The Rain Forest

by Olivia Manning

  Simon folded back the flaps of a large, square tent and Hugh saw it was furnished with a table, canvas chairs and a military chest. Sparse, orderly and self-contained, it could have been the headquarters of a general in the field. A microscope stood on the table beside a drawing-board, paper, pens and a bottle of Indian ink. A primus lamp hung from the roof.

  ‘What do you live on?’ Hugh asked. ‘Is there game of any sort?’

  ‘Nothing edible and I’m not keen on killing. I live as the blacks did: on cassava and plantains. I suppose you can manage on that for a couple of days?’ Simon handed Hugh a canvas bucket: ‘If you fetch the water, I’ll get a fire going. We can have coffee. I don’t eat till evening.’

  Hugh found the stream running with a white sediment that had stained the grass for several yards on either bank. He was doubtful of the water but Simon laughed at him.

  ‘I’ve been drinking it for weeks without harm. The sediment is only a fibrous mineral from a volcanic bed near the ridge. The blacks used it to decorate their dwellings. When we’ve had our coffee, I must get down to work.’

  It was arranged that Hugh should have the camp-bed in the small tent and Simon sleep in the living-room. Hugh, still sick from the bruise on his head, lay down on the camp-bed, intending to sleep for an hour but did not wake till late afternoon. When he opened his eyes, he was oppressed by the heat and an elusive sense of nightmare. Through the tent opening, he could see the edge of the forest and the tree trunks compacted by the binding of creeper. It looked what it was; impenetrable: and it brought down on him the claustrophobic terror of his dream. Imagining the weight of vegetation holding him down like a coffin lid, he leapt up and hurried into the open air.

  Hearing him outside, Simon shouted to him to get another pail of water. As he returned to the stream, the sun dropped behind the peaks that in shadow looked more immediate than they had been at midday. Hugh was startled by the sight of them. There was something shocking about their nearness and immensity, the naked stone rising from the grass like teeth from gum. This simile was peculiarly troubling because the peaks had an inward curve. Putting his tongue against the back of his lower front teeth, Hugh could follow an identical curve and it seemed to him that on this side of the island he was within a brain: a blurred, disordered and minatory brain.

  Everything about the place repelled him, even the stream trickling like milk through the chalky grass. As he returned with the water, the shadow of the peaks stretched out rapidly over the grassland. On this side of the island the mountains hid the glory of the setting sun and the lambency of reflected colour increased the hostility of the place.

  Under shadow, the black pelt of the forest was still, then the night wind sprang up. There were squawks from the nocturnal birds and the fruit bats set out, a long stream of them, rising one after the other, the fur of their bodies and the webbing of their wings sharply visible against the ochre sky.

  Simon was pumping up the lamp. He motioned Hugh to close the tent flaps before he produced a light. For a couple of minutes the two of them, invisible to each other, were in stifling, humid darkness, then the gas flared and lit the small interior with a livid brilliance. Simon had cleared his work from the table and set two places for supper. They sat on the canvas chairs, enclosed in the compact tent as in a well-ordered cupboard. The supper comprised two plantains each and bread. The bread was so dry that Hugh had to wash it down with coffee. He asked: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cassava or, as the blacks call it, manioc. It’s the stuff we were given at school. We knew it as tapioca. I found an old plantation left by the escaped slaves. Excellent food if you know how to prepare it. You peel the tubers, slice them and soak them in the stream, then you boil them until the starch forms into grains. The grains can be ground into flour.’

  ‘Do you have to do all that?’

  ‘You certainly do. Raw manioc is full of hydrocyanic acid. It’s a killer. The Africans must have learnt to deal with it by trial and error.’

  ‘Need you eat this stuff? Couldn’t you bring bread and tinned foods over with you?’

  ‘I could, but I choose to be self-supporting. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I’m not mad about it.’

  Simon laughed and reaching across to the military chest, he opened a drawer and took out a sheet of cartridge paper. He threw it over to Hugh: ‘What do you think of that fellow?’

  ‘Good God, is there such a thing?’

  The creature, drawn in ink, solidly black, filling the imperial page, looked like a spider but was the size of a large tortoise.

