The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Kouram, gripped by anxiety and anger at the same time, then adopted a menacing tone.

  “Let the hidden men place no trust in their number. The white chiefs have weapons as terrible as an earthquake or a forest fire!” He accompanied his speech with a mime. Realizing his imprudence, however, he continued: “We have not come as enemies. If you want our alliance, your chief will be welcome in our camp.”

  Suddenly, a man stood up, with a roar like that of a buffalo. He had an assegai in one hand and a club in the other. His torso was powerful, his jaws protruding, like those of a wolf. His yellow eyes were gleaming with ardor, courage and covetousness. He shouted unknown words, but his gestures expressed the desire to be victor and master.

  “The men of the camp are invincible!” replied Kouram, in words and signs.

  Ouammha the Blue Eagle burst out laughing, in a haughty and derisive fashion. He shouted two orders, and the Goura-Zannkas warriors stood up in the bushes, ferns and long grass. They were powerful men, by virtue of their courage and youth; they had the camp entirely surrounded. Hegoum, the man with the horn, blew it in the direction of the rising sun. The Sons of the Star, all armed with clubs and assegais, roared mightily.

  And in words and gestures, Ouammha said: “The Sons of the Star have ten warriors for every one of yours. We shall take the camp, with its animals and treasures, and we shall eat the men!”

  Understanding that the chief wanted war, Kouram put out his arms, projecting them in front of him and then pointing at the ground. He bowed. “The men of the forest will die like the insects that rose up in the evening over the waters of the lake.”

  The resounding voice of the Blue Eagle alternated with that of Hegoum’s horn. Meanwhile, the Goura-Zannkas formed up in columns; there were four of them, each of about 50 men.

  Kouram made one last attempt. His voice and his gestures, in unison, said: “There is still time to make an alliance.”

  The Blue Eagle, however, seeing his battle columns, felt his power ardently. He gave the signal for the attack.

  The camp was ready to receive it. Ironcastle and a native were maneuvering the machine-gun on to the top of a mound. Sydney checked the elephant-gun. Philippe and Sir George were covering the south and the west. The other inhabitants of the camp, ready to fire at a given signal, formed a long elliptical line.

  “Don’t kill the chief!” Ironcastle shouted—for he hoped to make an alliance with Ouammha, even after a battle.

  The horn roared, and Goura-Zannkas spread out on to the lake. Kouram beat a retreat, and 200 grim men started running.

  “Fire!” Ironcastle ordered.

  The machine-gun, rotating on its axis, launched its hail of bullets, so close together that they seemed to be a liquid jet. The elephant-gun raised its thunderous voice. Sir George and Philippe aimed methodically, supported by the fire of the other riflemen.

  It was terrible. Before the Goura-Zannkas’ advance guard had covered half the distance that separated them from the camp, more than 60 warriors were lying on the ground. The machine-gun mowed them down in lines; the elephant-gun scattered them in bloody shards of flesh, bones and entrails. Every shot fired by Philippe or Sir George felled a man.

  The elephant-gun caused the first stampede; at the sight of warriors torn to pieces, heads and limbs thrown far and wide, the black column coming along the lake-shore was seized by panic and took refuge in the papyrus. Then the machine-gun stopped the group coming from the south, while Philippe’s and Sir George’s fire, supported by Dick, Patrick and the riflemen, dispersed the fourth column.

  In the west, however, the troop led by the Blue Eagle was still redoubtable. The chief was leading them, brandishing his axe and his assegai, and they were already no more than 200 meters away…

  Hareton watched them coming. They were the elite: young, vehement warriors, tall and deep-chested, who, if they got into the camp, would throw the natives into disorder and massacre the whites. They were running speedily. Ironcastle only had two minutes to avert catastrophe.

  “Damn!” he grunted. Regretfully, he turned the machine-gun westwards; then, methodically, he showered them with bullets. It was as if blades of fire or thunderbolts had swept through the assailants. The men were whirling around like bees in smoke, oscillating and collapsing with cries of rage or agony, or fleeing at random, afflicted by vertigo. Soon, there were no more than ten warriors to follow Ouammha. Ironcastle dispersed them with a single gesture.

