by Sax Rohmer
“Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.
The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys:
“A dollar for the two.”
“Imshi, hâmmâr!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.
“Not enough! not enough!” he exclaimed.
“Etla bárra! Gehânnum!” I growled and gave the Fascist salute.
As before, this singular behaviour proved effective. He looked from face to face, pocketed the money, glanced at the donkeys and walked away.
“So far so good,” muttered Smith. “Now let us take our bearings and make our plans. Here, you observe, is a perfect landing ground.”
We walked slowly towards the verandah of the lighted house on the further side of the clearing; and it soon became apparent that the place was a sort of rest-house or caravanseri. All around in the extensive space before it, pilgrims were squatting on the ground, devouring refreshments which they had brought with them. But, as I saw, the more prosperous were entering the building. Many already were seated upon the verandah, and I could see movement in a room beyond. The front of the house was masked in shadow, and Smith grasped my arm as we stepped into the dark belt.
“You see what this is, Kerrigan; a separation of the sheep from the goats. Judging from the sound of the drums our real objective is beyond.”
I stood there listening.
In some manner which I find myself unable to explain, this continuous throbbing of drums had wrought a sort of change of the spirit. It had stirred up something Celtic and buried, provoked urges of which hitherto I had been unconscious. My desire for Ardatha had become a fever; my hatred of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu-Manchu, of all those who held her captive, had increased hour by hour until now it was a burning fiery torrent. This recognition, or rather, I suppose, the unassuming of control by the conscious over the subconscious, rather shocked me. Unperceived by my Christian self I had been reverting to savagery!
“Yes,” I spoke with studied calmness. “As you say, here is the gateway. The Queen Mamaloi is somewhere beyond.”
“Here is the gateway,” Smith replied, “and here is our test. Remember, stick to Arabic.”
Whereupon, still grasping my arm, he moved forward to the verandah of the lighted building.
As we mounted three wooden steps, I was thinking of Ardatha.
* * *
Crossing the verandah I found myself in a long, low room which in many respects resembled a canteen. One glance convinced me, in spite of the light complexions of some of those present, that Smith and I were the only people in the place of non-African blood. There were a number of chairs and tables spread about the unpolished floor, and I think nearly as many women as men were present.
Their behaviour was so strange that I wondered what they had been drinking—for at one end of the room there was a counter presided over by two coloured women. I saw that in addition to a quantity of solid fare, most of it unfamiliar and from my point of view unappetizing, bottles of rum, gin and whisky were in evidence. In some of the faces a sort of ecstasy began to dawn; and watching, I realized the fact that they were responding to the drums.
Movements of shoulders and arms, shuffling of feet, and already a muted chanting, told me that at any moment all the great coloured throng might obey that deep tribal impulse which is part of Africa, and throw themselves wildly into the abandonment of a ritual dance.
Smith spoke in my ear.
“Don’t seem to be curious,” he whispered, “and remember—nothing but Arabic. Let us stand here for a while and smoke. I see that some of the men are smoking.”
I lighted a cigarette whilst he began to load his briar. I cannot say if it was the drums, the overstrung human instrument represented by those about me, or something else. But I was tensed to a pitch of excitement which I knew to be supernormal. I tried, as I lighted the cigarette, to drag myself down to facts; to watch Smith calmly loading his pipe; to study those about me; to appreciate our perils and how we were to deal with them.
“Hang on to yourself, Kerrigan,” said Smith in a low voice. “We are near to the Master Drums. They have a queer effect—even upon Europeans.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have been watching your eyes.” He replaced the pouch in his pocket and lighted his pipe, his penetrating glance fixed upon me over the bowl. “It’s a kind of hypnotism, but you mustn’t let it touch you.”
His words acted like a cold douche. Yes, it was a fact. In common with the Negroes and Negresses about the place, I had been reacting to those satanic drums! I knew it now, and knowing, knew also that the insidious influence could never prevail upon me again.
“Thanks, Smith,” I said. “I agree. It was getting me.”
“I am particularly interested,” he went on, “in the fact that there seems to be no one in the room whom we know. But the traffic at the bar has curious features.”
“What are they?”
“Well, if you watch, you will be able to check my own impressions. You will observe, I think, that certain customers go there, give an order, and then almost immediately head for that door on the left and go out. The others either remain at the bar, or carry their purchases back to their table. Just watch this pair for example.”
A man and a woman coming in from the verandah outside crossed straight to the counter. The girl was a full-blooded Negress and physically a beautiful creature; her male companion was light brown, his complexion pitted like that of a smallpox patient, his small yellow eyes darting from right to left suspiciously as he crossed the room. But, failing other evidence, his hair, for he wore no hat, must have betrayed his African origin.
“Watch,” said Smith.
I watched.
The pair walked to the counter; the man gave an order to one of the women. Glasses were filled and set before them. But as payment was made I detected a change of attitude on the part of the server. She glanced swiftly at the girl and then at her companion. In a businesslike way which momentarily made me think that we had intruded upon some harmless feast day frolic, she handed change to the man.
