The King of the Monkey Men

by A. Hyatt Verrill

  Keeping close to the opposite shore and in the heavy shadows of the jungle, I rapidly approached the light, until I dared go no further. Then, running my canoe close under the bank, I stepped ashore. Taking advantage of every tree trunk and clump of bamboos, I picked my way along until I was opposite the fire. As I came within sight of it, I gasped and stopped in my tracks, almost unable to believe my eyes. In a small opening in the forest blazed a large fire and gathered about it were four, naked, painted Indians armed with powerful bows and long arrows. But it was not these savages who had riveted my attention, but a fifth figure. Bound to a small tree near the fire was a woman, a girl whose scantily-clad body and face, clearly visible by the fire light, were unmistakably white!

  Who was she? What was she doing here, a captive of those fierce-visaged Indians? Even from the distance I could see that she was very beautiful and that her face showed no signs of fear, nothing but a resigned, hopeless expression, as she watched the Indians about the fire. That they were hostiles was obvious, and it was probable that they were also cannibals. My heart sickened as I realized that their lovely captive might soon furnish food to form a cannibal feast. My blood boiled while I gazed helplessly at the bound white girl and her painted captors. But what could I do to aid her? I was powerless against four armed savages. With a gun, even with a revolver, I might be foolhardy enough to attack them, counting on the surprise and the terror of firearms to win the day. But unarmed, except for an inferior bow and arrows, what chance had I? And then, suddenly, as I thought of fire-arms, I had an inspiration. Back to my mind flashed the memory of the consternation caused by my exploding cartridges among the monkey-men. I still had the one cartridge the king had overlooked when he had robbed me. If I could only approach closely enough to the fire to throw the shell into the flames, I might frighten the Indians into flight, and in the confusion, rescue the girl. Of course, it was a wild, hair-brained scheme with every chance against its success. Even if by craft and good luck I managed to come within reach of the fire, the odds were all against me. I might fail to throw the cartridge into the flames; it might not explode; the Indians might not be terrified, or they might recover from their fright before I could release the captive, or, even if they ran and I secured the girl, they might, and probably would, pursue us in canoes. But had they canoes? I had not noticed any, and I peered into every shadow and searched every hiding place along the shore without seeing a craft of any kind. No, I was convinced that I had nothing to fear on that score, and great as the risks were, I determined to take them.

  Better far to lose my life in an effort to save the girl than to leave her in her sad plight and be haunted for the rest of my life with memory of her there. Quickly my plans were formed. Retracing my steps, I shoved my canoe from shore, paddled it silently up stream beyond range of the fire light, crossed quickly to the opposite shore, and allowed the woodskin to float down stream. Just above the fire, a small point of land jutted into the water, and here I moored my craft, fastening it to a paddle thrust into the soft mud, which could be withdrawn instantly. I was now so close that I could hear the voices of the Indians, and though they spoke in such low guttural tones that I could not understand them, I recognized their speech as a dialect of the Myankos—the fiercest, most implacable cannibals of the South American jungles. But the discovery, although it confirmed my fears for the girl's fate, encouraged me. The Myankos were primitive, aloof, hostile, and were never in touch with civilized man. Hence the chances that the exploding cartridge would terrify them were greater. But in order to use the shell, I must reach the fire, and it seemed an impossible feat to do this, unseen and unheard. From across the river, however, I had taken note of every detail of the vicinity, and my long bush training served me well. At one side of the fire, and with its limbs extending almost over it, was a large mora tree, its squat trunk, wide spreading roots and tangled vines affording an easy means of ascent. If I could gain the shelter of the branches and worm my way out on a limb, I could almost drop the cartridge into the flames below. But to climb that tree without noise and without attracting the attention of the Indians, was, I knew, impossible.

