Bones of the River

by Edgar Wallace

  Then a strange thing happened in the secret city. The second counsellor of the king died in pain. Bobolara saw the man and guessed the cause, for the second counsellor of the king was notoriously at enmity with his master.

  Bobolara made many solitary journeys into the forest in search of rare herbs, for he had an instinct for beneficial properties. One day, after the death of the king’s second counsellor, he saw two men searching at the end of the swamp, where many crocodiles live and strange plants grow that are to be found in no other part of the country. Watching them idly, as they came toward him, bearing in their hands thick branches of a bush speckled red with berries, he recognised Lujaga and his familiar, and at the sight of him Lujaga’s face darkened.

  “O Healer,” he said, “I see you.”

  “I see you, lord,” said Bobolara. “Is the king a doctor that he gathers the little poison berries, that even the great ones of the swamp will not eat?”

  “I gather them because they are magical, and keep away spirits and ghosts,” said the king glibly.

  Bobolara said nothing, and the king hated him more.

  Day after day the Healer watched and waited, but no new counsellor was taken with a strange sickness. One night the king spoke secretly to his man.

  “Take this message to Sandi at his fine house by the river,” he said, and spent the night in giving minute instructions.

  Before the dawn, the king’s man was on his way with a little bag of white powder hidden in his loincloth…

  “I’ve had a message from Lujaga,” said Sanders one morning at breakfast. “This infernal Bobolara is raising the dead! Lujaga is never an alarmist, but he takes a serious view. A number of men and women are disappearing, and he is scared that the Healer is chopping them for medicine.”

  “I’ll give him chop, dear old excellency,” said Bones. “I think you can trust me to deal with jolly old birds of that kind. I’ll have him back by Wednesday.”

  “And bring back an okapi,” suggested Hamilton, “and be careful he doesn’t sting you!”

  Bones left headquarters full of energy. With him went Ligi, the king’s man, and Ligi served him with food. The day was gloriously fine, the sky an unclouded blue. The vivid green of the spring foliage, the diamond sparkle of the river, the cooling winds that swept down from the mountains a thousand miles away, added to the zest of life.

  The next morning Bones did not feel so bright or energetic, although the day was as beautiful and the scene was fair. On the third day there was a curious buzzing in his ears, his eyes were heavy, and two leaden weights seemed pressing on his head. He took ten grains of quinine, and braced himself and cursed all fever-bearing mosquitoes.

  He stumbled ashore on the beach of the N’gombi territory, his head throbbing, hearing the far-away voice of the little chief who greeted him, but understanding nothing.

  “Lord,” said Abiboo, his agitated sergeant, “let us go back to the beautiful ship, and I will take you to Sandi, for you are a sick man.”

  Bones grinned foolishly. In the twelve-hour march through the forest there was evidence enough that all was not well in the N’gombi country. Every three miles they found a dead man with a curious marking on his chest.

  “These Bobolara killed,” said Ligi, his guide, “so that he might attain certain power over the people.”

  Bones nodded stupidly. “This is a hanging palaver,” he said thickly, and stumbled on.

  One night, in a village ten miles from the secret city, when the fires had been stirred to flame, and men wandered from family group to group, listening here to the stories told a hundred times of old men’s valour and young men’s gallantry, and the women were chatting pleasantly about sickness, a stranger strode down the twisting path that leads from the forest, and came into the village street, well observed and wondered at. He was tall, broad-shouldered and beautiful to see, for his hair was plastered with clay, and over his shoulder he wore the new skin of a young leopard. A five-feet fighting shield was buckled to his left arm, and in the cunning socket of the shield he carried three light throwing spears, the polished heads of which glittered in the firelight. Also, to his back was strapped a long bow, the wood half covered with monkey-skin. A big hide belt was buckled about his waist, and left and right hung two short, broad-bladed swords. On his face he wore neither the marks of the Isisi, the Akasava, or the N’gombi. Ochori they knew he was not, and he carried himself too finely for a man of the Lower River tribe, who are humble people.

  Though a stranger, he seemed to know his way, for he walked unerringly to the hut of the chief of the village, and him he called by name.

