‘Fine,’ exclaimed Mackenzie. ‘We’re always ready for a good yarn.’
‘Well, it happened this way. Several children had vanished from a village near Port-au-Prince. Officials discovered the fact by accident—through information laid by a Catholic priest, as a matter of fact. No complaints had been made by the families concerned, and when they were examined they only gave evasive replies to the questions put to them. This led the authorities to suspect that the infants had been offered as victims at some Voodoo rite. Three of us—John Stowe, Bill Chapman, and myself—were put on to the case. We were not expected to seek information about the missing children, but rather to watch carefully for any sign of a Voodoo gathering.
‘Stowe was a master of disguise and spoke the lingo like a native. It was he who discovered that a great feast was to be held on the night of the next full moon. Secret preparations were being made for a ceremony on a large scale, and Stowe was certain that a human sacrifice was to be offered. He discovered where the celebration was to take place. It was at a Voodoo temple in the heart of the thick jungle which lies in the centre of the island to the south of Port-au-Prince, and only a few hours’ journey from the town itself.
‘The day came and we set forth on our adventure. It was necessary to avoid the paths as these were thronged with natives, and at times we had to almost hack our way through the rank undergrowth. As dusk fell we heard the dull, monotonous beat of the devil drums. Tum-ti-ti-tum, tum-ti-ti-tum, tum-ti-ti-tum they went all the time, and the forest seemed alive with dark shadows answering that weird insistent call.
‘We came to the place just as the three priests were taking up their positions in front of a kind of altar that had been erected before a low building of bamboos. Keeping to the shade of the trees we crept as close as we dared. A fire burned in the centre of the clearing, and by it sat six drummers all beating on their drums in regular time. Behind them were grouped about a dozen boys and girls who, at a signal from one of the priests, began a queer high-pitched chanting. The rest of the worshippers were ranged in a great circle which slowly revolved in time with the drum-beats.
‘Gradually the beastly music increased in volume and the drummers quickened their beats until at last the black figures in the circle were dancing like mad dervishes. They seemed to take about six steps forward, then six backward, throw themselves on their faces, and then leap into the air. It was an uncanny sight to witness, I can assure you.
‘I suppose we must have been watching the performance for about half an hour when one of the priests blew a loud note on a horn. The drums were silenced immediately, the singers ceased their chant, and the dancers prostrated themselves on the ground. The fire blazed up with an orange glow, and by its light we saw a young native boy being led towards the altar. The lad must have been hypnotised or drugged, for he appeared to be walking in his sleep and certainly knew nothing of what was going on around him.
‘ “My God!” whispered Bill Chapman. “Those devils are going to slaughter him.”
‘Stowe levelled his revolver and took dead aim at the chief priest just as the fellow was raising a wicked-looking knife above the victim’s throat. Now, Stowe was a crack shot and it would have been impossible for him to have missed at that range. Yet, as the smoke cleared, we saw the priest still standing erect. He just turned round for a moment, barked out an order, and went on with his ghastly performance. The blood spurted from the murdered boy’s throat, and the three priests caught the red stream in gourds which they placed upon the altar.
‘During the rite we were too horrified to stir a limb and when we turned away from the ghastly spectacle it was to discover we were surrounded. Without a sound black figures fell upon us, bound our arms and legs, and carried us towards the fire. We were flung roughly to the ground and the ceremony went on. The drums beat again and the dance recommenced. Like a great wheel the dancers slowly revolved, and as each one passed the altar a priest held one of the gourds to his mouth and he drank of the blood. At last all the worshippers had partaken of that unholy sacrament, and then came the most vile part of the business. The priests cut the body of the victim into small pieces and these were brought to the fire and thrown into a large pot which had been set above the flames. I think I must have fainted when I realised what was happening, for when I next looked around, the whole crowd was eating dishes of that infernal stew.
‘All this time we had been left on the ground and no one had taken the slightest notice of us, but after the meal the priests approached the fire and squatted down at our side. The chief of them addressed Stowe, “And so, white man,” he said, “you would kill me?”
