Louise de Gavres lowered her head, gripped by a humiliating sadness. Then she said: “They never sacrifice their victims straight away…”
“No, Mistress. They consult the waters, the Moon, and also their elders. Sometimes, my grandfather said, the date is fixed before they’ve taken their male and female prisoners.”
“We shall go on until the end.”
Rak acquiesced with a nod of his head. His race was stoical; it did not attach an excessive importance to life.
The Sun had passed its zenith by the time they reached the shore of the Vampire River. The young woman was distressed to see that she had guessed rightly. The Carabao-Men had embarked, almost certainly, for their marshes.
“They’re less than three hours ahead,” the Grafina murmured. “If we try to follow them through the forest we’ll travel much more slowly than their raft. We’re not equipped to construct a raft ourselves—which would take a long time, in any case.”
She fell into a bitter reverie. She would rather die than abandon her guests; she would fight on as long as the faintest chance remained. Even so, she did not want to be defeated, especially when she had been attacked. The stubborn soul of ancestors who had sung psalms on the heath, in the forest and among the antique cliffs was within her. Like them, she was always ready for trials, always resolved to put her duty above life and ruination. No duty seemed more sacred to her than the one we contract toward those who have eaten our bread and whom we have tried to bring into port.
“Rak,” she said, “pursuit would be vain. We need a boat and reinforcements—but the trail should not be abandoned, even if we were completely certain that we know their route… and we’re only half-certain. Rak will follow the left bank, Kalava the right. You’re both more rapid runners than the Carabao-Men and you won’t let yourselves be taken by surprise. I’ll catch up with you further on, and we’ll be able to continue our pursuit on the water.”
Rak listened, his face and body as motionless as if he had not been a creature of flesh. He limited himself to replying: “Very good!”
A short time later, he went over to the other bank and Louise de Gavres gave her instructions again to Kalava, who was already on his way. Less cunning and subtle than Rak, Kalava nevertheless had flair and cunning; he was seconded by a little Bornean dog that belonged to him, in which he had a superstitious trust. He was a very small man, as fleshless as an old fakir, with skin the color of raw coffee beans and opaque and unreadable tarry eyes, which seemed to be asleep but were as piercing as an eagle’s eyes.
“You understand completely?” asked the Grafina.
“Kalava has understood completely and will not let himself be caught.” He looked down at the little Bornean dog, the color of mud, which had hair so sparse that its skin seemed naked, and eyes that were more vulpine than canine. “Nor Gaour,” he said, passing his hand over the animal’s bare back.
The words of the Book rose up from Louise’s memory: “And they shall fight against you, but they shall not be the stronger!”
Ten minutes later, the horse Rulf was carrying her back to the caravan.
VIII. The Men of the Forest
The caravan was finalizing its preparations for departure when the Grafina reappeared. Three Sumatrans were finishing burying their companion, killed by the Carabao-Men, whose funeral rites would have to be celebrated later, according to a centuries-old formula.
Louise de Gavres considered her servants in a melancholy fashion; they were not warriors. The majority, however, knew how to use a kris and did not lack bravery; three or four were capable of following a trail, but none could match Rak, or even Kalava. In sum, they were mediocre auxiliaries to fight the redoubtable men of the marsh. It would have required a solid nucleus to set out immediately in pursuit. It was better to go to meet Dirk, who was equal to all the tricks of beasts and men and was, with the Grafina, the best shot in the mountains.
Hendrik had supervised the preparations for departure as best he could, but his inexperience was too visible to give him an effective authority. As soon as the young woman reappeared, all the men, still tired and distressed by the cataclysm, recovered their courage, and the caravan got under way. It was necessary to go back upriver as far as Green Rocks Ford. There, the river broadened out to form a lake, randomly sewn with enormous blocks of stone. The carts were able to cross there without overmuch difficulty; the men were no more than waist-deep. On the other shore, a pathway went through the forest—a thousand-year-old path formerly sketched out by buffaloes and wild beasts and finished off by the indigenes.
