Quite right, too. The thorns knew better than he did. Fancy trying to run to some one in that tangle. He stood, collected himself, and hallooed again. This time not even a jackass. He waited, and watched the sweat trickle down the back of one hand. Not a sound.
Well, they had found Parsell’s helmet at the bottom of that gully, and he was going to get to the head of it. But was this the same valley? Of course it was. He had not been paying much attention, knowing that Mat knew the business better. But it must be the same cleft in the hills. He would have to push on, guide or no guide. Mat could look after himself. He must find Parsell. No point in being there unless he did.
He shouted. “Parsell! Mat!”
Oh, don’t be a damned fool. They’re not on the telephone.
Better get on with it. Some hours yet to sunset. He turned, and ascended the slope. This was his own particular job, anyhow. He had asked for it. He would have to do it alone. This was the same gully, of course. Why doubt it? Parsell could hardly have gone another way without wings. The leeches had made a mess of that leg, by the look of it. Might have been stuck by a bayonet. No time now to see to it, though. When Parsell was found they’d put everything in order, and get out of that country at the double, even if they had to truss up the old boy. He ought to have been trussed up at first. He must have wandered up that valley; to what did it lead?
Those rocks and tree-trunks were inhuman, as if, in that glassy stillness, they were shapes at the bottom of the sea. No day was there; it was too far below the surface for much to show. Was it getting dark already? More likely the sides of the narrow valley were closing in; they would, of course, towards the head of it. But if you looked up, nothing could be seen. Nothing was there but ropes and wreckage dangling from a ceiling out of sight.
He stopped again and listened. Great lichened hummocks of rock, like grey couched animals, watched him. Sable pillars receded, the endless aisles of an unholy tabernacle. Shouldn’t like to meet its priests. Nobody there, though. Roots were coiled and contorted in an everlasting agony. And not a sound. If Parsell was left there he would die that night—he would go properly mad. No wonder the Malays called it forbidden. He must get the old man out of it.
That fallen tree—he supposed he would have to climb over it. No way round it. But only night was beyond it. What was the good?
Anyway, Parsell’s helmet was at the bottom of that valley. Where else could he have gone? But could he have ascended so far, through that stuff? It wanted some doing. Now, over that tree, and get on with it. He might as well stay there himself as go back without the old ’un.
Colet climbed the prone column, thrusting creepers and a tough raffle from his face, grunted, and was on the top of it. What was beyond? Only more of the eternal rocks and wreckage on the dim slope, in a light which told him of the end of time. The day after the last day would be the same as this. The light dying and the world a wet litter.
The tree collapsed suddenly as he was gazing ahead, and he was dropped kicking into the hollow heart of the trunk, in choking dust. Something struggled with him, and slithered out past him. He shouted when he caught hold of its hard and slippery body. And he was trapped—he couldn’t escape. The desperate stuff broke away in his hands.
Hold hard. It’s only a rotten tree. And oh, by God! The ants in it were like fire all over him.
They helped him out of it. He was soon out then. Now, if he continued in that trembling and mucky sweat, he’d be added to Parsell. By Jove, those little devils could bite. Like the points of red-hot wires. His job was not to get lost, but to find the old man. You are only lost if you think you are.
Parsell must have had insane strength to have struggled up through that lumber of a dead and forgotten time. What possessed him to go alone? Not to have been turned back by the very silence of it? And in the dark, too. If the old man had a faith which could turn the apparition of hell into a forecourt to be walked through with a visiting card, it would be worth knowing. He could do with a pennyworth of it now, to be going on with. Hard luck to have to do it without any.
It must be getting near night. It was dark enough for it. Perhaps the evening storm was near. That was what it was; for heaven never peeped into that valley. He was in for it, if a storm burst over such a pit. The trees were unusually still. Waiting for something? Surely he was not purblind; his eyes were all right? The trees were filmy in the dusk. They were shades standing about.
This was the head of the valley, perhaps. That was a sheer wall of rock, so he could go no further. That could not be climbed. Useless to look for a little old man when you could hardly see a precipice, and the day was only a trifle paler than the black trees. What were all those shapes waiting for? Standing about? For him to go? No good. He wasn’t going. There was nowhere to go but back, and he could not go back. Not without Parsell. No point in it. To hell with the darkness and the shapes.