  But I had a scheme, which I prayed and hoped might serve me. Grasping two of my yams I crept into the shelter of the mora tree, and with a long breath and with all my strength, I hurled one of the yams into the black shadows of the jungle beyond the fire. Instantly, as the tuber crashed into the brush, the savages leaped to their feet, listened a moment, and then, grasping their ready weapons, three of them dashed towards the sound. Even the girl turned and stared towards the spot, while the fourth savage remained tense and expectant near the fire. The next instant the second yam crashed through the foliage and dropped with a splash into the water down stream. With a sharp cry, the fourth Indian rushed away, while the other three shouted and hurried in the same direction. Scarcely had the second yam left my hand when I was breathlessly scrambling up the tree trunk. Quickly I gained the lowest branches, and heedless of bits of falling bark and the rustle of twigs and leaves, I wormed myself along the limb until I lay hidden and panting within ten feet of the fire. I had no time to spare. Already the Indians were returning, muttering, puzzled; wondering what had caused the noises, and evidently nervous. They were superstitious, and no doubt constantly feared an attack from enemies, and the mysterious crashing of my yams had put their nerves on edge. The stage was set, the most hazardous part of my undertaking had been safely accomplished, and I felt that good fortune and a benign Providence were with me. Waiting until the Indians had gathered about the fire, I noiselessly took the cartridge from my pocket, opened my knife and held it in my teeth, and with fast beating heart and bated breath, and with a prayer to God, I tossed the shell into the very centre of the flames. At the sound of its striking and the little shower of sparks that flew up, the savages started and stared at the flames. But they evidently thought it merely a falling or snapping stick of firewood, and made no move to investigate. The next instant firebrands flew in every direction, a volcano seemed to erupt before the astounded eyes of the Myankos, and the roar of the exploding powder echoed through the vast silent forest. With wildly terrified yells, their already tense nerves shattered, and absolutely frightened out of their wits, the four Indians fled, screaming, into the jungle. Scarcely had the echoes of the detonation died down, and before the dense smoke had cleared—almost before the savages had dashed away—I dropped from my perch to the ground, leaped across the fire, slashed through the girl's bonds with my knife, and lifting her bodily in my arms, rushed with her to my canoe. Although she must have been terrified, despite the fact that I must have appeared to her like another savage with my long hair, my unkempt beard and my patched, ragged garments, she did not scream, did not struggle, and it was not until I had dropped her into my woodskin and had pushed from shore that I realized she was unconscious.

  I had no time to lose. Already the Indians were recovering. I could hear their shouts coming nearer, and I was obliged to pass through the light of the remnants of the scattered fire and in plain view, if they returned to the scene.

  Frantically I plied my paddle, keeping as far towards the opposite shore as possible, and aided by the current of the stream, I shot past the danger point. As my canoe vanished into the darkness beyond, a savage yell echoed from the rear, and a long poison-tipped arrow sang through the air and splashed into the water within a yard of us. But the next missile fell far astern, the shouts grew fainter, and presently, feeling all danger over, I ceased my mad efforts, and panting for breath, let the canoe slip silently down the river.

  The girl was now stirring, and presently she sat up and stared about. Seeing me in the stern of the canoe, she peered at me intently for a space, and then spoke in a strange dialect. I had expected to hear her utter words in Spanish. I should not have been unduly amazed had she spoken in French or English, but it was a surprise to hear her use a tongue that was evidently Indian. But undoubtedly she thought me an Indian. I spoke to her in English and in Spanis
h and even managed a few words in Patois French, but evidently they were as unintelligible to her as her jargon was to me. Then I tried Portuguese and the few Dutch words I knew, but without result. Again she spoke, and this time I understood, for she was speaking in the dialect of the Tucumaris, which I knew.

  "Who are you, Bearded One?" she asked, "and why have you taken me from the Myankos? And by what magic was the fire made to leap into the air and make much noise to frighten the Myankos. Is it to eat me yourself that you have made me your prisoner?"

  I reassured her, told her I was a friend, that I was no Indian, but of her own race, that I was taking her to restore her to her people, and that I had caused the explosion which had frightened off the Myankos. She listened and appeared incredulous. Evidently she either did not fully understand my Tucamari or else could not grasp the meaning of what I said.

  "My people," she declared, as I ceased speaking, "are the Patoradi, and you. Bearded One, are not one of them, and yet you say you are of my race and are taking me to my people."

  I was amazed. This lovely, fair-skinned girl was calmly and very sincerely informing me that she was an Indian, a Patoradi, a tribe of which I had never heard. Was I dreaming or had I taken leave of my senses? Then I thought of the many tales I had heard of so-called "white Indians"; tales I had always considered pure fiction, based perhaps on Albino Indians who are common enough. Was it possible that there were White Indians after all, and that this girl was a member of such a tribe?

  "Are all the Patoradis white-skinned like yourself?" I asked her.

  "No, Bearded One," she replied, "not like myself, but of the color of your skin, Bearded One."

