Call of the Caribbean/Chapter 9

T was a Bible—or rather what was left of one. Mary slipped into the shelter and handed it to Stuart. We examined it by the fire we had kindled from some bamboo sticks. And it was no ordinary Bible.

All that remained of it were two worn leather covers, inlaid with tarnished silver and a dozen faded yellow pages of stiff paper. Water and age had almost obliterated the print. Stuart, however, studied the pages and turned to me triumphantly.

“Spanish,” he cried. “And seventeenth century block printing. This belonged to Don Quiros.”

Stuart knew more than I about books. Yet I saw that what he said was true. The heavy, black characters were those of two centuries ago. The covers were held together by massive silver clasps.

While I was looking at the book Jack Stuart was questioning Mary after the fashion the two of them had contrived. He told me what he learned, which was little. Mary had been given the relic by her friends, the hillmen of Santo. Where they got it, she did not know. She had not, of course, any idea what it was.

Mary was pleased at the interest we showed in her gift. The warmth of the fire was grateful to her after her wetting, and she presently put an end to our inquiries by curling up beside it and going to sleep.

She slept quietly, a half smile on her full lips, light strands of her hair moving with her breathing. Stuart and I both watched her, for she made a pretty picture in our dismal shelter. I put a blanket over her, for the rain had made the cavern damp, and the lad nodded to me gratefully.

“Rather informal, isn’t it, old man?” he asked awkwardly, for our quarrel was still fresh.

“I hope her friends don’t take it into their heads to visit us,” I answered.

He laughed and held out his hand.

“I’ve been a fool, Haskins, treating you the way I did. Hope you’ll let me apologize.”

I took his hand. Yes, Jack Stuart was a splendid chap, although inclined to have queer ideas. And we were lucky the quarrel had been no worse.

“Now you’ll believe the Quiros expedition has left its traces in Santo,” he said, eagerly. “This book was left by them.”

“Yes and no,” I admitted. “It most likely proves Don Quiros and his men came to Santo. And to my thinking it means they didn’t live very long after their coming.”

“Why?”

“They would have taken better care of the sacred book if they had. It bears evidence of neglect for years, if not centuries.”

He stared moodily into the firelight, the strangeness of the thing heavy upon him. Here was an object that had been in the hands of the Spanish wanderers; given to us by a wild girl to whom it meant nothing. It puzzled me—the girl’s having the book. But I glimpsed a reason for it.

The hillmen of Santo, generations ago, must have seen the Bible in the hands of the Quiros party. And the dwarfs had treasured it, when it came into their possession, believing it to be a “devil-devil” symbol, what we would call a talisman. And they treasured the girl Mary. It was natural, under the circumstances, that they gave her the book.

And Mary, being a woman, saw nothing desirable in the worn leather covers. Yet the hillmen had told her, repeating the tales handed down by their fathers, that it was a talisman. And she believed them. And, as a woman will, she gave it to Stuart, he being the man she loved.

Yes, there was no doubt that she loved him. Every action of the girl was a witness to that. I am a bachelor of a good many years; but I did not mistake the light in her eyes when she looked at him.

Stuart had fallen asleep where he sat. The rain had stopped. As the cavern was still damp, I put more bamboo sticks on the fire, and sat up with a pipe to pass the few hours until daylight. And I had plenty to think about.

Here was Jack Stuart, who, for all his saying that he stayed to find the Quiros city, thought of nothing but Mary. And here was the girl of the Santo forest who grieved every time she had to leave Jack, and flew back to him, almost literally, on wings.

Who was she? Where did she come from? I did not know—although at that time I had begun to have a suspicion. Jack Stuart did not know. She was no native. Even then, however, I knew that it would be useless to try to take her away from Santo. Have you ever taken a young bird from its nest? Or a fox cub from its thicket? If you have, you know the misery that fastens on your victim, and the sense of guilt which comes upon you.

The Lord has ordained that certain of His creatures may not be taken from their environment and live. Man has made bird cages and kennels. And I wonder sometimes if they are not a sin. Certainly civilized man has fashioned cages for women of other races.

Likewise, here was Mary, watched over by some vigilant tribesmen who had a nasty way of transfixing too-ardent suitors. And I had given my promise to McShea to look out for the lad.

It was rather a mess. I did not see my way out of it. But, as usually happens, the matter was solved for me—although hardly in the way I expected.

I have a trick of remaining perfectly still when thinking very deeply. My pipe had gone out, and the fire had died to embers. Which, I think, saved me from Johnny Gorai’s fate.

I had seen no movement in the mouth of the cavern, although I had been facing it. Yet within four yards of me on the other side of the fire was one of the hillmen of Santo. He had crawled in as quietly as a snake moves through water.

He was very slight in figure, small boned and with little flesh on his limbs. His body, naked except for a lava-lava of beads, glistened with oil, probably coconut. His small eyes darted unceasingly from the sleeping girl to Stuart and me.

For the sake of those who seek knowledge, I will say that the dwarfs of Santo are no more dwarfs than certain tribes in the interior of Africa, or the older races; of Japan. They are merely exceptionally small, and being very timid, are so seldom seen that tales have sprung up about them. My visitor must have been fully four and three-quarter feet in height. He carried a slender bow, with an arrow fitted to its string.

My gun was leaning against the rock a foot behind me. I did not try to reach it. If the dwarf had intended to kill either of us, he could have done so easily before I saw him. If I made a movement I was pretty sure that the arrow he held would be in my throat before I touched my rifle.

So I waited, and saw him touch Mary gently. She wakened instantly and he gripped her warningly.