  ‘There is such a thing. I found him among the dead fronds at the base of the cyathea. I’m inclined to think he may be what I’m looking for,’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘A carrier. If there’s a virus lying fallow here, it would be most likely transmitted by some insect or other. Take a look at this one.’

  Pushing aside the food plates, Simon put his microscope on the table and adjusted it so Hugh, when he looked in, could see a black speck between two slides. It was the spider. He laughed: ‘That’s too small to harm anyone.’

  ‘It’s the size of a flea. Think what the flea did when it carried the plague from China to Western Europe!’ Simon spoke as though delighted by the flea’s depredations and his pale face flushed with enthusiasm. Bending again over his spider, he said: ‘Structurally, this chap resembles that deadly little monster Lathrodectus Katipo, but he’s smaller and there are certain differences. I’ve never seen his like before. He’s an original that’s been cut off here since the mountain range sank beneath the Indian Ocean. He can’t get away because he can’t swim and the air of the ridge is too cold for him. So here he is, a potential destroyer of the human race, cooped up, poor chap, in this little bit of primordial forest.’

  ‘Which is just as well.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Suppose we put a few dozen of his relatives into a Thermos flask and transported them to the other side and released them – where? How about the Residency garden? Sooner or later, of course, some scientific busybody would track him down but before that happened, he could depopulate the island. Al-Bustan would return to the pristine innocence of those days when the birds were so secure, they did not need wings.’

  ‘Would you do that, if you could?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might. Consider the mayhem done by the human race on this one small area of earth. First the pirates: they felled the best of the timber and wiped out the wingless birds: then came the Arab slavers, growing rich and working their slaves to death: then the British – self-important donkeys for the most part but better than the others. At least they stand out against haphazard development. But after them, total destruction. What will we have here? The Las Vegas of the southern seas. Another Hawaii. The only thing that can save this place is fear. Fear would ward off the invasion. People are damned careful of their bloody skins.’

  ‘And what about you? Aren’t you afraid? How will you prove your theory about the spider? Would you let it bite you?’

  ‘It has bitten me.’

  ‘With what result?’

  Simon gave a shout of laughter: ‘None. No result at all.’

  ‘So it was all a joke?’

  ‘Yes, a joke.’

  Hugh gazed with new understanding at Simon: ‘And when you took Ambrose in to see the smallpox patient, was that a joke?’

  ‘You must admit that was very funny.’

  ‘And picking me up and bringing me here? – another joke?’

  ‘Not entirely. I felt I could do with a bit of company for a couple of days.’

  Simon laughed and Hugh was disturbed, aware suddenly of the absurdity of his illusions about this man. Whatever there was in the cold colour of Simon’s eyes, there was nothing paternal.

  ‘You didn’t give a thought to my wife? She does not know where I am, and she’s in hospital. You didn’t know, of course, we’ve lost the baby.’

  ‘Oh!’ Simon glanced away: ‘I won’t p
retend to grieve. In our overcrowded world, the loss of an infant is not a tragedy.’

  ‘It is for her. You know: the fox’s child, the fox’s very own child.’

  ‘That is the egoism that’s done for us all.’

  Hugh appealed to him without much hope: ‘Simon, I must go back. Please drive me back tomorrow morning.’

  Simon, making one of his feline movements, sprang to his feet, laughing: ‘My dear fellow, don’t be ridiculous. What does one day matter? We’ll make our trip into the interior and you’ll be back with your wife on Sunday. Meanwhile, you’ll see what you will see.’

  He left the tent and coming back with his sleeping-bag, spread it on the floor: ‘We’ll doss down now. We have to make an early start tomorrow. I’ll wake you at first light.’

  Hugh shut the flap of his tent but could not exclude the shrieks, whistles and chatter of the forest. It was too early for sleep and, lying in the dark, he wondered if Kristy had taken herself back to their denuded room in the Daisy. Without Ambrose, she had no friend on the island. He remembered her as she had stood in the room, weeping, and saying: ‘It is dead.’ Now, without him, she was alone. And, it occurred to him, that he, without her, was alone. The thought of her, as she probably was that afternoon, dressed and waiting for him to come with a taxi, made him realize the distance that now lay between them. He considered the extensive grasslands on the other side, the drive through the col, the run down on this side, and guessed they had come some thirty miles. How long would it take him to walk back? Too long. He might as well see it through with Simon.

