by Ruskin Bond
Gaga slipped from his animal and softly spoke.
'We are nearly there, Tuan. This is their grazing-ground, but all the animals are at the village, for all have ridden to the Feast.'
Dennis nodded and proceeded, like the others, to tether his beast.
Then, on foot the three moved forward, but with a quicker pace, for the gongs were loudly booming with a beat that would not be denied. Even as they crossed the muddy stream, the swaying, rhythmic time, rising and falling with the cadence of a dance, gave place to an insistent note that rose and rose, till only one intense vibration, one single throbbing note, beat on the heavy air with a malignant strength sapping all kindly thoughts and fanning to flame the primal lusts of hate and vengeance.
A little farther and the path rose with a sudden precipitousness that forced them to mount the well-worn stones as though they climbed a stair. They reached the top, to stand upon a tiny plain, on which the shadows of the encircling trees were slowly lengthening.
Even as they rested to regain their breath that one insistent note ceased, and for an instant silence reigned.
Then, from the glade's farther end arose a cry, faint at first, then slowly louder, harsher, stronger, swelling to a might paean, to a tumultuous cry: 'Maboga; Maboga! Aki Maboga!' And, stillness once again, save for the hurried padding of running feet as the three raced across the shadow-flecked glade.
Panting, they reached a wall of jungle, pierced by a sunken path that twined its short length through the heart of a moss-clad hill, whose riven sides were lit with weird, fantastic lights, thrown from countless torches that burned upon a plateau at its end.
In the shadow of a belt of trees they paused to take stock of their surroundings.
The plateau formed a horseshoe, and at its apex stood a native house built eight feet off the ground, whose length stretched three hundred feet. At either end, leading to the only doors, were rough-hewn steps, carved from solid logs of timber, and from these steps arose two poles, six feet in height, between which was stretched a length of knotted rotan. From this, like a gruesome necklace, hung two rows of ghastly human heads—blackened and dried from the smoke of years—save at each end. And, there hung two heads with staring, sightless eyes, and bared lips exposing whitened teeth; and from them the red blood dripped.
Upon the ground, placed in a semi-circle, stood the jars—the sacred Gusi—ranged in accordance with their height and rank. From either end they tapered up toward the central spot, where, side by side, rose two of flaming blue that reached the height of a man's shoulder.
The rim, or lip, of each was of a different hue—one black, one white—while from the neck of those whose lip was black grew four large ears, and in the lobes of each was placed a human skull.
Behind each jar, save one, a woman stood; her thick black hair piled high upon her head, framing her lime-washed face from which her dark eyes shone; her figure swathed from chin to toe in shrouded black, girt at the waist with a girdle of mice and monkeys' teeth.
A silver pandang hung under the lip of every jar but one, and resting on its swelling shoulder shimmered and winked in the torches' fantastic light.
Facing the jars, the Dusuns sat in rows, immobile and intent. There shone upon the face of everyone a strained expectancy, showing in the taut muscles of the back and the restless, twining fingers of the hands. Thus, they waited—in that strange, uncanny silence—for the answer to their cry, 'Maboga, Maboga, Aki Maboga!'
Almost forgetful of the purpose of their errand, Dennis and Walkely watched, fascinated by the scene before them, lit by the waning moon and the lurid, flickering torches. Something of its primaeval instincts and the tension of the squatting natives crept into their veins and held them spellbound as they gazed upon the coloured jars, with their glittering, shining buckles, each with its dumb, attendant white-faced woman, backed by the long, unbroken shadow of the palm-roofed house.
While the moon sank slowly in the west, until its lower rim began to kiss the topmost ridge of the roof, the silence lengthened, till it seemed as if nature slept and those rows of squatting natives were graven images devoid of breath.
But all at once there came a creaking sound, and the tension snapped. A long, rippling murmur, half-sigh, half-gasp, filled the air, and Gaga's hand gripped Dennis's arm.
'Look, Tuan, look!' he whispered, and pointed to a hut which stood alone and almost hidden in the shade of a mighty billian tree.
The two men obeyed, following the line of Gaga's pointing finger.
The hut door opened slowly as the noise increased. But though no light burned within, a shadowy form was faintly visible, moving towards the glade. Slowly, silently, though still half-hidden by the shade, the form drew near. Then, as all eyes were turned upon it a glinting speck of light winked in the gloom. And, as the figure moved the winking light moved, too.
Slowly, steadily from the shade into the flickering fringe of torches; from the fringe into the full lurid glare moved the figure and the light.
A quick intake of many breaths; a long, loud gasp of terrified surprise. Then silence—and a woman, with a silver buckle hanging from a girdle round her waist, stood before the great blue sacred jar, from under whose deep black lip no silver buckle hung.
Over the silence, that like a living spirit lay upon the glade, Gaga's excited whisper just reached Dennis's and Walkely's ears.
'Tuan, it is Jebee, and she wears the silver pandang that I buried in Tuan Glister's grave! Tuan, Tuan, I am afraid!'
