deep voice lending authority to the Latin, he blessed our journey.
Five minutes later we had groped our way to the end of a narrow lane which bordered the bottom of the priest’s garden, where scarcely visible lizards shot phantomesque from before our advancing feet. The lanterns of fire-flies seemed to guide us. Two well-kept, patient donkeys were tethered there, saddled and ready, but unattended. As we tightened a strap here and there, and presently mounted:
“This end of the business has been perfectly handled,” said Smith. “Barton is dining with the American Consul tonight as arranged, but amongst the servants there will almost certainly be one spy, and our absence will be reported.”
We ambled out on to the road that led up to the mountain; others, mostly on foot, were making in the same direction. And as though our joining that mysterious procession had been the signal, from before us, in the high forests, from behind us in the valleys, from all around—the drums began.
“After dark,” said Smith in a low voice, “Haiti reverts to its ancient gods.”
But we had jogged onward and upward for many miles talking in low tones before we came to the beginning of the most perilous road I remembered ever to have seen.
It skirted sheer precipices, and I doubt if two riders could have passed upon it. But this way the dark figures were going and none were coming back. I could see it ahead, a silver thread picked out by the moon, ant-like humans moving along it. In a sort of rocky bay Smith reined up.
“We have three hours yet,” he said. “I want to listen to the drums.”
We stayed there listening to the drums for five, seven, ten minutes. It was a language strange to me. Messages and responses merged into one confused throbbing; that throbbing which had haunted my nights, kept me wakeful when I should have been sleeping. Figures afoot, figures mounted, passed by the little belt of shade in which we lingered—all bound for the secret meeting place on the crest of the mountain. Some of the pilgrims carried lanterns; some carried torches. Presently:
“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 li
ves 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 com
mand.
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.
