FANTASTIC NIGHT
Dreams and visions had led Mark a none too peaceful night. He rose with a feeling of having wasted the unusual coolness which he might have employed in far more restful slumbers. He was much too excited over the proximity of Vanya, he decided; his nightmares had devolved themselves about her pretty, unfriendly features, mingled with roaring Tongans around an unholy feast of "long pig," and a crazy, shouting, drunken beachcomber.
He deliberately ceased thinking of his scornful obsession, and turned his thoughts to Percy Loring. Curious chap! Mark couldn't quite understand his cool pursuit of his worst failings, and his complete indifference to his own regeneration. The crack-brain seemed, if not satisfied, at least utterly hope- I less, to think of ever being other than a Pacific island beachcomber. And the chap seemed educated, likable, had a lot of possibilities. Just a wreck, moral and physical, Mark concluded.
His memory recalled the bargain he had made—guidance to the native village in return for a bottle of Shene's worst. It seemed a fantastic and foolhardy venture, looked at in the sane light of morning; last night, with the aid of a couple of drinks, it had seemed desirable, romantic and perfectly feasible.
Mark dressed and descended to the ball below. Hong was before him, with the bruise on his great yellow cheek now an unpleasant purple color, but the graven smile was on his otherwise expressionless face.
"You want eat?" he grunted at Mark.
"What have you got?"
"We got beans."
"For breakfast? Doesn't sound particularly appealing. What else can you offer?"
The Chinese stared at him from beady black eyes almost buried in pinkish yellow flesh.
"We got beans," he said with the same intonation.
Mark laughed.
"Beans let it be," he surrendered.
Hong was apparently cook as well as bartender. He set to work over an oil-burner at one end of the bar. His culinary skill was hardly strained by his efforts, for the beans proved to be of the canned variety; however, a plate of breadfruit accompanied them, and a heavy mug of coffee.
Mark ate with greater relish than he had anticipated, and walked out into the morning sun. He looked at once for Loring.
"Probably won't be fit for the expedition by nightfall, anyway!" he thought. “A quart of that rot-gut! Whew!"
But Loring was in his accustomed place, sitting with his back against a palm, and his bare feet extended toward the ocean. He looked hardly the worse for the night's dissipation; his stubble of beard largely concealed any pallor, though his grey eyes, as he raised them at Mark's approach, were somewhat reddened.
"How do you feel?" asked Mark.
"Not bad—really not bad at all."
"That was quite a song you composed in honor of our friend at the bar."
"Did I sing?" asked the beachcomber. "I was pretty fair at that sort of thing once. Had a book published—smart little poems."
"That's interesting," said Mark. "What stopped you?"
"The War, comrade, the War."
"Why not try again?"
"Oh, the opus was an artistic, but not a financial, success. It netted a slight loss."
"What of it? Seems to me any change you make would be for the better."
"Do you think so?" queried Loring. "I quite disagree with you. I can't imagine a more idyllic existence than mine."
A trace of a sneer entered his voice.
"I am retired in luxury—the blessings of leisure are mine. And yet, the spice of uncertainty is also a part of my life. Shall I, or shall I not, eat, and what? Can I, or can I not, cadge a drink from the next sucker? You were unusually easy pickings last night, you know."
"By the way," said Mark, "what do you eat?"
"A varied menu—delicacies not obtainable in London and Paris, tidbits to make an epicure's mouth water. Oysters, varied with fish, varied with sea-crab, varied with land-crab, and a bit of breadfruit to top off. You must come to dinner some night."
"After you've been my guest," responded Mark. "Hong serves excellent canned beans.
"The pig!" added Loring.
"Will the subject of our recent discussion be back tonight?" asked Mark, after a pause.
"Vanya?" The beachcomber shrugged. "Who knows? No ship in, therefore no need of her services. But the Ellice is expected tomorrow, and she'll surely perform tomorrow night."
"Well, that leaves us free for our venture of tonight. You haven't forgotten our bargain, have you?"
