by Ruskin Bond
He struck a match, and by its light crossed to the lamp, the wick of which, however, refused to burn, though he wasted many matches upon it.
In the gathering darkness, for the moon was setting, he moved toward the door, but, with his hand upon the knob, stood still, for the footsteps were shuffling again and the sharp banging to of the mosquito-door made him jump.
Through the verandah the footsteps went, gaining sureness with every stride. The gates creaked and the latch fell to. Down the stairs the footsteps clumped, the sound growing fainter till it became lost in the night.
Three deep-toned notes from the officer gong boomed on the air. Dennis shivered, kicked off his slippers and returned to bed. The air was cold, so he drew his blanket well around him.
'Old Walley's walking in his sleep or else indulging in a midnight prowl,' he muttered. Half a minute later, he was sound asleep.
As Dennis's eyes opened to the beauties of a tropic dawn, the clink of silver spoons against china reached his ears and the scent of a cigarette crept into the room. He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, brushed his hair, and still in his sarong and kabaiab, went out on to the verandah, where Walkely paused in the act of conveying a cup to his mouth.
' 'Morning, Dennis,' he grunted, and continued drinking his tea.
He was never very talkative the first thing in the morning.
Dennis answered and busied himself with the teapot. Then, under cover of meticulously choosing a piece of toast, he studied Walkely, who showed no signs of having spent a sleepless night.
Suddenly, Walkely looked up and caught Dennis's eye upon him.
'Well,' he asked, 'What is it?'
'Nothing,' Dennis curtly replied.
'Then, why look at me like that?'
'Sorry, Old Thing,' Dennis stammered. 'I was only wondering——'
'Yes?'
'What the devil were you up to last night—walking all over the house and shouting for your boy?'
'Then you heard it, too?' Walkely asked the question with relief.
'It! What's it?' Dennis retorted. 'Didn't I hear you come up the verandah steps, open the gates and walk to the back? You called "Boy" three times, but got no answer. Then, you walked back through the house and down the steps. What was wrong, Walley?'
Walkely looked Dennis full in the eyes as he slowly answered:
'Nothing! Nothing was wrong, and I never moved from my room till this morning.'
'But—then who the——?'
'I never moved,' Walkely repeated. 'What you heard was Glister.'
'Glister! What on earth do you mean? Who's Glister?'
'You know. The chap who was manager here before Bellamy. He shot himself. Died in your room—on your bed. He's buried in the garden at the foot of the hill below your window. Great pity, but—drink and a native woman—nice chap, too.'
Walkely ceased as the light of recollection shone on Dennis's face.
'Yes, I remember,' he spoke almost to himself. 'I met him once at a Jesselton Race Meeting. A tall, good-looking fellow?'
Walkely nodded, and Dennis continued:
'He was awfully keen on a beautiful native woman—a Dusun named Jebee.'
'Yes. She was lured away from Glister by another man. It was a dirty thing to do.'
'The swine! I only hope——'
'You needn't worry,' Walkely interrupted. 'He rues the day all right, I'll bet, for she's got him body and soul—doped to the eyes—and her temper is that of a fiend incarnate. She is priestess, too, of the Gusi, and he daren't call his soul his own.'
'So, poor old Glister's loss was really his gain, if only he'd known!' Dennis's words were gently spoken.
'Yes. But he felt her absence, and in the loneliness that followed, the drink got him again.'
For nearly a minute there was silence between the two. It was as if their memories had recalled Glister's spirit to his old home, almost as if he were sitting at the table with them, while the tinkling of Jebee's anklets sounded from an adjoining room.
Dennis broke the silence.
'And, you mean that—that was he, last night?' he asked.
'Yes.' The word seemed drawn reluctantly from Walkely's lips.
'But, good lord, man!—you don't mean?—you can't—it's preposterous.'
'I know.' Walkely spoke slowly. 'It sounds absurd, doesn't it? But Old Bellamy went through it, saw him and spoke to him, and once even shot at him.'
'Bellamy! Bellamy shot him?'
'Yes. And, there isn't much mysticism about him—he's as much imagination as a turnip.'
