by Desmond Cory
“Snort won’t run away,” said Schneider. “I’ve told him he has nothing to fear.”
“Well, of course he hasn’t. Not if everything happened like you say, and we don’t doubt that for a moment. What we ought to do—”
“What we ought to do,” said Raven interrupting him bluntly, “is get the poor guy underground at the earliest possible moment. Before – if you’ll pardon my coarseness – before he goes bad.”
There was a rather uncomfortable silence. Schneider said, “It’s true enough. It only takes a few hours, in a temperature like this.”
“Oh sure,” said van Kuyp uneasily. “We’ll give the doc a proper burial. We’ve got plenty of spades in the stores. I think maybe we ought to dig the grave ourselves, huh? and not just leave it to the natives. Kind of a gesture, if you know what I mean.”
“D’you know the burial service by heart, Van?” asked Raven, who was bent on extracting a certain humour out of the situation.
“Gee, no. No, I don’t. Does anybody?” asked van Kuyp, appealing round the circle. “… No? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps we can read something outa the Bible.”
“I’ll be surprised to learn,” said Raven, “that anybody here has a Bible.”
“Madrid’s got one. You won’t object to loaning us your Bible for the ceremony, will you, Miss Schneider?”
Madrid looked blank. “My Bible? Have I got one?”
“Why, sure you have. I saw it in your tent one day. Right beside your bed.”
“Oh … Yes. I remember. I – I’ve packed it away. But I’ll get it out for you.”
“No need,” said Schneider, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. He reached forward, and passed a small black volume to van Kuyp. “I’ve got a proper prayer-book. It’s in Afrikaans, but I don’t suppose that matters.”
“But this is just fine,” said van Kuyp, turning the pages perplexedly. “Just fine. A handy little book. Let’s see now.” His lips moved as he studied the printed paragraphs, then compressed themselves; he handed the book back. “I guess maybe you’d better read the service then, Schneider. That’s if you’ve no objection.”
Schneider nodded. He returned the prayer-book to his shirt pocket.
“Well. Maybe we’d better get on with it.” Van Kuyp rose to his feet, dusting automatically the knees of his trousers. “David, will you come down to the boat with me and lend a hand with the spades? It’s nice soft earth round here; that’s one blessing.” He stopped, and fingered his beard; not sure that his last expression had not been unnecessarily frivolous. “Raven, would you and Madrid get some of the oil-lamps lit? And Fedora … Where is Fedora?”
Everybody looked around. “He was here a moment ago,” said Raven.
“Oh. Maybe he’s gone down to the boat. Never mind.”
“Who the hell cares, anyway?” said Banfield, not very loudly. “Funny sort of a guy. Don’t know that I quite make him out. Oh well,” said van Kuyp again. “Let’s get on with it.”
He moved away from the comforting glow of the fire, and Banfield, hitching at his belt, tramped off in pursuit. They walked slowly past the tent where Raikes’ mortal remains lay shrouded and bloody; past the tent that van Kuyp and Raven shared; past Schneider’s tent; past the tent where Madrid lived in elected isolation. Johnny stood in the darkness, crouched down, his hand resting on one of the guy-ropes; and not until the sound of their footfalls had faded away towards the river did he move forward again. He went round to the front of the tent, treading softly; loosened the fly; pushed it aside and went in.
The narrow beam of his torch walked crazily over the short crushed grass of the floor; hesitated on the canvas camp-bed and folded sleeping-bag; moved sideways to the leather case that stood beside it and which served as a bedside table. An assortment of articles were ranged on top of it; an aluminium water-bottle and a phial of sterilising tablets, a wooden-backed hairbrush, a pocket mirror that reflected startlingly the light of the torch; a box of matches and a half-filled cigarette carton, a loose-leaf notebook; a red-bound Everyman edition of some novel or other, badly battered; a toothbrush; a stub of pencil; a heavy book bound in old black leather, with chipped gold tooling on the spine …
Johnny went forward, keeping the torch-beam away from the canvas walls; he stooped over the suitcase, picked up the heavy book and looked more closely at its title. The gilded impressions winked back at him; HOLY BIBLE, they said. Johnny rested the book on his knee, opened it, and directed his torch to the fly-leaf; where a sprawling handwriting crossed the yellow paper:
Cornelius Huysmans, 1895.
