Then the High Priest slipped out of the doorway, and vanished after Oakley.
‘Well?’ said Cooling. ‘Are we glad he called?’
‘What I want to know is what that fool Oakley meant,’ exclaimed Smith a little more loudly than was necessary. But one had to do something once in a while to show one had a house and paid rates.
‘Yes, and why did he look at you, Mr Haines, while he said—what he did?’ inquired Miss Noyes. ‘That seemed to me most odd!’
‘Bah, he was tipping us the wink!’ retorted Medworth. ‘And I’m going to take it—though not in the direction he meant!’
‘You’re going down the gold-mine, Daddy?’ inquired Cooling.
‘No, up into it!’ grinned Medworth. ‘Who’s climbing with me?’
Haines turned to Ruth, and asked her gravely:
‘What do you want to do, Ruth?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m still betting on Ben,’ she answered. ‘Let’s sit down and play noughts and crosses!’
15
The High Priest v. Oomoo
Ben heard them coming. He had heard them coming a hundred times, but this was the time that was it. He screwed up his courage, or the frozen mental attitude that was his substitute for courage, and went over his lesson. It took the form of Questions and Answers.
‘Nah, then, do yer know wot yer gotter do?’ began the lesson.
‘No,’ came the prompt reply.
It was a disappointing start. The lesson proceeded, growing quicker and quicker as the approaching footsteps grew closer and closer.
‘Go on, I told yer!’
‘Wot did yer tell me?’
‘I’ve fergot. Oh, yus. Fust thing, yer’ve gotter sit tight.’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘Yer mustn’t do a bunk, wotever ’appens yer mustn’t.’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘’Cos why? That’d give yer away. Gawds ain’t afraid o’ nothink.’
‘Then I ain’t a gawd.’
‘Nah, then, Ben, doncher start that! Corse yer a gawd!’
‘Wot, me, wot never goes ter church, and with a fice like a gargle?’
‘Wot’s gargle?’
‘I dunno, but I bin called it.’
‘Well, gawds don’t ’ave ter be good-lookin’. Not your kind, any’ow. I reckon yer ’ave ter look like a gargle, and if yer looks like one then that’s orl right. Say it’s orl right!’
‘It’s orl right.’
‘Agine.’
‘It’s orl right.’
‘Agine.’
‘It’s orl right.’
‘And stop wobblin’ yer knees.’
‘They ain’t wobblin’.’
‘Then wot are they doin?’
‘That’s vibrashion. You know, like when a trine runs under a ’ouse.’
‘Are you goin’ barmy?’
‘Yus. I wanter cry. I wanter go ’ome. Lumme, it’s no use, I’m sweatin’, and gawds don’t sweat, and when the ’Igh Priest sees it ’e’ll say, “Wot, you a gawd, come orf it, yer blinkin’ himpioster, come orf it an’ be cut hup.”’
‘’Ere, don’t think so loud!’
‘Was I?’
‘Yus. Yer’ll be torkin’ in a minit! I’m not sure that yer wasn’t, ’cos when yer thinks loud it sahnds more inside yer than when yer torks sorft. Nah, listen, quick. Yer ain’t frightened, see?’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘’Cos yer are a gawd, see?’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘Yus, but I means it, ’cos I’ll tell yer why. Gawd’s mide yer a gawd.’
‘’Owjer figger that?’
‘Are yer arter that there gold?’
‘No.’
‘Do yer mean no ’arm ter nobody?’
‘No.’
‘Ain’t yer goin’ ter try and do a bit o’ good?’
‘Yus.’
‘Do yer like children?’
‘Yus.’
‘’Ave yer ever ’urt a hanimal?’
‘Not meanin’ ter.’
‘And look ’ere. ’Ere’s somethink helse. Do yer hever stand still, sudden like, and begin thinkin’ abart things yer don’t know wot they are, see? Stars, like, and ’ow fur they are away, and yer mother, yer ain’t fergot ’er, lumme, I wish she was ’ere, and, well, sort o’ feelin’s, if yer git me?’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘And yer knuckles hitchin’ like a sign o’ trouble, that ain’t nacheral. They’re hitchin’ nah. And then seem’ the insides o’ people—even when you ’ates ’em. “They carn’t ’elp it,” yer ses, “they was born that way.” Whites and blacks alike. Well, there yer are. Corse, yer ain’t much, reely, but yer, well, symperthetic, not meanin’ ter boast, and tha’s why Gawd’s chosen yer. And nah that’s enuff o’ that, and yer goin’ ter see it through, aincher, like yer sed yer was. Aincher? Aincher?’