'But——'
'All the "buts" in the world won't alter matters. Bellamy's seen him. I've seen him, and you've heard him. He's there—and it happens, and it's always the same—only——'
'What?' The word was wrung from Dennis.
'He's never entered the mosquito-room before.'
'You think——'
'I don't know! How can I? I'm only wondering why he went there—what he was searching for.'
'Drink, perhaps?'
Walkely shook his head.
'No,' he said. 'The room wasn't built in his days. No; there's something worrying him, something that's caused this variation of his usual walk.'
His eyes met Dennis's and he gave a short, half-ashamed laugh. Then:
'Get on with your tea. When you've finished we'll go and look at his grave. I always inspect it twice a month and put a coolie on cleaning it up and looking after the flowers. We'll have a look today.'
As Dennis dressed with unusual slowness his mind was full of the tragedy so strangely recalled. 'Poor old Glister!' he muttered. 'What an end!'
An impatient call roused Dennis from his reverie and he hastened to the verandah, to find Walkely already on the garden steps conversing with Gaga, the head mandor of many years' standing.
The three at once set off. Down well-laid cement steps, along a broad path that wound among a profusion of bright-coloured flowers they went. Overhead a flaming sun rode in an azure sky, and a faint breeze fanned their faces with its cooling breath, perfumed with the scent of dew and the fragrant, elusive blossoms of the rubber trees.
At the foot of the hill they turned and went in a single file along a narrow path that followed the winding contour of the hill.
The three walked in silence, for speech was difficult along that narrow track. Suddenly the path, dipping down, turned sharply, and Walkely, who was leading, became for an instant lost to view. Dennis, humming a Dusun love song, followed close behind, but as he reached the turn the tune died abruptly on his lips and he stood stone-still.
'Good lord! What can it mean?'
The words were gasped by Walkely, who stood transfixed, staring with horror-struck eyes straight before him.
Instinctively, Walkely turned to Dennis, who, like himself, stood with gaze fixed and staring eyes.
'What can it mean?' he gasped a second time.
For, they had reached the grave, and it was open. Heaped under the railings surrounding it, which were intact, were piles of fresh-dug earth, and all round lay the scattered flowers, withered and trampled into twisted shapes.
The eyes of Dennis and Walkely met. In each there lurked a question that neither dared to ask. Each heard again the shuffling footsteps of the previous night, and the opening and shutting of the drawers in the mosquito-room.
A shadow fell across them as they stood. There came a startled cry, the quick pattering of bare feet, and Gaga flung himself upon his knees, burying his hands in the earth.
'Gaga!'
The word was a sharp command of outraged wrath. But the man did not heed, and his hands continued fumbling, fingering, searching.
Walkely stooped down to seize the kneeling mandor by the shoulder, then straightened up as the latter rose and, turning, showed a face pallid under the yellow of his skin, from which stark horror shone.
'The pandang, Tuan,' he gasped. 'The pandang! It has gone!'
Walkely looked at him in stupefa
ction.
'Gaga——' he began, but got no further, for the man, heedless of Walkely's upraised hand, broke in:
'The pandang, Tuan, the silver pandang that Jebee used to wear as token of her priesthood of the Gusi, has gone. The silver pandang is no more!'
He ceased, and for a moment there was silence among the three.
On Walkely's face there showed a blank amazement, but Dennis's brows had gathered in a frown and his lips had closed in a deep, straight line. He was the first to speak.
'Walkely,' he said, 'may I ask Gaga questions?'
Walkely nodded his assent, and Dennis turned to Gaga.
'Gaga, tell me, what makes you say the silver pandang is no more?'
'Because,' Gaga stammered in his emotion, 'because—when Tuan Glister was buried the pandang was buried, too—and—now…'
His gaze sought for the coffin for a moment, and he fingered a charm of monkeys' teeth that hung around his neck.
'Tell me, Gaga,' Dennis's voice was very gentle, 'all you know. Begin at the beginning.'
Gaga looked relieved, for a native resents questioning and loves to tell a story in his own way.