Beneath it, in a brisker, scholarly hand:
Karl Cornelius Huysmans, 1914.
And last of all, in a childish hand that nevertheless strongly resembled the signature above:
Marie Madrid Huysmans, 1942.
Johnny took a deep, satisfied intake of breath; balanced the book in the palm of his hand and let it fall open. He looked at the page thus indicated for a few seconds, then tried the experiment again. This time, the flutter of the pages detached, from the end of the book, a small fragment of paper; Johnny caught it as it drifted down to the floor, and examined it closely. It was a newspaper cutting, worn by use to the thinness of tissue; in a blank space between the lines of newsprint had been lightly pencilled the words, East African Herald. Feb. 16th, ’45.
“AERIAL COMBAT IN UGANDA
Air Ministry officials reported last night that fighter aircraft of an East African wing successfully engaged a German aircraft in an area north of Eyassi. The plane, a Dornier 26 twin-engined flying-boat, was shot down in flames and crashed into the jungle. This is the first time that an enemy aircraft has been destroyed on Ugandan territory.
The plane was believed at first to be flying on a “surrender mission,” but opened fire on investigating long-range Spitfires. Its presence so far from present theatres of war remains unexplained. A party of experts is to search for the wreckage; but it is thought that the position of the crashed aircraft will be almost impossible to discover.”
Johnny pursed his lips thoughtfully and slipped the cutting back into its place; replaced the Bible where it had rested. He stood still for a few moments, head lowered in contemplation; then turned to make his retreat.
“… Stay where you are,” said Madrid.
And then,
“Light the lamp.”
Johnny swung down the oil-lamp from its hook on the centre tent-pole, raised its glass envelope and struck a match. Madrid watched him, motionless. The wick spurted up suddenly, flicking black shadows against the white tent walls; Johnny dropped the matchbox back into his pocket and made no further move.
“Why are you snooping around in here?” said the girl, and her voice trembled slightly; not in fear but in apprehension.
“I wanted to find out what Huysmans meant to you.”
“Huysmans?”
“Yes. Your father.”
She hesitated for a moment; then when she spoke her voice was controlled again. “What makes it any of your business?”
“Raikes knew that Huysmans was your father. And because of that he died.”
Madrid looked swiftly sideways, to where Johnny’s shadow drifted dark on the tent’s canvas. “Sit down,” she said. “Somebody will see you’re here.”
Johnny turned his body and seated himself gently on the camp bed; his hands rested loosely at his sides. The girl remained standing; in the lamplight, her eyes seemed several shades darker than normally. “You’re lying,” she said. “Raikes didn’t know anything about me.”
“He had an inquisitive mind,” said Johnny softly. “He visited you when you were ill, didn’t he? – and I think he took a glance at that Bible of yours.”
Madrid looked towards the suitcase. “I was a fool to leave it there. Van Kuyp saw it, too.”
“I know. You were a little too anxious he shouldn’t get hold of it. If I were you, I’d tear that fly-leaf out.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t do that
. And … the name Huysmans doesn’t mean anything. If I choose to use another, why should that worry anybody?”
“It didn’t mean anything to Raikes,” said Johnny. “But it could mean something to me.”
She stepped forward swiftly and stooped towards him. “Who are you?” she asked urgently. “And what is it you’re after? Why should my father be …?”
Her voice died away in her throat; her eyes jerked wide open in horror. They had both heard the same voice; a curious puffing sound, like a man breathing hard and heavily through his nose; and – Madrid by experience, Johnny by instinct – they both knew just what it was.
Nothing moved in that tent, except Johnny’s eyes. The girl stood frozen rigid, one hand on the centre pole and the other in mid-air. Johnny sat like a rock, searching frantically for the source of that ominous snuffle. Then something else moved, oily brown in the lamplight; Johnny’s right hand left his knee and flicked back like the tongue of a whip.