  For there was no hope of a reprieve. Simon had decided they would go and Hugh was too weak to stand up to him. He was a determined man, a practical and self-reliant man who made independent decisions and stuck to them. But was he more than that? It occurred to Hugh that he might learn much from Simon, but would he discover anything? He thought, if Simon had more imagination, he would be more easily moved. His jokes, too, would be less frightful. But then he would be dependent on others, and no better man than Hugh himself was.

  2

  When the explosion finally died out, silence – a momentous silence – came down. Kristy left the day bed and went down the corridor to the Indian nurse. She said: ‘Are you hurt?’ The girl did not reply. The table had fallen sideways, striking her across the waist. Kristy pushed at it but, ineffectual as a child, she could not deal with its weight. Giving up, she knelt down and put her arm under the girl’s head. The head lolled lifelessly and placing it back on the floor, she sat beside it, not knowing what to do next. She noticed, with detached surprise, that her own body was shaking violently. In the end, too weak to give any more thought to what had been happening, she stretched out on the floor and went to sleep.

  The African nurse wakened her, saying crossly: ‘What you do there, lady? You come to bed this minute.’ The nurse, a big, stout girl, lifted her easily and took her to her room. She did not wake again till the safragi brought in her breakfast.

  ‘What happened last night?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing happen.’

  ‘How is the Indian nurse?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  The safragi shook his head and said in a low voice: ‘Yes, poor girl dead.’

  No one else came to speak to Kristy. After breakfast, she got herself out of bed, dressed and put her things together. She was still weak but she was determined to go when Hugh came for her at midday. She sat for some time on the bed then, becoming bored, she went out to the balcony and leant over the rail, trying to see something of last night’s eventuality. Foliage obstructed her view but she could hear a thudding, as though the bricks she had seen rising in the air were still falling to the ground.

  There was no sign of life in the Residency garden. Lady Urquhart, it was said, had followed her daughter to England and Urquhart was alone in the great palace.

  The day bed and chair had been removed from the balcony and Kristy, soon tired of standing, was about to go indoors when she heard footsteps below. A file of Arab labourers came round the corner of the hospital, each with a spade on his shoulder. She realized they were making for the cemetery and, going back to her room, she was in time to see them unlocking the cemetery gate.

  The African nurse found her at the window and sternly said: ‘Now, lady, you go back to bed.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happening?’

  The nurse, looking as though too much were being asked of her, became more stern: ‘Why you want to know what happening? How I know what happening? I know nothing. You go back into bed this minute.’

  ‘But my husband is coming for me. I’m leaving today.’

  ‘No, you not. Not today. You stay in hospital and no go on balcony. No one go on balcony today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How I know? Matron say no one go on balcony today.’

  As soon as she was alone again, Kristy went out to the corridor and found the doors to the balcony shut and locked. She lay on her bed, waiting for Hugh, trying to read but impeded by boredom and the deadening heat. When midday passed and Hugh did not arrive, she wished that anyone, even the matron, would come to answer her questions. She could hear in the distance the steady thudding she had heard from the balcony. During the afternoon, it became desultory and died out. At the back of her mind, at first unadmitted then emerging and growing stronger, was suspense. Hugh’s non-appearance, the nurse’s refusal to communicate, the sense of a catastrophe of which she could discover nothing, all oppressed her until she could no longer bear her ignorance and isolation. She decided to discharge herself.

  Downstairs, she found the whole hospital staff gathered like a reception committee at the front door. Shocked by the sight of her, the matron said: ‘You can’t go out. Back to bed with you.’ Though the words were commanding, the tone was uncertain and Kristy knew that, not ill enough to be controlled, she was an embarrassment in the hospital.

  She said: ‘I’ve been expecting my husband. Have you heard anything from him?’ For answer, the matron turned and hurried away.

  Looking around at nurses, porters and safragis, Kristy met pitying half-smiles or heads turned from her. No one spoke. Moving rapidly, she dodged through them, determined to get away. No one tried to detain her. She realized they preferred her to go and make her discoveries for herself.