'The Tuans know,' he began, 'that Tuan Glister had a myai named Jebee. She came to him when she was very young, but vowed by the oaths of her parents to the priesthood of the Gusi, the sacred jars we Dusuns worship, which only our womenkind may tend. But she was young and beautiful and full of life. Her beauty was unmatched in all this land of Sabah; her form was lithe, her footsteps light; her waist was small; yet she was vowed in wifehood to a jar, the sacred Gusi! Her lips and eyes, though warring with her blood, were innocent of love till Tuan Glister visited the village in search of coolies for the estate.
'Then'—Gaga paused, seeming for a moment at a loss to find his words—'then—the Tuan was tall and handsome, and possessed golden hair. He had a laughing, winning way and eyes that darted here and there and made the warm blood race within your veins when once his glance had rested on you. His eyes discovered Jebee, and——'
Gaga looked nervously from Dennis and Walkely as he shuffled his feet, frightened of saying too much concerning a white man before others of his race.
Dennis read the meaning of his glance.
'Yes, Gaga. You may speak,' he said, 'for the Tuan Besar and I are friends and we would give Tuan Glister's wandering spirit peace. Say all that is in your heart. We understand.'
'Tuan!' Gaga's tone conveyed a depth of grateful meaning. 'That night there was dancing and feasting in the village, and pitcher after pitcher of tapai was consumed. The Tuan drank, too, but none could stand against him, and one by one they sank into a heavy sleep. Only the Tuan remained. He left the headman's house, and going through the village reached Jebee's home.
'It was that darkest hour before dawn when the chill wind blows, yet she was seated on the topmost step. The light of the dying moon seemed focused on the silver buckle that she wore, hung from a rotan girdle around her waist.
'Their eyes met. No word was said. The Tuan stretched out his arms and Jebee went to him, and the Tuan's arms enfolded her.'
Gaga ceased. The silence lengthened till the office gong, booming eight deep notes, shattered the spell.
'How do you know all this, Gaga?' Walkely asked at length. 'You never mentioned it before!'
A look of surprise flitted over the mandor's face, then he quietly replied:
'The Tuan never asked me my story before, nor is it customary for the white man to discuss others of his race with natives. How do I know? Why, Tuan Besar, was I not present on that night, and is not Jebee my sister, though of a different mother?
'The Tuan had saved my life, and Jebee was young. The warm blood danced in her veins, and her heart cried out for a mate. And so … The river, Tuan, flowed far from the village. The Tuan's boat was there. All in the village slept. The Tuan led her to the boat, while I stole up the steps, entered the house and made a bundle of her clothes. Then, to the waiting boat I followed. The Tuan had covered Jebee with his coat and she was sleeping, but the silver buckle hung round his neck. And, from that day it never left him. We three were alone in the boat. The Tuan and I picked up the paddles, and as their blades in silence touched the water the moon slipped beneath the earth and the Burong bantu hooted thrice. An evil omen, which the Tuan heeded not and Jebee did not hear.
'Till the sun was high we paddled and by noon were far beyond pursuit, for the river flowed very swiftly and one does not wake early from such a sleep as those in the village were sleeping.'
Gaga paused, then he added:
'The rest of the story the Tuans know. For a little while the Tuan and Jebee were happy. But the omen of the Burong bantu and the dying moon would not be denied.
'And, the shadow of the Gusi lay between them. So, though the Tuan loved her he drank too deeply, and she found favour in another's sight and went away. But the Tuans know the rest. I buried him—there was no white man on the estate—and as he died he made me promise to bury the buckle with him, hanging round his neck. It was the only thing of Jebee's that he kept.'
'And, now?'
Dennis put the question sharply, and his eyes held Gaga's gaze.
'I am afraid, Tuan—sore afraid.'
'Of what?'
'I do not know; and the silver pandang has been stolen, though its hiding-place was unknown. To none has it value, save to my people, and for years now they have let it rest. But, Tuan, they never forget, and the Gusi is most sacred. In the great blue jar that Jebee used to tend, and should have wedded, Maboga, the bad Spirit, dwells. Of late evil has befallen my people: the buffaloes bring forth no young, and the crops refuse to ripen; so, Tuan, I am afraid.'
Gaga ceased, and once again silence fell upon the three.
