by Sax Rohmer
No living thing was in sight. From before that strange house of entertainment which we had left, singing and drumming grew even louder. Beyond, very far beyond it seemed, deep in the forest, other drums were beating, deep-toned, mysterious drums, and I thought that they were calling to us.
“Clearly this is our way,” said Smith, in a low voice. “I am evidently a person of some consequence, as Father Ambrose assured us, and one presumes that initiates are supposed to know the path. Come on.”
We set out. The track climbed up and up through the trees, and although I was keeping a tight hold upon myself, one obsession there was which I could not conquer. It seemed to be fostered by those distant drums. It was not fear of those who worshipped the serpent, bloodthirsty though their rites may be—indeed, according to some accounts cannibalistic—nor tremors that we had been betrayed. It was a fear which constantly made me mistake some odd-shaped bush, some low-growing branch, for the gaunt figure of Dr. Fu Manchu. Amid all the other horrors of the night I found it impossible to forget the fact that the great and sinister Chinese doctor was somewhere near.
Large nocturnal insects flew into our faces; other, unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth. The sound of the deep-toned drums grew even nearer, so that that of the saturnalia we had left behind was rarely audible at all. More and more stars gleamed into view, until the darkness beneath the pines became a sort of twilight; we had glimpses of the disc of the moon.We were nearing a crest beyond which it was evident that there lay another plateau or perhaps a high valley. The going was very heavy. We had been steadily climbing for close upon an hour, and my condition was not too good. Suddenly Smith pulled up.
“Do you know, Kerrigan,” he said, breathing rapidly, “except for the fact that we are nearing the place at which the drums are beating, I should have begun to doubt if we had taken, the right route.”
“Why?”
“Unless the pace of everyone using that path is more or less attuned to ours, how is it (a) that we have overtaken no one, and (b) that no one has overtaken w?”
It was a curious point, the force of which struck me at once. Smith took out his flask, and I was not sorry to resort to mine.
“I am inclined to believe,” I replied, “that all, or nearly all, the chosen few preceded us. In other words, we are late—”
“Ssh!” he checked me: “do you hear it?”
And during a momentary diminuendo in the passionate throbbing of the drums, I heard it—a faint, but unmistakable disturbance of the pine needles which formed a carpet upon most of the path below. Someone followed in our footsteps.
“Just time to take cover,” snapped Smith, “if we are quick!”
On the right of the path at this point a ravine yawned darkly: only the crests of the tallest trees rose above it.On the left the ground sloped gently upward. Some kind of flowering shrub abounded, and here the pines were scanty. Smith scrambled up this slope and dived into its sheltering darkness. His voice reached me in a whisper: “Down here, Kerrigan! There’s a perfect view of the path and we can’t be seen. Also, it may be dangerous to go further. There may be unsuspected chasms.”
I groped my way until he seized my hand. He was lying prone near the comer of a flowering bush. Wearily I threw myself down beside him. The throbbing of the drums was producing an effect wholly dissimilar to that which it seemed to exercise upon the black devotees: a sort of stupefaction. It was bemusing me, drugging me. I found it difficult to think connectedly.
“I am glad we are not alone on the path,” I said in a low voice. ‘‘Evidently it is the right one, after all.”
“Quiet!” said Smith. “Someone is near.”
As he spoke, I realized the fact that from where we lay concealed, owing to the position of the moon and the falling away of the forest on the right of the path, a considerable expanse, perhaps twenty yards, was clearly visible, illuminated by a bluish haze of light. The stirring of the pine cones continued. The sound grew nearer.
Who was approaching?
As to whom I expected it would be difficult to speculate. But what I saw was this:—The tall Negro who had preceded us from the rest house, and the Negress who had come earlier and separated from her pock-marked companion.
