by Sax Rohmer
“We must not lose sight of them,” he said rapidly. “Short of stripping, I am prepared to follow whatever routine they may adopt.”
I laughed, perhaps not very mirthfully.
“Have you any idea, Smith,” I asked, “how we are going to get back?”
“Whatever the purpose of this meeting may be, and whether we escape or are discovered, I have arranged, Kerrigan, as you know, that in roughly one hour from now, three planes suitably armed will land on the plateau from which we have come. I am convinced that no opposition will be met with. Barton will lead them here. In other words”—he glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch—“if we can survive for two hours, we shall not be unsupported.”
We began very slowly to descend in turn.
It seemed to me that under the moon there was nothing in the world but drums. I began to understand the symptoms of the rhythm-drunk people I had known, people who when they were not dancing, or listening to swing music, had swing echoes in their brains. This was the apogee, the culmination of that hypnosis which is created by beats. Although we approached the clearing, there were dark patches in the path; and once as I stumbled Smith caught my arm.
“The drums,” he said; “it’s a kind of dope, you know.”
“I know,” I groaned.
“Try to deafen your ears to it. I mean, concentrate on the idea. This is what gets them. Their primitive intelligence can’t battle against it. The music of the Pied Piper. Cover up, Kerrigan. I know it is making you stupid. Our real fight is ahead.”
His cold, incisive words acted as they had done so often before, as a swift sedative. Yes, it was the drums. They filled the night with their throbbing, and in some way that throbbing had got into my brain. I adopted a violent method of repelling this insidious intrusion.
I thought hard of Dr. Fu-Manchu; and when I had succeeded in conjuring up a vision of that Shakespearean brow, that satanically brilliant face, those cat-like emerald eyes, I believe I returned to sanity, and to a new fear—the fear of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
Smith, I am sure, understood the internal struggle that was going on, for he walked beside me in silence, until:
“Look!” he rapped suddenly. ‘There is the second gate—the second test. Can we pass it?”
I looked down. We were quite near to the level space before the stockade which, at closer view, clearly surrounded a temple of sorts. The path we were following had become a ravine. Long since, the Negro and Negress ahead had become lost to view, and now we proceeded cautiously.
Twenty or thirty paces brought us round a sudden bend and into full view of the stockade. A huddled group of perhaps a dozen pilgrims was gathered before a great gateway. A murmur of voices became audible above the throbbing of the drums.
Even in the bluish shadow of the gully, I could see Smith looking about him and then:
“There is no other way,” he muttered. “It’s in or back.”
Could we ever get back?
* * *
The group ahead before the gateway was explained by the presence of a pine log thrown like a barrier across the opening. Right and left of it, backed by semi-naked Negroes holding torches aloft, were two men. One, he on the right, was a pure and obese Negro who continued to wear the uniform of western slavery; the other, on the left, was the fierce-eyed mulatto who had stared into the car as we had driven to the house of Father Ambrose, who had passed us on the mountain path!
Smith recognized him as swiftly as I.
“It is known that we are here,” he muttered. “That mulatto is posted to intercept us. But, even if he sees us, there is still hope.”
“What hope?”
“He is certainly not familiar with our appearance, for he was deceived on the road. He cannot know that we carry the seven-pointed star. Glance over the gang now undergoing inspection. The gateway is in shadow, but you can see them in the torchlight. Some of them look whiter than you or I. They are from over the border. This thing goes very deep.”
“Let us join the group waiting to be passed by the fat Negro.”
“I disagree,” said Smith; “if ever I saw a eunuch, he is one. Think of our Arabic! No, I prefer the mulatto.”
“But, Smith, it’s madness!”
“In an emergency, Kerrigan, madness is sometimes sanity.”
I resigned myself. We entered the gateway and moved to the left of the barrier. Glancing back I saw that a few stragglers, all Haitians, were coming down the slope. As we approached the mulatto I saw directly in front of us the black lovers. Six or seven others preceded them. Smith bent to my ear:
“You see, Kerrigan,” he whispered, “it is unnecessary to strip!”