For two-thirds of the way, the caravan moved through a dark forest still inhabited by barbarous tribes, which were usually inoffensive, but could revert to ferocity in troubled times. Knowing the bravery, cunning and skills of these men, Louise de Gavres considered recruiting some of them for the pursuit. It was not impossible; the Amdavas, avid for firearms, which they had difficulty procuring, consented to enroll in the service of anyone who promised them some. It was necessary not to ask them to do any skilled or domestic work, but they were marvelous guides, incomparable hunters and obstinate combatants.
Toward evening, two horsemen caught up with the caravan: a Dutchman and a native.
“Karel!” exclaimed Hendrik, joyfully. It was his younger brother, like him a son of the blond race, with the same jutting skull and tall stature—but Karel, more suntanned than a Moor, had the bright eyes of Achaeans and riparian Frenchmen. When the two brothers had greeted one another, Karel said to the Grafina: “Father is a day’s march away.”
“Half a day, since we’re going to meet him,” said Louise de Gavres.
“Where are our guests?” the young man asked.
The Grafina’s expression became very dark; her voice trembled as she replied: “They’ve been captured by Carabao-Men.”
“Carabao-Men!” cried Karel, amazed and consternated. “I thought they no longer existed.” And he could not help adding: “Father will be desperate.”
“No more than me,” muttered the young woman. “If they’re not rescued, it will be the shame of my life.”
Karel remained silent. He turned away so as not to display the reproach that rose up in him. Hendrik, guessing his impression, interjected: “No one in the world could have foreseen or prevented the abduction. Everything was devastated by a tropical storm. The rain put out the fire and the lanterns; the dogs lost their sense of smell, the men couldn’t see anything in a darkness as black as the tomb. All creatures have their gifts—the deluge and the darkness didn’t prevent the Carabao-Men from seeing and moving around as if in broad daylight!”
“Has their trail been lost?”
“No,” replied Louise, untroubled by the young man’s disapproval. “We know that they embarked on the Vampire River, which leads to one of their homelands. Rak, the best scout on the island, is following them on the left bank, Kalava on the right.” She paused and, for a moment, her beautiful dark eyes stared into the void. Then, gesturing broadly toward the caravan, she continued: “There are a dozen reliable men here, just about. The rest would be a burden. That’s not enough to fight—out there, in their marsh, the enemy is numerous—but your father is worth 50 natives, and I intend to recruit the men of the Red Forest.
“I know their language!” said Karel, proudly. “And my father knows it even better. They’ll give us warriors!”
Dusk was about to fall; the caravan prepared to halt, and Louise de Gavres, because she was young and accustomed to conquer, and because the young man brought new energy and a soul less somber…
The next day, toward noon, Dirk de Ridder appeared at the head of ten native horsemen. He belonged to the doomed race of giants. Even in Norway, his height and the amplitude of his chest had been unusual. Once, no doubt, the lands of the North had produced men of that sort in profusion; over the centuries, their number had dwindled.
He had the face of the pirates who left their glacial lands in their bridge-less ships to strike fear into whole
populations. His glacial blue eyes, calm at rest, shone in battle or in anger. His head, powerful but not heavy, covered with hair the color of a cougar’s fur, long but cut short at the temples, with a face with singularly fine cheeks, exhaled a tranquil and almost innocent bonhomie, which gave no hint of the cunning that the Dutchman employed against his enemies. His honesty was legendary and, very polite with his friends, he became rude to the point of brutality when he did not like someone. He was as incapable of breaking his word as he was of committing a crime.
His strength was in proportion to his stature. Such a man could tackle sovereign wild beasts with a hatchet or a kris; he had proved that by slitting the throat of a tiger in a formidable close-quarters combat, and by felling buffaloes seized by the horns. Nature had not inflicted any defects upon him. That colossal body was well-constructed in every part; the muscles did not form the compact knots that one sees in so many athletes; his hands, truly vast if one compared them with ordinary hands, were small for his size.
