The King of the Monkey Men

by A. Hyatt Verrill

  Practice, however, made me almost perfect in this art. My second attempt was a great improvement over my first; my third was even better, and by the time I had made a dozen, I felt that I was an accomplished master of arrowhead making. To be sure, no self respecting Indian of the stone age would have regarded the rough irregular things I had made as worthy of the name of either weapons or tools, but they were far superior to anything possessed by the monkey-men, and I had no need to feel ashamed of my prehistoric art. I was still admiring my handiwork, when Mumba arrived with my evening meal.

  Curious to test the efficiency of my stone implements, I selected the largest and sharpest of the lot and commenced carving one of the fruits. Instantly Mumba was all attention. To me the jagged thing was a poor makeshift for a knife, even for fruit, but to Mumba, who had never seen any edged tool except a natural sliver of rock, the implement was simply marvelous. I laughed heartily when I saw the fixed stare of wonder and awe upon his face, and handing him the flaked stone, I signalled for him to try it.

  As he half-fearfully took the bit of stone and tested its edge, he yelled with delight. He was like a small boy with his first jack-knife, and he leaped about trying it upon everything cuttable that he could find. He severed a bit of palm leaf with it, half-whittled and half-cut a stick of firewood, and when, accidentally, he cut his own finger and the blood flowed freely, he pranced and danced about with inexpressible joy. A moment before he had held only a tool, a wonderfully useful implement to be sure—but merely useful for peaceful purposes. But now he held a weapon, something far more valuable and his own injury was completely forgotten in his subsequent discovery.

  I had gone back several thousand years and was watching the reactions of the first human being to discover the use of stone weapons. Mumba was busy trying his wonderful gift for some time, and presently, anxious to exhibit it to his friends, he started for the door. But I was anxious to witness the reception it would receive from the populace, so, signing to him to slow down, I hurried with him to the main cavern.

  The king was nowhere about, but Mumba soon realized I wished to see him and hurried off, returning in a few moments with his ruler.

  I had taken along the rest of my crude implements, and their demonstration was received with gratifying interest and surprise on the king's part. I presented him with several of the things, and his delight was boundless as he hacked and whittled at sticks and gloated over the results, as pleased as a child with a new toy.

  Anxious to show the king and his subjects how useful the new tools would prove for skinning and cutting up game, I drew a rude sketch of an agouti, and summoning Mumba, tried to convey the idea that I wanted one of the creatures brought to me. At first he merely grinned and repeated the word "Ikki," evidently thinking I wanted to learn the agouti's name. But presently, as I pointed first at my sketch and then at the stone tools, he grasped the idea and dashed off. When he reappeared, he was carrying a dead agouti and as the king and his subjects looked on in wonder, I proceeded to skin the beast with a stone knife. It was hard, slow work, but to the monkey-men it seemed nothing short of a miracle. After I had partly skinned the creature, I beckoned to the king to try his hand. To me, accustomed to steel implements, the stone seemed hopelessly dull and almost useless. But to the black monarch, who had never known any sort of real edged tool, the blunt stone affair was a marvel, and with astonishing rapidity, he skinned and cut up the animal. So interested and delighted were the people, that I then and there started to show them how they could make stone tools and weapons for themselves. As I heated pebbles and chipped them into form, the people squatted about absolutely fascinated.

  But when, chuckling, I passed the calabash of water, the stick and the hot stones to the king, I roared with laughter at the expression on his face. No doubt he feared my magic might injure him, but he was no coward at heart and with a look of grim determination to do or die, he took the proffered stick, dipped it gingerly into the water and allowed a drop to fall on the stone. Then, as the chip flew off, he leaped to his feet and yelled with glee. And I soon discovered that stone implement making was primarily and most distinctly a savage art. The very first efforts of the monkey-men gave better results than anything I had achieved, and I had to concede that when it came to a matter of stone working, the primitive cave dwellers were far superior to civilized man. I had pushed the monkey-men ahead for several centuries on the road to civilization and I decided that before I left them—unless my freedom was far nearer than I had reason to believe, I would push them along for several thousand years further towards a savage culture.

  Chapter IV

  Hence, as the days passed and drew into weeks, and I still remained a virtual prisoner of the monkey-men I devoted much of my time to teaching my captors new arts and accomplishments.

  Impatient and anxious as I was to escape from the Valley, I found that I was unconsciously becoming accustomed to my life among the monkey-men, and was finding a real interest in teaching the primitive race. I had long ago given up all hopes of escape, until the savages saw fit to let me go, for every time I descended from the caves, I was kept within a restricted area. Once, in fact, when I decided to test the matter, and disregarded the guard's warning to turn back, the fellow picked me up bodily and carried me back to the tunnel, where he released me.