‘ “By God,” shouted Stowe, “I’d kill the whole gang of you if I had my hands free.”
‘The fellow laughed mirthlessly and gave a sharp order. In a moment we were lifted upon the shoulders of six burly natives and carried away into the forest. The priests marched before us, but no word was uttered. After about a mile had been covered we arrived at a stream and followed its course a short distance. Again an order was rapped out, the small company halted, and Chapman and myself were fastened to the trunks of trees. Stowe was flung under a low bush and we could see his white face dimly in the light of the moon. Then two of the natives kindled a fire and the others set about hammering four heavy stakes into the ground.
‘ “All three must die,” said the chief priest in a soft sing-song voice. “But first he who sought to kill must learn how terrible death may be.”
‘He gave a signal and the natives dragged Stowe towards the fire and cut his bonds. Then they seized his arms and feet and fastened them to the stakes so that his body was spread-eagled. And, as the last knot was tied, we saw the devilish plan of those priests of hell. They had bound poor Stowe to a nest of red ants—the most terrible of jungle insects. In the light of the flickering flames we saw the perspiration running down his cheeks, and screaming curses at our captors, vainly strained at our bonds. Then, in a thin red line, the creatures began to creep up to his head. Into his ears they went, up his nostrils, into his eyes and mouth. Shriek after shriek broke from his lips, until the agony became too much to bear and his cries died away in a choking whimper. We could see his crazed eyes rolling in terror, and his tortured limbs writhing.
‘Of course he died, but the dying must have taken hours, and all the time the three priests sat motionless at his side. They sat there too long. Before leaving Port-au-Prince we had informed the authorities of our destination and requested that a search party should be sent out if we failed to report at dawn. The soldiers who were searching the forest discovered us soon after midday and by then Stowe was dead and we were waiting for death. The priests tried to get away, but our men soon secured them and they were taken back to the town.
‘The trial lasted for two days, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. On the evidence of Chapman and myself the priests were condemned to be shot. As sentence was passed upon them the chief priest turned towards us and said, “Think not that we shall die: we shall return again. Death is for you who have outraged the sacred rites. One has died the red death. For you it shall be the white death, and for you the black death.” He indicated Chapman and myself in turn, and I felt an unpleasant chill of horror run down my spine.
‘On the day of the execution thousands of natives flocked into the town, but extra military had been imported as a precautionary measure in case of a demonstration. The priests met their end very calmly, although a moan went up from the crowd as the volley was fired.
‘The murderers of poor Stowe were dead enough. Remembering that a revolver shot had seemed to have no effect upon the chief priest at the forest rite, we examined the bodies and found them to be riddled with bullets. They were confined and a guard mounted over them for the night. In the morning, when the Governor came to make the customary examination, the corpses had gone and the coffins were found to contain the bodies of three dead dogs.’
‘The guards must have been bribed,’ said Mackenzie.
‘Now, of course, you are wondering how the curse worked out. Well, it did not take long for the first part of it to be performed. Within three weeks of the execution Chapman’s boy found his master dead in bed, and came with a garbled story to headquarters. The chap was terrified, and no wonder. We got a shock when we saw the corpse. Every drop of blood seemed to be drained from it, and the dead flesh was as white as paper. More terrible than the sight of Chapman’s face was the thing clinging by its teeth to his throat. It was the stinking, mouldering corpse of the second of the Voodoo priests. That is how the white death came to Chapman.’
‘Heavens!’ cried Stocks. ‘It’s ghastly—unbelievable.’
‘Yet our friend Crane seems to have escaped the promised black death,’ sneered Mackenzie in his cynical way.
‘For the time being,’ answered Crane softly. ‘But only for a time. It will get me in the end.’
With that he rose to his feet, bade us a curt ‘Goodnight’, and went out.
‘I can’t swallow that yarn,’ said Mackenzie as soon as Crane was out of hearing. ‘It’s a bit too tall, and yet the fellow seems in a yellow funk.’