  “Kofo,” he said, “let us talk a little while.”

  Kofo came blinking from the darkness of his hut and peered across the dancing flames of the fire.

  “O man,” he said, “who comes to this grand village and speaks to Kofo, who is chief by all rights, and also a man of Lujaga?”

  “I am from the city,” said the stranger. “Men call me the Healer,” and Kofo’s jaw dropped, and he stared.

  “O ko,” he said at last, “that is a bad word for me, for I thought you lived in the king’s hut. Now, what do you want of me?”

  “A canoe and ten paddlers; also a headman to be in charge. They must carry me through the lakes, for Sandi is on my heels with his soldiers.”

  Kofo drew a long breath. At that moment a man came running through the village street, and at the sound of the swift patter of his feet Bobolara turned.

  “O Bobolara, I see you,” said the runner, halting unsteadily before the chief’s hut. “Now, a bad thing has happened, for Tibbetti, who is Sanders’ son, is dying by poison in the secret city of the king, and they say that you have put magic upon him.”

  Bobolara looked at the messenger long and thoughtfully, and then: “I go back to the secret city,” he said simply, and turned and went back the way he had come, the messenger at his heels.

  “Bobolara, if you go back you die,” he wailed, for the people of the city loved Bobolara.

  Bones lay upon a skin bed before the king’s hut, and the dancing flames of the fire showed the white, drawn face of the half-conscious man. Grouped about were a dozen tarboshed soldiers, and in the background a semicircle of curious, peering faces observed the scene with childish interest.

  Abiboo was on his knees by the side of the bed, trying to force brandy into the lips of his master, and above all, dominating the scene, the tall figure of Lujaga.

  “Now all people see this!” he shouted. “The lord Tibbetti came to take Bobolara, who by his magic has stricken the white man low. Now, you soldiers of Sandi shall find the wicked Healer, and you shall hang him because of his deeds. For Tibbetti is dear to the heart of Sandi–”

  So far he got when the interruption came. A man pushed his way through the encircling throng, strode swiftly toward the fire, and, seeing him, the people gasped and the king’s eyes narrowed.

  “O Bobolara,” he said softly, “you have come to death, for these soldiers will kill you because of the magic you have put upon Tibbetti.”

  “Let them kill,” said Bobolara, “but first let me touch the lord.”

  Abiboo’s hand dropped upon the butt of the revolver at his belt, and his brown face puckered with suspicion and anger.

  “O man,” he said, “for this you shall die!”

  But the Healer took no notice, either of the menace or of the gesture. Stooping, he lifted the inanimate figure as though it were a child, and, none barring him, he carried the unconscious Bones through the throng, Abiboo, revolver in hand, following him.

  All night long, in the half-darkness of the hut, Bobolara pummelled and massaged, and, squatting in the doorway, Abiboo watched. When the morning light came and the weary Healer looked forth, he saw a tree and from the branch a long rope dangling. He gazed calmly for a while upon the strange sight, and then: “What is that, soldier?”

  “When Tibbetti dies, you also die,” said Abiboo.

  “Then I shal
l live,” said Bobolara with great calmness, “though it will be a night and a night before Tibbetti speaks.”

  On the third morning, in response to an urgent pigeon-post, came Sanders. He had steamed all night through the shoals of the river and had made a forced march through the forest to the secret city, and, hastily apprised of his coming, Lujaga met him.

  “Lord, this is a bad palaver,” he said, “for Tibbetti, it seems, fell under the magic spell of the Healer, and now lies sick to death in the man’s hut; and because your soldiers are also bewitched by him, they sit outside his door and watch Bobolara working his devils into the belly of my lord.”

  Sanders gaped at him. “In the hut of Bobolara? What chief are you,” he asked with asperity, “that you allow Tibbetti in his hands?”

  The king made no reply.

  Bones had recovered consciousness that morning, and was being propped up when Sanders stepped, with his catlike tread, into the big hut.

  “Hullo, jolly old excellency,” said Bones weakly. “Bit of fever, dear old sir. Couldn’t find Bobolara: the beggar skipped before I arrived. Dreadfully sorry, but” – he smiled faintly – “I didn’t see any okapi either.”

