The King of the Monkey Men

by A. Hyatt Verrill

  The King of the Monkey Men

  by A. Hyatt Verrill

  Copyright © 1928 by A Hyatt Verrill

  This edition published in 2011 by eStar Books, LLC.

  www.estarbooks.com

  ISBN 9781612102207

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The King of the Monkey Men

  by A. Hyatt Verrill

  Chapter I

  Walker impatiently tossed aside the magazine he had been reading. "Why can't people write stories which are plausible?" he exclaimed in disgusted tones. "It's an insult to common sense and intelligence to print such rot—such things never happen."

  "What things?" asked Blake. "What's the yarn that arouses your ire?"

  Walker snorted. "About a crusty millionaire,” he replied. "Gets shipwrecked and floats about in mid-ocean. At the psychological moment a yacht turns up and a sailor rescues the old Croesus. Yacht belongs to a society snob engaged to millionaire's daughter. Sailor turns out to be an impecunious rival who has shipped in disguise to protect the girl from the dissolute chap who owns the yacht. Of course the latter proves to be a crook and the rescued millionaire bestows daughter, blessing and all on the sailor. As I said before, such things don't happen in real life—no such coincidences."

  While Walker was talking, Belmont had entered the room. He had returned a few days previously from South America, where he had been on some sort of a scientific expedition, but this was the first time he had joined us at the club.

  "I can't agree with you, Walker," he remarked, as he dropped into a chair. "And no one has a right to say what is possible and what impossible," he added. "Moreover, even more remarkable coincidences than those in your story do happen. I've seen a lot of things which you would declare impossible if they were written as fiction. There was the case of Meredith, for example. Not one of you would credit the story if you read it in a magazine."

  "We can judge better when we've heard it," said Thurston. "Go ahead; lot's have the yarn."

  "I heard the story on my trip up from South America," Belmont commenced, while we drew our chairs closer in anticipation of a good story. "We were lying off San Marcos," Belmont continued, "and I was leaning idly on the ship's rail, gazing at the little red-roofed town with its sea of unbroken green jungle behind it, and the snowcapped cordilleras in the far distance—an unknown, mysterious world, the haunt of strange beasts and stranger men. I turned just in time to see a man and woman step from the gangway-ladder to the deck. He was tall and lean, broad-shouldered and with a bronzed face, and he walked with the soft alert step of an Indian or an experienced bushman. At first glance I mistook him for a native. But he spoke to the officer at the rail in good English, and I saw that his eyes were of that unmistakable keen blue that spells Anglo-Saxon. But striking as was his appearance in this out-of-the-way spot, I gave him merely a passing glance, for my whole attention was riveted upon his companion. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Rather less than medium height, she had a superb figure, and was obviously white, for her skin, although a soft golden-olive, was not lacking in pink as are those tainted with negro blood, nor did it have the dull coppery tint of the Indian strain; neither was it the sallow shade of the mestizo or of the Latin American. Her hair was lustrous bronze and her eyes were as blue as the Caribbean water along the shore. She was dressed in a plain gown of white linen; her feet were encased in canvas shoes, and she wore a broad Panama. But her walk! She seemed almost to float along, and she had the carriage of a queen.

  "Gee!” ejaculated Peters, the wireless operator who stood beside me. “Did you ever see a female woman walk like that? Where the dickens do you suppose she dropped from, and what’s she doing in this God-forsaken hole with that old Robinson Crusoe?”

  I shook my head. "I've seen women walk like that before," I said. "But they were all Indians. That girl’s no Indian and she doesn't look like any race of European I've ever met, either."

  "I'll soon find out who they are," declared Peters, as he hurried off to find the purser.

  Presently he returned, a disappointed expression on his face, "He doesn't know any more than we do," Peters announced, "Says they've booked as 'Henry Meredith and Miss Meredith.' Thinks they're father and daughter and some sort of Creoles, although registered as Americans."

  We saw nothing more of the two new passengers until dinner time, when they appeared at the captain's table. Without her hat, Miss Meredith was even more charming, and I saw Peters gazing at her with undisguised admiration.