  The Blue Eagle remained alone in front of the camp. Death was in his soul. The immense force of his race had become, in an instant, that of jackals before a lion. Everything that had swelled his chest with pride, all legend and all reality, vanished before a mysterious power. His pride collapsed into a boundless humility; his glorious memories lay mutilated within him, formless and pitiful.

  He raised his club and his assegai. He shouted: “Kill Ouammha—but let it be the hand of a warrior that pierces his breast. Who wants to fight Ouammha?” It was the last surge of his pride, and his voice sounded lamentably. Kouram, who was standing next to Guthrie, understood the chief’s gestures. “He wants a single combat,” he said.

  Guthrie burst out laughing. He surveyed the scene; there was no longer anything there but fugitives, cadavers and the wounded. “I’ll give him that consolation,” he said.

  The giant strode through a mass of hot ashes and, armed with an axe, ran toward the Blue Eagle.

  Astonished, the Goura-Zannkas chief watched him come. Although the clans of the Stars included tall men, none approached this pale man, whose strength seemed comparable to that of a rhinoceros. A superstitious sadness weighed upon the soul of the chief, while Guthrie cried: “You want a fight? Here I am!”

  Instinctively, Ouammha hurled his assegai, which brushed Sydney’s shoulder without even ripping the cloth. In a few strides, the American was in front of the native. The Blue Eagle uttered a sinister cry and raised his club. Guthrie laughed.

  The club came down, and so did Sydney’s axe, which buried itself in the hard wood and wrenched the weapon out of the chief’s hands.

  “You’ve had your fight!” Guthrie jeered. “Now…” Grabbing hold of Ouammha unexpectedly, he threw him over his shoulder and carried him off like a child.

  The men in the camp howled mightily. The fugitive Goura-Zannkas paused, gripped with terror, and among those who were hidden in the reeds or the bushes, many moaned, oppressed by the amazement of a prodigy.

  “There you are!” said Guthrie, depositing his prisoner on the ground.

  Ouammha trembled. He had risked his life a thousand times; no man would have been better able to resist torments and wait impassively for the moment when he would be devoured by the enemy. The fear that was crushing him was not that of a warrior who fears death but that of a man confronted by the Inconceivable. On Guthrie’s shoulder he had felt weaker than an infant—and out there, more than 100 Goura-Zannkas were lying dead, while not a single man from the camp had received a scratch. It was as if the assegais and clubs that, since the beginning of time, had killed innumerable men, buffaloes, warthogs and sometimes struck down lions, had suddenly been transformed into wisps of straw.

  Mute, his face ashen, Ouammha remained prostrate.

  A voice drew him out of his oblivion.

  He raised his head slowly, and saw Kouram, who was speaking and making gestures—and because Kouram was black, he felt less crushed.

  In sign language, Kouram said: “Would the men of the forest now like to become the friends of the men from the north-west?”

  As the signs were repeated and multiplied, Ouammha understood them. An immense astonishment overwhelmed him. He could not conceive that, having been captured, he was not to be reserved for a war-feast…

  He studied Kouram, Ironcastle and—most of all—the colossal adversary who had carried him off like a child. Because he had an imagination, he transcended the limits of his beliefs. Men so different from the Goura-Zannkas, so strangely and so terribly armed, mi
ght have infinitely different customs. Besides, cunning suggested that, being nomads, it was doubtless in the strangers’ interests to leave few enemies behind them. Curiosity too—a sharp, vehement and impassioned curiosity—was stirring in the Blue Eagle. What would he be risking? Was his life not in the hands of the victors? And Ouammha considered that his life was worth that of 100 warriors.

  His hesitation came to an abrupt end. He turned to the giant, for whom a boundless admiration was growing within him, and made a gesture of consent. The alliance was concluded.