The walls of the tent seemed to bulge outwards with the blast of the heavy Colt. In the staggering silence that followed it and before the echo came rattling back, something like a coil of tarry rope smashed itself against Madrid’s trousered leg; it left an ugly stain of blood and slime against the grey flannel, for it had struck with a head dissolved into shapelessness by the horrible impact of the bullet. It fell to the floor, writhing; three-and-a-half feet of mottled loathsomeness with a dribbling, bloodstained mess of a neck; and Madrid stood steady as a statue.
“… Did it?” said Johnny.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I felt it hit …” Johnny holstered the gun smoothly, knelt down and rolled the sticky material up as far as the knee. His fingers moved cautiously over the firm brown skin, feeling for the tell-tale ridge that would mark the wound; but they found nothing. Nor could he see blood-flecks; nor any other signs of a puncture.
“You’re all right,” he said. And sat up, with a little sigh of relief.
Madrid’s watchful grey eyes had not yet left his face. “I begin to see why you fancy your chance with that little popgun of yours,” she said. Then she bit her lip, as the gradually relaxing muscles of her body began to tremble. “Oh my God. I hate those things. Puff-adders are the worst of the lot.”
“They are nasty,” said Johnny comfortably. He bent to pick up the limp, lifeless body with both hands; its skin was dry and repulsive to the touch, puckered with tiny warts. He crossed to the open flap of the tent and threw the dead snake away into the undergrowth; then listened for a moment to the sound of running feet blundering through the darkness, coming quickly towards them.
He went back into the tent. “If you’ve got anything to drink,” he said, “it wouldn’t do you any harm. And it’d just about save my life.”
Madrid was sitting limply on the bed, looking at the black bullet hole in the tent wall and at the splashes of grey matter that surrounded it. “What?” she said. “Oh yes. There’s a flask in that canvas bag over there.”
Johnny put his hand reassuringly on her shoulder; she instantly struck it away. “For Heaven’s sake, I’m all right. Don’t … Don’t … Oh, just get me some whisky.”
Johnny reached for the hold-all at the end of the bed and began to fumble inside for the spirit-flask. While he was doing so, the flap of the tent was swung open by a grimy hand and the Expedition arrived. Schneider was the first to arrive; he ducked under the flap and surveyed the scene morosely. He was immediately joined by Banfield, who was looking extremely annoyed; there was room for no more in the little tent, but the faces of Raven and van Kuyp appeared peering inquiringly in from the darkness outside.
“What’s all the fun and games?” asked Schneider. He was looking at the bullet-hole and at the greasy spots around it. “Who was doing the shooting? You, Fedora?”
Johnny did not reply at once; for the adequate reason that his lips were fixed firmly about the neck of the flask. He withdrew it, coughed pleasedly, and surveyed the fresh arrivals. “Yes,” he said. “Madrid found she was keeping a pet.”
“And it had to be destroyed, poor thing,” said Madrid, with a little giggle. “So Mr. Fedora very kindly obliged.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Banfield, expressing himself with his customary precision. “And what d’you think you’re doing in here, Fedora?”
Johnny wiped the neck of the flask inelegantly on his sleeve and handed it over to Madrid. “I just killed a snake,” he said mildly. “That’s all. Nothing to get excited about.”
“A snake? Good God. A snake?”
“A snake,” said Johnny patiently. “A long, wriggly, ugly thing, not to be confused with an elephant.”
“Where is it?” demanded Banfield. His hand went quickly towards his holster, and he peered cautiously towards the recesses of the tent. “Which way did it go?”
“Out,” said Johnny, jerking his thumb. “I threw it out there. It was dead, and it was distressing the lady. There’s a moral in that somewhere.”
“You all right, Maddy?” asked Schneider, who had tired of this interchange. “What’s that mess on your leg?”
“Bits of snake,” said Madrid, whose eyes were tight shut from the impact of the whisky. “It sort of exploded. But everything’s perfectly all right.”
“You hit the head, eh?” Schneider leaned against the tent-pole and surveyed Fedora curiously. “That’s not bad, Fedora. You’re having quite an evening, aren’t you? First a buffalo, now a snake – never a dull moment.”
