The Tree of Life (Beadle)/Chapter 4

ALLUCINATION!" muttered  the doctor and pawed at his damp face again. But the image remained. The head was sunk forward slightly; the brown beard straggled over the shirtfront; one black-sleeved arm hung listlessly outside the chair, the other upon the right knee. In the moonlight the eyes glinted blue as the man stared at the fire.

"But a white man in evening kit!" whispered the doctor incredulously. "Here! Good God! No, no," he added after peering at the outline of a square hut built beneath the enormous boughs of the giant tree. "It is. I'm not crazy. The feller's crazy. Evening kit—good God! What the—he must be crazy, poor devil!"

"The impulse to call out was inhibited. He began to form excuses to himself.

"I mustn't call out suddenly," he reflected, "or maybe I shall scare the life out of him. I must humor the poor devil. Yes, yes. Of course—unbalanced. They do go that way out here. Queer. Understand it, too, begad! Been in the forest all night perhaps, poor devil," he added quite as unconscious of the ludicrous as of the fact that he was in reality talking about himself.

He opened his mouth and drew in his breath, yet he did not call out. He wriggled his shoulders as if trying to shake off an incubus. Then he realized that he was fearful that, if he shouted, the vision would disappear and he would know that he was crazy. He peered silently for a few moments, blinking his eyes.

"No," he decided. "It is real. queer. That bloody forest upset my nerves. Um, Um. Better find the gate and let him see me when I shout. Mustn't scare the poor devil."

He began to move cautiously along the palisade, six feet high, made of stout saplings, swallowing and muttering excuses to account to himself for not shouting. Stopping occasionally to peep through the interstices, he followed the circle until he came to the great trunk of the tree, fully fifteen feet in diameter. He paused again for another look. That the vision was still there he noted with a feeling of reassurance. As he walked around the trunk, he was vaguely conscious that it faced an open expanse of the great grove, a cavern of basalt floored with jade and topped with fantastic pinnacles of chrysoprase.

On the other side he came upon the gate barred with great heavy balks of timber. The man sat exactly in the same position; had not moved a finger apparently. A wild thought that he was dead flitted across the doctor's mind. He began to draw breath to shout but stopped in indecision. What should he say? "Hi? Hullo?" Perhaps the man was not English. Probably not? What then? The question grew into absurd importance. Still the doctor stared through the balk gate. The rustle of something in the grass behind him evoked an uneasy movement and a clutching at the rifle, destroyed the fascination in the ludicrous argument as to exactly what he should say.

"I say, hullo!"

The man did not stir. Then the doctor was aware that he had whispered. He gripped his rifle tightly and with effort shouted—

"Hull-o!"

"O-o!" repeated the grove.

The doctor glared anxiously, dreading that the figure would disappear. But the head rose slowly; the eyes moved. Again the head sank despondently.

"Thank God, he is there," muttered the doctor, "but he thinks I'm an owl."

"I say—er—hullo!"

Once more the beard rose slowly.

"I say, I'm here!" continued the doctor fatuously. He could see the eyes staring as if mildly inquiring in the moonlight. "I say, old chap, are you English? It's all right! Er—would you mind letting me in?"

He perceived the beard to part suddenly, disclosing white teeth. The man was smiling.

"Good God," murmured the doctor. "He is crazy. Poor feller!" "I say," he began again, enunciating carefully, "I've lost—my—way, y'know. Would you mind—letting me in? I'm Herdwether—Borden Millar Herdwether. Oh ! Hi! I'm an English doctor, Magdalen and London. I say. aren't you English? Parlez-vous français? Eh?"

Still smiling distinctly in the moonlight, the man raised a white hand and slowly waved it toward the doctor.

"My God!" ejaculated the doctor, shuddering involuntarily. "Am I crazy or are you?"

He stared. The eyes resumed the despondent contemplation of the fire.

"What on earth am I to do? He thinks I'm not here, and I thought he wasn't." He pawed at his damp hair. "If I throw anything to attract his attention, he'll think I'm a lion or some wild animal. And I'm not." The little doctor was unconscious of the whimper in his voice. "I can't stop out here all night, it, and who is he, anyway? But what's he want to dress for?" he complained bitterly and glanced behind him at the cavern of the grove.

The doctor became aware of an illusion that he was within a barred cage like a captive monkey and that the man inside the fence was free. "There must be wild animals, or else he wouldn't have this confounded fence. Um." The strange man rose to his feet, yawned and stretched his arms.

"O God, he's going to bed!" muttered the doctor resentfully. "It can't be more than nine o'clock." Then desperately, as the tall black back revealed the swallow tails, he shouted: "Hi!" For God's sake, let me in!"

The tall figure turned sharply in his direction.

"Yes!" bawled the doctor. "It's all right! I'm here, I tell you! Herdwether!" The man was staring in his direction. "Yes, yes, come and let me in, and I'll explain!" The beard waggled slowly as if in regretful dissent. "I am here!" yelled the doctor frantically. "Englishman. Doctor. I'm lost. Help!"

The man look, two paces, stopped, and spoke incomprehensible words.

"No! no!" screamed the doctor. "Speak English! Parlez français!"

He could see the heard move as if the man were talking to himself. Suddenly the fellow stooped, picked up a glowing firebrand and slowly walked toward the gate.

"God, he thinks I'm a gorilla," muttered the doctor and involuntarily brought up his rifle.