It all happened inside ten seconds. The approaching footsteps were now very close indeed.
‘There!’ concluded the lesson. ‘Nah do yer feel better?’
‘No,’ came the reply.
The lesson ended as disappointingly as it had begun.
With his eyes fixed ahead of him, but with eye-corners alert, Ben waited during the final agonising seconds in a state of mental incoherence. If the lesson continued, it was no longer translatable. It ceased to be a word argument; it became a battle of stark emotion, pluck struggling to conquer fear, and fear hitting back.
Then, all at once, Ben was conscious that the ordeal had begun. His eye-corners, usually unbeatable, had been cheated, and someone had slipped through the outer reed-curtain, and was standing, watching him.
He knew it was not Oakley. Ben was sensitive to auras (though he did not know what the word meant), and the newcomer’s aura extended to him across the gloomy space like an evil aerial tide. It enveloped him in a spiritual, hypnotising stench. His decision not to move was superfluous. He could not move.
‘’E’s watchin’ me ter see if I blink,’ thought Ben.
Life resolved itself into an effort not to blink. The result on Oomoo’s physiognomy was satisfactory.
By strict rules of procedure the High Priest should not have been the first to enter the Chief’s hut. Oakley should have preceded him, clearing the air of pollution. But the High Priest, with the excuse that a living, moving god formed an exception, had suddenly accelerated, passed Oakley, and reached the hut a clear winner. Oakley, swearing under his breath, and also accelerating, interpreted the manœuvre as the High Priest’s determination that there was not going to be any hanky-panky.
Standing behind the priest, Oakley gazed over his shoulder at unblinking Oomoo. His faith in Ben was a trifle shaken. Surely the most heathen of gods had never stared with such ghastly intentness! ‘This is going to be a war!’ thought Oakley, and decided he must not delay his assistance to the weaker party.
He pushed past the priest, as though blinded to the priest’s indignation by religious fervour, and prostrated himself before Oomoo. Oomoo raised a hand solemnly, in recognition of the tribute, then let it fall back into his lap. Oakley rose, stood aside, and glanced towards the priest.
Now the priest advanced. Despite his doubts, this might be Oomoo! In that case, even a High Priest should prostrate himself to avoid the possibility of divine wrath. Reaching the throne, he lay down on his face.
‘’Ooray!’ thought Ben. ‘One ter me!’
The one lasted a long time. The priest remained on his face. Ben wondered whether he had met seccotine and got stuck. As the seconds went by and the priest did not rise, Ben’s wonder changed to uneasiness. He longed to leap upon the prostrate form and squash it. There was greater probability, however, that he would get squashed.
‘I know,’ he reflected presently. ‘I’ve fergot to rise me ’and.’
It was another tickle on his nose—their number was legion—that reminded him of the omission. He raised his hand, and with a subtle thumb settled the tickle. But even after that the
High Priest did not move.
On the point of glancing inquiringly at Oakley for a tip, Ben desisted. It was the position of the priest’s head that caused him to desist. The head seemed stretched, the neck quietly straining. Two little bright beads, that should have been directed to the ground, were just discernible beneath the expanse of forehead.
‘Blimey. ’e’s squintin’ at me!’ thought Ben. ‘Tryin’ ter catch me aht! Well, of orl the dirty tricks! I’m learnin’!’
At last the High Priest rose, and slipping a long, thin blade from the folds of his robe, he slashed it in the air. The priest was wily, for, he argued, if Oomoo indeed sat upon the throne, he would not interpret such movements as a threat to himself but as a preparation for some solemn rite. The innocence of the blade, however, would take a human being longer to perceive. During the air-slashing Ben said several prayers. ‘Now I’m for it,’ he thought, ‘but I’ll ’it ’im!’ He survived the ordeal, however—to Oakley’s secret astonishment, for once the whirling blade came within an inch of Oomoo’s nose—and prepared for the next.
The next was worse.
The blade stopped whirling, and was directed towards the priest’s own arm. The point entered, and came away red.
‘Wot’s that for?’ wondered Ben. ‘’Ave I won, and is ’e goin’ ter commit suissicide?’
