The Tree of Life (Beadle)/Chapter 6

ARREN-DUKELY hurled his cigar stump into the fire, turned on his heel and flung his body into his chair. The doctor remained for a moment, staring incredulously; then, as if he had grasped the import of the man's words and had decided that they were sane, he stood up abruptly and came over to Warren-Dukely.

"This—this seems incredible! In the twentieth century! I"

The polished nails gleamed in the firelight as the delicate hand patted the doctor's arm half-caressingly, half-reassuringly.

"It isn't, my dear old boy; this isn't! It's before the flood. Sit down, Doc; I feel better now I've got that off my chest. For twelve moons I've been dying to tell a white man that! My God!"

"But—is it true?" demanded the doctor, conscious of the fingers spasmodically clutching his arm.

"It's true, all right; true as death!" The eyes gleamed as the beard emitted the throaty chuckle. "Sit down, old boy."

Doctor Herdwether returned to his chair confusedly, unable yet to decide whether or no the story was the result of a disordered brain. Warren-Dukely dragged over his chair close beside the doctor's and leaned forward.

"My brain's all right now, Doc. Er—forgive me, but I can't resist touching you—to see if you're there, y'know. By the way, that's why I dress sometimes. Just to try to keep myself sane. Helps. Can't fool around all day an' night doin' nothin'. I mean even cleanin' oneself an' pretendin' things keeps—oh, reminds one of what one was. Otherwise—well, it isn't done, is it? Not playing the game."

"But if—what you inferred—we might escape—ought not to lose any time."

"Time! You dear old thing! I've been sitting here for twelve moons wastin' time, ain't I? This is an island: crocs all round."

"But I've got a canoe!" exclaimed the doctor. "I came in it."

"Really? An' what the blazes 's the good of that? I tried, old boy. You bet your life I did. I hadn't got a canoe, but I got across on a log in spite of the bloody crocs. I wished I hadn't. They got me three days—or centuries—later. I dunno. Want to live in the jungle, eh?"

"God!" said the doctor and shuddered. "But we could make my camp an'"

"Your camp! In the village, isn't it? 'Sides, did you blaze your trail here, eh? Which direction did you come from?" The little doctor made an inarticulate noise as he glanced over his shoulder. "No, it wasn't that way. That's where the village is. And, I say, for how long d'you think we two an' your twenty-five rats could put up a scrap against the mob? My dear old boy, we haven't got a dog's chance. I've known it for twelve moons. Come, buck up' an' we'll have a chat before we go—or rather I go! But I'm not goin' that way, by God! Playing the game or not!"

"What do you mean?"

One long arm shot up like a salute to the great bough above them.

"You'll see in daylight. Has a pod thing. Poison."

"But—but—" exclaimed the doctor, jumping to his feet. "But! But!" mocked Warren-Dukely harshly. "What the devil's the use of butting? We're not goats. 'Sides, I've butted for twelve bloody moons. Come, old boy, let's have a drink, an'—an' we'll toddle along to Stone's an' finish up at the Empire! ! Sit down, man!"

Suddenly he sprang to his height and slapped the doctor on the shoulder so that he sat down hurriedly. Then, tilting the opera hat upon the side of his head like a comedian, he lifted up his beard toward the moon and trolled in a husky tenor:

At the last word he snatched off his hat and stood bareheaded in the moonlight as the forest answered coldly—

"O-be-r."

"Listen!" he cried, gesturing largely. "There's my faithful pal! Never goes back. Always Agrees with me! The only English voice I've heard for fourteen moons! Come on, old boy! Let's have a drink. God knows I'm dry enough! !" he exclaimed, crushing the hat beneath his arm and bowing satirically to the doctor. "For God's sake, buck up! I'm neither drunk nor crazy! But, Lord, you're the first entertainment I've had for twelve moons! Fourteen moons! Moon! Moons! Moons! Nothing but moons! Wilde knew  little  about moons to what I know! I've watched; I've studied; I've wooed—every bloody one of the fourteen moons!"

"Sit down!" said the doctor sharply.

"Eh."

The tall figure wheeled toward him.

"Sit down, and we'll have a drink. But don't get excited."

"Excited! You dear old duck, I haven't had such a time since ma died!"

The hat went careering wildly through the moonlight, turned a somersault and settled drunkenly on one rim. Warren-Dukely dragged his chair a foot, lumped into it and caught his hand to his eyes.