But I had seen, and the sight had afforded me a momentary relief. Two figures at least, at right and left, were those of men dressed much as we were dressed. Others were there who had thrown off the yoke and gleamed black beneath the moon. But we were not alone.
“Watch closely,” Smith whispered. “All turns on the man not identifying us. Next, stick to Arabic. Finally, if challenged, shoot him.”
I watched those who had been allowed to pass the banner. They had all exhibited some token which they held in their hands. An interrogatory seemed to follow; then, making an odd gesture to the forehead, they were allowed to pass.
“Note that salute!” muttered Smith.
When the Negro and Negress approached the mulatto we were close behind them.
He concentrated his fierce gaze upon them, ignoring us. The man opened his hand: the girl touched an amulet which hung upon her breast. The mulatto spoke rapidly in the strange patois which I had been unable to learn, but Smith was listening intently. He pressed his lips almost against my ear:
“Stick to Arabic,” he reiterated.
And as the Negro and Negress went through, we followed.
Those fierce eyes were fixed upon me. They glittered fierily in the light of surrounding torches, and I confess that my heart sank. Silently I held out the serpent amulet. The mulatto glanced at it; then his evil gaze returned to my face, and suddenly he addressed me in English!
“What is your name and number?” he demanded. “From what place do you come?”
Thrown temporarily off my guard, I believe I was about to answer him in the same language, when Smith kicked my ankle so hard that I stifled a cry. But he saved the situation.
“Uskût!” I hissed. “Daraga âwala!’’
And as I spoke, Smith threw his left arm about my shoulders and held out in his right palm the seven-pointed star.
“Ahu hîna Damballa!” he said menacingly.
The result smacked of magic. The mulatto fell into that curious pose adopted by the women at the rest-house, his hands pressed to his breast, his head bowed. Smith gave the salute which he had noted.
We were through.
As we walked across the enclosed space towards the temple of Voodoo:
“I have taken special note of the fact,” said Smith, “that owing to the position of the moon, one side of the stockade casts a complete shadow for some ten feet out from its base. That is the spot to make for.”
We gained the shadow belt unmolested. Drawing a deep breath I looked about me. There were, as I have said, many torches and some lanterns. I saw now that they were distributed in a rough circle before the building, which on closer inspection proved to be a sort of shrine embedded in the trees. Before it was a platform, or dais, flanked by tall masts resembling totem poles. Double doors, massively carved and brightly painted, gave on to this platform. Right and left of these doors, which were closed, stood two motionless figures as if sculptured in ebony. By the light of the full moon pouring down upon them, I recognized the forest lovers!
Drums, although I could not see the drummers, continued their sinister throbbing. And now, all those summoned presumably being present, torches and lanterns were extinguished, the drum throbs died away. A voice cried out in a tongue which I had never heard spoken. The double doors swung open.
A sort of
rapturous sigh passed through the multitude. With complete unanimity, they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. A woman came into the moonlight, and I knew that she was the Queen Mamaloi…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE SMELLING-OUT
Her hair was hidden by a high, jewelled headdress; jewels all but covered slim, bare arms: a girdle resembling those seen in Ancient Egyptian pictures, glittering with gems, hung from her waist. There, radiant in silver light, from proud head to curving hips, to little sandalled feet, I saw an ivory statue—a statue of Isis. The deep-toned drums entirely ceased to beat. Every man and every woman who gathered before the temple fell prone. A long queerly modulated phrase, a moaning sigh, passed like a breeze among the worshippers.
I was dumbfounded, fascinated, swept for a moment into a mystic vortex which her presence had created. She stood no more than twenty paces away, wholly bathed in the radiance of the moon; and I looked, as if hypnotized, into the brilliant jade-green eyes of Queen Mamaloi, the witch woman, high priestess of Voodoo—Koreâni, Dr. Fu-Manchu’s daughter!
