by Ruskin Bond
"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?"
Quick 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.
Si Urag of the Tail
By Oscar Cook
Dennis sat on the verandah of his bungalow and gazed meditatively around him. He could not look at the view, because there was none to speak of, since the house was built on an island in the middle of the Luago River. On all sides of the island grew the tall, rank elephant-grass and nipapalm. Here and there a stunted, beetle-ridden coconut tree just topped the dense vegetation, a relic of some clearing and plantation commenced by a native, then left to desolation and the ever-encroaching jungle.
Dennis was bored. He was two years overdue for leave; also the day was unusually hot. The hour was about four, but though the sun was beginning to slant there was no abatement in the fierceness of its rays. After lunch he had followed the immemorial custom and undressed for a short siesta, but sleep was denied him. The mechanical action of undressing had quickened his brain. The room seemed stifling; the bed felt warm. He bathed, dressed and betook himself to the verandah. Here, he smoked and thought.
And, his thoughts were none too pleasant, for there was much that was troubling him. Throughout the morning he had been listening to the endless intricacies of a native land case—a dispute over boundaries and ownership. He had reserved his judgment till the morrow, for the evidence had been involved and contradictory. He had meant to go over the salient points during the afternoon, and instead, here he was seated on his verandah smoking and thinking of an entirely different matter. Try as he would, his mind would not keep on the subject of the land, but roamed ever and ever over the mystery that was fast setting its seal of terror and fear on the district.
From a village in the ulu of the river, strange rumours had come floating downstream. At first, they were as light and airy as thistledown—just a passing whisper—a fairy story over which to smile; then they passed, but came again, more substantial and insistent, stronger and sterner and not to be denied. Their very number compelled a hearing; their very sameness breathed a truth. Inhabitants from the village had gone forth and never returned; never a trace of them had been found. First, a young girl, then her father. She had been absent six days, and he had gone to look for her. But he looked in vain, and in his turn disappeared. Then, a young boy, and next an aged woman. Then, after a longer period a tame ape, and finally the headman's favourite wife.
Fear settled on the village; its inhabitants scarce dared leave their houses, save in batches to collect water and food. But fear travels fast, and the rumours reached Klagan and came to Dennis's ears. In the end the mystery caught him in its toils, weaved itself into his every waking moment and excited his interest beyond control.
An idle native story: the tale of a neighbouring village with an axe of its own to grind. He was a fool to worry over it. Such mare's nests were of almost daily occurrence, thus Dennis argued; and then from two other villages came similar tales. Two little girls had gone to bathe in the height of the noonday sun. At moonrise they had not returned. Nor, in the days that passed were they ever seen again. Two lovers met one moonlit night and waded to a boulder in midstream of the river. Here, they sat oblivious of the world around them. They were seen by a couple of natives passing downstream in their boat and then—never again.
Down the river crept the cold, insidious Fear like a plague, taking toll of every village in its path. In their houses huddled the natives, while crops were unsown and pigs uprooted the plantations; while crocodiles devoured untended buffaloes, and squirrels and monkeys rifled the fruit trees. From source to mouth the Fear crept down and in the end forced Dennis's hand, compelling him to action.
Thus, as he sat on his verandah and cursed the heat of the sun and the humidity of the tropics, unbidden and unsought the mystery filled his thoughts; and he began to wonder as to if and when his native sergeant and three police would return. For, he had sent them to the ulu to probe and solve the meaning of the rumours. They had been gone three weeks, and throughout this time no word had been heard of or come from them.
In the office a clock struck five. Its notes came booming across to Dennis. Then silence—not complete and utter stillness; such is never possible in the tropics, but the silence of that hour when the toilers—man and animal—by day realise that night is approaching; when the toilers by night have not yet awakened.
Lower and lower sank the sun. In the sky a moon was faintly visible. Dennis rose, about to call for tea, then checked the desire. From afar upstream came the chug, chug, chug of a motor-boat. Its beat just reached his ears. He looked at his wrist-watch. In ten minutes he would go down to the floating wharf. That would give him plenty of time to watch the boat round the last bend of the river. In the meanwhile …
But he went at once to the wharf after all, for mystery gripped him, causing him feverishly to pace up and down the tiny floating square. Chug, chug, chug, louder and louder came the noise; then fainter and fainter, and then was lost altogether as the dense jungle cut off the sound as the boat traversed another bend of the river. Chug, chug, chug, faintly, then louder and stronger. A long-drawn note from the horn of a buffalo smote the air, and the boat swung round the final bend. Only a quarter of a mile separate it now from Dennis.
As the boat drew nearer he saw that she was empty save for the serang and boatmen. Then, the Fear gripped him too, and he quickly returned to the house. With shaking hand he poured out a whisky-and-soda, flung himself into a chair and shouted for his "boy".