"Tor God's sake, speak, man!" he yelled. "I'm real. I tell you! I'm a white man!" The bearded man in full evening dress with a firebrand in his hand stopped abruptly and stared toward the fence.

"A white man!" he exclaimed. "Where? Oh, my God, where?"

"Here! Here! I'm lost! Let me in! I'm lost!"

The man hesitated, moved as if to throw away the brand, arrested his arm and stooped again to peer at the fence.

"Who and what are you?" he demanded. "Are you real—or am I crazy? Speak!"

"No. No. I'm real!" shouted the doctor. "I'm English, I tell you."

THE man appeared satisfied, for he threw away the firebrand and advanced with long eager strides toward the gate, wrenched up the balks of timber and then, as if suddenly suspicious, leaped backward clear of the entrance. The doctor walked through, took off his helmet and held out his hand.

"How d'you do, sir! I'm Herdwether."

The big man gazed down at him and placed a hand to his forehead perplexedly.

"I suppose it's all right," he mumbled. " if I know. Er—how d'you do!" He touched the extended hand perfunctorily. "I—er—don't quite understand—yet. You said—are you a white man?"

"Yes, yes," said the doctor soothingly. "White, I assure you. English doctor, y'know. I—er—lost my way and—and saw your fire; so I just came along."

"Oh."

The eyes were still regarding him rather like a great child, uncertain as to whether the visitor was a tramp or an angel.

"My name's Herdwether—Borden Millar Herdwether. I'm here on a commission, y'know. Forgive me. I haven't the pleasure"

"Eh? Oh."

Gazing incredulously, the man shook his beard as if trying to throw off an illusion. "Sorry. Er—I'm Dukely—Warren-Dukely, y'know."

"What! Warren-Dukely, the explorer?" exclaimed the doctor in astonishment.

The man giggled, throwing back his head.

"I beg your pardon!" he added more rationally.

"Not at all," said the doctor. "Not at all. Er—I wonder it you'd mind if we sit down? I—er—I'm rather fagged out."

"Fagged out, what?" The words appeared to act as a restorative. "I say, I'm awfully sorry. Of course! Come along." He started off toward the fire, stopped abruptly and, murmuring, "Forgotten the door, old boy!" hurried back and readjusted the balks.

The doctor waited for him, trying to catch a glimpse of the face. The man returned with great eager strides and to the doctor's amazement caught him by the shoulders and spun him around face to the moon.

"Good God Almighty!" he exclaimed. "That's good!" He dropped him as suddenly. "I say, I beg your pardon! You must forgive me, I—er—I'm a little off my chump, y'know. I—well, as a matter of fact, I haven't seen a white man for years. I don't know, I—but come and sit down." He strode forward to the hut, his swallow tails flirting in the moonlight, and emerged, dragging another camp-chair. "Sit down, old man. By the way, I didn't quite catch? Herwether?"

"Herdwether," said the doctor, sitting, and he almost giggled as he saw the man pick up his tails as he sat as if he were in a club.

Dukely still stared a little incredulously. The doctor observed in the fire-glow the gauntness of the cheek-bones and the sunken eyes. Embarrassed, he looked at the fire, thinking—

"He can't be quite crazy if he knows it, but what on earth is he dressed for!"

Conscious of the eyes devouring him, he sat still, considerately waiting for his host to speak.

"My God, it's good to see you!" exclaimed Dukely at length. "I—d'you know I heard your voice calling, but—but, it, I thought I was dreaming."

"I understand," said the doctor quietly.

"One gets rather ratty after a while. Begin to see things if you're not careful. Er—'r' you camping near here?"

"Yes," assented the doctor. "Down at Basa-something's village, wherever that is. I was out shooting, y'know, and got lost."

"Oh yes."

As he stole a glance at the man, a black sleeve crept out, and a hand lightly touched his arm. Involuntarily the doctor started. Yet he had noticed that the hand was well kept, the nails polished.

There was silence for some minutes. The forest murmured and whispered and wept. Yet the sinister note was missing to the doctor's ears. Twice he glanced up at the bearded gaunt face. The man continued to stare almost like a yokel gawping at a circus fat lady. The doctor was embarrassed. A thousand questions leaped to his mind.

"Er," he broke out at length. "I wonder whether you have such a thing as a glass of water? I'm simply parched."

Dukely leaped from his chair as if galvanized.

"Certainly, certainly!" he muttered. "I'm an awful rotter!" and he disappeared into the hut to emerge with a calabash of water.

"Oh, thanks very much!" The doctor hesitated, glanced at the hut and up at the tall man in evening dress. He fumbled at his hip pocket. "Um. I—you don't mind if I—do you care for whisky?" "Whisky!" echoed Dukely. The eyes brightened at the glint of a silver flask and were masked politely. "Good God, I haven't tasted whisky for—oh thanks!" He almost grabbed, swallowed at a gulp, the tot of spirit which the doctor had proferred [sic] in the screw-cap; then he gasped, shaking his head at the calabash. The doctor took his share and a deep drink of water. As he placed the calabash on the ground beside him, the man sat down slowly and fell to gazing at his visitor again without speaking.

"Good God," thought the doctor, "is he going to stare at me all night?"

"Er—by the way," said he desperately, "have you—are you staying here long?"

The man started and seemed to shiver. He said slowly—

"Well, I'm going to be married in a day or so."

"Oh, yes, ah, of course," assented the doctor politely.

"I'm the King of the Wood, y'know."

"Oh, yes, yes," ejaculated the doctor as he thought, "My God, he's as mad as a hatter."