The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  The travelers were getting their strength back. Already they were bemoaning the mediocre quality of the food. Flamingoes and pelicans were unsatisfactory fare, their flesh having an unpleasant oily taste. It was the ever-curious Niam-Niam who discovered a means of introducing more variety to the meals. Five hundred meters from the mooring, in a little bay surrounded by a palisade, there was a sort of aquatic temple reserved for a dozen gigantic pelicans, the objects of Kabirko adoration. These enormous birds, so old and heavy that they were no longer able to move, received a provision of fresh fish every day adequate to last them until the next. It was this fish that Niam-Niam wanted to steal from the Kabirkos’ gods. The following morning, Farandoul and Désolant, lying in wait near the temple, saw the Kabirkos, led by witch-doctors, bring a superb provision of fish with all possible marks of respect. Only the witch-doctors went into the temple, and came back immediately, surrounded by their plumed gods.

  When the negroes had gone, Farandoul and Désolant hastened into the enclosure and threw themselves on what remained of the fish; they were coming out again, carrying a sufficient quantity, when the pelicans, having recovered from their astonishment, precipitated themselves upon them with raucous cries. It was necessary to defend themselves. The two white men had hardly expected such resistance; initially forced to retreat, they soon had their daggers in their hands. Falling upon the pelicans, they fought valiantly for the prize of the coveted fish. Honor to unfortunate courage! The pelicans defended their nourishment to the last, and only succumbed to the white men’s weapons. After a quarter of an hour’s fighting, the latter were the masters of the battlefield.

  The Kabirkos had no more gods!

  “What imprudence!” exclaimed Farandoul. “This fish might perhaps cost us dear. Still, the harm is done, and it’s a matter of erasing all trace of it. Quickly! The Kabirkos will assume that their gods have left!” Before they even took the fish away, the two men tried to get rid of the cadavers of the gods. The pelicans were taken 50 meters away and thrown into the river with stones tied around their necks. All these comings and goings had, however, occasioned a certain tumult in the ranks of the innumerable legions of flamingoes lined up along the river banks. As the white men went back into the enclosure to fetch the fish, they saw that the witch-doctors and the negroes were returning in all haste.

  Farandoul and Désolant only just had time to hide in a corner of the primitive bamboo edifice that served as a temple for the divine pelicans. The witch-doctors and their followers, on finding the sacred enclosure empty of inhabitants, released an immense cry of terror.

  It was necessary to do something; once the Kabirkos had recovered from their amazement, they would climb up to the temple and discover the intruders. Farandoul understood that, and tried to save the situation by means of audacity. “Let’s show ourselves boldly,” he said, “and if we have to, fight out way out!” And the two men, revolvers in hand, assumed a threatening attitude in front of the hut.

  Like a regiment of lead soldiers knocked over by a gust of wind, the negroes and the witch-doctors fell flat on the ground.

  The white men paused. A concert of cries and chants rose up from the multitude; a few crouching negroes began beating their sacred drums frantically.

  “Are the gods angry?” squeaked one of the witch-doctors, dragging himself towards the white men in a prone position. “Do they want their people to die?”

  Farandoul had understood to some degree, the Kabirko language having much in common with the Makalolo dialect. Rapidly, he explained the situation of Désolant, and they both struck their most Olympian pose.

  “There were 12 pelicans before the transformation,” the creeping witch-doctor continued. “Have the other gods taken flight?”

  Farandoul thought that he ought to reply, and summoned up all his linguistic skills.

  “They will come back,” he said, thunderously, in Makalolo, “if the Kabirko nation ceases to grieve them! But if the Kabirkos continue to invade the sanctuary of their gods and to run disrespectfully over the sacred island, we too shall depart. We shall go to the land of the Makalolos and will leave the Kabirkos godless, in the power of all the evil spirits lying in wait for them.”

  Cries of terror uttered by the swarming mass of the faithful greeted this threat. The witch-doctors beat their drums furiously in an attempt to deflect the wrath of the gods.

