Through the dense jungle they stole, Sheba marvelling at the tall Englishman's uncanny woodcraft. No twigs cracked 'neath his feet, and his sensitive fingers brushed aside creepers, rotten logs, and snakes with never a rustle; even when he fell in swamps it was with minimum splash, and lovely mover though she was, it was all that the pirate queen could do to stay hard on his heels. For what seemed like (and in fact, was) hours, they crept on, guided by the piteous Hibernian cries which sounded nearer and nearer, until, wriggling noiselessly through a cane-break, they found themselves on the edge of a clearing in which they discerned two figures, one sitting, one hanging and complaining bitterly …
Colonel Blood had had another shocking day, and the coming night didn't look like being much better. He was spreadeagled face down from four posts, his torso about three feet off the floor, the favoured position for those condemned to death by maguay (or Percy Thrower's Revenge, as it has been loosely called). Beneath Blood, and pointing directly at his navel, a slender, innocent-looking green shoot was growing from the soil; this was the dreaded maguay, which grows (thanks to the tropic clime, and the gro-bags with which the devilish savages are wont to tend it) at a rate of three feet per day, and since its point is wondrous strong and razor-keen, it pierces anything that gets in its way, like an Irish abdomen, for instance. It had already grown two feet while Blood watched it, bug-eyed, and he could see no way of avoiding appalling indigestion, unless he could prevail on his solitary guard.
This guard was a stranger to Blood, but if you have trod the paths of romantic fiction you'll recognise the type. He was called Solomon Shafto, and he was one of those eccentric seamen who were forever falling into the hands of the Inquisition and failing to satisfy the examiners on religious grounds. Wherefore he had endured divers torments, d'ye see, and languished i' the dungeons o' the Holy Office until he escaped, since when he had been wandering dimly in the jungle, befriending birds, eating berries, and removing thorns from the feet of Indian caciques, who had adopted him, sort of. None too bright to start with, Solomon had been intellectually reduced by his ordeals to the point where he was fit for little but political economy and rough gardening, and since courses in the former were not available in Cohaclgzln, they had put him in charge of weeds. He was old, skinny, dirttanned, and incredibly bright-eyed; it need hardly be added that he wore ragged skins, had white hair growing to his waist, and cackled a good deal. Blood couldn't get through to him at all.
“Prune the maguay plant, sez 'ee to me?” Solomon was exclaiming beadily, scratching his rags. “Nay, maister, us couldn't do that, not no-how. It not bein' prunin' time, sez I to 'ee. Prune in March, mulch in May, pot in August wi' a hey-hey-hey!” he chanted, and added. “An' derry-down-do, wi' a voodle-de-oy-doy, vowt!”
“Then stick a cane in the ground and train the damned thing so that it grows past me!” implored Blood. “Look, if it continues on its present course it'll get all messy and yuggh!”
“Hoop-de-doo!” exclaimed Solomon, shaking unkempt locks. “Us couldn't do thaa-at, maister, on account it might stunt its growth, look'ee. Aye, as 'appened to Widow Splurge's cowcumber back in Babbacombe when I wor a lad … aye, them were the days, wi' October apples an' crusty bread, when drippin' were on'y three-farthin's a firkin, I mind … aye, all stunted were the widow's cowcumber—”
“I'll be bloody well stunted if you don't help me!” cried Blood. “Look, why not cut me loose, then shall thy infernal plant suffer no whit?”
“Injuns wouldn't like it,” said Solomon, dancing crazily in agitation. “Look arter 'im, Sol, sez they to me, go easy wi' the waterin'-can an' baby bio, an' when the maguay point be a-ticklin' of un's belly, do 'ee come tell us, and we'll all sit round an' enjoy the good bit. Dig-a-dag-a-phut-phut, dig-a-dag-a-phut!”
Blood groaned with despair, heaving helplessly in his bonds, watching the maguay point rise even closer – and then of a sudden a shadow fell athwart him, and a well-bred remembered voice spoke with crisp clarity:
“What are you about, sir? Explain yourself!”
“You!” exclaimed Blood, craning with difficulty. “Avery! Ben, dear lad, stout comrade, y'are in the nick o' time! Quick – knock the top off that devilish weed ere it rends me … oh, my God, is that the Queen o' Spades along o' ye? Nay, keep her at a distance, an' help me, ould joy!”
