Читать книгу Drums of Mer - Ion Idriess - Страница 8

Utter silence, not even the swish of a night bird’s wing. The island, towering black, big Gelam with its little hills sloping away down to the indistinct lands. A stone’s throw across the water was shadowed the precipitous peak of tiny Dauar with the castellated cliffs of Waiar, isle of evil, beside it; and over all a dome of velvet-blue pierced by a million stars. It seemed that the curtains of heaven were withdrawn, so that angels might gaze upon Mer.

Mer the terrible! Mer the beautiful: chief lodge of the Zogo-le!

Within the Sacred Grove the tenseness was such that the people breathed fear. The sacred Wongais encircled the grove, their massive, twisted branches, their grey-green leaves still and silent.

In the centre loomed a dome-shaped thatch like a mammoth beehive. It was the chief Zogo-house of the Eastern Group, and it housed one of the most powerful gods known to Island peoples. Pressed back upon the sacred trees, as far from the Zogo-house as they could squeeze, waited a thousand men and women.

Not a large meeting, for this was but a local thanksgiving to the Au-gud for a successful raid, made spectacular by the young son of the Mamoose having brought back a prisoner.

Pregnant silence in the Grove; the captive’s ears tingled to the sigh of hostile people breathing around him in the dark. And often at a movement came a gleam half seen and frightening – the eyes of savage people nearly hysterical from an ecstasy of excitement and fear.

Suddenly, as if propelled from a giant’s searchlight, a flame of liquid gold shot from the sea towards the sky. It crinkled while it grew, as if the long-drawn “Ah” of the people fanned it to a flame that crept up behind the black summit of Gelam. From flaring silhouette the crater’s edge turned into fire of gold as the long grass leapt into view. A bath of silver dashed upon the sea. Hills, trees, villages leapt to form, adorned in silver coats. The hill-crests gleamed, a crimson line.

From somewhere came a rumble that broke into a concerted throb of drums. Those shark-jaw drums of Mer! Throbbing a passion that echoed in the beating hearts of men. Far out across the Strait the leathery snakelike head of a turtle clove the water and floated wonderingly.

A circle tip of molten gold pierced the crimson line. The crowd in frantic accord raised their arms and roared a chant, fierce yet strangely sweet, while the tip swelled to a disk that shot clean above the hill-top to the quickening pulse of the drums.

Burnished gold, swimming in its own brightness, this wonder moon of the Coral Sea! They gloried in its majesty while it sped up, up, up, and strikingly were its beams reflected within the Sacred Grove, until the straws upon the Zogo-house were visible as in the day. Perhaps some property in the ground, or shrewd advantaging of trees and rocks and hills, was responsible for this fierce white reflection.

Bamboo masts (the Sarokag) stood around the Zogo-house, arranged mathematically to form a sign of the Bomai-Malu, each mast capped by a symbol upon which the light was reflected mirror-like. These symbols were skulls. Crowning a coral dais was a gigantic clam-shell of pure white, mothering the Zogo-stone, round and black and glistening, for it had just been anointed with human oil. The moon beams licked upon the living as if by its light imbuing their bodies with life of itself. Warriors and women, youths and maids, of splendid stature with arms upstretched and faces transformed above the meaning of their song. These were the Miriam-le, all the people of the villages of Mer.

The village men of Mer were tall heavily-built savages, dark brown men in colour, strong limbed. Their faces were broad, with features uncompromising under jet-black brows which shadowed keen aggressive eyes. Their hair, in thick ringlets, fell back over the shoulders; their beards were divided into ringlets of three dark coils speckled with ivory of crocodiles’ teeth; sharks’ teeth gleamed along the double edge of their broad, heavy swords. Among these darker peoples of the Miriam-le, some, men of Las village stood out like the bronzed statues of a sculptor’s dream. Their faces were arrestingly pleasing, their black-brown eyes keenly alive, while their finely chiselled features and haughty carriage irresistibly reminded the one white onlooker of the arrogance of Spain. The black eyes of their women flashed merriment and coquetry, while their athletic figures made the onlooker resentful that their skin was not pure white. The single petticoat of fig-tree root, teased into strands of silk, clung from supple waists to just above the knee. The maids not yet initiated into womanhood, however, adorned the many leaved croton, while a hibiscus necklace in scarlet flowers toyed across their breasts. Their hazily pretty hair was a wave of profuse strands, all of minute crinkles. Pridefully cared for, it fringed the forehead in massed waves where every strand lay in place combed back over the head to the nape of the neck, where it was gathered by a gleaming clasp of mother-of-pearl to spread out and up like a peacock’s tail, a fan-shaped mass of fine black hair. A brown colour at the tips was due to constant diving and swimming in the sea. Strange that among these people were numbers with the countenance of Jew and Arab!