  “Bad luck, Bones,” said Sanders unsmilingly. “So you missed Bobolara. Did he get away?”

  “Yes, the beggar got away just before I arrived, but this jolly old doctor’s looked after me, and a real good chap he is.”

  “Oh!” said Sanders. He beckoned the Healer outside. “Speak to me truthfully, Bobolara,” he said, “and I will make life easy for you.”

  He glanced from the man to the dangling rope and smiled inwardly, guessing all that it meant.

  “Lord, what shall I say?” said Bobolara. “I am a healing man, cunning in the ways of pain, and knowing the ways of strange poisons, such as the little red berry that grows by the swamp. I have slain none, but I have cured many, and if Lujaga hates me he has his reasons. Lord, I think your son will live.”

  Sanders inclined his head. “Man, if you speak the truth, another man lies,” he said. “Tell me why Lujaga hates you.”

  Bobolara hesitated. “It was about a woman, lord, who came from the Ochori country. She was brought here in a raid by the king.”

  “By Lujaga?” said Sanders sharply.

  “There are many raids,” said the other. “Sometimes women are brought here, sometimes goats. This woman I sent back to her home, which is on the edge of the Ochori, and Lujuga would have killed me, but he was afraid.”

  “Tell me more of these little red berries,” said Sanders.

  “Lord, I know nothing of them except that if men eat them they die, becoming very sleepy, with terrible pains in the head.”

  With a nod Sanders left him and walked slowly through the village street, his head on his breast, his hands gripping his long walking-stick behind him. The king watched him apprehensively, but Sanders passed the hut and came to a halt at the end of the village street. He beckoned a man to him.

  “Bring me Ligi, who is the king’s man,” he said, and they brought Ligi from his hut.

  “Ligi, you came with my lord Tibbetti in his fine ship?”

  “Yes, master,” said Ligi.

  “And in a day and a day the sickness came to him,” said Sanders, watching the man closely. “Such a sickness as men have who eat the little red berries from the swamp.”

  Ligi twiddled his bare toes in the dust, a sign of agitation which did not escape the Commissioner. He turned his head and called two of his soldiers.

  “Take this man and tie him to a tree,” he said simply. “Then you will whip him till he tells all he has to tell.”

  Ligi did not struggle in the grip of the tall Kano men, nor was he in the mood to be tied to a tree.

  “Lord, I am the king’s man,” he said, “and I did that which he told me to do. Now, I will tell you the truth.”

  The truth took much telling, and in the end, Sanders sent him on board the Zaire, had irons put upon his legs, and then he called Lujaga, the king, to him.

  “Lujaga,” he said, “you are going a short journey, and I hope the pain will be little.”

  “I will tell you the truth – ” began Lujaga, and Sanders smiled unpleasantly.

  “Tell it to the ghosts,” he said, and looked meaningly at the tree with the rope.

  THE WAZOOS

  When Bones brushed his hair, he made preparations beside which the preliminary arrangements of a prima donna were feeble and ineffective. Under the broad window of his hut was a dressing-table, on which stood, in serried ranks, row upon row of bottles containing hair tonics of all kinds, cosmetics, fixers, gums, washes and divers other lotions. He had two silver-backed brushes on which his monogram was beautifully engraved, and a wooden brush that would, at any period of its existence, have welcomed a nice hot bath. With this latter, a comb, certain contortions of face, bendings of head, pattings and smoothings, Bones made ready his crown for the day.

  He had an especial reason for care one bright day in July, for two days earlier the mail steamer had brought the Hon. Muriel Witherspan; and Bones had fallen in love with her the moment her dainty foot touched the yellow beach.

  The Hon. Muriel was the daughter of one Secretary of State and the niece of another. She was an artist, who had conceived the idea of making an exhibition of native studies; and in course of time, preceded by many telegrams, urgent private notes and anxious inquiries from headquarters, she had arrived, to receive a cold, distant and stiffly official welcome from Mr Commissioner Sanders, and the incoherent adoration of Lieut. Tibbetts.