Perhaps the old man had been translated, gone up in a fiery chariot while they were not watching. Anything might happen there. And what had happened to Mat? That was queer. Mat had been behind him—had shown him which was the way to take a second or two before. Turned round, and nothing was there but the leaves watching him. There was more in what the Malays said about this mountain than he knew. Mat hadn’t liked the job. He had been reluctant about it. He said the mountain was guarded. Well, enchantment or not, there he was and there was no way out of it now.
It sounded as if the place was talking to itself, now it had got him; got him all round. Was it safe to wait under the precipice? There was a noise, up above, like the sea breaking. The storm was coming. What about repeating the Paternoster? Colet considered it. Couldn’t remember it. The aisles filled with quivering blue fire; the trees danced. He had laughed at the men chanting the mantras for a safe journey. But he didn’t know any mantras. Too late now to learn prayers and exemptions. Here it came. Poor old Parsell.
A rolling of drums, the steady booming of the coming of calamity; the hooting of bony things following the drums. Men? No, no men there. The hantus; they had a night out. The mountain was hollow and booming. They were marching out of it up their valley, an army of them. It was their place. He was caught, back against a wall. He strained his eyes on the cellar blackness towards the shouts. They were muttering near him now. If he could only see …
His prison opened suddenly, and skeletons of fire were capering round him, arms about the trees, taking the trees with them. The trees had no weight. They leaped. They had no roots. They were on quick feet. The roots were flinging out of the earth, they were lashing near him, serpents of fire.
No. That was the rain. The floods were pouring down. Torrents of romping fire. The valley was going. The mountain was collapsing and running down. He was going with it.
If you asked him, then he’d been out all night. Was this to-day or yesterday? There was no saying whether this was early morning or afternoon. The place had been deep under water. The earth and the trees were still talking about it. His watch had stopped. He would like to know what had happened. His clothes looked as though he’d slept in the bed of a river. He must have been wakened only just in time. He had better go slow. His knees were loose.
This was very like a corner he had seen before. That rock, a kneeling elephant, might be the one where Mat had vanished. When was that? Somehow there seemed to have been an awful loss of time, or else everything was washed out of his mind. Colet emerged through a thicket to a track, and looked up to the gloom of the woods.
Parsell. Yes. The old man had melted into that. Parsell had become part of the dark.
There was Mat. Hoisting his pack. Abandoning camp? Mat stared at him, dropped the pack, and was—Colet called out. The man was going to run away. What was the matter with him?
“Hullo, Mat! What news?”
Mat turned, and his bronze took a queer tinge. Colet shook the Malay’s hand, and jollied him. The man was frightened.
“I’m not a hantu, Mat. They turned me out of the forbidden gunong.
They found they couldn’t make a good hantu out of me. Here we are.”
Chapter XXXIX
No end yet to the eternal trees and the heat. They were in the plains now, though. Areca palms and houses might be seen in the distance any time. Land ho! A little rest wouldn’t do them any harm. Mat was a good man. That Malay was as good as the best. He was getting them on. Colet thought that, if the going were not too hard, he could last it out. Mat looked pretty bad himself. But it didn’t matter if there was little to eat. Not much fun in food if it made you sick. He must be tougher than he thought, to walk by day and have his ague fits at night.
They could do the rest by canoe to Mat’s own village, so Mat said, after this day’s march. Better than walking. But there was one thing about the fever, you did not care any more. Nothing mattered. Effort was futile; it was the men who kept him going. The fever cleared the mind in a strange way. Things lost their importance. Life lost its importance. He saw even the trees farther off. They were still high and brooding, keeping their secrets. They could keep them. Not so secret as they pretended. The men, too, were farther off. They were very quiet, and looked at him shyly. He knew what it was. They thought he was going to die.
But no fear. He knew better. There were things to be done. That old blighter Perriam—but he could wait. Perriam could wait a bit longer. It was strange to see the men sweating, and yourself to feel you couldn’t get warm, or keep the teeth from chattering. No good wishing he’d found Parsell. That man wasn’t to be found. Parsell was taken in by what he wanted, and there was no more to be said about that; he was a successful old person.