Clearly the girl had waited for the man and we must have passed them at some point on the route. In response to that hereditary instinct which the drums stir up in the African heart, they had reverted to nature. The man’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head rested upon his breast, as with a uniform step in time with the drums they paced upward through the pines. Utterly aloof from the world of today, the last shackle which bound them to the chariot of the white man was cast aside with the garments of civilization. She had woven a chaplet of flowers into her hair, and watching them as they passed and were lost to view, I knew that although a woman missionary might have been shocked, there was nothing bestial and nothing vile and nothing of shame in die strange reversion to primitive type.
The ancient gods had called them, and, simply, they had obeyed.
The rustling of the pine cones died away. I could hear no sound of other approaching footsteps, and the throb of the drums seemed to have increased again in volume.
‘“You see,” said Smith in a low voice, “there is power in Voodoo. One wonders what proportion of the inhabitants of Haiti have come under its spell. A great primitive force, Kerrigan, a force we must now assume to be directed byDr. Fu Manchu.”
“Presumably women are admitted to the higher mysteries.”
“Certainly,” Smith replied. “This I knew. Remember it is the Queen Mamaloi they go to meet, and I strongly suspect—”
He paused.
“What?”
“That there will be some further comb-out before we are admitted to the holy of holies.”
“Since we are ignorant of the routine,” I said, “this comb-out may mean our finish.”
“I have been considering the point, Kerrigan.” He stood up and walked down to the path. “I have been considering it since the moment that we started. I think if we follow the black lovers, who will be unlikely to pay any attention to us, and observe what occurs, it may be to our advantage.”
CHAPTER XXXI
QUEEN MAMALOI
We passed the crest and looked down into a tiny sheltered valley. Mountain trees fringed it in thinly, and set amid those on the opposite slope I saw a one-storey building surrounded by a high stockade. Lanterns and torches competed with the moonlight pouring down upon the stockade, and in silhouette, an ebony god and goddess of Voodoo, the pair ahead of us stood for a moment on the lip of the declivity outlined against the tropical sky. They began to descend.
Recollections of our distance from the caravanserai which was the first gate to the mysteries at this moment stampeded in my brain. Assuming that we succeeded in surviving whatever test might lie before us, how were we to return? Together, Smith and I watched the receding figures until they were lost amongst the scattered trees which grew upon the lower slopes.
“We must not lose sight of them,” he said rapidly. “Short of stripping, I am prepared to follow whatever routine they may adopt.”
I laughed, perhaps not very mirthfully.
“Have you any idea. Smith,” I asked, “how we are going to get back?”
“Whatever the purpose of this meeting may be, and whether we escape or are discovered, I have arranged, Kerrigan, as you know, that in roughly one hour from now, three planes suitably armed will land on the plateau from which we have come. I am convinced that no opposition will be met with. Barton will lead them here. In other words”—he glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch—”if we can survive for two hours, we shall not be unsupported.”
We began very slowly to descend in turn.
It seemed to me that under the moon there was nothing in the world but drums. I began to understand the symptoms of the rhythm-drunk people I had known, people who when they were not dancing, or listening to swing music, had swing ech
oes in their brains. This was the apogee, the culmination of that hypnosis which is created by beats. Although we approached the clearing, there were dark patches in the path; and once as I stumbled Smith caught my arm.
“The drums,” he said, “it’s a kind of dope, you know.”
“I know,” I groaned.
“Try to deafen your ears to it. I mean, concentrate on the idea. This is what gets them. Their primitive intelligence can’t battle against it. The music of the Pied Piper. Cover up, Kerrigan. I know it is making you stupid. Our real fight is ahead.”
His cold, incisive words acted as they had done so often before, as a swift sedative. Yes, it was the drums. They filled the night with their throbbing, and in some way that throbbing had got into my brain. I adopted a violent method of repelling this insidious intrusion,
I thought hard of Dr. Fu Manchu; and when I had succeeded in conjuring up a vision of that Shakespearean brow, that satanically brilliant face, those cat-like emerald eyes, I believe I returned to sanity, and to a new fear—the fear ofDr. Fu Manchu.