Suddenly, it was broken by the hurrying footsteps and laboured breathing of a man who ran, and round the bend appeared an opas.
All three looked up at his approach and saw stark fear upon his face.
'Tuan! Tuan!' he gasped. 'Tuan Glister cannot be found. His house is empty, and his bedroom disarranged, and on the floor is a pool of blood——'
His eyes caught sight of the open grave. The words faltered on his tongue, then ceased, and he stood silent, trembling like a leaf.
At the mention of that name Dennis started, but before he could speak Walkely answered the question hovering on his lips.
'Young Glister's my new assistant, Dennis,' he spoke in a queer, strained voice; 'he came only last month; you haven't met him yet.'
'But——'
'He's a younger brother of …' Walkely looked toward the grave. 'It's horrible!' he muttered.
In a flash the meaning of the rifled grave and Glister's disappearance grew plain, and the frown on Dennis's face grew deeper and his lips grew more compressed. Heedless of Walkely's questionings of the jibbering opas he turned to Gaga.
'Gaga,' he said, 'I see the hand of Maboga stretching out, seeking revenge for the insult of years ago. His arm is long. It stretches from the Tuan's grave to a village in the hills. Is it not so?'
'Tuan?' Gaga answered.
'It stretches,' Dennis continued, 'from the village to the new Tuan's house as well, for what the white man took must be repaid with interest. What think you, Gaga?'
'That the Tuan is wise and reads the Dusun as a book.'
'Dennis!' Walkely had dismissed the opas, and putting out his hand, grasped Dennis's arm. 'Dennis,' he cried, 'what do you mean? Glister has disappeared, there's blood upon his floor and we stand here while heaven knows what devil's work is being done! What do you mean—with interest?'
'Listen, Walley.' Dennis weighed his words and spoke with slow conviction. 'I'm in the dark almost as much as you—but I know the Dusuns and the fetish of their Gusi worship. When Glister took Jebee from her people, she broke their vows and outraged the sacred jars; but while the years were plentiful and their calves were strong they did not worry; when, as now, the inevitable lean year comes they seek a reason for their troubles.'
>
'You men…?' asked Walkely, still perplexed.
'That reason is Maboga. They think he will not be appeased unless…'
Dennis did not finish, but his glance wandered to the open grave and back to Walkely's strained white face, on which the dawning light of comprehension showed.
'Good heavens!' he muttered. 'You really think…?'
Dennis nodded, then turned to Gaga.
'Gaga,' he said, 'tell me exactly what happens at the Feast.'
'The silver buckles of the priestesses, Tuan, are hung upon the Gusis' lips. Then, when the dying moon is half-way set, the mateless wives say prayers and wash the sacred jars, and call upon the spirits to come forth and give their judgment on the village for the year. This year I think Maboga's jar will once again be decked. But who will cleanse the sacred lips I cannot think, for while Jebee lives the pandang may be worn by no one else. Tuan Glister dared, and paid the price.'
'And, Maboga?' Dennis's voice was low, almost a whisper.
For a moment Gaga hesitated, then he replied: 'The Tuan himself has said: "What the white man took must be repaid—with interest."'
He paused; then he added: 'A white man's head has never yet hung in a Dusuan house, but three days hence Maboga will decide.'
The eyes of Dennis and Walkely met. Both seemed to hear again the shufflings in the night, the opening and the shutting of the drawers. Both understood the object of that search.
'I'll borrow Glister's revolver, Walley, for we'll go alone with only Gaga as our guide, and attend this Feast,' said Dennis.
For hours the booming of gongs had been borne upon the breeze, yet though the three had been steadily ascending, the deep-toned notes still sounded far away.
On the crest of a hill Dennis and his companion halted for a brief rest, and then onward and upward the trio climbed, while the track grew narrower and stonier and the jungle pressed closer on every side, and long trailing thorn-edged creepers, hanging from the trees, whipped their faces and tore their clothes.
The leading beast stopped and Gaga raised his hand. Without a word the two white men drew level, for the path had widened out, and they stood upon the border of a glade, dissected by a muddy stream, whose banks were scored with a myriad hoof-marks.