  That did away with the White Indian theory, for I well knew that I must be the color of mahogany and fully as dark as many an Indian. It must be then that she was an Albino. But every Albino Indian I had ever seen had been a repulsive-looking, colorless-eyed, pimply-faced freak, and this girl was beautiful. Her hair was lustrous and golden-brown, her eyes full and a true blue, and her skin, although slightly olive, was tinted with pink and was not at all that of Albino. Nevertheless, I decided she must be a freak, for she could not be white—no white person, I felt sure, had ever been near the Patoradis, and she spoke only the Indian dialects. I questioned her further. "Who is your father?" I asked, "and how do you speak the Tucumari if you are of the Patoradis? And how came it you were a captive of the savage Myankos?"

  "My father, Bearded One, was Nakadi, chief of the Patoradis, and I am Merima his daughter," she replied proudly. "Much we trade with the Tucumaris, who are our friends, and so their tongue is known to us. Always have the Myankos been our enemies, and they destroyed my village and killed my father and took many prisoners. All were eaten but myself, who was saved to be taken to the Myanko chief to be eaten, for those of chief's blood may only be devoured by chiefs. I have no people left, Bearded One, and you cannot take me to my people as you say. But if you are a friend as your tongue says, and have no desires to eat me, then I thank you for your bravery in saving me from the Myankos. But you have great magic and I am your slave."

  Curling herself up in the canoe, with a gesture of finality, she fell asleep as calmly and peacefully as though, a few moments before, she had not been destined for a cannibal feast or was not a homeless, fatherless waif in the woodskin of a strange being in the heart of the jungle.

  As I drifted on, hour after hour, and looked upon the girl lying unconscious before me, a great longing filled my heart and tears welled to my eyes, as I thought back through the years to the time when my daughter was lost to me. Now Fate brought this fatherless girl to me. I determined that if ever we reached civilization, I would adopt her as my daughter to fill the place of my long dead child.

  What if she were an Indian, a partial Albino, as I knew she must be? She was as fair as many a white woman, she was beautiful, her eyes and her every expression and act bespoke high intelligence. Training and education would fit her to hold her place and be a credit to me. And if we won through, she would be rich, for did I not have a fortune in emeralds and gold? Comforted by such thoughts, breathing wordless thanks to the God who had guided me, I drifted on until the raucous notes of parrots and toucans and the calls of countless birds warned me that dawn was approaching, and the velvet black sky grew blue and the stars were snuffed out and the shadowy forest was clear and sharp in the light of sunrise.

  Chapter VII

  Merima awoke as the first rays of the sun shot athwart the river and dispelled the mists of night. For a moment she looked puzzled, and then her face cleared and she smiled and spoke the morning greeting of the Tucumaris:

  "Manuaida (may the day bring happiness), 0, Bearded One."

  "And to you, also, Manuaida," I responded.

  Running the canoe ashore, I soon had a fire going, and Merima's looks of wonder and surprise, as I struck a light by flint and steel, was as great as had been those of the monkey-men, the first time they had witnessed the seeming miracle.

  But she would have none of my preparing the meal. That was her work, she insisted; the work of a woman and not of a great chief, and, she added, I was a mighty chief indeed, for had I not alone rescued her from the Myankos? Had I not brought thunder from the sky to destroy and frighten them? And did I not have the chief's crown of purple feathers?

  She was as gay and light-hearted as a child, and I marvelled that she could have recovered so quickly from her recent trying experience and her bereavement. But the Indians, as you doubtless know, take their sorrows and troubles lightly and do not make their lives miserable by thinking of the past as do white men; and theirs is a very sensible habit, too. As she busied herself over the fire, I got out the largest piece of bark-cloth I had, and after washing it well, I hung it in the sun to dry, for I intended to have Merima use it for some sort of clothing. Oddly enough, although I had long been accustomed to seeing Indian women nude or nearly nude, yet the sight of Merima, with only a very small portion of her lovely body and fair skin covered by a scanty skirt-like strip of bark-cloth, troubled me and struck me as immodest.