  Meredith himself seemed a quiet, rather taciturn man, but a wonderful knowledge on a great variety of subjects, and he conversed in perfect English with captain and myself in just as perfect Spanish with the native passengers and waiters.

  I really don't know what language I had expected Miss Meredith to speak, but her first words were in English, uttered slowly and a bit painstakingly, as the language had been recently acquired, and yet no trace of any foreign accent.

  When addressed by one of the Spanish Americans, she appeared puzzled, smiled, and, turning to Meredith, in some odd, low-toned language utterly new to me. Instantly he replied in the same tongue, and then, to the others, translated her reply into Spanish, explaining that Miss Meredith did not understand that language.

  This unusual procedure increased my curiosity, and, as Meredith continued to act as interpreter for his lovely companion throughout the meal, I found myself marveling and speculating as to her origin and how it was that she seemed to prefer the odd lingo to English.

  After dinner the two sat together on the after-deck, apparently preferring to be alone; but the next morning they drew their chairs into the circle of passengers and joined in the general conversation. As soon as Meredith found that I had spent a great deal of time in South America, he gave me all his attention and, having a common interest, we soon were chatting away like old friends. I had always thought I knew something about South America and its fauna and people; but I soon found that I was a mere novice compared with Meredith. His knowledge was marvellous, and he appeared to have been in every nook and corner of the continent. But all the time that we were talking, in the back of my head I was wondering who Miss Meredith was, and why she spoke that strange dialect. I didn't feel well enough acquainted to ask personal questions, and I didn't want to appear rude or curious. But at last Meredith himself brought the matter up. He had just repeated in the odd tongue, something I had said, and then, turning to me, he apologized for speaking in a language unintelligible to me, remarking by way of explanation, that Miss Meredith did not readily understand English as she had only recently learned to speak it.

  "She speaks it charmingly," I replied. "But I've been wondering what language it is that she prefers—I cannot seem to place it and I know most of the European dialects."

  "It's not European," laughed Meredith. "It's Tucumari —an Indian dialect. Perhaps you never heard of it."

  "No, I never did," I admitted. "But then," I added, "I know very few of the Indian dialects. But if it's not too personal a question, may I ask how Miss Meredith happens to be so familiar with an Indian tongue? I suppose her nurse—"

  "No," he interrupted, "I do not think any Tucumari has ever visited the most remote outposts of civilization. To all intents and purposes they are an unknown tribe. It's a long story. By the way, did you ever hear of the Waupona Bird or the Monkey-Men?"

  "I never heard of the bird," I told him, "at least not by that name. But I've heard stories of the Monkey-Men— purely imaginary and fantastic tales of the
Indians, of course."

  Meredith smiled. "It's a dangerous thing to condemn anything as purely fantastic, unless we are sure," he remarked as he rose. "Excuse me a moment," he added. "I'd like to show you a specimen I have in my room."

  A moment later he returned with a long, slender package wrapped in bark-cloth. Unrolling this he disclosed a magnificent feather head-dress composed of the most remarkable and beautiful feathers I have ever seen. Attached to a band of dyed or stained bark-cloth were fully one hundred feathers varying in length from waving plumes over three feet long to short, curved, delicate feathers a few inches in length, and each and every one a brilliant, gleaming royal-purple color that changed to mauve, violet and magenta shades as they swayed gently in the breeze. In size, texture and form the feathers were like those from the sacred Quetzal bird of Central America, but a thousand times more beautiful than the emerald green plumes of that famed trogan.*

  *trogan- any of about 35 bird species common to warm regions. Trogons, who constitute the family of Trogonidae, have the belly bright red to yellow in contrast with the dark chest and upperparts. Among the best-known species of the trogon family are the quetzals (genus Pharomachrus). Spelling variations: Trogan and Trogon

  I fairly gaped with astonishment and admiration at the sight. "Where in the world did you run across that?" I cried, "And from what marvelous bird were those feathers obtained?"

  "The feathers," replied Meredith, "are from the Waupona Bird, and the head-dress is the crown of the King of the Monkey-Men. I may add that I took it from the king's head with my own hands, so there's nothing either imaginary or fantastic about it. It’s a long story, as I said, but if you'd like to hear it, very well."