  It was a day of full sunlight. Half-way down the path, under the trembling, sparkling eucalyptus trees, she saw Aly’s driver coming towards her in his delivery van. He had to slow down to pass her and she put her hands on the open window edge and begged him to stop. She said: ‘What was the explosion last night? Tell me what’s happened.’

  The driver, his thin dark face drawn with concern, shook his head slowly: ‘Memsahib. You are not well, memsahib. Everyone knows the Government Offices fell down and all are dead. Even the Governor is dead.’

  ‘And my husband? Do you know anything about my husband?’

  ‘I know nothing. If he was in the offices, he must be dead.’

  Kristy ran on. When she came to the main road, quickened in an ecstasy of panic, she did not follow the road bends but scrambled through the vegetation, dropping from one level to another until she could look down on the square. She saw the ruin of the government building. The site was only partly cleared. An atmosphere of weary discouragement hung about the men who were climbing over the coral bricks, occasionally lifting one and tumbling it off the others. Dust hung heavily in the air, so the scene looked faded and remote like a photograph taken long ago.

  She tried to run again but stumbled and fell. When she made to rise, it seemed her mind did not extend as far as her feet. She crawled back to the road and there, managing to pick herself up, she proceeded slowly on level ground. She looked in through the Residency gate and saw the police guard at his post and the flag flying at the mast-head. There was no one left to order things differently. The church, however, was a background for calamity. Its doors had been propp
ed open and the hospital ambulance stood outside them. The rear doors of the ambulance were also open and Kristy saw that the bunks were folded away to accommodate a cargo of coffins. When she asked the driver if he knew anything of her husband, the man directed her in to Mr Pierce and Dr Dixon who had charge of the dead. For the first time since her arrival on Al-Bustan, she entered the church.

  It was a small church, full of sunlight that yellowed the wood and the lozenge-shaped panes of the windows. Bodies, each wrapped in a sheet, lay on the pews and between the pews, and already the air was heavy with a low, warm smell of decay.

  The two men stood together near the altar, their faces benumbed yet uplifted by the fact of their survival. The minister, in his vestments, holding a prayer-book, appeared to be in control. There was smugness about him for he had work to do while Dr Dixon had none. The sight of Kristy disturbed them both.

  She said: ‘I’m looking for my husband.’

  Fussed and at a loss, Dixon said: ‘You should be in bed,’ but he had a list of the officials who had been identified and, consulting it, he said: ‘Not here. They haven’t found him.’

  ‘Then where is he? There are only five police and an Arab officer down there. Most of the work is being done by Indians. Where’s Culbertson? Why isn’t he . . .’ Kristy’s voice broke and Dr Dixon, putting a hand on her shoulder, led her out of the fetid air.

  ‘The police were working all night. When he realized that they’d find no one alive, Culbertson took most of the men back to the barracks for a few hours’ rest. He sent the wives home because they were worn out and doing no good, standing there watching. He’s given orders that all women are to stay away from the square. I’m afraid, my dear, there’s no need for haste because . . . there’s no hope.’

  Kristy stared at him, feeling nothing.

  Dr Dixon patted her shoulder and went on talking, telling her all he knew of the night’s work. The explosion that had occurred, they thought, in one of the wash-rooms, had been caused by a device of considerable size. There was some delay after the building collapsed because the porter had been stunned and there was no other responsible person to give the alarm. When he picked himself up, he had to go to the Residency to telephone the barracks. By the time the police arrived, anyone not killed outright was likely to have been suffocated. Then the work of moving the blocks was hampered by lack of light and Culbertson had to send men to the Medina for flares. In order to enhance the appearance of the offices, the blocks had been cut unusually large and helpers found them difficult to lift. Instead of carrying them clear of the ruin, they were throwing them to one side so while uncovering one victim, they were possibly piling weight on another. Meanwhile, people were crowding about the site and some of the Arabs, regarding the explosion as an Arab achievement, were gleefully climbing about over the bricks in order to hamper the rescue work. There was also the likelihood of loot. The building had been too big to be properly guarded, the island’s resources being limited, and now its remains were too big to surround and patrol.