Poor Crane had reason to be afraid. Three days later we heard the sequel to the story, but it was not from his lips.
We were playing a rubber of bridge at the club when Dr Harding came in and startled us all with the news that Crane was dead. For a moment we were stunned and then, feeling that someone must break the unnatural silence, I asked the obvious question.
‘What was the trouble, doctor?’
‘Bubonic plague,’ was the reply. ‘In all my experience I’ve only come across one other case of it in this country, and he was a Lascar sailor. I was called in to Crane yesterday morning, but it was too late to do anything for him. I found him suffering from a strange delusion. He swore that a couple of Voodoo priests from Haiti had appeared to him during the night and infected him with the disease.’
Again the silence fell upon us, and I heard Stocks catch his breath in a queer hiss. Then Mackenzie said quietly, ‘It’s a pretty foul way to die, isn’t it, Doc?’
‘Yes, and poor Crane had a bad dose of it.’
‘Is it the same kind of plague that killed off thousands during the Middle Ages?’ asked Stocks in a frightened whisper.
‘Yes, it is,’ the doctor answered. ‘Usually begins with vomiting, and develops into haemorrhages under the skin which produce black gangrenous patches that lead to large, filthy ulcers. That’s why it used to be called the Black Death.’
The Little Saint of Hell
IN OLD VIENNA, not far away from the bright lights of the Kartnerstrasse, there used to be a little square where ancient men sat and chatted in the sunshine on June days, and dead leaves rustled mournfully in the wintertime. A few grey buildings—I believe they were the residences of clergy and minor officials of the cathedral—made up the four sides of the courtyard, and venerable trees spread their branches over the cobbles.
In the centre of this square was a moss-covered fountain with just a thin trickle of water flowing through slime-choked pipes. Above the fountain, set in a broken niche over which ivy trailed, stood a tiny statue. So old and weather-beaten was this image that all its features had disappeared. Some of the older residents vaguely supposed it to represent a saint called Panocritus, but they had forgotten, if indeed they had ever known, who the gentleman was or what he had done in life to merit his title to sanctity.
In bygone days, so I have heard, it was customary for children to adorn the statue with green boughs and flowers on the first day of May, and to recite before it a little charm which ran:
Panocritus, we pray to thee
Grant for a kiss our wishes three
And we will give our souls to thee.
It seems that a whole mass of superstition centred around the statue above the fountain. It was said that any person who dared sleep beneath the image on Midsummer Eve would dream marvellous dreams. Moreover, if at dawn he awakened, recited the doggerel rhyme, climbed up to the statue, and kissed its lips, he might express three wishes and have each one granted.
The square disappeared long ago and a block of modern flats stands where the lime trees once made a shady oasis in the heart of the city. Yes, the square has vanished, the fountain and statue have gone, and the charm has been forgotten by most people. Yet my story is concerned with them. I had the tale from a very old man, who at one time lived in the courtyard, and was the friend of Franz Steilborg, the pedlar of laces.
This Franz, after a very successful day at a Midsummer Eve fair on the outskirts of the city, returned to Vienna with his pockets jingling and celebrated his good fortune at one of the kellers. It was more than likely that he drank too much red wine or lager beer. I do not know but, drunk or sober, he found himself in the little square when the clocks were chiming the quarter to midnight. In a mood of gay bravado he decided to spend the night beneath the statue and see what happened. He made himself fairly comfortable on the cobbles with his bag for a pillow and his cloak wrapped about him, and was soon asleep.
I must here say that I cannot vouch for the truth of this story, but it was told by Franz to his greatest friend who years later passed it on to me.
The pedlar declared that hardly had he closed his eyes when the great bell of St Stefan’s tolled twelve. Immediately he was aware of an unwonted bustle in the square, and raising himself on his elbow, saw a party of old women advancing towards the fountain. They grouped themselves before it and one of the company, a particularly hideous crone, climbed up and removed the statue from its niche. Another bent over Franz and whispered, ‘Arise quickly, for the master calls and we must be away. Hold fast to my girdle and all will be well.’