"Sorry, old man; I'll be good. Fire ahead with that drink though." Then in a dreary voice as the doctor pulled out the flask, "You know you haven't an idea as to what this means to me. One gets used to anything in life. But—well, I did want to speak to a white man once more. Tribal, of course, but—" He dropped his hand to watch at the gurgle of liquid. "You know, Doc, old pal, I'm so glad to see you! I feel like a bally woman welcomin' her lover an' all that sort of thin'. I'm glad, but I guess you ain't."

"Here, drink this, and you'll feel better," said the doctor, proffering the screw-cap.

"Thanks!" Warren-Dukely gulped the liquor at a draft. "Lord, how it bites! Now you have a drink, an' I'll try to tell you what sort of a picnic you're in for. Oh, thanks a million times!"

He accepted the cigar, lighted it with a brand, leaned back and puffed reflectively. The distant anthem pulsed steadily. A night-bird squawked persistently. The faint vibration of the drum just reached them. After lighting his cigar, the doctor said quietly:

"You know, Dukely, I can't quite realize this. I"

"Of course, you can't! It's taken me twelve moons to realize it. Oh, those moons."

"No; I mean there must be some way out of it. We can't be murdered by these savages."

"I object, I admit." The throaty chuckle was repeated. "Now let me tell you, an' then you'll understand, I'll guarantee. Er. H'm. My mind's foggin' again. Oh, yes, I know."

He stared up at the sinister boughs of the giant tree. The eyes hardened.

The nervous twitching of the fingers began again.

"Yes, I think I can do it. You need it, anyhow—to understand." He leaned forward, kicked the embers of the fire into a blaze and plunged abruptly:

"I told you how they caught me, eh? With the same trick of apparent friendliness. Invited me to the show, y'know. Very well. Two days before that drum there began. Sound physiological idea. Works 'em up. All right. On the openin' night I was led here an' given an orchestra stall while the orchestra was tunin' up. Same moon. Same tree. Whole crowd of 'em here. Mumblin' an' chantin' just beyond there in the open space. Old chief on his bally throne thing an' the young 'un. Master of ceremonies—your pal— Yes, I'll bet he's been your special friend, eh? With his head-dress—looked like a lord mayor's hat.

"Well, whole bunch of young girls an' my illustrious predecessor, the King of the Wood. He sat beneath the tree there just outside the gate. Of course, I didn't twig the game—then. D'you see 'em in the moonlight? Then that drumming—all the time—persistent—seemed to get in your bally head, y'know, or your veins—heart. I felt excited myself. Seen various sort of dances before an' all that. But—somehow this was different. Real thing, I suppose.

"Sort of thing they never do for white men except when they're—they're to be the pièce de résistance, y'know. But I didn't. They had told me somethin' about the principle of the thing: the marriage of the husband person—a great big devil by the way, more negro than these people. Came from the Kameroons, I believe; prisoner of war. They have an amusing idea that the bigger the man the more the lady—I mean the tree—is pleased. More power, I suppose. Of course, white man an' white magic an' all that.

"Well, they kept up this drumming an' wrigglin' about—usual witch-doctor business—for the devil of a time. Drinkin' all the time native beer, y'know. Fermented corn. Then the girls' stomach-dances an' all that. Meanwhile the big  feller sat up there in the shadow of the tree, sulky, silent. God knows whether he knew what was coming. I began to get bored." Again that throaty chuckle with a harsh rasp to it. "God—see the same old thing all over again. Then, just as the moon spilled over that big bough there and covered the big negro, there came a change. That must have been the mystic sign, I suppose.

"Well, your pal, Yamala, prancing about suddenly ceased his croonin' row and darted at the fellow, together with a crowd of other black devils. I heard the scream. I didn't realize what. They had him stripped over there in the moonlight—an' a knife—old Yamala." The beard jerked as if he were biting his lips.

"God—I've seen things. Of course, you're a doctor an' used to carvin'—but, God, it would have made you sick." Again he moved restlessly in his chair. "They cut him alive—screeches—poor devil—then they—they put it up there." He actually pointed to the exact spot. "Up there in the fork of that bough. See? I vomited."

The hum of the insectile anthem continued remorselessly to the beat of the invisible baton. A cricket sang a shrill solo and ceased. Far away was the effect of sorrow in a hyena. Only one cigar glowed like the fierce eye of a dragon. From the doctor came an inarticulate noise.