The Island of Fu Manchu f-10

by Sax Rohmer

  Discovery by the woman called Queen Mamaloi was a prospect bad enough, but recognition of the fact that the Chinese doctor was possibly directing this black saturnalia frankly appalled me. And now from far in the rear came a new sound.

  There were cries, greetings. Above the Song of Darnballa, the throbbing of drums, I detected the clatter of horse’s hoofs.

  “This may be difficult,” said Smith, speaking over his shoulder. “Some senior official is apparently approaching, and ii is just possible—”

  “God help us!” I groaned.

  “We can probably manage,” Smith replied, “assuming that he is Haitian—although I confess I should prefer to have my back to the wall. You have no Chinese or Hindustani?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Arabic, then. This has a powerful effect on these descendants of West Africans. It has come down to them as the language of their oppressors.”

  “Yes, I have a smattering of Arabic.”

  “Good. If anyone addresses you, reply in Arabic. Say anything you can remember—don’t stop to consider the meaning.”

  Now, the outcry grew nearer. The horseman was forcing his way up the mountain path, passing the slow moving pilgrims to the shrine of Voodoo. I looked back. We had just negotiated a dizzy bend and I could see nothing of the approaching rider.

  * * *

  “Have your gun ready,” said Smith, and brought his donkey to a halt.

  I did the same, although the iron-jawed little beast was strongly disinclined to pull up. The horseman was now not fifty yards behind.

  “If he is looking for us,” said Smith, “and we are recognized, don’t hesitate.”

  Looking back, I could make out dimly that the pilgrims between ourselves and the perilous bend had halted their march and were standing back against the rocky wall to give passage to the horseman. A moment later he rounded the comer, riding a lean bay mare and obviously indifferent, to the chasm which yawned beneath him. As he passed each of the standing figures he bent in his saddle and seemed to scrutinize features. A moment later he had reached us.

  He partly reined up and bent, looking into my face. I sat in the shadow, the moon behind me, but its light shone directly upon the features of the mounted man.

  He was that fierce-eyed mulatto whom we had passed on our way to the house of Father Ambrose, who had stared so hard into the car!

  He shouted something in a strange patois, and remembering Smith’s injunction: “Imshi ruah Bundukiyah I replied sharply.

  The mulatto seemed to hesitate; then, as the prancing bay almost lashed the flanks of my donkey: “Yalla Ydlla” cried Smith.

  The mulatto spurred ahead.

  “Move!” said Smith; “or the others will overtake us.”

  And once again we proceeded on our way.

  We presently came to a welcome break or bay in that perilous mountain road, and here I saw that numbers of the marching multitude had halted for a rest. An awesome prospect was spread at our feet. We were so high, the moon was so bright, and shadows so dense, that I seemed to be looking down upon a relief map illuminated by searchlights. Eastward, at a great distance, shone a lake resembling a mirror, for in it were the inverted images of mountains which I assumed must lie beyond the Dominican border. As I reined up and gazed at this breath-taking prospect, a hand was laid upon my saddle. Swiftly I glanced down at a man who stood there,

  He was a pure Negro, and when he spoke he spoke in halting English,

  “You come from Petionville—yes?” he asked.

  “Kattar kherak,” I replied, and extended my hand in a Fascist salute.

  Smith edged up beside me.

  “El-hamdu li’llah” he muttered and repeated my gesture.

  The Negro touched his forehead, stepped aside and was swallowed in shadow.

  “So far,” said Smith, speaking cautiously, “we are doing well, but it is fairly obvious that when we have mounted another two or three thousand feet, we shall arrive at the real gateway to the holy of holies. There we must rely upon our amulets. Above all, Kerrigan, never speak a word of English, and pray that we meet no one who speaks a word of Arabic!”

  He was looking about him at dimly perceptible groups who had paused there to rest. Of the mounted mulatto there was no trace, nor—and of this above all things I was fearful—of Dr. Fu Manchu. Many of the pedestrians were refreshing themselves, seated upon the ground. Newcomers arrived continuously. Chanting had stopped, but from near and far came the throbbing of the drums.

  “A drink is perhaps indicated,” said Smith, “and then for the next stage.”

  As we extracted flasks from our pockets, I was watching the silver and ebony ribbon speckled with moving figures which led higher and higher towards the crest of the Magic Mountain. What awaited us there? Should I learn anything about Ardatha? What was the meaning of this monstrous congregation patiently toiling up the slope of Morne la Selle? That it was something of interest to Dr. Fu Manchu we knew; but what was the mystery behind it all—and who was the Queen Mamaloi?

  Smith was very reticent throughout the halt. I recognized the fact that he was afraid of being overheard speaking English, and I fully appreciated the danger. So, our flasks stowed away, we presently started again with scarcely a word exchanged, the Padre’s donkeys obediently ambling along at our command.

  The chanting began again as we ascended the mountain: the drums had never ceased.

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE SEVEN-POINTED STAR

  “This,” said Smith,“I assume to be the Voodoo Custom House. Here we shall be called upon to produce our passports.”