  III. Squat Men and Goura-Zannkas

  For some days, the travelers’ suspicion was profound. Africans and Westerners alike were ever-ready for battle. They had camped near the trees where the Men of the Stars lived, in an open space on the bank of a river. The clans were wandering around them; men, women and children avid for a glimpse of the fantastic beings that had won the battle without a single one of them being struck by a club or an assegai. No one had any rancor against them. A religious spirit was mingled with the dread they inspired. The sight of Guthrie, especially, filled the Goura-Zannkas with a dazzling amazement; they said to one another: “He is the strongest of all men…he has the power of the Entities…”

  Soon, a part of this admiration was transferred to Hareton. By dint of effort, and because he had a gift for languages, he learned the most useful words of the Goura-Zannkas dialect. Aided by Kouram’s gestures, he then succeeded in conversing with the Blue Eagle. He knew that the Men of the Stars and the Squat Men had been implacable enemies for a long time. Tradition and legend eternalized tales of combats, defeats and victories, the cunning of the Squat Men at grips with the cunning of the clans.

  For more than a generation, however, no one had seen the Red Squat Men, the Blue Squat Men or the Black Squat Men. When Ouammha understood that one of their tribes was nearby, fury made his muscles quiver and his eyes gleamed like those of a leopard at dusk. Hatred rose up within him, ferocious and tumultuous—a hatred that surpassed his person, linking him to superior forces. Hareton realized that. He saw that the alliance was founded on something primitive and indestructible.

  “The Blue Eagle will find the Squat Men!” growled the chief. “He will search for them on the waters, in the earth and among the rocks. The Goura-Zannkas are more cunning than jackals.”

  The American decided to show him the two captives.32 At the sight of them he leapt up, raising his club to smash their skulls. Kouram stopped his arm.

  “Can you talk to them?” Ironcastle asked.

  The hatred agitating the Blue Eagle was reflected in the prisoners’ thick faces. They too were subject to the power of a millennial instinct.

  Ouammha insulted them untiringly. Over centuries of warfare, the two races had learned to understand one another, at least in essential matters.

  “Can you talk to them?” Ironcastle repeated.

  “The Eagle can talk to them.”

  In a dark voice, Hareton said: “Ask them what their people have done with the young woman they have abducted.”

  Ironcastle and Kouram repeated the question several times, firstly in truncated speech, secondly by means of gestures.

  Ouammha understood, and spoke to the captives. The monstrous mouths released sly and silent laughter. Then, one of the captives spoke.

  “The Phantom Men will never see the woman with the hair of light again. She is living with the Squat Men on and within the earth. She is the slave of a chief.”

  “Where are the Squat Men?” demanded the Blue Eagle.

  A cold, ironic and hateful scorn came into the eyes of the Squat Man. “They are everywhere!” he said, making a circular gesture.

  Ouammha threatened him with his club. The Squat Man remained impassive.

  When the Blue Eagle had translated the reply, there was a tragic silence. The image of Muriel, a prisoner among the brutes, was so clear that the unfortunate father uttered a cry of distress.

  “The captives will tell me where the horde is!” the Goura-Zannkas chief signed.

  “Never!”

  “We need to burn their feet!” cried Kouram. “They’ll talk then.”

  When the Eagle understood he shook his head, and was able to make it understood that no torture would be effective on Squat Men.

  “We must kill them, then,” Kouram went on, ardently. “But for them, the chief’s daughter would not have been abducted. But for them, perhaps the Squat Men would have abandoned their pursuit.”

  That was plausible—but Aesa33 had passed. Time could not be turned back.

  “Do you want to help us to find the Squat Men?” Hareton asked.

  A passionate breath inflated the chief’s breast. “Ouammha wants to exterminate them!” he howled, waving his club over the prisoners’ heads.

  The Squat Men’s yellow eyes half-closed—and like Kouram, the Eagle shouted: “We must kill them!”

  “If they live,” said the guide, “even blindfolded, with their mouths gagged and their limbs tied with ropes—even tied up in a sack—they will talk to the others.”

  “We cannot kill unarmed men,” Hareton replied, sadly.

  Kouram and Ouammha looked at one another. A mysterious complicity darkened their eyes.

  “What will Ouammha do to find the Squat Men?” asked Hareton.

  “The warriors will comb the forest, the land and the waters. The sorcerers will consult the Clouds, the Winds and the Stars—and the Goura-Zannkas know all the caves.”