“Not even in between, by the sound of it,” said Banfield nastily. “What were you doing in here in the first place, Fedora? Looking for buttercups?”
Johnny stared at him, open-mouthed. That last remark, coming from Banfield, almost amounted to humour. It was Madrid who answered the question first.
“I couldn’t get my lamp to light,” she said casually. “So I asked Mr. Fedora to help me. If that has anything to do—”
“Mr. Fedora being conveniently in the locality, no doubt?”
Schneider turned his head and favoured Banfield with the same even, level-eyed stare. “Shut up,” he said briefly. “Are you trying to make trouble?”
“I’m merely pointing out—”
“Fedora doesn’t like your remarks; Madrid doesn’t; and I’m damned sure I don’t. So leave it alone and act a bit more sensibly.”
“All right,” said Banfield. “If that’s your attitude.”
He relapsed into embittered silence, focusing a frustrated glare on Madrid. In the doorway, van Kuyp coughed diffidently. “Well,” he said. “Everything seems to be all right. I guess Mr. Fedora’s to be congratulated.”
“He certainly …” said Banfield; then decided not to finish.
“Unpleasant things, snakes. Say, Mr. Fedora; we’re just about to bury poor Raikes. I guess you and Miss Schneider will want to attend the ceremony?”
This was at any rate a courageous attempt to restore normality; Johnny nodded amiably. “Yes, of course I’ll come.”
“Fine. And you, Miss Schneider? … Excellent. We, er … We want to get it over and done with, before the natives return. Raven was just saying …” Van Kuyp paused. “Well, where is Raven? He was here a minute ago.”
He sighed plaintively.
“The way people keep dodging about, it’s really very perplexing.”
6
THE roughly-shaped wooden cross teetered upwards from the freshly-turned earth; so soft was the soil there that it had begun to lean dangerously, even in the few brief hours since it had been planted. The nauseous fogs rising from the river plaited strange wreaths around it; Johnny, watching the grave with a mildly philosophic eye, coughed and looked down at his wrist-watch. Once again he was taking the last spell of guard duties; in another fifteen minutes, it would be time to rouse the camp from sleep and start packing for another day’s journey.
Not that Johnny was by any means sure that everybody was asleep. Even with the tents silent and shrouded in the mists of dawn, there
was an air of uneasiness about them; as though their inhabitants were lying in complete wakefulness waiting for something to happen. This was probably an illusion, thought Johnny, strolling away from Raikes’ grave; all the same, there was something in it. If the Expedition had ever been one big happy family, it certainly wasn’t now; Raikes’ death seemed to have brought about an atmosphere of mutual suspicion and seclusion. Even van Kuyp was affected by it; last night he had seemed to be an extremely worried man.
A figure emerged out of the greyness, walking towards Johnny; who halted and tensed himself slightly. It was Demetrius. Johnny relaxed.
“Have you packed the tent all right?”
“Yes, sir. It is packed and stowed.” Demetrius peered up at his employer, and shivered slightly. “The Bushman who suffered from the panther has woken and is groaning. I gave him a drink of water.”
“We’ll go back to the boat and have a look at him,” said Johnny comfortably. “You seem worried, Demetrius.”
“I am worried, sir.”
Johnny looked back towards the tilted cross. “Because of that?”
“Perhaps because of that. I am worried, anyway.”
They walked slowly towards the Circe, side by side. The jungle was unnaturally silent; the sudden yell of a lemur, calling for the dawn, startled them both with its shrill abruptness. It was answered by another, and then another; Johnny looked down at his watch again.
“It must be nearly sunrise.”
“Yes, sir. The sun follows the First Word.”
“The First Word?”
“So the ignorant locals call it,” said Demetrius, with a fine assumption of carelessness. “They say that man is descended from the lemurs of the jungle, and that from their call was made the first word; the name of Ra, the sun god. It is very childish of course.”
“I thought Ra was an Egyptian deity?”
“It may be so. I hardly know.”
“I’ll ask Raven about it,” said Johnny. “I should say it was his line of country. Do you believe that man is descended from the Little Ones of the jungle?”