  The head witch-doctor, the leader of the band, hastily got up, with a staff in his hand, and fell upon the inferior witch-doctors and their simple associates. In the blink of an eye, the enclosure of the temple was evacuated and resealed. The witch-doctor, left alone with the gods, resumed his humble posture without saying a word.

  “The gods are satisfied,” pronounced Farandoul, majestically, “And now make our will known to the Kabirko nation. The gods wish the boundary of the sacred isle to be respected; the witch-doctors alone may penetrate it at certain hours, with the greatest marks of respect—and if the gods are content with their people, they will soon resume their initial form, and never leave the islands!”

  The witch-doctor rubbed his face in the sand for some time, and timidly pronounced a few words: “Will the gods permit their unworthy servant to stand up?”

  “You forget the majesty of the gods!” Farandoul retorted. “Leave as you have come and never raise your eyes toward us!”

  The witch-doctor, still prone, turned round and left the enclosure; it was not until he was some distance away from the temple that he dared to get to his feet. The people welcomed his return with a loud drum-roll, but he demanded silence and informed the multitude of the will of the gods.

  A quarter of an hour later, the calm and solitude of the sacred isle were restored; the negroes and their witch-doctors had disappeared.

  “Well, my dear friend,” cried Farandoul, when he was rid of all anxiety, “here we are, gods! I’ve been a king, a dictator, a bishop, a cacique, and a commander-in-chief, etc., etc., but it’s the first time I’ve achieved that eminent grade!”

  “It’s a fine social position,” Désolant replied.

  “We’ll remain gods for a fortnight—time to bring our plans to maturity, and then leave our people free to find others, Meanwhile, my dear chap, while you hold your position, you have the right to establish yourself in the temple!”

  The gods had nothing to reveal to the four queens; Niam-Niam, hidden in the bushes, had witnessed the entire scene and had gone back to the boat with the news—except that, more worryingly, he affirmed that he had seen the Kabirkos establish an extensive cordon of surveillance of sorts around the sacred isle, installing armed guard-posts at intervals.

  How long could the fugitives remain gods among the Kabirkos? Farandoul had imagined that a fortnight would be sufficient to find a means of avoiding the surveillance of these excessively religious people, but he did not know these malign folk.

  Three months later, the Kabirkos were still in possession their gods!

  The witch-doctors came every morning to bring, in great solemnity, the customary tribute of fish. Every morning the gods were there to receive it; only the head witch-doctor came into the enclosure, always with the same marks of respect.

  The gods, busy every day for part of the morning, had the afternoons to themselves. The queens were profoundly bored; inaction weighed upon them. It was necessary to remain on their petty islet without showing themselves, or to take infinite precautions in order to extend their excursions any further. Fortunately, Farandoul had finished his reconnaissance; he now knew all the difficult points of the trajectory that they would have to follow to quit the islands.

  Finally, Farandoul the god decided to strike a decisive blow. One morning, in the fourth month, the witch-doctors were agreeably surprised to discover six gods instead of two, as on the previous day. The four queens had accompanied Farandoul and Désolant to the temple. The six gods, forming a majestic group, welcomed the witch-doctors with considerably amiability. The high priest was permitted to raise his head slig
htly to contemplate them, and Farandoul began to speak.

  “The gods are content with the Kabirkos,” he said. “They will all come back. For today, the gods order great rejoicing among their people. Go!”

  This time the drums and chants burst out with greater enthusiasm; the witch-doctors and the people went away dancing to carry the glad news to the villages; soon, an extraordinary racket informed the gods that their orders were being followed.

  For their part, the gods did not remain inactive. Aboard the Solitaire everything was made ready for departure. Dry wood had been accumulated in the interior and on the deck, provisions had been loaded. The hippopotamus, which spent its life sleeping and eating, had been woken up; the goatskins that sustained it had been reinflated and the mainmast prepared.

  At midnight, Farandoul gave the signal to depart.