  As he spoke, Meredith reached over and placed the feather crown on the girl's head and said something in Tucumari. Crowned with the marvelous purple diadem, she seemed transformed into some Incan or Aztec princess, and as Meredith related the story of their adventures, I listened spell-bound, for the tale was more wonderful than any fiction.

  "Do you remember the wreck of the river steamer Magdalena?" he asked. I nodded. "It was a terrible catastrophe," I said. "As I recollect it, not one of her crew or passengers escaped."

  "Among the passengers," continued Meredith, "was my motherless two year-old daughter Ruth, in charge of a trusted nurse. The shocking news reached me at Caura, and I at once led a searching party to the scene of the disaster. But not a survivor could be found, not even a body could be recovered. The perai fish and alligators destroyed all evidences of the victims' fate. In an effort to forget my awful loss, I resumed my former profession of field naturalist, and for the next fifteen years I spent my life in the bush. Often, of course, I penetrated to unknown and unexplored districts, and on my last trip I found myself in a remote region upon one of the forest rivers fully three hundred miles from the coast and from all traces of civilization. My only companions were my two boatmen; Pépe, a pure blooded Indian, and José, a mestizo. Everything had gone smoothly and without any unusual incident, and as the river narrowed and the current quickened, we realized that we were approaching the highlands and the limits of navigable water. Suddenly Pépe, in the bow, stopped paddling and held up his hand for silence. Then, as we floated motionless, we caught the faint sounds of human voices from beyond a wooded point."

  "Slowly and cautiously we moved forward to the screen of branches and peered through the foliage. Beyond the point, the stream swept in a half-circle along a narrow beach under a bank crowned with huge trees. Upon the beach were a number of dug-outs, and upon the bank were a dozen or more thatched huts. Here and there the naked forms of Indians were visible, and beside the nearest canoe were two men, one braiding a bark rope; the other daubing pitch on the craft. It was their voices we had heard, but the dialect was strange to me." Presently Pépe turned. "It is well, Señor," he whispered. "They speak the Metaki and are my people."

  As he finished, he shouted words in his own tongue, and we paddled into view. As we emerged from our hiding place, each of the Indians on the beach grasped his blowgun and stood ready to use his poisoned darts if necessity arose. But a few words from Pépe reassured them; the weapons were laid aside, and as our canoe touched the shore, the two savages grasped the gunwales and rushed it up the beach.

  Instantly all was commotion in the village, and as we stepped ashore, we were surrounded by a crowd of chattering, wondering Indians of both sexes and all ages, for it was the first time they had ever seen civilized men. To their innumerable comments and questions, Pépe replied in his own language. Presently José, too, was talking, using a distinct dialect, which the Metakis seemed to understand.

  Now and then I could catch a word, but most was unintelligible to me, and, addressing Pépe and José, I asked them if none of the Indians could speak dialect I knew. At my words, scowls and black looks spread over the faces of some of the men, and I realized that they had understood my words and were suspicions when they heard Spanish. But presently, as Pépe spoke with them, their faces cleared. "Si, Señor,"’ he said, turning to me. "Several speak Atami and some understand Spanish. They say all Spaniards are bad and are to be killed. I tell them you are from another land and of a race who fought with the Spaniards and that you are a friend and have presents."

  The distribution of a few gifts cemented the friendship of the Metakis; a new palm hut was built for me, and we soon felt quite at home. I had already decided to remain at the village for some time, as it was an excellent spot for collecting, and Melanga, the cacique, who spoke Atami, was a friendly old chap and appeared much interested in my work.

  I had lived among the Metakis for some time and had secured many fine things, when I made a notable discovery. I was visiting Melanga and noticed a number of feather crowns and girdles hanging on the rear wall of his hut. Stepping nearer to examine them—for quite frequently rare or new birds may be found among the Indians' ornaments, I saw, among the ordinary toucan, parrot and macaw feathers, a bunch of plumes of wonderful purple. They were unlike anything I had ever seen, and I knew instantly that they were from some undescribed species of bird. Turning to the cacique, I asked from what bird they were taken.