Avery keenly surveyed the spread-eagled Colonel, the peering, twitching Solomon, the whole crazy set-up. He couldn't believe it. “You mean that plant is growing at a rate of knots per hour?” he cried.
“'Tis the hellish maguay!” chuckled Sheba spitefully. “A favourite house-plant o' the savages, with which they decorate their porches. Change the bodies regular and keep at an even temperature, they last for years.”
“Astonishing”, murmured Avery, looking closer. “Why, such a plant presented to the Royal Society should win its donor sure election … mayhap a seat on the Council—”
“God gimme strength!” croaked Blood. “Cut me down first!”
“In good time, renegade.” Avery was cold. “You may e'en dangle a while longer, deserter, what time ye explain your presence here, where I little looked for you.”
“Who cares how he got here – we see how he shall speed hence,” sneered Sheba, stroking the maguay and sticking out her tongue at the Colonel. “Here's fitting end for pestilent cur, aye, his guts shall be in sweet uproar presently. Leave him, caro mio, and let's begone!”
“Don't you dare!” bawled Blood. “Avery! If ye abandon me, you abandon your Lady Vanity in her dire peril!” He craned some more, and saw Avery for once stricken to the gills, and Sheba's eyes wide in fierce alarm. “The savages have her – it's true, ye numps! If ye don't believe me, ask the male model there!”
Avery wheeled on Solomon, who leaped nervously and pawed his rags. “Ole Sol don't mean no 'arm!” he whined. “Just a bit o' gardenin', crazy pavin', 'edges clipped, moderate terms, an' a twelve-month guarantee – ole Sol don' know nuthin' about young wimmen bein' sacrificed to the Sun God, not I!” He cringed in Avery's grasp. “You wouldn't 'ave a piece o' bread an' drippin' about ye, mate? Ar, such as ole Sol's mother made in Babbacombe all they years agone … ar, rare drippin' it wor. There's some castaways,” he whimpered, “as crave cheese, or rum, wi' a curse, or burned almonds, or Bellamy's pies … but drippin', ar, drippin' all a-sizzle, is the tack for ole Sol—”
“Do you tell me,” roared Avery in controlled fury, “that some beastly pagans are about to sacrifice a woman? Speak, ancient – is she blonde, English, upper-class, and perfectly-stacked? Oh, stop belly-aching, Blood, I'm busy!”
“Did you have to use that form o' words?” winced Blood.
“Ye won't let on as I told ye?” quavered Solomon. “A'right, then – over yonder, past the pyramids, turn right, an' keep bearin' left till ye come to the plaza, ye can't miss it… noon kick-off, when the sun's rays strike the great altar o' Cohaclgzln—”
There was a whooshing noise and Avery was gone with a speed that left the bushes shaking, followed by a despairing wail from Blood, a cry of “Stay, barracuda, it's probably some other blonde!” from Sheba, and a prayer for dripping from Solomon Shafto. Along the jungle path stormed our hero, aware of brazen gongs booming and voices eerily chanting somewhere ahead, then of a packed throng of Indians through which he ploughed like Popeye on spinach – he marked not the great step-pyramids, the barbaric carvings, the thousands thronging the plaza, the Princess of the Sun flaked out in her golden litter on the temple steps, or the pictogram scoreboard giving the order of service. Only one thing filled his view – a shapely form in maroon velvet bound on a huge marble slab, a fair head lolling, and above it a gleaming quartz blade in the sinewy hand of a feathered and painted priest.
The sun's rays smote the marble, turning the fair head to burnished light, a huge gong clanged, the blade swept down in a glittering arc – and the executioner's wrist was clamped in a grip of steel, the blade an inch from the snowy bosom. Vanity shrieked, the executioner cried “O
ooh-cor!,” spectators gasped, Brasso the cacique reeled in horror at this sacrilege, disappointed punters and outraged bookies rushed forward, and the Princess of the Sun stirred, muttering sleepily: “Wha' time is it? … oh, Kee-rist, whorra trip … somebody plee-eeze fetch my head …”
Vanity stared up, unable to believe her eyes. Could it be? Of course it could! Those clean-cut features, the confident teeth, the grey eyes respectively ashine with mastery and tenderness, the stray lock of hair on the noble brow, the heroic shirt-ruffles barely disturbed as he flicked aside the executioner.
“Sorry I'm late, dearest,” said Captain Avery.