"Tuan!" The word, though quietly spoken, made him flinch, for the "boy" had approached him silently, as all well-trained servants do. Quickly, too, he had obeyed the summons, but in that brief space of time Dennis's mind had escaped his body and immediate wants to roam the vast untrodden fields of speculation and fear.
With an effort he pulled himself together.
"The motor-boat is returning. Tell the serang to come to me as soon as he has tied her up. See that no one is within earshot."
"Tuan!" And, the boy departed.
Sc
arcely had the boy left than the serang stood in front of Dennis. His story was brief, though harrowing, but it threw no light upon the mystery. For two days, till they reached the rapids, they had used the motor-boat. Then, they transhipped into a native dug-out, leaving the motor in charge of a village headman. For three days they had paddled and poled upstream till they came to the mouth of the Buis River. Here, the sergeant and police left them, telling them to wait for their return, and struck inland along a native track. For sixteen days they waited, though their food had given out and they had taken turns to search the jungle for edible roots. Then, on the sixteenth day it happened—the horrible coming of Nuin.
The boatmen had gone to look for roots. The serang was dozing in the dug-out. Suddenly it shook and rocked. Something clutched the sevang's arm. It was Nuin's hand. Startled into wakefulness, the serang sat up; then he screamed and covered his eyes with his hands. When he dared look again Nuin was lying on the river bank. His clothes were in rags. Round his chest and back ran a livid weal four inches wide. His left leg hung broken and twisted. His right arm was entirely missing. His face was caked in congealed blood.
As the serang looked, Nuin opened his lips to speak, but his voice was only a whisper. Tremblingly, haltingly, the serang went to him and put his ear to his mouth. "Sergeant—others—dead—three days—west—man—with—big—big—others." The whisper faded away; Nuin gave a shudder and was dead.
They buried him near the river and then left, paddling night and day till they reached the rapids. A night they spent in the village, for they were racked with sleeplessness and they left the next morning, reaching Klagan the same day.
Such was the serang's report.
The Fear spread farther down the river till it reached the sea and spread along the coast.
In the barracks that night were two women who would never see their men again; was born a baby who would never know his father; wept a maiden for the lover whose lips she would never kiss again.
As the earliest streaks of dawn came stealing across the sky, the chugging of a motor-boat broke the stillness of the night. Dennis himself was at the wheel, for the serang was suffering with fever. With him were nine police and a corporal. They carried stores for twenty days.
The journey was a replica of the sevang's, save that at the village by the rapids no friendly headman or villagers took charge of the motor-boat. The village had fled before the Fear. On the fifth day Buis was reached as the setting sun shot the sky with blood-red streamers.
On the banks of the rive the earth was uprooted; among the loosened earth were human bones and the marks of pigs' feet. Among the bones was a broken tusk, sure sign of some fierce conflict that had raged over Nuin's remains.
Dennis shuddered as he saw the scene; his Murut police, pagans from the interior of North Borneo, fingered their charms of monkeys' teeth and dried snake-skins that hung around their necks or were attached to the rotan belts around their waists, that carried their heavy parangs.
Occasionally, throughout the night the droning noise of myriad insects was broken by the shrill bark of deer or kijang. Sometimes the sentry, gazing into the vast blackness of the jungle, saw the beady eyes of a pig, lit up for a moment by the flames of the campfire. Sometimes a snake, attracted by the glare, glided through the undergrowth, then passed on. Once or twice a nightjar cried and an owl hooted—eerie sounds in the pitch-black night. Otherwise a heavy brooding stillness, like an autumn mist, crept over the jungle and enveloped the camp. Hardly a policeman slept; but dozed and waked and dozed again, only to wake once more and feel the Fear grow ever stronger. Dennis, on his camp-bed under a kajang awning, tossed and tossed the long night through.
Dawn broke to a clap of thunder. Rain heralded in the new day.
"Three days—west." This was all Dennis knew; all he had to guide him. For this and the next two days the party followed a track that led steadily in a westerly direction. On the evening of the third day it came out into a glade. Here, Dennis pitched his camp. The tiny space of open sky and glittering stars breathed a cooler air and purer fragrance than the camps roofed in by the canopy of mighty trees. Thus, the tired and haunted police slept, and Dennis ceased his tossing. Only the sentry was awake—or should have been. Perhaps, he too dozed or fell fast asleep, for a few unconscious moments. If so he paid a heavy penalty.
Dennis awoke the next morning at a quarter to six to see only the smouldering remains of the campfire.
"Sentry!" he called. But no answer was vouchsafed. "Sentry!" he cried again, but no one came. Aroused by his voice, the sleeping camp stirred to wide and startled awakeness.
The corporal came across to Dennis, saluted, then stood at attention, waiting.
"The fire's nearly out; where's the sentry?" Dennis queried.