“Now,” whispered Smith, “watch closely.”
The drinks, I was unable to judge of their character, were quickly despatched; the man squeezed the girl’s hand and lolled upon the counter. The girl walked quickly along left, and I saw the second attendant open a door and close it again as the Negress made her departure.
“Exactly what does that mean?” I murmured.
“It means,” said Smith, “that, still speaking Arabic, we go to the counter and order drinks. Do nothing further until I give the word, and leave the talking to me.”
We crossed.
There was something hellish, something of a Witch’s Sabbath, in the behaviour of those around us. To a man, to a woman, they were now swaying in time with the beating of the drums; eyes were rolling and in some cases teeth were gnashing. I did not know what to expect, but presently I found myself at the bar, and with affected nonchalance leaned upon it.
One of the women attendants, who had been chatting in quite a natural way with the pock-marked man, broke off her conversation and approached us: she had feverishly bright eyes.
“Giblîê… ismu eh” said Smith imperiously, indicating a bottle of Black and White whisky.
The woman spoke rapidly in Haitian, then in English:
“You want some whisky Black and White?”
“Aîwa, aîwa!”
The woman poured out two liberal portions and set before us a bottle of some kind of mineral water. Smith put down a dollar bi
ll and she gave him change. At first, she had seemed somewhat suspicious, and the pockmarked man had looked at us with jaundiced eyes; now, however, she seemed to have accepted us. Someone else came up to the bar and her attention was diverted. The newcomer was a full-blooded Negro and a magnificent specimen. He nodded casually to the pockmarked man who returned the salutation and then turned his back upon him. Smith touched my arm.
I watched intently. The newcomer ordered a packet of cigarettes; they were placed before him and he set several coins on the counter. Smith bent to my ear:
“Look!” he breathed.
Held in the Negro’s palm as he had opened it to drop the coins, I had a momentary glimpse of a green object… It was the coiled snake of Damballa!
The signal exchanged between the woman who had served him and the other at the further end of the counter must have been imperceptible to one not anticipating it. The Negro walked along, nodded to the second woman, the door was opened, and he went out.
“That’s our way!” murmured Smith.
An evil spiritual excitement, a force that could be physically felt, was throbbing about the room. Out in front of the verandah drums began to beat softly, and starting as a whisper, but ever increasing in volume, came that hymn of Satan, the Song of Damballa.
Damballa gouhamba
Kinga do ke la
As I looked, men and women, singly and in pairs, sprang up and began to dance. They appeared to be entirely oblivious of their surroundings, to be, in the evil sense, possessed; one after another they threw themselves with utter abandonment into the rhythmical but incomprehensible dance. They moved out to the verandah, across it and out into the torch-speckled dusk of the clearing beyond. The atmosphere was foul with human exhalation. Treating us to a further and comprehensively suspicious glance, the pock-marked man also walked out.
“Now for it,” muttered Smith. “Don’t touch this stuff!”
Surreptitiously he emptied his glass on to the floor. I followed suit.
“When I call the woman, show her the green snake. Leave the rest to me.” He turned in her direction. “Ta ‘alia hîna!” he rapped.
She started, stared for a moment then drew near.
Opening my palm, I exhibited the green serpent.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, and seemed taken aback.
Smith held the seven-pointed star before her eyes.
“Ahu hûna Damballa!” he muttered, and concealed the jewel.
For a moment, extraordinarily penetrating eyes had surveyed us, but at sight of the star the woman pressed her hands to her breast and bowed her head. Smith confidently strode towards the left and I followed him. The other woman opened the door and stood in that same attitude of subjection as we walked out—to find ourselves in a lean-to porch, almost right up to which the forest grew.
From here it seemed that pines climbed unbroken to the mountain ridge, and at first it was so dark that I found it bewildering. But as we stood there taking our bearings, I presently noticed, in what little moonlight filtered through from above, that a track, a mere bridle-path, led from the door onward and upward amongst the pines.
No living thing was in sight. From before that strange house of entertainment which we had left, singing and drumming grew even louder. Beyond, very far beyond it seemed, deep in the forest, other drums were beating, deep-toned, mysterious drums, and I thought that they were calling to us.
“Clearly this is our way,” said Smith, in a low voice. “I am evidently a person of some consequence, as Father Ambrose assured us, and one presumes that initiates are supposed to know the path. Come on.”
We set out. The track climbed up and up through the trees, and although I was keeping a tight hold upon myself, one obsession there was which I could not conquer. It seemed to be fostered by those distant drums. It was not fear of those who worshipped the serpent, bloodthirsty though their rites may be—indeed, according to some accounts cannibalistic—nor tremors that we had been betrayed. It was a fear which constantly made me mistake some odd-shaped bush, some low-growing branch, for the gaunt figure of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Amid all the other horrors of the night I found it impossible to forget the fact that the great and sinister Chinese doctor was somewhere near.