With another flick he had burst the rawhide thongs that held her, and she was clinging to him, half-aswoon, while the Cohaclgzlns went spare. A thousand painted faces screamed hate, a thousand weapons were raised to plunge into this daring stranger who had violated their mysteries – when a faint, moaning sigh checked their mad rush, and Brasso the cacique flung his arms aloft with a shout of: “Stay! Hold the phone! The Princess speaks!”
Every eye turned towards the gold litter. Sure enough, the Princess of the Sun, blinking feebly, had come up on one elbow; she passed a limp hand over her queenly brow, stared vaguely towards the altar, made a limp but imperious sign, and subsided again, murmuring: “Oh-oh-oh-oh-brother …”
As one man that huge throng of thousands stopped, turned towards the stone of sacrifice, and obediently prostrated themselves, beating their palms on the ground with sonorous groans. Vanity, gripped in Avery's muscular arm, shivered in dread, her blue eyes wide as she viewed the grovelling mob.
“Ben, darling!” she quavered. “Oh, my sweet, you have saved me! Where the hell have you been? And, oh, why are they lying on the ground like that – as though in worship of us?”
Avery's glance swept fearlessly over the prone heaps about the altar, but his brow was knit. Truth to tell, he had half-expected some protest at his cavalier interruption of the ceremony. Now his keen mind pierced the mystery.
“Not us, sweetheart”, he replied. “After all, they were sacrificing you. Nay, I must conclude that they are worshipping – me.” He shrugged imperceptibly. “After all, why not? Such poor heathen have probably never seen a white man before.”
“They saw Colonel Blood!” said Vanity.
“That's not quite the same thing, is it?” said Avery, and his flashing eyes scanned the worshipping multitude again, and stopped at the temple steps, where Brasso was in earnest conversation with a red-skinned beauty in feathered congaskirt and exotic accessories, reclining in a golden litter and staring in his direction with slightly glazed and rolling eyes. Their primitive grunting speech meant nothing to the captain.
“But, Princess, has he got wheels?” Brasso was insisting. “You show me, 'cos I don't see 'em. So how can he be the Great White God? Like I mean, your word is law, but …”
The Princess moaned softly, and focused unsteadily on the incredibly magnificent specimen who stood by the altar, all heroic disdain from chin-dimple to knee-cap. Wow! thought the Princess, her befuddled senses more aswim than ever, that's better than drinking-chocolate.
“Who … needs … wheels?” she murmured vibrantly. “Keep … on … worshipping. He … Great… White … God. I… have … spoken …”
“That's what the lady says!” sighed Brasso. “Oh, man! Okay, Daughter of the Sun, okay – but you gonna have to marry that dude, you know that, don't you? I mean, like we gotta prophecy to fulfil, so Princess baby, you better get it right, or the Sun God in his wrath is gonna bust your can, you know? You read me, Princess? … aw, hell, she's passed out again! Okay, Patzlqtln, get her back in the holy-of-holies … and somebody find the old honky Shafto and tell him to get his butt over here. This new cat may be the Great White God, but I'll bet he don't speak Cohaclgzlnian worth a damn …”
Thus it was that as Avery and Vanity stood in each other's arms by the altar, surrounded by prostrate adoring bodies, and wondered what this might portend, a squad of Indians descended on the clearing where Blood still hung spreadeagled, calculating miserably that the maguay had about six inches to go, and scooped up Solomon Shafto, whom they dragged to the plaza. But of Black Sheba they saw no sign …
Not surprisingly, since she had slithered into the tall timber at sound of their approach, and crouched there, hot-eyed and gnashing as she wondered what had befallen Avery in his impetuous folly. Well, we know – but what next, ha? What will Vanity say when she learns that her beloved is slated to take the aisle with the Princess of the Sun? Will it be any louder than Blood's comments when the maguay starts to blossom? Is a craving for bread and dripping to be compared to a main-line addiction to drinking-chocolate? Let's wait until night-fall, and then sneak closer past the deserted step-pyramids in the ghostly moonlight, until we find a convenient spot to eavesdrop …
CHAPTER
THE FOURTEENTH
ohaclgzln was in a fever of excitement that tropic night. In their rude adobe houses the natives conversed in animated grunts, and for once the usual topic (what went wrong with today's wheels?) was forgotten. For had not the Great White God come at last who should provide wheels in abundance, as foretold? Had he not been led from the altar before the Princess of the Sun, and had she not risen unsteadily from her litter, tripped on her conga-skirt, smitten her forehead ritually three times with the heel of her hand while speaking mystic incantations (“Oh-God-oh-God-oh-I-gotta-quit!”), and sprinkled him with the sacred drinking-chocolate as an irrevocable sign of their impending holy nuptials? All had seen her stare at the tall stranger as in an ecstatic trance before she collapsed sighing on her litter.