  Very soon, too, I found it impossible to go even a few steps into the valley. A heavy rain began to fall steadily, the lake at the top of the cliff rose and poured into the valley in a roaring cataract, and the whole valley was transformed into a shallow lake with the scarlet trees rising above the surface of the water. This solved the puzzle as to why the savages had developed their strange habit of traveling through the tree-tops. The valley, for several months of the year, was utterly impassable on foot, but the tree tops always afforded a safe and easy route. Undoubtedly, through countless centuries, the people had developed their arboreal habits through sheer necessity of going about at all times of the year. Very often I became quite down-hearted at the thought of passing the remainder of my days among the monkey-men, but I always forced myself to give up such morbid thoughts. And my lot, after all, was not so bad. I was healthy, unharmed, with plenty to eat, and as long as I was alive and well there was always hope.

  So, making the best of my plight, I busied myself, as I have said, in trying to improve the lives and conditions of the tribe, and to mastering their language.

  Already I had acquired a sufficient knowledge of the dialect to make my simple wants known and to understand an ordinary conversation. The monkey-men had also made rapid strides since they had first learned to make stone implements, for with the acquisition of fairly sharp edged tools and weapons, a wonderful vista of possibilities had opened to them, and things they had never dreamed of were now readily accomplished. Wooden slabs had replaced the leaves for dishes; the skins of animals, which formerly had been torn or hacked to pieces in removing them from the flesh, could now be removed entire and were used for many purposes. Sticks and limbs from trees could now be cut and shaped, whereas formerly, fire had been the only means the savages possessed for cutting wood. Partly to amuse myself and partly to become expert in their use, I had patiently worked at making myself a bow and several arrows. In doing this, I used my knife, of course, but I was careful not to let the monkey-men see the instrument, always pretending to scrape and whittle with a stone tool whenever Mumba appeared. Excellent mimics that they were, the monkey-men had no sooner seen my weapons in use than they too, began making bows and arrows. With these, they found, they could secure larger and more wary game than with their blow guns; the aptitude they showed in using the weapons was remarkable. In fact, they were very much my masters in archery, despite the fact that I had practised constantly long before the first monkey-man's bow was completed. Also, I had taught them to make wooden handles for their stone tools, and fearing I would exhaust my supply of paper, I had taught them to draw rude figures with charred sticks on the walls of the caves. Several times,
however, serious trouble had been narrowly averted. Although the people still regarded me with superstitious awe and respect, yet the king was madly jealous of my prestige. At first the mere threat of a second explosion was enough to bring him to terms, but after a time he had overcome his dread of this, and, on one occasion he demanded that I should give him my note book. And when I refused and threatened to produce the terrifying magic of the fire, the king had flown into a rage and had ordered one of his men to take the book from me by force. For the fraction of a second, the fellow hesitated to obey and in that second I had tossed three of my cartridges into the fire. The series of explosions that followed and thundered through the cavern had caused a perfect panic and had won the day.

  But my supply of cartridges was even more limited than my stock of paper, and realizing I must eventually rely upon other means for impressing the king and his subjects, I kept my brains busy trying to think of some new stunt. Then one day I had an inspiration and I marveled that the idea had not occurred to me sooner. I ran across a useless water-ruined match in one of my pockets, and instantly I thought of making fire by means of flint and steel. The only trouble was I had neither flint nor steel. My only steel available was my precious knife, which I dared not injure by such use, and the nearest approach to flint was the jasper-like rock used for making stone implements.

  However, if I was to work this new magic, I must take some risks, and I felt sure that somewhere I could find a stone that would serve in place of flint. Picking up several of the discarded stone implements, I tested each in turn by striking them with the back of the larger blade of my knife. Some gave no sparks whatever, one or two produced sparks which I knew were far too small to ignite any tinder, but at last I found a bit of quartz which gave rise to a shower of bright hot sparks from steel. The next and most important matter was to secure some tinder which could be ignited by means of my sparks. I racked my brains trying to think of some highly inflammable material. I had often seen flint and steel used both by Indians and Latin Americans, but for the life of me I could not remember what tinder had been employed. Then I kicked myself for a stupid ass, as I remembered the every-day flint and steel affairs used throughout South America and in which a braided cotton wick served as tinder. Not only was there an abundance of cotton in the valley, but I possessed quite a stock of the material in my own ragged garments.

  To ravel out some of the threads and to braid these into a loosely stranded cord or wick was a simple matter. But to my utter disappointment, the cotton could not be ignited by the sparks. I was about to give up in despair and decided that the cotton was either the wrong kind or else that the natives treated theirs with some chemical, when I bethought myself of testing whether my cotton wick would actually burn. I touched it to the flames of my fire and it blazed up quite brightly. I extinguished it by placing my heel upon it, and sat pondering upon the reason for my failure. Possibly, I thought, the cotton had been slightly damp, too damp to ignite by means of sparks, though dry enough to burn with the flame. In that case, perhaps the heat of its blaze had dried it and it would be well to have another try.

  Holding the bit of charred cotton under the quartz, I struck the stone with the knife and the next moment gave vent to an involuntary shout of triumph. The cotton was glowing like a live coal, and by blowing upon it and placing some shreds of palm leaves against it, I soon had a blaze going. Over and over again I ignited the cotton, wondering why I had failed at first, until I discovered that while charred cotton could be ignited, the unburned fibre could not. I wondered what I would have done, or what any man would do, if no fire was available for charring the tinder. But that was a contingency that did not interest me at the time, and I was fully satisfied at having discovered how to produce fire by flint and steel. In fact, I was quite pleased to know that ordinary cotton could not be ignited, for it would make my magic all the more marvelous if, at any time, the king or one of his subjects should get hold of my fire-making apparatus by force.