  We were up, I suppose, between seven and eight thousand feet. We had traversed some of the most perilous mountain paths I had ever met with, but I had learned that the little donkeys, provided one did not attempt to interfere with them, particularly with their fondness for walking upon the extreme outer edge of the precipice, were sure-footed as goats.

  For the past two or three miles the road had led through a pass or gorge to which no moonlight penetrated. A mountain stream raged and splashed at the bottom and the path lay some little way above it. The darkness at first seemed impenetrable; but the procession wound on without interruption and our plodding steeds proceeded with unabated confidence. And so presently, through that velvety blackness dotted with moving torches, I too began to discern the details of the route.

  Now it opened with dramatic suddenness upon what seemed to be an almost circular valley, hemmed in all around by mountain crests. Its slopes were densely wooded, but immediately facing the gorge there was a clearing as flat as a sports stadium and fully half a mile across. Torches moved among the trees; there were drums very near to us, now; and I saw hundreds of figures gathered before a long, low building which blazed with lights. Away on the right there was a sort of compound where horses, mules and donkeys were tethered. Towards these horse-lines Smith led the way.

  “Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.

  The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys: “A dollar for the two.”

  “Imshi, hammar!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.

  “Not enough! not enough!” he exclaimed.

  “Etia bdrra! gehdnnum” I growled and gave the Fascist salute.

  As before, this singular behaviour proved effective. He looked from face to face, pocketed the money, glanced at the donkeys and walked away.

  “So far so good,” muttered Smith. ‘“Now let us take our bearings and make our plans. Here, you observe, is a perfect landing ground.”

  We
walked slowly towards the verandah of the lighted house on the further side of the clearing; and it soon became apparent that the place was a sort of rest-house or caravanseri. All around in the extensive space before it, pilgrims were squatting on the ground, devouring refreshments which they had brought with them. But, as I saw, the more prosperous were entering the building. Many already were seated upon the verandah, and I could see movement in a room beyond. The front of the house was masked in shadow, and Smith grasped my arm as we stepped into the dark belt.

  “You see what this is, Kerrigan; a separation of the sheep from the goats. Judging from the sound of the drums our real objective is beyond.”

  I stood there listening.

  In some manner which I find myself unable to explain, this continuous throbbing of drums had wrought a sort of change of the spirit. It had stirred up something Celtic and buried, provoked urges of which hitherto I had been unconscious. My desire for Ardatha had become a fever; my hatred of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu Manchu, of all those who held her captive, had increased hour by hour until now it was a burning fiery torrent. This recognition, or rather, I suppose, the reassuming of control by the conscious over the subconscious, rather shocked me. Unperceived by my Christian self I had been reverting to savagery!

  “‘Yes,” I spoke with studied calmness. “As you say, here is the gateway. The Queen Mamaloi is somewhere beyond.”

  “Here is the gateway,” Smith replied, “and here is our test. Remember, stick to Arabic.”

  Whereupon, still grasping my arm, he moved forward to the verandah of the lighted building.

  As we mounted three wooden steps, I was thinking of Ardatha.

  * * *

  Crossing the verandah I found myself in a long, low room which in many respects resembled a canteen. One glance convinced me, in spite of the light complexions of some of those present, that Smith and I were the only people in the place of non-African blood. There were a number of chairs and tables spread about the unpolished floor, and I think nearly as many women as men were present.

  Their behaviour was so strange that I wondered what they had been drinking—for at one end of the room there was a counter presided over by two coloured women. I saw that in addition to a quantity of solid fare, most of it unfamiliar and from my point of view unappetizing, bottles of rum, gin and whisky were in evidence. In some of the faces a sort of ecstasy began to dawn; and watching, I realized the fact that they were responding to the drums.

  Movements of shoulders and arms, shuffling of feet, and already a muted chanting, told me that at any moment all the great coloured throng might obey that deep tribal impulse which is part of Africa, and throw themselves wildly into the abandonment of a ritual dance.

  Smith spoke in my ear.

  “Don’t seem to be curious,” he whispered, “and remember—nothing but Arabic.Let us stand here for a while and smoke. I see that some of the men are smoking.”

  I lighted a cigarette whilst he began to load his briar. I cannot say if it was the drums, the overstrung human instrument represented by those about me, or something else. But I was tensed to a pitch of excitement which I knew to be supernormal. I tried, as I lighted the cigarette, to drag myself down to facts; to watch Smith calmly loading his pipe; to study those about me; to appreciate our perils and how we were to deal with them.

  “Hang on to yourself, Kerrigan,” said Smith in a low voice. “e are near to the Master Drums. They have a queer effect—even upon Europeans.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have been watching your eyes.” He replaced the pouch in his pocket and lighted his pipe, his penetrating glance fixed upon me over the bowl. ‘It’s a kind of hypnotism, but you mustn’t let it touch you.”

  His words acted like a cold douche. Yes, it was a fact. In common with the Negroes and Negresses about the place, I had been reacting to those satanic drums! I knew it now, and knowing, knew also that the insidious influence could never prevail upon me again.

  “Thanks, Smith,” I said. “I agree. It was getting me.”