Smith, I am sure, understood the internal struggle that was going on, for he walked beside me in silence, until: “Look!” he rapped suddenly. “There is the second gate—the second test. Can we pass it?”
I looked down.We were quite near to the level space before the stockade which, at closer view, clearly surrounded a temple of sorts. The path we were following had become a ravine. Long since, the Negro and Negress ahead had become lost to view, and now we proceeded cautiously.
Twenty or thirty paces brought us round a sudden bend and into full view of the stockade. A huddled group of perhaps a dozen pilgrims was gathered before a great gateway. A murmur of voices became audible above the throbbing of the drums.
Even in the bluish shadow of the gully, I could see Smith looking about him and then: “There is no other way,” he muttered. “It’s in or back.”
Could we ever get back?
* * *
The group ahead before the gateway was explained by the presence of a pine log thrown like a barrier across the opening. Right and left of it, backed by semi-naked Negroes holding torches aloft, were two men.One, he on the right, was a pure and obese Negro who continued to wear the uniform of western slavery; the other, on the left, was the fierce-eyed mulatto who had stared into the car as we had driven to the house of Father Ambrose, who had passed us on the mountain path!
Smith recognized him as swiftly as I.
“It is known that we are here,” he muttered. “That mulatto is posted to intercept us. But, even if he sees us, there is still hope.”
‘“What hope?”
“He is certainly not familiar with our appearance, for he was deceived on the road. He cannot know that we carry the seven-pointed star. Glance over the gang now undergoing inspection. The gateway is in shadow, but you can see them in the torchlight. Some of them look whiter than you or I. They are from over the border. This thing goes very deep.”
“Let us join the group waiting to be passed by the fat Negro.”
“I disagree,” said Smith, “if ever I saw a eunuch, he is one. Think of our Arabic! No, I prefer the mulatto.”
“But, Smith, it’s madness!”
“In an emergency, Kerrigan, madness is sometimes sanity.”
I resigned myself. We entered the gateway and moved to the left of the barrier. Glancing back I saw that a few stragglers, all Haitians, were coming down the slope. As we approached the mulatto I saw directly in front of us the black lovers. Six or seven others preceded them. Smith bent to my ear: “You see, Kerrigan,” he whispered, “it is unnecessary to strip!”
But I had seen, and the sight had afforded me a momentary relief. Two figures at least, at right and left, were those of men dressed much as we were dressed. Others were there who had thrown off the yoke and gleamed black beneath the moon. But we were not alone.
“Watch closely,” Smith whispered. “All turns on the man not identifying us. Next, stick to Arabic. Finally, if challenged, shoot him.”
I watched those who had been allowed to pass the barrier. They had all exhibited some token which they held in their hands. An interrogatory seemed to follow; then, making an odd gesture to the forehead, they were allowed to pass.
“Note that salute,” muttered Smith.
When the Negro and Negress approached the mulatto we were close behind them.
He concentrated his fierce gaze upon them, ignoring us. The man opened his hand: the girl touched an amulet which hung upon her breast. The mulatto spoke rapidly in the strange patois which I had been unable to learn, but Smith was listening intently. He pressed his lips almost against my ear: “Stick to Arabic,” he reiterated.
And as the Negro and Negress went through, we followed.
Those fierce eyes were fixed upon me. They glittered fierily in the light of surrounding torches, and I confess that my heart sank. Silently I held out the serpent amulet. The mulatto glanced at it; then his evil gaze returned to my face, and suddenly he addressed me in English!
‘“What is your name and number?” he demanded. “From what place do you come?”
Thrown temporarily off my guard, I believe I was about to answer him in the same language, when Smith kicked my ankle so hard that I stifled a cry. But he saved the situation.
“Uskut!” hissed. “Daraga awala”
And as I spoke. Smith threw his left arm about my shoulders and held out in his right palm the seven-pointed star.