Funny thing. He did not feel as though he’d failed; another symptom of the fever, maybe. His mind was cleaned to a thin clear plate of light; that was what the feeling was; no markings on it, either, except what was in the grain of it; all the scrawlings were rubbed off. Odd consequence for a fever to have. He could see things better than ever. All the fat was sweated off his brain. He wasn’t sorry for Parsell, nor sorry he’d gone with the old man. It was worth it. Worth paying for. Couldn’t count the gain, though. He was satisfied, if Parsell was. What was Norrie doing now, and Hale—no, Sinclair? But they were on the other side of time. He had come across the pass, and it was all right, if you didn’t expect to get anything out of it; anything but dreams; bound to get dreams, when you fell asleep; but you could do without them, though.
They were just gliding out of it now. It was better in the canoe. The world had become extraordinarily quiet. Sinking down to the sea. The trees were still moving by, all on a level, a long dark line; but the country was very distant, and nothing to do with him. They’d get to the end of it all presently, when they had sunk down far enough. Everything went past, as you sank down, and there was nothing to do any more. You need not even watch it go by.
Chapter XL
When Colet, some weeks later, walked into the lounge of the Penang hotel, the palms in the garden were awake in a cooling draught. The wind could just be felt. It was as though you knew of the stir of the invisible principle of life. The world was alive. He was in touch with it again. This was a return from another world. Over in that corner was where Norrie had talked to him, the night before they left to go round the coast. Colet would have gone to that corner, but three young ladies had the table. They were certainly a noteworthy phenomenon, after Gunong Berching and the leeches. As good to look upon as the order and colour of the garden, and a complete assurance that he had come back. Nothing like that for a long time. What a number of women, too, and all as cool and vivacious as the wind in the palms; perhaps not a shadow of the other world in the mind of one of them. He heard a girl laugh, and it was certain then the old world was on its proper axis. He could sit down and watch this all the morning.
A hand, a hearty hand, squeezed his shoulder. Not the hand of a lady. He looked behind him. Eh?
Sinclair, by all the miracles of Fate. He stood up, but couldn’t speak. Sinclair laughed, as though this was a great joke, meeting again.
“You old rascal, Colet. What have you been doing with yourself? Steering an open boat ever since on a half ration of hope? You look as if you had.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my ship to turn round. Off to London tomorrow.”
“London … well …”
They talked it all over. It was good to talk, even when you had nothing more to say. Then the sailor declared that they must have another before he went back to the quay.
“Coming to Gallions Reach, Colet?” Sinclair laughed again at that, as he took the glasses from the Chinaman’s tray.
“Yes.”
Sinclair forgot to put the glasses on the table. He held one in each hand.
“What? You don’t mean it.”
“I do.”
“But it’s haunted, isn’t it? You don’t tell me you’ve seen so much out here that you’ve forgotten old Perriam.”
“Not me. That’s it, Sinclair. I’m going back to lay his miserable ghost.”
“Here, steady the helm. I’d see his ghost to hell first.”
“Well, it’s not his ghost, really. It’s mine, my son.”
Sinclair did not answer. He was watching Colet, trying to find something to say.
“It’s all right, Sinclair. You needn’t look. You won’t find any tile loose. You brought me out. Now, if you please, you’ll take me back. We’ll come full circle. We can’t have ghosts hanging about, can we? They must be attended to. They run our show for us, Sinclair.”
The sailor’s eye roved over the colours and animation of that inspiriting morning garden of ladies.
“Well, I’m damned,” he said.
“Yes, the unseen world we know governs us. Not always what you’re looking at now, Sinclair, so you needn’t draw my attention to it. I see it. It would move a heart of stone. But there’s no fun for us in life unless we obey the order we know.”
THE END
A Note on the Author
H. M. Tomlinson was born in Poplar, London, in 1873, the son of a foreman at the West India Dock. At the age of thirteen he became a clerk in a shipping office, but later in his life turned to journalism. It was an assignment from his editor that sent him on the first English steamer to go up the Amazon and this experience led to his critically acclaimed travel book, The Sea and the Jungle, published in 1912. During WWI Tomlinson served as a war correspondent. Many of his books drew on his experiences of war and sea adventures. He died in 1958.
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book.
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This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First Published in Great Britain 1927 by Harper & Bros
Copyright © 1927 H. M. Tomlinson
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eISBN: 9781448214303
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