"Not I," said Loring, "but I rather hoped you had. It's a tom-fool proposition, and I thought possibly the light of day had revealed its tomfoolery to your eyes."
"We'll go, nevertheless," said Mark.
"I keep my bargains," responded Loring. "We'll start about three thirty, then, since it's dark at six-thirty. The village is only some five miles inland, but it's a poor trail, and I want to have daylight, at least going. We'll have to get back the best way we can."
The remainder of the morning and early afternoon passed quickly; Mark found plenty of entertainment in wandering along the broad sand beach, watching crabs scuttle into tidal pools, and beach birds take wing with raucous cries at his approach. At mid-afternoon he was ready.
"Got a gun?" asked Loring.
"Upstairs. Why?"
"Fetch it," said the beachcomber.
"Think we'll need it?"
"Not for animals," said Loring. "There are no dangerous animals, but there are snakes. If we get in a jam, don't dare pull it on the black fellows, though. Just stand easy and let me try to talk us out."
They started straight inland, passing the deserted native huts beyond Shene's place, and entered a warm, sweetly-odorous jungle. Loring walked in advance, his bare feet padding silently as a native's, though, judging from his unlowered voice, there was as yet no need for silence.
"Slow going ahead." he called back, as the faintly distinguished trail turned up into the hills. And so indeed it was; creepers had grown across the way, branches had to be laboriously crawled under and pushed aside, and buzzing hordes of disturbed insects swarmed around them. Loring produced a heavy knife and hacked through the creepers and smaller branches.
"You'd never believe the black fellows from the Cove passed this way three days ago," he said. "They filter through this mess like serpents!"
The hours passed, and they ascended higher into the hills. Dusk fell with that strange tropical suddenness, and instantly a silence seemed to drop over the jungle.
"Quiet from here on," whispered Loring, as they crept slowly ahead. A dull, throbbing sound that Mark had felt for some time suddenly emerged to consciousness.
"Skin drums," said his companion, sensing his question.
They topped a hill; ahead through the tangle of vegetation, Mark perceived a flickering fireglow; the drum-sound had increased, and now, mingled with its throbbing, came a mystical low chant of human voices. A moment more and black shapes appeared between the fire and the two of them, moving rhythmically in some sort of dance.
"Closer?" asked Loring in a low whisper.
"As close as possible!"
They crept on. Suddenly, unexpectedly, they were at the very edge of a clearing; not twenty feet away burned the fire, and Mark saw on the far side a rough semicircle of huts. They crouched behind a thin barrier of underbrush and creepers, and stared at the bizarre scene before them.
CHAPTER XIII
A group of fully a hundred glistening naked Melanesians sat in a great circle around the fire, squatting on the ground or seated on logs. In the center, following a circuitous route around the fire, moved a dozen native girls in the intricate motions of a savage dance. They stamped, they postured, they struck suddenly rigid attitudes, and burst into tuneless chantings; and, now swelling, now fading to an almost inaudible murmur that Mark felt rather than heard, were the skin drums, pounded by black hands.
Mark watched fascinated. There was a primitive, elemental splendor in the scene, a hint of worship given to strange, cruel, all-but-f
orgotten gods. Something echoed in his spirit, something out of a past millenial ages before civilization.
Loring placed his lips close to Mark's ear, and whispered in almost imperceptible tones, "The unmarried girls!"
Those, he realized, were the maidens dancing the sinuous dance about the fire. His eyes wandered over the scene—the silent circle, the gleam of black skin, the intent eyes showing red in the firelight, the innate, intrinsic savagery of the whole panorama.
Then he saw a figure seated on the bole of a log a little apart from the semi-circle, at the far edge, and just beyond the sphere of firelight. Somehow the figure seemed anomalous, different; he strained his eyes vainly for a clearer perception. Then a vagary of the fire aided him; suddenly it flared brighter as some blazing log collapsed, and the added glow brought the figure into strong relief.
Vanya! Vanya, seated there staring with rapt interest at the primeval orgy of dance in the circle! Vanya, with her troublous features supernaturally beautiful in the ruddy firelight!