He arrived at a gallop, on an enormous horse, and when he had greeted the Grafina his eyes scrutinized the caravan in every direction, with the gaze of those who are accustomed to seeing everything at a glance. As he did not see the people he was looking for, his face displayed his astonishment, and he asked, in his bell-like voice: “Where are the guests?”
The Grafina turned her eyes away. He was the only man before whom she sometimes felt timid; it was probably to him that she owed her infallible aim and her subtle knowledge of the forest. “They’ve been abducted,” she replied.
“Abducted!” he cried. His voice rose like a roar. Then stupor held him immobile. He did not understand; he thought he had misheard. “You don’t mean, Jufvrouw, that they were abducted en route?”
“Yes,” she replied. “The Carabao-Men…”
Hendrik intervened, as on the previous day, and attempted to describe the unexpected violence of the weather, the absolute obscurity, the impossibility of hearing anything. “Even the dogs were deceived,” he concluded. “Including Vos, who scented nothing…while the Carabao-Men…”
“I know!” said Dirk. “It’s their gift.”
An immense sadness darkened the clear eyes and stiffened the mouth of the Dutchman. “I promised my dying friend to help his heirs in everything,” he murmured. “May the Lord grant me the power to keep my promise.”
“They were under my guard!” replied the Grafina. “The life of guests must be placed before our own.”
The pale eyes and the dark eyes exchanged a long glance. Each of the interlocutors had a boundless esteem for the other.
The Grafina did not rate any man above Dirk for skill, strength and bravery, and he had more confidence in the young woman than the most redoubtable hunters. Together, armed with their rifles, led by their instinct, their intuition and their knowledge of savage nature, they could stand off 20 creoles or 50 natives.
“Let’s put our confidence in the sovereign master,” said the baas.
Night was about to fall; the formidable clamor of the siamangs filled the solitude. The rapid dusk sparkled and died; the two caravans were combined and the first fires made the stars pale.
The Grafina, Dirk and Karel were up before dawn. The fires were dying down; the carnivores had feasted on living flesh; through the branches, the Southern Cross could be seen descending.
“Karel will go to talk to the Amdavas,” said the giant. “In that part of the forest, they know him better than me. I’ve only made alliance with those in the north as yet…and if you wish, Jufvrouw, we’ll follow the trail right away. Karel and the Amdavas won’t have any difficulty catching up with us.”
“So be it!” said Louise de Gavres.
When daybreak came, they had chosen 16 men for an escort, 10 of whom had been borrowed from the planter’s caravan. There was no need to think about bringing horses. As they could not embark on the river, they would have had to travel through the virgin forest, and would have signaled the presence of pursuers at too great a distance.
When they reached the Vampire River half of the men followed the right bank and the other half the left. The trail was followed rapidly; after two days marching they caught up with Rak and Kalava. They had found traces of the Carabao-Men on the bank twice, but never further away.
“They were pauses,” said Rak, “to sleep for a few hours and let their captives sleep. The current is too strong and inconsistent to permit sleep.”
“Shall we construct rafts for pursuit, then?” asked the Grafina.
Dirk acquiesced with a nod of the head. Because the construction had been foreseen the men of the escort had brought some pieces of squared timber to serve as frames for the vessels. Two hours later, they had assembled the materials necessary to make three large rafts. The servants, adapted to various tasks by their adventurous life, worked rapidly.
They waited for Karel and the Amdavas. Rak had marked the trail to guide their progress.
“I hope that Karel hasn’t run into any difficulty,” the Grafina murmured, during the midday meal.
The planter, endowed with an appetite proportional to his size, ate large slices of venison in silence. Even the most overwhelming emotions did not affect his physical equilibrium any more than his mental equilibrium. One might have thought that sadness and anguish had no purchase on him; on the contrary, he was sensitive, ever-ready to fight for his family and friends and keenly afflicted by their misfortunes—but no agitation threw that powerfully-equipped organism off balance, even momentarily. He was one of those who accept death without blanching or flinching.