  “I am particularly interested,” he went on, “in the fact that there seems to be no one in the room Whom we know. But the traffic at the bar has curious features.”

  “What are they?”

  “Well, if you watch, you will be able to check my own impresssions. You will observe, I think, that certain customers go there, give an order, and then almost immediately head for that door on the left and go out. The others either remain at the bar, or carry their purchases back to their table. Just watch this pair for example.”

  A man and a woman coming in from the verandah outside crossed straight to the counter. The girl was a full-blooded Negress and physically a beautiful creature; her male companion was light brown, his complexion pitted like that of a smallpox patient, his small yellow eyes darting from right to left suspiciously as he crossed the room. But, failing other evidence, his hair, for he wore no hat, must have betrayed his African origin.

  “Watch,” said Smith.

  I watched.

  The pair walked to the counter; the man gave an order to one of the women. Glasses were filled and set before them. But as payment was made I detected a change of attitude on the part of the server. She glanced swiftly at the girl and then at her companion. In a businesslike way which momentarily made me think that we had intruded upon some harmless feast day frolic, she handed change to the man.

  “Now,” whispered Smith, “watch closely.”

  The drinks, I was unable to Judge of their character, were quickly despatched; the man squeezed the girl’s hand and lolled upon the counter. The girl walked quickly along left, and I saw the second attendant open a door and close it again as the Negress made her departure.

  “Exactly what does that mean?” I murmured.

  “It means,” said Smith, “that, still speaking Arabic, we go to the counter and order drinks. Do nothing further until I give the word, and leave the talking to me.”

  We crossed.

  There was something hellish, something of a Witch’s Sabbath, in the behaviour of those around us. To a man, to a woman, they were now swaying in time with the beating of the drums; eyes were rolling and in some cases teeth were gnashing. I did not know what to expect, but presently I found myself at the bar, and with affected nonchalance leaned upon it.

  One of the women attendants, who had been chatting in quite a natural way with the pock-marked man, broke off her conversation and approached us: she had feverishly bright eyes.

  “Gible el. . . ismu eh,” said Smith imperiously, indicating a bottle of Black and White whisky.

  The woman spoke rapidly in Haitian, then in English: “You want some whisky Black and White?”

  “Aiwa, aiwa!”

  The woman poured out two liberal portions and set before us a bottle of some kind of mineral water. Smith put down a dollar bill and she gave him change. At first, she had seemed somewhat suspicious, and the pockmarked man had looked at us with jaundiced eyes; now, however, she seemed to have accepted us. Someone else came up to the bar and her attention was diverted. The newcomer was a full-blooded Negro and a magnificent specimen. He nodded casually to the pock-marked man who returned die salutation and then turned his back upon him. Smith touched my arm.

  I watched intently. The newcomer ordered a packet of cigarettes; they were placed before him and he set several coins on the counter. Smith bent to my ear: “Look!” he breathed.

  Held in the Negro’s palm as he had opened it to drop the coins, I had a momentary glimpse of a green object . . . It was the coiled snake of Damballa!

  The signal exchanged between the woman who had served him and the other at the further end of the counter must have been imperceptible to one not anticipating it. The Negro walked along, nodded to the second woman, the door was opened, and he went out.

  “That’s our way!” murmured Smith.

  An evil spiritual excitement, a force that could be physically felt, was throbbing about the room. Out in
front of the verandah drums began to beat softly, and starting as a whisper, but ever increasing in volume, came that hymn of Satan, the Song of Damballa.

  Damballa goubamba

  Kinga do ke la

  As I looked, men and women, singly and in pairs, sprang up and began to dance. They appeared to be entirely oblivious of their surroundings, to be, in the evil sense, possessed; one after another they threw themselves with utter abandonment into the rhythmical but incomprehensible dance. They moved out to the verandah, across it and out into the torch-speckled dusk of the clearing beyond. The atmosphere was foul with human exhalation. Treating us to a further and comprehensively suspicious glance, the pock-marked man also walked out.

  “Now for it,” muttered Smith. “Don’t touch this stuff!”

  Surreptitiously he emptied his glass on to the floor. I followed suit.

  “When I call the woman, show her the green snake. Leave the rest to me.” He turned in her direction. “Ta Wa hinaf” he rapped.

  She started, stared for a moment then drew near. Opening my palm, I exhibited the green serpent. “Ah!” she exclaimed, and seemed taken aback. Smith held the seven-pointed star before her eyes. “Ahu huna Damballa” he muttered, and concealed the Jewel. For a moment, extraordinarily penetrating eyes had surveyed us, but at sight of the star the woman pressed her hands to her breast and bowed her head. Smith confidently strode towards the left and I followed him. The other woman opened the door and stood in that same attitude of subjection as we walked out—to find ourselves in a lean-to porch, almost right up to which the forest grew.

  From here it seemed that pines climbed unbroken to the mountain ridge, and at first it was so dark that I found it bewildering. But as we stood there taking our bearings, I presently noticed, in what little moonlight filtered through from above, that a track, a mere bridle-path, led from the door onward and upward amongst the pines.