“Ahu hina Damballa!” he said menacingly.
The result smacked of magic. The mulatto fell into that curious pose adopted by the women at the rest-house, his hands pressed to his breast, his head bowed. Smith gave the salute which he had noted.
We were through.
Aswe walked across the enclosed space towards the temple of Voodoo: “I have taken special note of the fact,” said Smith, “that owing to the position of the moon, one side of the stockade casts a complete shadow for some ten feet out from its base. That is the spot to make for.”
We gained the shadow belt unmolested. Drawing a deep breath I looked about me. There were, as I have said, many torches and some lanterns. I saw now that they were distributed in a rough circle before the building, which on closer inspection proved to be a sort of shrine embedded in the trees. Before it was a platform, or dais, flanked by tall masts resembling totem poles. Double doors, massively carved and brightly painted, gave on to this platform. Right and left of these doors, which were closed, stood two motionless figures as if sculptured in ebony. By the light of the full moon pouring down upon them, I recognized the forest lovers!
Drums, although I could not see the drummers, continued their sinister throbbing. And now, all those summoned presumably being present, torches and lanterns were extinguished, the drum throbs died away. A voice cried out in a tongue which I had never heard spoken. The double doors swung open.
A sort of rapturous sigh passed through the multitude. With complete unanimity, they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. A woman came into the moonlight, and I knew that she was the Queen Mamaloi . . .
CHAPTER XXXII
THE SMELLING-OUT
Her hair was hidden by a high, jewelled headdress; jewels all but covered slim, bare arms: a girdle resembling those seen in Ancient Egyptian pictures, glittering with gems, hung from her waist. There, radiant in silver light, from proud head to curving hips, to little sandalled feet, I saw an ivory statue—a statue of Isis. The deep-toned drums entirely ceased to beat. Every man and every woman who gathered before the temple fell prone. A long queerly modulated phrase, a moaning sigh, passed like a breeze among the worshippers.
I was dumbfounded, fascinated, swept for a moment into a mystic vortex which her presence had created. She stood no more than twenty paces away, wholly bathed in the radiance of the moon; and I looked, as if hypnotized, into the brilliant jade-green eyes of Queen Mamaloi, the witch woman, high priestess of Voodoo—Koreani, Dr. Fu Manchu’s daughter!
Smith pulled me down just within that fraction of a second which otherwise might have shown me standing alone. Earlier I had knelt to a priest: I lay now prostrate before a sorceress!
His grasp on my arm warned me to be silent.
She spoke, in Haitian, in French, and in some other language which I had never heard spoken before, save by that voice which had announced her coming. But the sound of it seemed to act upon her listeners like a maddening drug. They moaned, cried out inarticulately; they gesticulated as they rose to their knees. Smith drew very near.
‘The Unknown Tongue,” he whispered; “the secret language of Voodoo.”
Korean! had a bell-like voice—this I remembered; a voice which, because of its production and unusual quality, was audible from a distance: in short, the voice of a trained elocutionist and of one who might have been a great actress. Her speech was accompanied by a subdued but passionate throbbing of unseen drums.
More and more, as she spoke, I appreciated the power of the spirit driving her. Here was a mastery comparable with that of Dr. Fu Manchu. French, Haitian (of which I knew little enough), in turn were discarded, so that presently Korean! spoke altogether in the Unknown Tongue—of which I knew nothing. Frenzy grew upon her audience until some among the throng might have been said to have become possessed. They groaned, gnashed their teeth, contorted their bodies. The substance of the address I found difficulty in tracing, but the danger to the community represented by this woman’s influence was all too apparent.
Suddenly, in obedience to some command from theQueen Mamaloi, all threw themselves upon their knees; faces buried in hands they began to pray fervently. Koreani, silent, statuesque, stood with uplifted arms.
“She has asked them to pray for a sign from Damballa the Snake God,” whispered Smith. “I suspect that the real purpose of this ceremony is about to become evident.”