Louise de Gavres, although equally self-controlled, was more subject to the hammer-blows of emotion on sleep and the appetite—but she had resources of energy even more profound than the planter’s, and, above all, a resistance to privations that left her, after fasting and insomnia, as precise in her movements, as sure in her resolve and as lucid in her mind as in tranquil periods. It was even the case that privations combined with suffering sharpened her faculties, rendering them more intuitive and more perspicacious, without reducing her redoubtable skill at all. Having received her share of the commanding spirit and the gifts necessary to exercise it, she had dominion, for large enterprises, over the colossus, Dirk—who had a unique respect for her, instinctively felt.
“Karel in difficulty?” said the Dutchman. “I think, Jufvrouw, that he has succeeded. He knows the Amdavas well.” He added, with pride: “He’s a man! When he’s entirely mastered his rifle, I don’t see anyone except for you, Jufvrouw, who’ll be able to match him on the mountain or in the forest.” His granite teeth crushed a morsel of biscuit as hard as brick, and he went on, with a hint of melancholy: “He has the soul of our fathers. How many will have that tomorrow? Who will know the woods and the beasts, Jufvrouw, as you know them? Men are degenerating!”
“Aren’t those in Europe and America working miracles?”
“I’m afraid that they’re only doing so for their own perdition and ours. All these machines serve only to soften bodies and souls. They make life too easy—and they’re packed like sardines in the lands from which our ancestors came. When there are too many of them—and that will happen within 200 years—they’ll be like ants in an ant-hill. It’s a disgusting existence! Oh, I’m glad to have still been able to live the true life!” He finished off his meal with a draught of water mixed with lemon juice, and went on: “The Amdavas are brave, Jufvrouw, very brave. They’re afraid of poison, though, and that of the Carabao-Men is terrible…”
“I’ve brought the antidote,” the Grafina replied.
“The antidote? I’ve heard talk of it, but the recipe has been lost in my family.”
“It has been conserved in mine—I don’t know why I’ve always attached such importance to it. Like the poison itself, the antidote is effective in small doses. I’ve brought enough to protect more than 200 men.” Louise pointed to a small box full off brown globules, scarcely larger than pin-heads.
The planter looke
d at them in astonishment. “They’re very small!” he murmured.
“But quite sufficient. It only takes one to save a wounded man. It wouldn’t just be unnecessary, but even harmful, to take more. A dose of seven or eight no longer acts as an antidote—they’d even augment the effect of the poison.”
“I’ve heard talk of things like that,” said the planter, shaking his head. “There are incomprehensible things everywhere, Jufvrouw.” He remained pensive for a moment. “Everything is incomprehensible,” he murmured, after a pause. “A blade of grass that grows is already a miracle. At any rate, that little box encloses more power than 50 men! Perhaps it will save us, Jufvrouw…even more than our rifles. It’s necessary to make it known to our servants and the Amdavas, to increase their confidence. Without confidence, our forefathers said, men would be beneath tigers and buffaloes. It’s confidence that permitted our ancestors to cross the immense sea to come to a country that’s the most beautiful on Earth!”
Louise liked that candor—which was mingled, in the colossus, with the finest cunning as soon as he entered into competition with the forces of nature and savages.
A movement caused them to raise their heads. The dogs became agitated. Then they saw Rak reappear. “The Amdavas are coming, with the son of the giant baas,” he said.
Dirk and Louise listened; the progress of a company was just becoming audible, and Karel soon appeared, followed by some 40 men, short in stature and very thin, with olive-colored skins and bright eyes. They stopped at the sight of the camp, attentive but impassive. The majority were armed with old rifles, a few of which were still loaded via the barrel. Five or six possessed more modern weapons; each of them carried a kris, a bow, a well-sharpened hatchet—able to serve them both for combat and for clearing a path through bushy regions—and, finally, a light but solid elongated shield.
“There!” said Karel. “I’ve promised them a new rifle each and 100 cartridges, after the expedition, plus a payment of 25 guilders. They don’t doubt my word—but I think they’d like it to be confirmed.”
The Givreuse Enigma Page 21