And upon all the Miriam-le alike there shimmered beautiful ornaments, insignia of office, dibi-dibi pendants of warriorhood, leg-bands, brow-combs, breast ornaments of gleaming mother-of-pearl, of sparkling nautilus shell, of mottled tortoise-shell, the armlet-shell rare and carved, necklaces of brilliant corals and tiny vividly-coloured shells; the insignia of the Zogo-le and Mamooses were cut and carved and polished with a highly artistic taste.

Surrounding the chief of each tribal group and holding themselves apart, were arrogant men from whose brows floated the ominous black feathers of one of the most feared societies ever formed, the Bomai-Malu Cult. Standing in cynical isolation, his huge arms haughtily folded, was a giant clad in the dread insignia of Waiat. From his glance all maids trembled away, seeking to hide their faces and figures among the crowd. All the clans of Mer were there, all except one, the Gamard-Bauer, outcasts and ghouls of the night. And joining with the song of the Miriam-le chanted the graceful people of Las, taken out of themselves in adoration of a “Something” which they but dimly realized. “Gesu! Gesu! Gesu!” “Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem!”

Among the black warriors of Mer there sang a Las man, or, rather, such he seemed to be for his skin was kissed a deep, rich brown from the sun .and sea. There the resemblance ended. He was not so tall as the Las, but his body, now afire with tense emotions, was as lithely muscular as theirs. He wore the badge of the men of Mer, he shook on high a sword of Mer, his hair was as long as theirs, only his was brown. He wore the crescent mai, proud insignia of a chief. The square jaw was beardless, unlike some young men around him, numbers of whom too wore the hair cut short. Strangely, among that black-eyed throng, his eyes were grey. Once a boyish laughing grey, they had grown cold and steely and cruel, alive with a snaky quickness that registered every happening in the grove, eyes that reacted to some ever-present fear of the mind.

Outwardly he was just like the others as his vibrant voice sang praise of Bomai, of Malu, of Segar, of Kulka, of the Au-gud, and of the Zogo and the Zogo-le.

The drums ceased – silence gripped all as the moon, now satisfied that the men of Mer paid homage, proceeded majestically up into the skies to veil its face with wispy cloud-lace of pink, a wondrous moon, the golden moon of Torres Strait.

With lowered arms the people trembled – fear hushed the grove – the walls of the Zogo-house slid within themselves, the interior opened. A thousand people fell upon their knees, with heads bowed to the earth and crying, “Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem!” From deep among the men of Mer the brown man peered up from under his eyebrows, intent upon the chief Zogo, not the fearsome Au-gud. Even at that distance he strove to combat the master mind behind the gigantic mask, to seek out its camouflaged thoughts, its secret intentions towards himself. As the trapped rat stares at the waiting snake so he stared but with his mind alone, never with his eyes when perhaps others might notice.

C’Zarcke the Zogo, the great Au-Zogo-zogo-le and Au-Maid-maid-le, master of hypnotic sorcery, chief and head of the Bomai-Malu, gazed out over the bowed crowd, his strong teeth gritted in an ecstasy of power. Full well he knew that he could, if he wished, call on these people and they would turn and slay until not one man or woman was left alive. And these were merely a handful of the multitude to whom but a thought from him could bring death. Chief Zogo of the most powerful Island group and Geregere-le (the Beizam-boai who had charge of the sacred emblems), of the Bomai-Malu Cult which controlled the three main Island groups and even tribes in distant Dowdai (New Guinea), he was ruler and supreme arbiter in life; and – they believed – after death, of the destiny of many people.