  “If the Eagle succeeds, he shall have the weapon that kills at 3000 paces,” Ironcastle promised, pointing at a rifle.

  The yellow eyes scintillated like the star Aldebaran.

  Ten minutes later, the Man with the Sonorous Horn assembled the warriors.

  Before nightfall, the Goura-Zannkas knew that Squat Men were prowling around the camp. For preference, they stayed underground. Natural tunnels were hollowed out there, often linked up by the working of the Ancestral Squat Men, in the times when the Sons of the Stars had not yet conquered the Forest of Trees and the western shore of the lake.

  This discovery tightened the bonds between the clans and the explorers. With a savage passion, the natives searched for traces of the enemy and prepared for war. When the fires were lit around the camp Ouammha reappeared. He paused to contemplate Guthrie, whose stature never ceased to amaze him. Then he said: “The Goura-Zannkas will do battle tonight! They will be victorious—but more surely if the Phantom Men bring their thunderous weapons…”

  A clamor interrupted him, and they saw a troop of Goura-Zannkas dragging the two prisoners. By virtue of their stout torsos and their buffalo faces, the odious race of Squat Men was recognizable even in the semi-darkness. A furious delight dilated the Blue Eagle’s face. “The battle is imminent now! These will give us their hearts.”

  Hareton understood, and shivered. “They’re prisoners!” he exclaimed.

  “Prisoners must be devoured! That is the will of the Earth, the Waters and the Ancestors.”

  Ironcastle translated the chief’s words.

  “It’s their business,” said Guthrie. “One has to respect the laws of one’s allies.”

  Sir George and Philippe remained silent.

  Then, coldly, Ouammha shouted an order; clubs were raised; the Squat Men fell, their skulls fractured. “It would have been better to soak them first in the sacred waters,” said Ouammha, regretfully—and, seeing that Hareton did not understand, he went on: “I had them killed in order that you would have no regrets…”

  “This savage is full of delicate attentions,” Sydney remarked, when Ironcastle had reported the Eagle’s reply.

  Ouammha laughed in a cordial manner. He fixed his eyes on Guthrie and said: “To make victory over the Squat Men more complete, will the Phantom Chiefs help us with the Thunderous Weapons?”

  Ironcastle transmitted the request to his companions.

  “We ought to take the risk,” said Sir George.

  “What risk?” Guthrie interjected. “The
risk of combat? We neither can nor ought to avoid it.”

  “The risk of treason,” said Hareton. “But I don’t think they’ll betray us.”

  “I’m sure they won’t!” Philippe exclaimed.

  “No,” Kouram added, gravely. “They’ll be true to their word. And if we help them to destroy the Squat Men, the alliance will be perfected.”

  Hareton remained thoughtful for a moment, then said: “We’ll leave half our men to guard the camp; the others will accompany the Goura-Zannkas. Is that acceptable?”

  “We accept.”

  “Then there’s no more to do but select the men.”

  “The lot will decide,” said Guthrie, laughing loudly, “save for me, who will have to go with them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they want me to.”

  “That’s true,” Hareton agreed.

  The Blue Eagle’s ardent gaze was fixed on the colossus.

  The lot designated Philippe, Dick Nightingale and Patrick Jefferson. Six black companions were added, including Kouram.

  When the Eagle learned that Guthrie would take part in the expedition he roared with joy. Turning to the men who had killed the prisoners, he shouted: “The Giant Phantom is with us!”

  A long clamor greeted this great news, and the man with the Sonorous Horn blew toward the horizons.

  IV. The Battle of the Lake

  Philippe, with Dick Nightingale, two natives from the camp and 100 Goura-Zannkas, was to explore the north-eastern bank and the islands. One of the men was Houmra, the scout with the jackal’s ears. No one was better able than he was to discern sounds and threats. When he lay down on the ground, the expanse yielded its mysteries to him; he could distinguish at a distance the heavy tread of a warthog or the even heavier gait of a rhinoceros; he never confused the prowl of a jackal with that of a panther; he could identify the approach of an ostrich, a giraffe, or even a python well before they came in sight; and every cry and murmur, all kinds of rumors, informed him infallibly as to the nature of creatures and things.