  I was very anxious, of course, to test the effect of my discovery upon the king and the others, but I decided that the wise course was to keep it up my sleeve, so to speak, for use in case of an emergency. And little did I dream how soon that emergency would arise.

  That same night I was awakened by some slight and unusual sound, and opening my eyes without moving—a habit that had become second nature during long years in the bush—I glanced about, expecting to see Mumba. The next instant someone leaped upon me. I was seized and bound, and although I struggled frantically, I was utterly helpless in the grip of my assailant. Then a stick was thrust into the fire and as its blaze illuminated the room, I saw two monkey-men and the hideous old king gloating over me.

  The monarch had decided to do away with me in secret. Why he had not killed me out of hand while I slept, instead of having me trussed up like a fowl, was a puzzle. But the next moment the question was answered. Holding the blazing firebrand for a torch, the king began searching the pockets of my clothing. Chuckling to himself, he drew out the cartridges and my note book, tossed the burning stick into the fire, and with a derisive laugh rushed off with his fellows, leaving me helpless and raging at my loss. I understood it all. He had repeatedly seen me reach into my pocket for the book; he must have been keen enough to notice that I took something from my pocket when I caused the explosions, and he had reasoned that by possessing himself of my magic-making device, he could perform the same miracles himself. That he had not also secured my knife was merely accident for it had been in my watch-pocket, and the king had only searched those pockets wherein he had seen me place my hands. He had overlooked one cartridge as well, but there was small comfort in this. No doubt, I thought, as soon as he had impressed his subjects with his own power, he would have me done away with, and it was the thought of how he might do it, rather than my death, that troubled me. Suddenly, my disquieting thoughts were interrupted by the muffled roar of an explosion from the direction of the main cavern. The king certainly was not losing any time. Then I heard running footsteps and knew my execution was close at hand.

  The next instant Mumba leaped into the room, and muttering incoherently, quickly loosed my bonds. Hardly waiting to thank him, I seized my bow and arrows and dashed down the passage after Mumba, thoroughly enraged and determined to have a shot at the king before I was again overpowered. As I neared the cave, a low, moaning wail came from within, and as I reached the entrance I halted in my tracks. The place was thick with dense smoke and reeked with the odor of gunpowder, while every occupant was prone upon the floor. The king was nowhere to be seen, and I glanced about in an effort to locate the old thief. Mumba was tugging at my sleeve, jabbering excitedly and urging me forward. Unable to understand what he wanted, I stepped forward among the prostrate savages. The next instant, a cry of amazement burst from my lips.

  Sprawled upon the floor, with arms outstretched lay the king, his ugly features ghastly with blood while from what had once been his right eye, the ragged fragments of a brass cartridge shell protruded.

  He was dead. Killed by his own act. One of the shells had been hurled from the fire by the explosion and had buried itself in his brain. No doubt he had bent close to the fire, as he tossed the cartridges into the flames, and, the exploding gunpowder had done the rest.

  For a brief moment I hesitated. Then, stooping quickly, I snatched the crown of Waupona feathers from the dead man's head, and placing it on my own, stepped to the throne. An instant later the prostrate people timidly raised their eyes and looked about. When they saw me seated upon the throne, with the royal crown upon my head, a mighty shout arose. Then they caught sight of their dead monarch, and with one impulse, they knocked their foreheads upon the floor. Here indeed was magic; something most awful. They had seen their king throw the cartridges into the fire. The terrible noise and the flying embers had followed, and now the monarch was dead and the white man, materializing from nowhere, was seated upon the throne wearing the royal crown. Truly the magic of such things was not
to be trifled with, and cautiously raising their heads, the monkey-men gazed upon me as though I were an apparition born of the explosions —as they no doubt believed me to be. For a moment I sat motionless, gazing severely upon the people. Then, taking out my flint and knife and tinder, I struck a shower of sparks from the quartz and as the cotton glowed and the bits of palm leaf burst into a blaze, I waved them impressively before my face. It was the finishing touch to a most dramatic scene, and once more the wailing moan arose and the terrified, awe-stricken people prostrated themselves again.

  The king was dead, long live the king!

  With savage callousness the monkey-men paid little heed to their late monarch, whose body remained sprawled where it had fallen. But at an order from me, two of the fellows half-carried and half-dragged it into one of the dark holes in the wall. Mumba, meanwhile, was squatted beside my throne, gazing at me with absolute adoration on his good-natured but ugly face. He was a faithful fellow and had proved himself my true friend, and I decided it was time he was rewarded.

  So by signs and what I knew of the language, I told Mumba to rise and made it clear to him and to the others that he was second in position to myself—my Prime Minister, in fact. For a time he did not seem able to grasp the idea, but when it finally dawned upon him, he fell at my feet, and then, rising, went strutting about and gabbling to his fellows in such an exalted supercilious manner that I fairly roared with laughter, despite my supposed dignity as a king.