Although he was feeling rather frightened the man did as he was bidden, and almost at once the whole crowd whirled up into the air and away over the house-tops. Franz hung on to the girdle for dear life. He saw the lights of the city far below: he even saw the Emperor’s palace at Schönbrunn, and then closed his eyes lest he should lose his nerve. In telling the story, so I was given to understand, he maintained that the flight lasted for over an hour, but his friend suspected this to have been an exaggeration. However, the party eventually descended to earth and the pedlar found himself in a clearing in the heart of a thick forest. Three fires were burning before a black altar upon which the little statue was placed by the woman who had carried it from the fountain in the square.
Then began a weird ritual. The whole company danced around the altar singing an obscene song. As the dance grew more frantic the fires blazed with a green light, and Franz declared that the statue increased in size and came to life. Only instead of being a holy saint it was a grotesque figure, half man and half goat, with horns on its head and hoofs where its feet should have been. As soon as the transformation was complete the dancing ceased and all bowed low before the thing above the altar. Then a woman swathed in a black cloak, with her face disguised by a hideous mask, advanced towards the table holding something aloft in her arms. The pedlar, to his horror, heard a whimpering cry, and perceived that the offering was the white body of a small child. He saw the masked woman draw a knife from her girdle and slash the little creature’s throat. As the blood dripped to the ground the rest of the company uttered cries of triumph and, with one accord, rushed forward and began to lick up the crimson stream.
Realising that he must be witnessing a witches’ Sabbat, Franz kept very quiet and pretended to join in the orgy. It was quickly over. Another blasphemous song was sung, and the horned figure shrank and changed until it became the little statue again. This was caught up by one of the women, and the company again rose in the air. The pedlar had just time to catch hold of the girdle of his conductor as she flew up to the sky. The return journey frightened
him so much that he lost consciousness, and, when he recovered, he found himself on the cobblestones by the fountain with the first red streaks of dawn gilding the clouds.
Such an experience might have caused even a brave man to hasten away to the shelter of his own home vowing to have nothing more to do with charms and superstitions. But the valiant Franz, having gone through so much, determined to complete the ceremony. Standing before the statue he recited the rhyme. Then he climbed up, impressed a kiss upon its stone lips, whispering his wishes as he did so. And the three gifts he requested were unexpected gold, fame in a day, and food and lodging free of charge for the rest of his life.
‘And did he gain his desires?’ I asked the story-teller.
‘Too true he did, my friend, but not in the manner he anticipated,’ was the reply. ‘First he came to me and told the tale exactly as I have repeated it to you. Of course I laughed at him, and told him to go home and sleep off the effects of his liquor. He departed angrily and, on arriving at his house, was met with the news that his wife had died during the night. Among her small possessions were three gold florins. So Franz got his gold, but lost his wife.
‘Fame also came to him in sad guise. A month after his wife’s death his only daughter, a beautiful girl called Elsa, was deserted by her lover. In a fit of mad despair she climbed the tower of St Albert’s church and threw herself over the parapet. Poor old Franz had to identify the body and give evidence at the inquest. In the court he made a violent scene, calling upon the authorities to arrest the witches and warlocks who had brought ill fortune upon him. Of course the newspapers seized upon the story and Franz became famous in a day as “the pedlar who believes in witches”. ’
‘And the third wish,’ I prompted. ‘Was that also granted?’
‘It was indeed. He asked for food and lodging free of charge for the rest of his life, and he got both. After the tragedy of his daughter’s death he wandered about the countryside seeking the grove where the Sabbat had been held. One day, in a forest beyond Melk, he encountered a harmless old woman gathering sticks and called upon her to restore his wife and daughter to life and remove the curse from him. The poor creature must have gaped in amazement and tried to get away. But Franz was so infuriated at what he considered to be her refusal to assist him, that he drew his knife and murdered her.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 11