A startled exclamation burst from Mark's lips —"My God! Look!" Loring's hush was too late; a sharp-eared native at the circle's nearer edge turned and—for a long, startled moment—seemed to stare directly into Mark's eyes.
Instantly there was a shout, a cessation of chants and drum beats. The crowd of natives leaped to their feet; Mark and Loring were dragged into the circle of firelight, and surrounded by a gesticulating, chattering, angry mob of savages. Voices rose in accusing crescendo, fingers pointed at the two as they stood helplessly together in the midst of the crowd.
"Lay off the gun!" warned Loring to Mark who nodded his understanding.
"Wait till they settle down a bit," Loring added. "I'll try to talk to them. Some of them are boys from the Cove."
"My fault, too," said Mark, staring at the ring of outraged faces.
"It ought to be worth another bottle to get out of this mess," cadged the beachcomber. "It's not what I call a bed of roses."
"A bottle of Shene's best," said Mark. "And I'll be tempted to join you."
Gradually the excited throng was quieting. Some of the natives seemed content to listen, though enough still claimed the floor to create a babel.
A burly native with a paunchy appearance had pushed through to the center of the group. He faced Mark, and began a perfectly incomprehensible harangue, but Mark got its drift without the necessity of interpretation. . . . The white men had committed grave sacrilege, he gathered; these ceremonies were for the eyes of the tribe alone. . . . Mark stood listening without actually understanding a word.
"The big chief," muttered Loring in his ear.
Suddenly a voice behind Mark caught his ear, a soft feminine voice. Vanya pushed past him and stood between him and the paunchy headman confronting the native. She wore a white sun-helmet and neat white breeches, and knee-high boots. Mark thought irrelevantly that they were the first clean breeches he had seen since he had left Honolulu. Even in the uncertainty of his situation, he found himself watching her trim, slender figure—she did come just to his shoulder, he noted.
The chief was addressing his remarks to Vanya; she replied in halting Tongan dialect. The clackings and clatterings of the native tongue fell strangely soft from her lips; Mark couldn't have conceived of the possibility of melody in that outlandish speech.
The natives had fallen silent, all ears intent on the dialogue between the white girl and their chief. Finally the leader addressed a final few emphatic remarks to Vanya, and paused; a chorus of buzzings and clackings arose from the clustered natives.
Vanya turned her head.
"It's all right," she said, "if you leave at once."
She swung around, facing Mark for the first time. Her great eyes widened in startled recognition as they fell on him.
"You!" she gasped. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question," replied Mark, "and be as much entitled to an answer."
He was angry at himself, first for getting into this situation, then for finding his interest so taken up by Vanya, and finally for the embarrassment of accepting her help in the devilish mess. He almost snapped his reply at her.
Vanya tossed her helmeted head. "You'd best leave," she said coolly. "I'm going with you to make sure you try no idiotic tricks. This was a fool's business in the first place."
Loring moved toward the trail's opening. The natives parted sullenly to let him pass, and Vanya followed him, Mark behind her. They filed through the group in silence, save that Vanya called back a single syllable, either of thanks or farewell, Mark presumed. They passed unhindered out of the circle of firelight into the cellar-like darkness of the jungle.
For a little way the party proceeded in complete silence. It was Loring who finally broke the spell by whistling to himself. Mark was still morose over his awkwardness, and still disgusted that he could not take his mind away from the trim white figure of the girl ahead of him. The way was easier going back; they had cut through many of the lianas and branches. Nevertheless, Mark was amazed to see that already little tendrils had begun the task of closing the trail—lush nature in the tropics wasted little time in utilizing vacant space.
In spite of himself, Mark watched the easy, graceful movements of the girl, the facile litheness with which she stooped under waist-high branches or stepped agilely over knee-high ones.
"Born dancer, all right!" he admitted to himself reluctantly.
CHAPTER XIV
Finally Vanya, apparently addressing herself to Loring's back, broke her silence.