  It was the poor condition of the hippopotamus that frustrated the initial stage of the journey. The animal, considerably fattened by three months of idleness and as many bundles of reeds as it cared to eat, no longer possessed the good qualities as a mover that our friends had formerly been able to appreciate. It advanced slowly and snorted noisily at every effort. Farandoul was counting on it to tow the fugitives as far as possible from the sacred isles; its role was to change when they got out of the lake and had to pass the first riverside villages. The Solitaire would then take the lead and draw at along under full steam.

  It took four hours to get out of the lake; daybreak was not far off, bringing danger with it. Farandoul could wait no longer; he took the lead in the Solitaire and, stoking up the furnaces to the maximum, launched forwards along the river. The whistling of the steam, the boat’s powerful respiration, awoke a few negroes on the bank. Frightened by the sight of this unknown vessel that emitted flames and smoke, they ran to wake their witch-doctors to exorcise the monster.

  The Solitaire went forward valiantly, dragging the hippopotamus in its wake, as frightened as the negroes.

  Dawn came; on the banks, the few villages they encountered were thrown into turmoil, but the Solitaire ate up the distance and soon passed them by.

  At noon they had put 15 leagues between the Solitaire and the sacred isles, but at 1 p.m. the joy of triumph vanished before a new cause of anxiety; they had just entered a dangerous region of falls and cascades. The river, drawn on by the successive lowering of the ground, ran like an arrow between the rocks, covering them with its foam and often jumping over them. Could they get through? The anxious Farandoul steered between the rocks as best he could, dreading that at any moment they might touch some reef or capsize while attempting too considerable a leap.

  Suddenly, in descending a fall of three or four meters amid whirlwinds of foam, the hippopotamus, dragged along at increasing speed, turned over and capsized entirely. The unfortunate creature had its belly in the air and its head under water. Maintained by the goatskins, it could not right itself and was bound to drown.

  In order not to let his faithful servant perish, Farandoul threw himself upon the cords that retained the chaplet of goatskins, and cut through them with hatchet-blows. The half-drowned hippopotamus made a violent effort, and recovered its normal position. Our hero managed to get back to the Solitaire, but while he was away from the rudder, the steamboat, seized by a current, had deviated from its course and was heading straight for the rocks; the only thing that could be done to avoid the rocks was to run aground on a sandbank.

  Fatality! The shipwreck-victims were prepared to combine their efforts to refloat the vessel, but Farandoul, worried by an immense murmur audible in the distance on the river, judged it prudent to undertake a preliminary reconnaissance. He scrambled briskly over the rocky mounds that overhung the river 50 meters away and came back in distress. A series of waterfalls, these unnavigable, extended for several miles downstream; their roar, muffled by a bend in the river, echoed from the heights of the rocks like thunder. The Solitaire had one again become absolutely useless.

  “The river route is definitely too full of obstacles,” Farandoul said. “We’ll have to go overland. We’ll try to find some mounts along the way—I have my lasso.”

  The fugitives distributed their meager luggage—weapons, a few bedclothes, and food—among themselves. It was necessary to bid a final farewell to the Solitaire. The detached hippopotamus greeted its return to liberty with amazement; when it saw its former masters set forth into the wilderness, it bellowed dully and set off after them, but the rocks blocked its passage. Obesity had caused it to lose all its agility, to the extent that it abandoned the pursuit and went sadly back to the river.

  Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed since the former gods of the Kabirkos had disappeared into the dense thickets on the right bank of the N’kari when a little caravan emerged from the rocks of that same right bank and came to an abrupt halt in front of the stranded Solitaire.

  This caravan was composed of only six men: one white man and five Arabs. The white man released an exclamation of triumph, and the Arabs gesticulated.

  “It’s the Solitaire!” cried the white traveler. “It’s definitely her. Her furnaces are still smoking; her master can’t be far away. So I’ve found Farandoul! I’ve succeeded where my colleagues in the Société de Géographie, Messieurs Eusébin de Saint-Gommer and Désolant have failed! What glory for me, Ulysse Ganivet! Let’s go, Mohammed; let’s go aboard the Solitaire and take an honest siesta, while awaiting the illustrious voyager’s return. He’ll be very surprised!”