The High Priest had no such intention. He was merely going to offer Ben a drop of his distinguished blood. He had taken the drop, incidentally, from a fleshy part of his arm where blood could be spared and feeling was not considerable.
The ruddy point was held out to Ben.
‘Wot am I s’posed ter do nah?’ thought Ben. ‘Say, “Thanks very much”?’
An idea occurred to him. Gods doubtless had different tastes. Some might not like blood. He decided to be one who did not like blood, and he suddenly donned a new expression indicative of intense aversion.
The effect was definite. The High Priest sprang back. Oakley, seizing the moment, advanced quickly and clasped his hands as though in fear.
‘Oomoo poopoo, Oomoo poopoo!’ muttered Oakley.
‘Yus, I orter poop a bit more,’ thought Ben and raised his right arm high above him.
The priest hesitated. Then did a daring thing. Possibly, for a moment, he lost his head. He advanced again, determined to make his offering, thrust the blade forward, and pricked Ben’s stomach.
It was only a little prick, but for all Ben knew it might develop into the final agony, so perhaps the moment that followed was the greatest of his life. He bared his teeth and smiled.
The High Priest stood motionless. He stared, and as he stared his lamp-black eyes assumed a disquieting expression. The grin seemed to fascinate him. He dropped his blade and swung round to Oakley with a gesture of fanatical triumph. The gesture indicated, ‘Lowest of the low—he likes it!’
Was the battle won? For an instant Ben thought so, and held on to his grin, even when the priest turned back to him and responded. But Oakley knew the priest better than Ben did; his knowledge of that twisted nature was profound; and he realised that victory as well as defeat had its dangers, and that the particular form of this victory gave the priest a deadly weapon which he was showing a disposition to take.
The priest did not want a functioning god of any kind. Without the supreme authority to which he had been accustomed, life would be intolerable. A false god was preferable to a real god, since a false god was easier to deal with and dispose of, but a real god who liked pain—who grinned at his own torture as well as at the torture of others—might also be disposed of! This very grin of Oomoo’s might be a cynical invitation to conclude the encumbrance of earthly form—a humorous order to send him back to carved rock! Gods had their little jests …
The blade was raised again. Ben nearly swooned with disappointment. Oakley, laying his hand on the priest’s arm, exclaimed, ‘Nya, nya!’ It was the unusual emotion in Oakley’s voice—the first Ben had heard, in fact—that warned him even more surely than the priest’s attitude of his deadly danger.
And then the miracle happened, shattering the plans of mice and men, and shaping astonishing new courses. A clap of thunder suddenly rent the heavens above the island.
It was, of course, a mere coincidence, and the thunder possessed a thoroughly earthly meteorological explanation, but as the priest dropped his blade and fell flat, and as Oakley’s mouth opened in a sort of blank wonder, Ben’s fear slipped from him like a cloak. ‘Wot did I say?’ he communed with himself. ‘If the real Gawd ain’t lookin’ arter me, ’oo is?’
Ben rose to his feet, hardly knowing that he did it. A new spirit had undoubtedly entered into him. He looked at Oakley, then at the prostrate priest, and jerked his thumb towards the latter. Oakley stooped, and touched the priest’s shoulder.
The priest raised his head. His eyes were terrified. Fear was the only emotion that could quell him, and for the moment he was quelled. ‘Wot a miser’ble blighter,’ thought Ben. ‘Yer see, we can orl come ter it.’ He lifted both his hands towards the roof. He waved them slowly from side to side. Then he lowered them, and sat down again.
‘I dunno wot it meant,’ he reflected, ‘but it seems ter stamp it, like.’
The High Priest rose. He made a hasty sign to Oakley, then rapidly left the hut.
‘Whew!’ murmured Oakley, wiping his brow. ‘He’s coming back, Ben—but first round to you!’
Ben hardly heard him. He was too busy feeling religious.
16
The Transition of Ben
The unexpected clap of thunder that burst over the island like a sudden exclamation mark did many things. It sent a hundred creeping warriors leaping for cover. It gave palpitations to another hundred natives who were already under cover. It nearly shot Ardentino from a tree and Medworth over a precipice. It caused Ruth’s pencil to slip, losing her a game of noughts and crosses. But its greatest work, without question, was that of establishing for the time being Ben’s bona fides as a god; and you or I in Ben’s place might have been forgiven for scorning the idea of the meteorological explanation.