Smith pulled me down just within that fraction of a second which otherwise might have shown me standing alone. Earlier I had knelt to a priest: I lay now prostrate before a sorceress!
His grasp on my arm warned me to be silent.
She spoke, in Italian, in French, and in some other language which I had never heard spoken before, save by that voice which had announced her coming. But the sound of it seemed to act upon her listeners like a maddening drug. They moaned, cried out inarticulately; they gesticulated as they rose to their knees. Smith drew very near.
“The Unknown Tongue,” he whispered; “the secret language of Voodoo.”
Koreâni had a bell-like voice—this I remembered; a voice which, because of its production and unusual quality, was audible from a distance: in short, the voice of a trained elocutionist and of one who might have been a great actress. Her speech was accompanied by a subdued but passionate throbbing of unseen drums.
More and more, as she spoke, I appreciated the power of the spirit driving her. Here was a mastery comparable with that of Dr. Fu-Manchu. French, Haitian (of which I knew little enough), in turn were discarded, so that presently Koreâni spoke altogether in the Unknown Tongue—of which I knew nothing. Frenzy grew upon her audience until some among the throng might have been said to have become possessed. They groaned, gnashed their teeth, contorted their bodies. The substance of the address I found difficulty in tracing, but the danger to the community represented by this woman’s influence was all too apparent.
Suddenly, in obedience to some command from the Queen Mamaloi, all threw themselves upon their knees; faces buried in hands they began to pray fervently. Koreâni, silent, statuesque, stood with uplifted arms.
“She has asked them to pray for a sign from Damballa the Snake God,” whispered Smith. “I suspect that the real purpose of this ceremony is about to become evident.”
But even he could not foresee the miracle we were to witness. The drums became silent.
Thanks to the position which Smith had taken up we stood, as I have mentioned, in deep shadow cast by the stockade. We should become visible only if the ring of torches were lighted again before the temple. Within this ring devotees were writhing on the ground in an ecstasy of supplication. Koreâni stood motionless, her brilliant eyes raised to the moon.
And, magically, those supplications were answered.
A harsh, guttural voice spoke. Smith’s sudden grip on my arm made me wince. The opening words were unintelligible; but, following them, came a phrase in Haitian: finally, in French, the imperious voice declaimed:
“I, Damballa, have been called. I answer. I am here among you, but your blind eyes cannot see me. I come because there are traitors here, spies—those who work not for the glory of the African races, but for gain to themselves. Tonight there shall be a great smelling-out. True men, stand fast. Spies—I shall find you! To me, my servants. Damballa speaks.”
The jewel-laden ivory arms of Koreâni dropped to her sides. I saw her clenched hands. The Negro and Negress right and left of the painted doorway seemed to be stricken immobile. Stupefaction silenced every prayer. There was movement—then stillness, broken only by panting breaths. Although the speaker seemingly stood beside the high priestess, no one was there.
But the voice of Damballa was the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu!
* * *
Three figures wearing hideous ritual masks and carrying torches came out from dense undergrowth on the left of the temple. Three others appeared on the right. Finally, stalking into torchlight from the direction of the barricade, there came a seventh, a herculean man, masked, robed, and carrying a glittering scimitar. The hush about us was electrical with suspense. Although I knew that he hurt me unconsciously. Smith’s grip on my arm was as that of steel pincers.
“Touch and go, Kerrigan!” he hissed in my ear. “We are spotted! Don’t fight. It’s hopeless. We can only trust—”
“The smelling-out begins!” cried that harsh voice. “Sons and daughters of Damballa, you are safe.”
This phrase was repeated in Haitian, then in that incomprehensible language, the Unknown Tongue. Urged to his task by the bodiless Voice, the giant Sword-Bearer began a sinister inspection. Frightened groups were huddled together within the stockade. I could hear chattering teeth. Other Masks had appeared at the entrance. Retreat was cut off.