Even as he spoke the woman raised her rounded arms, on which no gleaming bangles shone, and with a single gesture unloosed the coils of her high-wound hair. The long, thick tresses fell around her like a black cloak.
Again, she raised her arms, this time in supplication, and her low, clear voice went chanting through the glade.
'Aki Maboga of the Sacred Gusi, Spirit of Evil who dwelleth in the great blue jar, hear now thy erring daughter, thy forsworn priestess, and forgive. Here, in my shame I stand before thee and the assembled people, bearing the silver pandang, symbol of thy might and power, which in my youth and wilful love I disgraced.
'Thou, who for long has been neglected, till thy just wrath burst into flame, so that the crops no longer ripen and the herds cease to bring forth young, lift, I beseech thee, Aki Maboga, the shadow of thy anger from off my race.
'Through me and for my sin my people have been punished; through me, O Aki, pronounce the penance thou dost claim.'
She ceased, and as a wailing cry rose from the assembled natives, slipped slowly to her knees, and flinging her arms round the greet jar's neck, rested her lips upon its blackened rim.
Walkely stirred, but Dennis's warning hand bade him keep still. Gaga, speechless and with bulging eyes, stared at the kneeling figure.
A wind was stirring in the trees. The moon had sunk completely out of sight, and here and there a flickering torch gutted and burnt out.
Thus, in the creeping darkness they waited, while the moments grew to minutes burdened with suspense—waited for Maboga's answer that his deep black lips would whisper in Jebee's listening ear.
At length, with infinite grace, she rose, and stood clothed in her long black hair behind the great blue jar; for on its swelling shoulders, glinting against its deep black lip, the silver pandang lay.
The wind was sighing in the trees. The rustling leaves made soft accompaniment to her voice, which trembled with emotion.
'My lips have kissed the sacred Gusi—my tears have washed its deep black lip. The silver pandang has returned to deck the shrine of the Great Spirit, who has spoken, for my ears have caught his whispering breath.'
A murmur rose, then faded, and she continued:
'Rejoice, O people, for I see the crops on all the hillsides ripening and herds with their young. But for his clemency Maboga asks a price.'
She paused; then stretching out her arms cried in a ringing voice: 'What will you give, my people, to allay your desperate plight?'
Quic
k as the summer lightning, swift as an adder's tongue came the answer from those rows of waiting natives.
'What the white man took, let him repay with interest. The head of the white man's brother we will give as a make-peace to Maboga, and as thy wedding gift.'
She raised her hand, and there was silence.
'Thy words are good; thy offering acceptable unto——'
Her words were drowned in a great shout of fear, as a lighted torch fell from its bamboo socket on to the palm-roofed house.
Like running water fanned by the rising breeze, the flames spread rapidly, till in the twinkling of an eye the wooden house was nothing but three hundred feet of sheeted flame.
Then, pandemonium reigned and terror stalked the glade.
But to the watching three the fire was providential, for the burning house lit up a hut, till now hidden in the gloom, and at its single window they beheld young Glister's bloodstained face.
Under the shadow of the trees, skirting the edge of the tiny plain, they raced. A few more yards and they would reach the door; another second—out of the shadows by the hut a naked figure sprang, her long black hair streaming in the breeze, a glittering, sharp-edged sword in her hand.
With an oath, Walkely forged ahead, but, missing his footing on a twisted root, stumbled and fell.
The sudden, instinctive tightening of his fingers, a flare and a sharp report; a cry of pain, a sagging, drooping form—and Jebee lay a crumpled figure across the threshold of the hut.
Adventure of the Speckled, Band
By Arthur Conan Doyle
On glancing over my notes of the seventy–odd cases in which I have, during the last eight years, studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stroke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are wide-spread rumours as to the death of Dr Grimesby Roylott, which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
'Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,' said he, 'but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs Hudson has been knocked up; she retorted upon me, and I on you.'
'What is it, then—a fire?'
'No, a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.'
'My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.'
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting–room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.
'Good-morning, madam,' said Holmes, cheerily. 'My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observed that you are shivering.'
'It is not cold which makes me shiver,' said the woman, in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.
'What, then?'
'It is fear, Mr Holmes. It is terror.' She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless, frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature gray, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
'You must not fear,' said he, soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. 'We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.'
'You know me, then?'
'No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.'
The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilderment at my companion.
'There is no mystery, my dear madam,' said he, smiling, 'the left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.'
'Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,' said she. 'I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr Holmes: I have heard of you from Mrs Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.'
Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.
'Farintosh,' said he. 'Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now, I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.'
'Alas!' replied our visitor, 'the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.'
'I am all attention, madam.'
'My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylott
s of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.'
Holmes nodded his head. 'The name is familiar to me,' said he.
'The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper: but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree, and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death, and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment, and afterwards returned to England, a morose and disappointed man.
'When Dr Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs Stoner, the young widow of Major-general Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less than £1,000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London, and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.