Large nocturnal insects flew into our faces; other, unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth. The sound of the deep-toned drums grew even nearer, so that that of the saturnalia we had left behind was rarely audible at all. More and more stars gleamed into view, until the darkness beneath the pines became a sort of twilight; we had glimpses of the disc of the moon. We were nearing a crest beyond which it was evident that there lay another plateau or perhaps a high valley. The going was very heavy. We had been steadily climbing for close upon an hour, and my condition was not too good. Suddenly Smith pulled up.
“Do you know, Kerrigan,” he said, breathing rapidly, “except for the fact that we are nearing the place at which the drums are beating, I should have begun to doubt if we had taken the right route.”
“Why?”
“Unless the pace of everyone using that path is more or less attuned to ours, how is it (a) that we have overtaken no one, and (b) that no one has overtaken us?”
It was a curious point, the force of which struck me at once. Smith took out his flask, and I was not sorry to resort to mine.
“I am inclined to believe,” I replied, “that all, or nearly all, the chosen few preceded us. In other words, we are late—”
“Ssh!” he checked me: “do you hear it?”
And during a momentary diminuendo in the passionate throbbing of the drums, I heard it—a faint, but unmistakable disturbance of the pine needles which formed a carpet upon most of the path below. Someone followed in our footsteps.
“Just time to take cover,” snapped Smith, “if we are quick!” On the right of the path at this point a ravine yawned darkly: only the crests of the tallest trees rose above it. On the left the ground sloped gently upward. Some kind of flowering shrub abounded, and here the pines were scanty. Smith scrambled up this slope and dived into its sheltering darkness. His voice reached me in a whisper:
“Down here, Kerrigan! There’s a perfect view of the path and we can’t be seen. Also, it may be dangerous to go further. There may be unsuspected chasms.”
I groped my way until he seized my hand. He was lying prone near the corner of a flowering bush. Wearily I threw myself down beside him. The throbbing of the drums was producing an effect wholly dissimilar to that which it seemed to exercise upon the black devotees: a sort of stupefaction. It was bemusing me, drugging me. I found it difficult to think connectedly.
“I am glad we are not alone on the path,” I said in a low voice. “Evidently it is the right one, after all.”
“Quiet!” said Smith. “Someone is near.”
As he spoke, I realized the fact that from where we lay concealed, owing to the position of the moon and the falling away of the forest on the right of the path, a considerable expanse, perhaps twenty yards, was clearly visible, illuminated by a bluish haze of light. The stirring of the pine cones continued. The sound grew nearer.
Who was approaching?
As to whom I expected it would be difficult to speculate. But what I saw was this:—The tall Negro who had preceded us from the rest house, and the Negress who had come earlier and separated from her pock-marked companion.
Clearly the girl had waited for the man and we must have passed them at some point on the route. In response to that hereditary instinct which the drums stir up in the African heart, they had reverted to nature. The man’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head rested upon his breast, as with a uniform step in time with the drums they paced upward through the pines. Utterly aloof from the world of today, the last shackle which bound them to the chariot of the white man was cast aside with the garments of civilization. She had woven a chaplet of flowers into her hair, and watching them as they passed and were lost to view, I knew that although a woman missionary might have been shocked, th
ere was nothing bestial and nothing vile and nothing of shame in the strange reversion to primitive type.
The ancient gods had called them, and, simply, they had obeyed.
The rustling of the pine cones died away. I could hear no sound of other approaching footsteps, and the throb of the drums seemed to have increased again in volume.
“You see,” said Smith in a low voice, “there is power in Voodoo. One wonders what proportion of the inhabitants of Haiti have come under its spell. A great primitive force, Kerrigan, a force we must now assume to be directed by Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“Presumably women are admitted to the higher mysteries.”
“Certainly,” Smith replied. “This I knew. Remember it is the Queen Mamaloi they go to meet, and I strongly suspect—”
He paused.
“What?”
“That there will be some further comb-out before we are admitted to the holy of holies.”
“Since we are ignorant of the routine,” I said, “this comb-out may mean our finish.”
“I have been considering the point, Kerrigan.” He stood up and walked down to the path. “I have been considering it since the moment that we started. I think if we follow the black lovers, who will be unlikely to pay any attention to us, and observe what occurs, it may be to our advantage.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
QUEEN MAMALOI
We passed the crest and looked down into a tiny sheltered valley. Mountain trees fringed it in thinly, and set amid those on the opposite slope I saw a one-storey building surrounded by a high stockade. Lanterns and torches competed with the moonlight pouring down upon the stockade, and in silhouette, an ebony god and goddess of Voodoo, the pair ahead of us stood for a moment on the lip of the declivity outlined against the tropical sky. They began to descend.
Recollections of our distance from the caravanserai which was the first gate to the mysteries at this moment stampeded in my brain. Assuming that we succeeded in surviving whatever test might lie before us, how were we to return? Together, Smith and I watched the receding figures until they were lost amongst the scattered trees which grew upon the lower slopes.