To the stolid, matter-of-fact mind of Oakley, no other explanation occurred. A meticulous study of cause and effect had reduced mystery to its minimum and had eliminated surprise. Cannibals worshipped idols. Idols needed dusting. Heads became skulls. Wooma made one sick. Englishmen played golf. Climatic conditions caused thunder … So he commented, after a long silence,
‘Queer that you owe your life to a variation of temperature.’
‘Eh?’ asked Ben coming slowly out of his reverie.
‘I was remarking,’ said Oakley, ‘that, but for the accident of that thunder-clap—happening in just that way at just that time—you would probably be dead.’
‘Haccidunt?’ repeated Ben solemnly. ‘That wasn’t no haccidunt!’
‘What was it, then?’ inquired Oakley.
‘Stright from ’Eving, tha’s wot it was,’ answered Ben. ‘I’m bein’ looked arter.’
‘Meaning, old son?’
‘Wot I ses. I’m bein’ looked arter. And—I ain’t sure yer orter go on callin’ me “old son.”’
‘I beg your pardon?’ murmured Oakley, raising his eyebrows.
‘Not that I mind fer meself,’ continued Ben, ‘but it’s like this ’ere. Seein’ as ’ow I’m bein’ looked arter—and bein’ give a job—I’ve gotter keep up me posishun. Tike King George. Yer don’t see ’im playin’ marbles, do yer? E’d like ter, but ’e mustn’t. ’Cos why? ’E’s got a job.’
‘I see,’ said Oakley, stroking his forehead to make sure it was still there. ‘You and King George, eh?’
‘Well, that’s puttin’ it a bit strong, like,’ replied Ben, rather doubtful as to the rightness of the collaboration. ‘I was on’y menshunin’ ’im as a symbiol. P’r’aps I orter’ve sed the Bishop o’ Lunnon. Yus, the Bishop o’ Lunnon. ’E carn’t go foolin’ abart. ’E’s got wot they calls a call, and when that there thunder come along, savin’ me life fer a purpuss li
ke, I reckon it called me.’
A disturbing notion entered Oakley’s head as he listened to Ben’s earnest words. Was the poor little chap going really and truly dotty? It would be a pity, but, Oakley conceded, eminently understandable.
‘Ben,’ he said, ‘if I may still call you that—you don’t really think you’re Oomoo, do you?’
‘Oomoo,’ repeated Ben as though he had heard the word for the first time. ‘Let’s see. Oomoo. Corse, ’e’s the Gawd o’ Storms, ain’t ’e, and there was that there thunder.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I ain’t Oomoo. Oomoo’s bad.’
And he spat. Oakley stroked his forehead again.
‘Look here,’ he remonstrated gently. ‘Don’t get bats. We’ve won the first round, as I said, but there are some more rounds coming, and we’ve got to keep our think-pots clear for ’em. If I mustn’t call you Old Son, you mustn’t spit on Oomoo. You’ll undermine him. You. Him.’
‘Wot’s unnermine?’ inquired Ben.
‘Weaken him. Render him impotent. Ruin him.’
‘’E’s a bad ’un, ain’t ’e?’
‘He’s doing us a good turn.’
‘’E’s a bad ’un, ain’t ’e?’
‘He has some quaint ideas.’
‘Like killin’, an’ torcherin’, an’ eatin’ wot ain’t s’posed ter be ate?’
‘So they say.’
‘Yus. Well it ain’t wot I ses, and I’m goin’ ter rooin’ ’im.’
‘Ruin him, by all means,’ agreed Oakley. ‘It’ll be one less to dust. But don’t ruin him until you’ve used him.’
‘I don’t git yer,’ answered Ben.
‘Be a bad god, for a bit, so that it can make you strong enough to be a good god afterwards,’ explained Oakley.
‘No, it don’t work like that,’ replied Ben. ‘They sed that in the war. Kill ter stop killin’. Tell lies fer the blinkin’ troof. Well, the way ter ’elp a thing, so I works it aht, is ter do the thing. It’s wot yer calls fithe. Mindjer, yer don’t always git me torkin’ like this. I got on a tub once in ’Ide Park, couldn’t think o’ nothink ter say, and come dahn agine. But terday—since that there thunder—somethink’s got inter me. I’m wot they calls hinsipired.’
Little God Ben Page 11