  "They are from Waupona,"' he replied, "the king of birds and are to be worn only by chiefs in time of war or at great ceremonies."

  "The Waupona?" I asked. "I have never heard the name. Tell me, where lives this king of birds? Why have your hunters never taken one for me?''

  "Listen and I will tell you," replied Melanga. "Many days travel to the south is a great valley. Within this valley are trees not like other trees, for their leaves are red. And through this valley runs a river that sings. This valley is the home of the Waupona, the king of birds. But also within this valley dwell savage men, men who climb like monkeys in the trees and who kill all who enter their valley. These monkey-men worship the Waupona as their god, and the Waupona warns them of the approach of strangers. Many of the Metakis have gone forth to brave the dangers of the valley and to secure the feathers of the Waupona, but few have ever returned.

  "We Metakis do not hold sacred the Waupona as do the monkey-men, but rather prize him as a token of great bravery and prowess, for he who comes back from that valley with the Waupona plumes may become a chief of his tribe. For many years now, none have sought the prize. I alone of the Metakis have the feathers of the king of birds, and those I took while still a young man."

  Undoubtedly, I thought, the old cacique was romancing. There was no question that the feathers were real, that they were highly prized, and like as not the bird was confined to some restricted area in a district inhabited by a hostile tribe. But Melanga's yarn of red trees, monkey-men, and a singing river was, I mentally decided, merely the Indian's love for adding imaginary frills to a story and perhaps mixed with a little superstition. At any rate, I had already decided to go after the Waupona, and I told Melanga of my intention.

  The old fellow looked really sad. He declared I would lose my life and he assured me that no Indians would acc
ompany me. At last, however, he admitted that a white man might succeed, for he had a wholesome and almost superstitious regard for my gun, and he also admitted that one of his men knew the way to the Waupona's valley, having once travelled that far with the idea of securing the coveted plumes, although his courage had failed him at the last. Both he and Melanga agreed that the trip was long and arduous, mainly through the forest, until a large river was reached, which was to be followed for three days. I suggested that a raft might be built and the trip shortened and made easier by floating down this stream and the Metakis agreed that this might easily be done, with a party of six, although the idea had never occurred to them before.

  It did not take long to make all preparations for the trip. But the following morning all was in readiness, and at daybreak we set out, our scanty luggage on our shoulders, led by Tinana, our guide, and two other Metakis. For four days we tramped steadily through the forest, throughout that time gradually ascended towards the interior highlands. On the morning of the fifth day we entered a thicker jungle, and in the afternoon heard the sound of running water. Presently we came out upon the banks of a good sized river. It was a swift flowing stream without rapids as far as could be seen, and excellent for our purpose. There was abundant material for a raft at hand, and as soon as camp was made we began preparations.

  The next two days were occupied in building a raft, in doing which we used the light, cork-like balsa trees, bound together with lianas and floored with bamboo. And on the third day we embarked. The craft floated high and buoyantly and sped down-stream with gratifying speed. For six days we floated along swiftly and easily, and on the seventh day Tinana assured me that in two days more we could go ashore and in four days we could reach the valley of the Waupona birds. Fortunately we met no bad rapids, and at the allotted time we ran the raft ashore and resumed our tramp through the forest. The first day the way led across rocky ridges and through deep cañons filled with a mass of tangled vines, saw grass, thorn-trees and cactus, where we had to cut a trail as we proceeded. The next day was even worse; the ascent became constantly sharper, the jungles more impenetrable, while we frequently waded streams of ice cold mountain water. By nightfall, we had reached an altitude so great that we shivered with cold despite a roaring fire in the small cavern where we camped. But the worst of the trip was over, and Tinana told me that only two more days remained between us and the valley. Early the next morning we crossed the highest ridge of the mountains, with several snow-capped peaks in sight, and rapidly descended the farther slope. The jungle soon replaced the scanty vegetation of the higher altitudes; the air became warmer, and by night we were again in open forest and a tropical climate.