All female Cohaclgzln sighed, for that matter, for the God was magnificent to behold, and charming with it; he had borne the Princess's hand to his lips, and bowed reverently when she goofed off. (“Man, we gotta find a new word for cool,” the cacique Brasso had admitted.) Then the God had quieted the irate clamour of the fair woman whom, in his mysterious wisdom, he had preserved from sacrifice, and indicated that she should be taken with him to the chamber set aside for him in the temple. Thither, too, had gone Brasso with the castaway creature Shafto, and presently it was known that the God had sent for the maguay victim – and just when the plant's razor tip was scratching his sternum, too! Cohaclgzln pursed its lips and hoped this divine clemency wasn't going to become a habit… still, that was Gods for you, and no use beefing. Doubtless tomorrow's marriage to the Princess of the Sun would settle him down …
“Marriage!” A pekinese with its tail in the vacuum cleaner could not have equalled Lady Vanity for penetrative power. Lamps in the marble chamber flickered, a hideously-painted mask fell off the wall, cacique Brasso jumped three feet, Solomon Shafto dived under a sofa, and even Colonel Blood held on tight to his seat. In a fury of maroon velvet she let fly again, her eyes azure beams of rage. “Marriage? To that cocoa-bean in the fruit hat? Never! You would die first!”
Avery alone had remained unmoved, thumb on chin. “Marriage to the Princess, eh, Shafto? At dusk tomorrow? H'm!”
“H'm nothing!” decibelled Vanity. “The immortal crust!” She whirled on the uncomprehending Brasso. “Get this, barbarian – Captain Avery is affianced to me, Lady Vanity Rooke, of South Street and Torpedo Towers, Bucks, and you can tell ruddy Minnehaha that if she so much as shakes a feather at him—”
“A moment, sweet”, interposed Avery. “'Twere best say naught before this fellow, since though he has no English, yet is thy meaning perilously plain. Master Shafto, be pleased to tell the cacique that I shall present myself to her divine highness at her pleasure.” His warning gesture checked Vanity's escaping steam until Brasso had got the message and departed, whereon the Captain resumed, bright-eyed and urgent.
“See now, my angel, our straits are dire and these people fickly dangerous. By humouring them with this marriage I shall gain us time – 'tis no more than their superstitious whim, and no harm done, since heathen ceremony can have no force of canon law. So, if I play along and se
e how things pan out—”
“Let me guess!” Vanity yowled and clenched peerless fists. “You gorgeous balloon, she's not marrying you to qualify for immigration! I saw her moon at thee wi' yearning eyes, the copper-bottomed cooze! Superstitious whim, he says! She wants to get you in the bushes and cry ‘Carnival!’ like all the rest of them—”
“Nay, 'tis but religious mystical union!” Avery looked shocked. “A formal matter – ha, Master Shafto?”
“Dunno, 'bout that, ding-a-dang-dee,” quo' Solomon, shaking matted locks. “Heathen legend do say that when the Great White God (that's 'ee) be come to Cohaclgzln, he shall wed Princess o' the Sun (that's she), on account o' he be divinely powered to bestow wheels on the land, d'ye see? Ar … 'ee can make wheels, maister?”
“With much ease,” said Avery. “'tis but matter of shaping wood choicely seasoned, attaching thereto spokes of ash (or such native timber as may serve), then forging rim o' metal, the which when heated is placed o'er all and, cooling, doth contract. As to the axle …” He caught Vanity's eye on him, and stopped with an apologetic cough, whereon Solomon resumed:
“God an' Princess be wed wi' all pomp by th'High Priest, an' there be great an' joyous feastin'.” He chuckled reminiscently. “Ar, like to wedden' breckfuss when Squire Cobbold were spliced wi' young Mistress Winthrop to St Maggot's church, forty year agone – a hoydenish piece she wor, an' cuckolded he wi' the gamekeeper, heh-heh – ar, but 'twor a gran' spread, I mind, wi' pies an' pasties an' jellies o' grape an' turnip, an' the drippin' flowed like lava from a Mexican volcaney—”
“You see, fond love?” smiled Avery. “Nothing to it”.
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