Every face was scrutinized. The Voice seemed to speak from immediately beside the Sword Bearer. Koreâni stood motionless as that ivory statue which she resembled.
Alternately sibilant and guttural, that uncanny voice muttered, muttered—in what language I could not make out. Then came one short, sharp command. The scimitar shot out and touched a cowering Haitian. He shrieked so wildly that I thought the blow had been a mortal one. But his shriek was of fear. One of the masked torchmen sprang forward, grasped the selected man and hurled him into the open space before the temple. He fell, and lay there quivering. A woman who had stood beside him moaned and collapsed.
So the “smelling-out” began, and so it went on, until ten victims, women as well as men, stood, knelt or lay in the open space. All about me were whispered prayers, and they were not Voodoo prayers. The children of Damballa who had called upon their black god now prayed to the God of the Christians to exorcise him!
Many devotees had fainted after the seekers had passed. But Koreâni, proud, motionless, stood silent, her brilliant eyes widely opened.
The Sword Bearer drew near with his hideous company.
“Remember,” Smith whispered.
And now the muttering Voice began to speak in English!
“I smell other enemies. More light—more light!”
Torches were lifted before us.
“Ah—there!”
The scimitar flashed towards me. The voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu had spoken from the left side of the Sword Bearer. And I succumbed to a mad impulse.
I side-stepped, hauled away, and drove a straight right at the spot where the head of the speaker should have been!
Amazing to relate, it was there! I registered a glancing blow on an unmistakable human jaw, and I saw a green hand appear out of space!
A wild cry, and a crushing weight which seemed to descend upon my skull…
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DR. MARRIOT DOUGHTY
Of my awakening, or rather, my first awakening, I retain one vivid memory—a memory etched upon my brain. My head ached with a violence greater than I had ever experienced; coherent thought was impossible. I lay in a bunk in a small white cabin; and because of a gentle swaying sensation and of the silence, I thought that I must be afloat in an anchored ship. Every detail of my immediate surroundings was clearly discernible in moonlight which poured in at a long, low porthole directly above the bunk. I struggled to sit up. The effect upon my head was disastrous; but just before I fell back again into unconsciousness I had a glimpse of what lay beyond the porthole.
&
nbsp; I looked down upon forest-clad mountain slopes, ravines and scattered dwellings; upon something resembling a coloured relief map—and a map that swept up and then receded at an incredible speed. Just ahead and not far beneath, I saw a mighty building crowning a dizzy crest, a giant’s castle, a fabulous structure towering up to the moon.
Almost as I saw it, I found myself over it; and it was gone! But I knew that it was the Citadel, the impregnable fortress built by King Christophe, now deserted, shunned, save by the uneasy spirit of the Negro king.
My second awakening afforded the discovery that the pain in my skull was almost gone and that a cool, wet bandage surrounded my forehead. I was in bed, wearing silk pyjamas which did not belong to me, in a scrupulously neat room—a room, as I determined after that first glance, in a hospital. No doubt that vision of the Citadel, of flying silently through space, had been delirium. I tried to reason out what had happened after I had struck—madly—at a Voice and had contacted flesh and bone. The rearguard for which Smith had arranged must have arrived ahead of time; so I reasoned.
I had just come to the conclusion when the door (it had neither handle nor keyhole) slid noiselessly open and a man came in who wore a long white linen coat; undoubtedly, a doctor.
He paused for a moment, smiling with satisfaction to see me awake. He was an elderly man, wearing a pointed, greyish beard; he had a fine brow and those penetrating eyes which mark the diagnostician. He was a Vandyke type, and for some reason I found his features familiar.
“Good morning, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said in a pleasant, light voice. “It would be superfluous to inquire if you feel better.”
“Quite, doctor. Except for a certain drumming in my skull, I never felt better in my life.”
“Well, you know”—he seated himself on the side of the bed, taking out a clinical thermometer from its case—“even a thick skull like yours is calculated to buzz a bit when struck hard with the flat of a heavy sword.”
He took my temperature and nodded.