A Tami-le (secondary priest) respectfully removed the mask, disclosing C’Zarcke clad in a magnificent head-dress of plumes of the red bird of paradise, the feathers inset within a curved arch of mother-of-pearl which fitted down over the head to the lower jaw. Encircling the arch, like nails in a horseshoe gleamed iridescent green and pearl. These were of a tiny green coral shell highly prized and rare, but the pearls merely possessed a superstitious value, since they were “Stones of the Sea.” Down his back, over massive shoulders, fell blue-black curls which, with the banding of pearl and drooping plumes, framed a savage face mesmeric with mental power.

On his broad chest glittered the Zogo-mai, of which there are only three in the world. About five inches in diameter, this beautiful ornament was of perfect mother-of-pearl, disk-shaped, perforated with fretwork into a series of polished patterns. The art of the work had been lost centuries before at the birth of the Bomai-Malu. In the far-off days of the Ad Giz (the first gods or ancestors) the art had been born. Only the chief Zogo of Mer, of Eroob, and of Ugar, dare wear a Zogo-mai. On one thick arm C’Zarcke wore a Zogo-kadik, a finely-plaited arm-guard of cane from which flaunted metallic plumes of the bird of paradise. Round his body clung a voluptuously thick skirt which appeared like thousands of jet-black threads of hair, curling to the knees. These were selected feathers of the cassowary. The waist-band into which the skirt was gathered scintillated with phosphoric beads of shell and flame-stones, which flashed suspiciously like European jewels. With one hand linking with the base of the Au-gud, so C’Zarcke stood.

Above its dais of coral and shells the Au-gud loomed to a height of six feet; a sitting figure in the form of a man, it was fashioned from picked plates of tortoise-shell, polished to a mottled beauty. As it sat with heavy arms folded and slightly bowed head, its broad face expressed savagery shadowed by a cynical wisdom. To the left and right of the Au-gud stood Ses and Aet, who, with C’Zarcke, composed the Zogo-le of Mer. Farther to the right stood the three Zogo-le of Eroob, and to the left the Zogo-le of Ugar. The chief Zogo of each Zogo-le wore the Zogo-mai, but C’Zarcke alone wore the metallic feathers in his Zogo-kadik. Also the skirt of the lesser Zogo-le as fashioned of silken strands, delicately plaited of Ze-leaves. These men wore, throughout, the fantastic masks of Malu, only partially visible behind a barbaric shield of turtle-shell. The face was broadly barred with white in designs apparently geometrical in pattern, each design representing a secret order of Bomai. The cheeks were marked with a row of red triangles, with central disks of yellow. A drooping busby of coloured grasses tasselled from the top. Around his neck each man wore a necklet of the lower jaws of human beings.

Standing in two semicircles partly enclosing the Au-gud and the Zogo-le, were the barbarically dressed priests, the Tami-le. From the head of each drooped an ominous black feather.

C’Zarcke turned to the Au-gud, and his deep voice boomed within the Zogo-house and was thrown back and far out over the amphitheatre of trees. The Zogo-house had been designed by cunning men who understood the magnifying properties of sound. From the Au-gud’s nostrils belched streaks of greenish flame, met by a fiery breath from the god’s mouth which carried the intermingling flames straight out towards the centre of the Sacred Grove.

An instant change came over the people who, leaping erect, shouted thrice to the accompaniment of waving arms and a rhythmic, thunderous stamp of feet: “Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem! Oh Au-gudeem!”

Then with martial tread and flashing eyes, stalked forward Bogo, Mamoose of Mer. Behind him came Beizam, his stripling son, filled with a trembling pride at the greatest event of his life. For in a moment he would be a warrior, he would have taken his first head!

Under like circumstances, a boy on getting his first man would not remove the head himself, that would be done by the uncle (maternal), and the head would be brought to the boy’s mother to hang on the post near the home. But Beizam was the son of the Mamoose, and now he was nearly dying of dread lest he make a mess of removing his maiden trophy in the presence of all these.

For in the surprise raid Beizam had overpowered a prisoner, and his triumph-flamed mind had borne a great idea. He, the chief’s stripling, would slay his prisoner before the Zogo-house in front of all the people! Fitting tableau to the initiation of a chief’s son, and quite in accord with the keen dramatic instincts of the Islanders!

Between two warriors was dragged the prisoner.