The corporal looked around him, gazed at the smouldering fire, counted his men, then looked at Dennis with fear-stricken eyes.
"Tuan!" he gasped. "He is not—there are only eight men!"
"Is not? What d'you mean? Where's he gone?" As Dennis snapped his question cold fear gripped his heart. He knew; some inner sense told him that the man had disappeared in the same mysterious fashion as those early victims. Here, in the midst of his camp, the terrible, unseen thing had power!
"Where's he gone?" Dennis repeated his question fiercely to quench his rising fear. "What d'you mean?"
For answer the corporal only stood and trembled. His open, twitching mouth produced no sound.
With an oath Dennis flung himself from his bed. "Search the glade, you fool," he cried, "and find his tracks! He can't be far away. No, stay," he added as the corporal was departing. "Who is it?"
"Bensaian, Tuan," gasped the terrified man.
Dennis's eyes narrowed and a frown spread over his face.
"Bensaian!" he repeated. "He was Number Three. His watch was from twelve till two."
"Tuan!"
"Then he's never been relieved. From two o'clock at least he's been missing!"
"Tuan! I must have slept. I saw Auraner relieve Si Tuah, but I was tired and——"
"Search for his tracks," Dennis cried, breaking in on his protestations, "but see no man enters the jungle."
In that tiny glade the search was no prolonged affair, but no traces of the missing man were found—save one. A brass button, torn from his tunic, lay at the foot of a mighty billian tree. But where and how he had gone remained a mystery. Only the regular footprints as he had walked to and fro on his beat were just discernible, and these crossed and recrossed each other in hopeless confusion.
Over the tops of the trees the sun came stealing, bathing the glade in its warming light, but Dennis heeded it not.
"Three days—west." The words kept hammering in his brain as he sat on the edge of his bed and smoked cigarette after cigarette. Up and down the glade a sentry walked. Round the fire the police were crouched cooking their rice; over another Dennis's boy prepared his Tuan's breakfast.
At length, when ready, he brought it over to him, poured out his coffee and departed to join the whispering police. But though the coffee grew cold and flies settled on the food, Dennis sat on, unmoved, deep in his distraction.
This was the fourth day! For three days they had journeyed west, following Nuin's almost last conscious words. The glade was hemmed in by the impenetrable jungle; no path led out of it save that along which they had come. It formed a cul-de-sac, indeed. And, Bensaian was missing!
As Dennis sat and pondered, this one great fact became predominant. Bensaian was missing. Then what did it mean? Only that here the thing had happened, lived or breathed or moved about. Here, then, would be found the answer to the riddle! In this little glade of sunlight must they watch and wait. Into the trackless jungle he dared not enter, even if his men could hack a path. To return the way they had come would make his errand worse than fruitless. Watching and waiting only remained.
So they waited. Day turned to evening and evening into night; the dawn of another day displaced the night; the su
n again rode over the tops of the jungle. But nothing happened. Only the policemen grew more frightened; only Dennis's nerves grew more frayed. Then, once again the night descended, but no one in the camp dared really sleep.
Up and down walked the sentry, resting every now and then, as he turned against the billian tree. A gentle breeze stirred the branches of the encircling trees, bearing on the air a faint aromantic smell that soothed the nervous senses of the resting camp as a narcotic dispels pain. One by one the police ceased whispering and gently dozed, calmed by the sweet fragrance. Dennis ceased his endless smoking; stretched himself at ease upon his bed. The sense of mystery seemed forgotten by all; a sense of peace seemed brooding over them.
Midnight came and the wakeful sentry was relieved. His relief, but half-awake, railed at his fate—the half-unconscious dozing was so pleasant, and this marching up and down the glade while others rested so utterly to his distaste.
As for the fortieth time he turned about at the base of the great billian tree, he lowered his rifle, rested for a few seconds with his hands upon its barrel, then leaned against the dark-ridged stem; just for a moment he would rest, his rifle in his hands—just for a moment only, then once again take up his beat.
Take wind in the trees was gradually increasing; the fragrance on the air became more pronounced. The camp was almost wrapt in slumber. On his bed Dennis sleepily wondered whence came the pleasing, soothing odour that seemed to breathe so wondrous a peace. Against the billian tree the sentry still was leaning; his rifle slipped from the faint grasp of his hands, but he heeded not the rattle as it struck the ground.
Peace in the glade from whence came so much mystery! Peace while the dread, though unknown, agent drew near apace!
Down from the top of the billian tree it slowly descended, branch by branch; slowly, carefully, silently, till it rested on the lowest branch still thirty feet above the sentry.
The bark of a deer broke the stillness of the night. From afar came an answering note. Somehow the sound awakened the sentry. He looked around him, saw the fire was burning bright, picked up his fallen rifle and commenced to walk about.