"What were you doing there?" she asked.
Loring made no answer; it was Mark who took it upon himself to reply.
"I wanted to see the celebration," he said coldly. "Loring guided me. It's my fault entirely."
"It was a stupid thing to do," said Vanya.
"Is that why you were there?" snapped Mark. "In my opinion it's no sign of intelligence for a white woman to walk alone into a horde of savages!"
"You're confusing them with white men," replied Vanya tartly. "I was in no danger; they are my friends."
"Very elevating friendship, indeed!" sneered Mark. "You must gain a great deal from such associations!"
"More than I've ever gained from Europeans!" flared Vanya. "I went to watch them dance."
"Oh, to watch them dance."
"Yes. Exactly. I happen to love dancing, and I earn my living by it! Haven't I a right to study native forms, if I choose?"
"You have for all of me," conceded Mark.
"When I want your permission I'll ask for it," said the girl.
"And get it, too. I owe you that much thanks for your kindness back there."
"You owe me no thanks at all. I'd have done as much for a yellow dog, and certainly would have received more gratitude!"
Mark laughed with a nasty inflection.
"Don't expect gratitude from me. I went up there for excitement, and you prevented me from getting it. Does that call for gratitude?"
"Oh, you're despicable!" cried Vanya in exasperation. "I wish I'd left you there! I wish I had! I might have, too, had I recognized you in time."
She dropped into a frozen silence. Mark was silent too, for he was listening to the throb of the skin-drums, which had just recommenced. Evidently the interruption of the ceremony was forgotten, and the ritual was proceeding.
He wondered just how much actual danger he and Loring had been in. He didn't believe they'd ever have suffered anything more than a bit of roughness and an unpleasant expulsion from the vicinity of the village. Still—there were stories current among the islands that hinted at graver consequences; you couldn't tell. That made him all the more indebted to Vanya, he thought angrily. A fine situation!
He was irritated, too, because Vanya seemed every bit as attractive as he had recalled her. He had a vivid recollection of her face revealed in that first glow of firelight —rapt, attentive, and disturbingly pretty. Well, firelight always flattered a woman's appearance; there was so
me cosmetic quality in its ruddy glow.
"I'll take a better look by daylight," he promised himself. "This is a swell way to start that clever cure I've been bragging about! I seem to be in deeper than ever."
Of course, he consoled himself, he still hadn't seen her teeth. Perhaps, by Heaven's grace, they might be homely enough to offset the lure of her pale, lovely features and blue-black hair. And her legs were still a mystery, as well; though the boots and breeches attested to the fact that at least she wasn't bow-legged.
The little party moved on in silence, save for the dim rustlings and chirrupings that were the night sounds of the jungle, the soft thud of their own feet, and the almost inaudible thrumming of the receding skin-drums. Loring had ceased his whistling, and Mark and Vanya each walked in a frigid silence. Mark, of course, was thinking of Vanya; what Vanya's reflections were she alone knew.
Only one untoward incident disturbed the silent progress of the file. They were at the foot of the last hill; fifteen minutes more would bring them to the clearing about the cove.
"I wish we had a lantern," said Loring, breaking an hour's silence. "It's deuced ticklish walking this trail barefoot at night; I've no hankering to step on a snake."
He had scarcely spoken when a faint hiss and a rustle brought him to a sudden halt. He struck a match, and outlined against the dark path the trio saw the sinuous form of a tiny but deadly island cobra. The little serpent was no longer than Mark's fore-arm, and no greater in girth than his thumb, yet they knew it was venomous enough to destroy the three of them with three successive strikes of its diminutive head.
Loring let out an oath and sprang back. His bare feet were no more than a foot away from the deadly weaving head. Vanya gave a little cry, and stepped involuntarily backward, pressing for a startled moment against Mark's body. The match sputtered out.
Darkness! Mark experienced a strange, almost overpowering surge of emotion; his heart seemed to him to be pounding as audibly as the distant skin-drums, and he was fighting an all but irresistable impulse to slip his arm around the girl.
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 94