  And the traveler, Monsieur Ulysse Ganivet—a well-known scientist—installed himself delightedly in the shade of the Solitaire’s cabin with his five Arabs. Fatigued by a long march, they soon went to sleep.

  Farandoul did not come back, but a strange swaying motion woke them up with a start two hours later. The astonished travelers thought at first that the boat had resumed its progress and ran to the stairs to climb up on deck. The hatches were closed!

  As the swaying became more pronounced, Ulysse Ganivet, the white traveler, popped his head through a porthole and released an exclamation.

  The Solitaire was on the move, but not on the water. It was sailing through fields on the shoulders of 50 hideous negroes. Ulysse Ganivet and his five Arabs, realizing that they were prisoners, rapidly sought the weapons they had deposited in the middle of the cabin. The weapons had disappeared!

  As you have doubtless guessed, these negroes were part of a band of Kabirkos launched in pursuit of their fugitive gods. Traveling over the plain, while other Kabirkos explored the river, they had arrived at the falls scarcely an hour after the arrival of Ulysse Ganivet at Farandoul’s abandoned vessel. Recognizing the boat described by the inhabitants of the riverside villages, they had approached it in the greatest silence, closed the hatchways carefully and, certain of their prey, had lifted up the Solitaire delicately in order to transport it diligently back to the sacred isles.

  On the way, the population bathed in joy—the gods had been recovered!

  The head witch-doctor received the fugitives at the entrance to the temple; he almost fell backwards in amazement when the hatches were opened and a very hungry Ulysse Ganivet appeared on the deck of the Solitaire with his Arabs. These gods numbered six, like the others, but they were not the same ones! After five minutes of meditation, the profound science of the Kabirko witch-doctor discovered the secret of the change. Doubtless the gods had transformed themselves again! What striking proof of their power! The entire Kabirko nation fell forwards into the dust and dragged itself along in a prone position for several minutes.

  The gods did not understand at all. Rigorously shut up in the temple and kept in sight day and night, they had plenty of time to reflect and arrive at an understanding.

  In the depths of Africa there are six unhappy gods: Monsieur Ulysse Ganivet and his five Arabs. Their faithful Kabirkos, exceedingly suspicious since the first flight of their Olympus, refuse to let them out for a single day; they have become very demanding and never cease to torment the poor gods in
order to obtain all sorts of benefits: rain in dry weather, dryness in rainy weather, good luck in war, cures for themselves, serious epidemics for their neighbors, etc., etc.

  If only they were content to solicit, the gods would not complain overmuch, but when the rain does not come, or the requested victory is too long delayed, the Kabirkos have a policy of reducing the rations brought to the temple each day. O sadness! The poor gods are thus put on a diet until they answer the prayers of their faithful devotees!

  VI.

  Let us make shift to catch up with Farandoul and the four queens. They are far from the N’kari now, for never have they traveled with such rapidity!

  Farandoul’s first concern had been to devote himself to the quest for mounts for the entire caravan, and his luck seemed to have returned. In less than two days he succeeded in capturing two ostriches, a zebra and four giraffes.

  Farandoul and the white queen Angelina marched at the head on the ostriches, the giraffes came next, mounted by three other queens and Désolant, Niam-Niam bringing up the rear on the zebra. They went at top speed from dawn until the siesta hour; after the siesta, they galloped for another four hours, and in the evening they camped securely in the middle of a circle of fires. The negroes they met were dumbstruck with amazement at the sight of the white people. Farandoul always refused to enter into relations with them; the game-rich forests sufficed to feed the caravan. If any tribes manifested sentiments of hostility, the speed of our friends’ mounts got them out of trouble.

  Farandoul had completely abandoned any idea of reaching the west coast of Africa; he was now heading north-east, in order to reach Nubia.

  In that direction, he was no longer running the risk of bumping into unknown dangers, for he would soon come back into countries he had already traversed.