  She was highly amused when I handed her the piece of cloth and explained my wishes, but she was ready to obey me in anything and draped it about her shoulders with a feminine cleverness which was amazing. As we slipped down the river that day, Merima told me much about her tribe, her life, and the habits and customs of the Petoradis. The more she told me the more I marveled that I had never before heard of the tribe. But, after all, it was not so very surprising, for while I was familiar with much of the country and many of its Indian denizens, still I knew that there were countless tribes dwelling in the remote vastnesses of the unexplored jungles, whose existence was unknown even to other aborigines. And I realized that I had been and still was in a very remote portion of the land. The village of the Metakis, where I had first run across the Waupona, was far from the coast and settlements; from there I had travelled countless miles further into the interior to the valley of the monkey-men, and for all I knew I was now farther inland than when I was in the valley. I tried to learn from Merima where the Patoradis dwelt, but her knowledge was very vague and she had not the least idea of the direction in which she had been carried by her savage captors. All she knew was that her home had been within sight of large snow-capped mountains and beside a river, but from what she told me of the people and their habits and food I knew that they must have dwelt at a comparatively high altitude on one of the great inland plateaus. She was, of course, very curious about me and my people, but she was quite unable to grasp the idea of any race of men other than Indians or of any land other than that to which she was accustomed.

  When we stopped at noonday for lunch, I succeeded in killing a curassow or wild turkey, and while Merima was preparing this, I searched about and soon found a good sized Seda Virgin tree. From this I obtained a large sheet of the cloth-like inner bark, and by roping the ends of this by means of strong cord made of twisted strips of the same bark, I fashioned a rough and ready, but quite se
rviceable and comfortable hammock, for I had no intention of letting the girl sleep in the canoe or on the ground exposed to the attacks of ants and other insect pests, and she had positively refused to let me give up my hammock for her. Merima laughed gaily at my bag-shaped makeshift, and, after our meal, she hurried about and gathered a great bundle of the silkgrass that grew abundantly close to the water. Throughout the afternoon she worked diligently, shredding the grass and twisting the fibre into cord, and by night she had a number of balls of strong, soft twine with which she informed me she planned to weave a real hammock. But a good hammock cannot be made in a day, and it was more than a week later that she at last swung her new hammock between the trees. She was a most self-reliant creature and had a far greater knowledge of bush resources and native handicraft than I possessed, and I often wondered how any white girl would have fared if left to her own devices in a jungle, where Merima could have lived quite comfortably if she had found herself alone.

  Constantly, too, as we drifted along from dawn until dark, I was planning for her future. Barring accidents or the remote chance of running afoul of hostile Indians, we would eventually reach the settlements, and at the first outpost of civilization I would take steps to legally adopt Merima as my daughter. I realized that there might be obstacles to this if the swarthy officials saw her and cast covetous eyes upon her, for after all she was an Indian, and, in the minds of the natives, Indians are all fair prey. But the chances were that the first place we reached would be some tiny village with a ragged, barefooted "corregidor" or "alcalde" who would be quite willing to do anything within or without the law in return for one of my nuggets or a small emerald. Even if we came to a large town and I had difficulties with the legal matters I had enough wealth to buy any Latin American official who ever lived. Moreover, where there was a settlement there also would be a church and a padre, and my first step would be to have Merima baptized and have a priest act as her godfather, after which her status in the community would be entirely altered. Merima, however, was of course an utter pagan, and in order to carry out my plans she would have to possess some knowledge of the Christian religion and a desire to join the Church. With this in mind I decided to devote my time to instructing her. I told her of my religion and attempted to teach her English. But that was easier said than done. Although I could readily speak and understand the Tucumari dialect, yet Indian tongues have their limits, and while they are very complex and rich, yet they possess no equivalents for many of our commonest words and no means of expressing many of our civilized ideas and thoughts. Merima listened intently, the while busily working at a supply of lace-bark which she was deftly transforming into a wrapper-like dress—for once she understood I wished her clothed, she was anxious to please me. I could see she regarded my words as some sort of a fairy tale or legend. I tried my hardest to explain my beliefs and to impress her. She was a very intelligent young woman and quick to guess at my meaning and to supply words where I failed, and she soon began to understand and to take a real interest and to ask questions. I must confess that many of her queries would have baffled a far more advanced theologian than myself, and many of her interrogations set me to thinking along lines which had never before occurred to me. Why, she asked, was the Christian God superior to the gods of the Patoradis? All her life she had been given health, food, shelter, friends and everything she desired. Could my God give her anything more? But, I pointed out, the Indians' gods had failed them when the Myankos attacked them.