  She was pretty and slim and very capable. Bones thought she was the most wonderful woman in the world. She was certainly the most wonderful white woman in the territories, for there was no other.

  Sanders and Hamilton were at breakfast with their guest when Bones arrived from his toilet. The girl looked up from her plate, surveying the bowing newcomer with a cool and harrowing scrutiny, beginning at his neck (which made Bones very unhappy, for this portion of his anatomy was the constant subject of libel on the part of Hamilton) and ending with his polished locks.

  “Good morning, honourable miss,” said Bones uncomfortably. “Nothing wrong with my jolly old nut – nothing offensive to your jolly old artistic temperament, my young Academarian?”

  “Academician,” corrected Hamilton. “Sit down and eat your breakfast, Bones, and shut up!”

  “I was thinking how beautiful you looked,” said Muriel, and Bones beamed.

  “Not really, dear old miss? I was always considered a pretty old baby – ‘where have you come from dear old baby out of the nowhere particular into here’ – you know the jolly old hymn, honourable young miss? ‘Who gave you those twiddly-twiddly eyes of blue, a jolly old angel poked them as I came through.’”

  “Good God!” gasped Hamilton under his breath. Bones quoting poetry always had this effect upon him.

  “I think you’re lovely, Mr Tibbetts,” said Muriel with truth, and Bones giggled.

  “You’re a naughty old flatterer!” he gurgled. “At the same time, Ham, old officer, I’ve often been mistaken for Henry Ainley. It’s a fact, dear old thing. I’m not sure whether it’s Henry Ainley or jolly old Owen Nares, but one of those comedians, old thing.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mean the performing seals?” asked Hamilton, and Bones closed his eyes in patient resignation.

  “I’ll take your word, dear old miss,” he said. “I don’t profess to be beautiful, but I’d pass in a crowd–”

  “With a kick,” suggested Hamilton.

  “And if you want to paint me,” Bones went on, contemptuous of the interruption, “well, here I am!”

  “And if you’d paint him an invisible blue, so that we couldn’t see him,” said Hamilton, “you’d be rendering the community and the Government a great service.”

  “You’re very unkind,” said Muriel, crumbling her toast, her grey, insolent eyes on Bones. “Mr Tibbetts has the perfect Greek face.”

  “The
re you are!” said Bones with a smirk.

  “His nose is a little too short for the perfect Greek, perhaps, but his chin is rather a dream, don’t you think, Captain Hamilton?”

  “Have you noticed his cheek?” asked Hamilton sardonically. “That’s a nightmare!”

  “There’s a lot about Bones that is very picturesque – let it go at that,” interrupted Sanders with a smile. “He’s rather thin, and his habit of stooping is a little unsightly–”

  “And his feet are enormous,” murmured Hamilton.

  “Jealousy, dear old thing, jealousy,” said Bones testily. “Don’t paint me, dear young honourable miss! I should never hear the last of it.”

  “Paint him as a curiosity,” suggested Hamilton, “and leave a light burning over the picture at night. It would keep the most hardened burglar at bay.”

  Bones carried off the visitor to give her a few lessons in the art of composition. She had chosen the residency garden and that patch of high gum-trees by the water’s edge – a perfect retreat on a hot day.

  “If you’ll sit over here, dear old miss, you’ll see the river and that dinky little village. Isn’t that fine?”

  “It’s perfectly splendid,” said the girl. “Put my easel there, Mr Tibbetts, and will you unfasten my stool? And oh, do please go back and get my paints: I’ve forgotten them.”

  A dishevelled Bones ran errands for a quarter of an hour, after which the artistic Muriel began to paint.

  Stealing forward until he filled the gap between the trees, and, incidentally, in the very centre of her picture, Bones folded his arms, struck a Napoleonic attitude and waited. He waited for half an hour, and when she said: “Do you mind standing on one side, Mr Tibbetts? I can’t see the view,” he was pardonably annoyed.

  Miss Muriel Witherspan, in addition to being a painter, had a passion for information about native life and customs. In one afternoon she exhausted Sanders, in the course of the evening she reduced Hamilton to a nervous wreck.