Читать книгу Angel Esquire - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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The hut was set away from the village. It stood in a clearing of its own by a little lagoon. Behind it, on the land side, a semi-circular screen of tall palms, all hubbly with the ball-like nests of weaver birds.

The great throng that squatted in a circle about the hut kept a respectful distance. The sun had gone down—one by one they had stolen in from the shadows of the bush, sinking into their places silently, and as silently remained. No man approached the door of the hut, they waited patiently as though some appointed hour had been fixed, seemingly unconscious of one another's presence, neither greeting the constantly arriving newcomer nor receiving greeting. Kroo men in tattered sailor dress, raw natives from the bush, here and there one who bore the fez or cowl that spoke of his faith in Islam. More than one was of the educated native class, and squatted gingerly in his immaculate white ducks. All of them were men—young men and old men.

The moon came up over the still lagoon and lit the silent congregation with its yellow light. One wearing a turban about his head and a white jellab about his shoulders stole from the forest and made his way to the front rank. Suddenly from the hut came a noise like a pattering rain—practised ear would have detected it as the sound of little sticks played rapidly on the tightly stretched skin of a tom-tom. Then a deep voice from the crowd asked:

"Who sits in the darkness?"

The throng answered with one voice:

"He who sees."

Again the deep voice:

"Who sits in the silence?"

And the whole congregation replied:

"He who hears."

There was a pause, and someone within fumbled at the coarse native cloth that screened the doorway.

Then from the dark interior of the hut a cracked old voice croaked:

"Who hath the seeds of Death in his hand and the water of Life in his gourd?"

With one accord the whole concourse led by one deep voice shouted, swaying their bodies as they sang:

"Make as strong, oh Ju-ju-ba. Make us rich, oh Ju-ju, We are weak, we are poor, Give us of thy great surplus."

As they spoke a man came from the hut.

He was old and tall and he came into the flood of yellow moonlight, staring with sightless eyes toward the lagoon. Medicine-man as he was, the streaked face and the mask and wig of his office were absent. A great scar ran down his withered cheeks as though from the blow of a knife, and yet another parted the white of his head. A staff was in his hand, and as the chant finished he struck the ground, and a silence fell upon the throng.

Sightless he was, but by some extraordinary instinct he singled out men by name, and they came to him, blundering through the worshippers—for such they were—and breathing heavily like men who had run a distance. These fell at the feet of the blind old men, and so waited his pleasure. Supplicants as they were, he did not ask their business.

"Nogi, of Emfeeta," croaked the old man.

"Master?"

"What charm can make the mealies grow where the fire has been. What you ask is folly."

The man at his feet slunk away, and another took his place.

"Who is this? Obero, the Kroo man, who has an enemy?"

"Yes, master."

The man spoke in a strangled tone, for his mouth touched the dust. The old man loosened a charm from a string that hung over his bare shoulder.

"Take this. He will die of the sickness, wasting away slowly."

One by one they crawled to his feet—bush man, Mohammedan, and Kroo boy; slave and slave owner, chief and subject—and, according to their needs, he served them. Hour after hour the play went on: the naming of men he could not see, the uprisings of the summoned man, the prostrations and the pleadings.

Then it came to an end, and from the crowd he called two men. Unlike the rest, they rose and stood before him. He spoke to them by name.

"N'Saka and Igobi—children of the stars."

"Master." they murmured in unison.

"Who gave you power of hand and eye?"

"You, O master," they said in a low voice.

"Who gave you the magic of the silver charm?"

"Master, it was you!"

"Who taught you to gather sleep from the air—so!"—he waved his thin hands quickly—"who taught you the great magic that brings death to the living—death that is not death?"

"Master, you taught us!"

The old man bowed his head before he spoke again.

"Go quickly," he said, "as you went before. Show the white man the silver charm—the white man who stands in the palaver house of the great ship. Show him the charm so that the moonlight falls upon it, and when his heart is full of the little charm, wave your hands—so! Then you shall say to him three times in your own tongue: 'The Nogi Rock is the open sea.' Three times shall you say this; and you shall stay with the ship till the end, and leave the mark of the Ju-ju."

"It shall be so, master," said the men, and they came back to the throng and sank silently in their places.

The old man waited a moment, leaning on his stick, his blind eyes fixed on the glittering waters.

Then he turned to go.

Two paces he look towards the hut, then turned back swiftly.

"What does he want?" he asked hoarsely. "What does he want—the white man who sits in the garb of an Arab?"

A dead silence followed the question, then a man who sat on the inner edge of the circle rose to his feet.

"I am he," he said quietly; and a shiver ran through the people.

The old man took a step towards him and craned his neck forward as though he would see the face of the man who had courted the terrible death.

"I am he," the stranger went on. "I have come—to learn."

The blind doctor of Basaka curled his lips like an old dog in his anger.

"You shall learn," he said, and raised his hand. "Strike!" he cried, and a hundred men rose to his bidding in silence.

Quick as a flash, Angel sprang past the old man and gained the door of the hut. "The dried heart of the goat," that symbol of Fantee mysticism, would avail him little here. This much he realized as he reached the dark interior of the hut. He would gain a little time by his action. He knew enough of the Coast to know the superstitious natives would not follow him to the medicine-man's sanctuary. As he reached the middle of the hut and turned, revolver in hand, he heard the old man's voice.

"White man," he wheezed mockingly, "come back to the quick death, lest death come all too slowly."

"In time," Angel answered coolly.

"Come, white man," said the voice again; "come, eater of goats' hearts! Ah, I know you!"

Angel mentally consigned his unwilling guide to an early grave.

"Come," said the voice, "seeker of charms, who hath sipped the wisdom of the Blind Man of Basaka—the hour is at hand. Yet be sure I will send to him who sent you a sign that you have learnt what you have learnt—for I will send him your heart."

Angel set his teeth and softly pulled back the steel envelope of his Browning pistol.

"Come for me," he answered; "come, oh wise man, or will you send one whose life you hold lightly? Oh, people of Basaka, bushmen, and sons of mad mothers, who will lay his hand on the white man?"

He heard a whispered order and a patter of bare feet, and the shadows of two men fell across the threshold.

The first fell dead at the doorway, the second squirmed into the hut with a bullet through his brain, and the little hut was filled with the smell of powder.

Angel waited for the inevitable rush.

If they came by twos he could keep them at bay.

He had slipped off the clinging Arab robe and turban. If the worst came to the worst, he could run.

Again he heard the voice of the blind seer. It was hoarse with rage, and broken.

He heard the order that meant his death, the hustle of the closed rank, and the rattle of spear shafts; and then a loud crack, and another and another, and over all the shrill call of a bugle and a great rush of feet.

Through the doorway he saw the line of charging Haussas and heard the fresh voice of the young Englishman in command; then, as the throng of natives about the hut scattered, he leapt the bodies of the men in the doorway and caught the arm of the old man.

The witch-doctor turned with a snarl, and, raising his iron-shod stick, struck at the detective with surprising force. Twice he struck, and twice Angel dodged the blow, then he slipped, and the old man was on him.

For a moment Angel thought his last hour had come. Lean and old as the witch-doctor was, he was possessed of the strength of a maniac. He loosened one hand to fumble in the rags about his middle, and Angel, making a last despairing effort, threw himself over to where his fallen pistol lay.