They stood him upon nerveless feet before the Au-gud. The man was a warrior of the Yardigan tribe, an aboriginal mainlander. He was tall of stature, and the scars crossing his chest and corrugating his back and shoulder muscles were proof positive that he had slain his men. In nakedness he trembled there, just nerveless clay. Sweat glistened upon his body, which was astench with human grease. A strikingly different specimen of humanity, this stone-age man, his animal-like features strongly contrasting with the clean-cut features of the Islanders.

Contemptuously Beizam thrust a warrior’s gaba-gaba club into the captive’s nerveless paw. But he just stood there, thick-lipped mouth sagging, deep-set shaggy eyes staring piteously at the Au-gud. He was no coward, this Australian aboriginal, simply a child of the forest. Fear held him mesmerized; this sudden transition from the sunlit, quiet bush to these undreamt-of happenings benumbed the reasoning of the brain.

Beizam stepped back, transformed. With lips parted and expanded chest he stared a moment at this hairy man as if he were the most wonderful, the most beautiful, the most coveted thing in the world. Then, with a panther step forward, he swung his stone killing-club and with practised flick of the wrist brought it squarely on the temple of the aboriginal. To the “smack” of the blow there roared shouts and shrieks of approval. It had been a perfect blow, exactly on the right spot, not too hard, not too gentle, just sufficient to stun. Beizam leapt on the fallen man, his gaba-gaba swinging from a wrist-thong as his left hand flicked loose the singai loop from behind his neck while his right whipped out the upi head-knife, razor-keen. Grasping the clay-daubed hair in talon-like fingers, Beizam jerked the face toward the skies and slit the throat beneath. Through this he thrust the singai, until the cane loop poked out from the mouth; then, thrusting the handle through the loop, he drew the knot tight.

Gaba-gaba / Singai loop.

Upi - Head-knife.

Mai. / Bone dagger.

There followed a roar like that of stampeding cattle, as the people, all frenzied at the kill, packed themselves before the Zogo-house.

Grasping the singai handle, Beizam jerked up the head so that the throat strained as the reason-cords of the brown man gazing on were straining. One quick slash of the knife cut through the neck to the joint of the spinal cord. With a flick of the wrist the head was jerked sideways, so that the back muscles tautened, and the knife without a jar completed the circle. With left hand stretching the singai and right twisting the head, Beizam pulled strongly but evenly upwards. There was a pronounced “click” and sob, the head parted, and, as Beizam raised it on high, a tapering streak of marrow was drawn out with it. Beizam clenched his teeth on the grizzly neck and sucked and chewed. Thus was the courage and strength of the dying man being drawn into himself! The headless body rose on staggering feet and, with grotesquely thrashing limbs, spun round and round like a stunned fowl giddily striving to keep its balance. A screaming roar rent the air to accompany the dance, and the contorting face and kissing lips of the head above Beizam’s mouth seemed to be screaming in unison. For several moments the body writhed, then sagged down, but Beizam still danced to the roaring acclamations of the throng.

One among them danced too, but his movements seemed regulated as the dead man’s had been; the eyes stared as his had done, the mouth gaped open too, soundlessly.

A sickly feeling touched a sense in his brain. He shouted wild congratulations upon the triumph-intoxicated Beizam and acted more like a human being guided by his own power, for he knew that the eye of C’Zarcke was upon him, that coldly and cruelly C’Zarcke was deciphering his very thoughts and fear. He dare not now even glance towards the Zogo.

Presently the brown man slunk from the Sacred Grove; he was at liberty now to go. Like a shadow he moved among the Wongai-trees, shuddering from their touch. He avoided the village path, though it was broad and deserted and lit up by the moon. Instead, he stole through the banana-trees, emerged on the shadowed hill-track, and crept into his hut. The darkness was a friend. There was no human eye to see. The tense savagery left his face, and he sighed like a tired child. He bowed himself upon his mat, and prayed.

“Dear God, help me, let them not do to me as to the aboriginal, as to all that fall into their hands. Succour me, or kill me, but protect me from the Dance of Death. Death itself would be sweet, but I die a thousand deaths each time I see the Dance of Death. I dance with the dying man, I feel the drawing of life from the body – and C’Zarcke knows! Please God help me!”

The Sarokag pole / Pineapple club. / Shark-tooth sword.