The Tree of Life (Beadle)/Chapter 7

UKELY stooped for a brand to relight his cigar. He puffed thirstily.

"Twelve moons ago. The Cycle eh? Still. Well, then I wanted to go. My head man was with me—poor devil! They were too busy to notice me. Then—I went off and down to the canoes. But there weren't any canoes—at least not where we had landed. They must have hidden them somewhere else on the island. Of course, I didn't know then that it was an island. Well, I was in a  of a rage. I came blunderin' back here. Blood-drunk an' crazy. Orgy, of course.

"Just over there cookin' parts of the body on great fires. Blood an' hair and women all over the place. Saturnalia. I might as well have expected a rational answer from a lunatic asylum. My boy was gone. I wish to God I'd shot 'em. I couldn't have got 'em all, of course, but most of 'em before they had come to their senses. But I didn't know. I cleared off an' walked about all night Then—of course, I had not a notion—what—what—well, you know now.

"I came back in the dawn. The drums were going. Some still dancin' like stuffed vultures. Others gorged, slept. They made me sick. I went off an' sat under a tree—that one over there. I decided to clear out next day, as I couldn't undertake to wipe out the tribe. Yet I recollect that I thought what a toppin' account it would make in a book. Queer ideas one gets—when Fate's playin' round. Oh God! Y'know, Doc, I've wondered sometimes—since—when I've been wooin' the moon there, whether we aren't all merely characters—an' rotten ones mostly, eh? In a book? What? But, Lord, I'd like to get my hands on my author who put me here—an' you. Sorry."

He ceased abruptly, puffed twice and shot out—

"Well? what are you goin' to do about it, Doc?"

"I really don't know." The little doctor's voice had lost the irritable note; he appeared to have regained his consulting-room tone—suave, impersonal. "But what did you do then—in the morning?"

"I do? an' Tommy, what d'you  think I could do? They pinched my rifle while I slept. Then they trotted me up to this place. Oh yes, I objected. Still, they were an ugly crowd, an' lots of 'em. Of course, I didn't know what was up at the time. As a matter of fact they flung me in here and then skedaddled. I roamed around to find out that the darned place was an island. Among other things I found were about a couple of dozen heads of my men, on the trees down there, courteous reminder, y'know.

"They starved me for three days, an' then I began to find goats left in the stockade here while I was away huntin' round for some one to kill. After about ten days of that sort of thing, I dunno—they brought one of my men in a canoe an' made him interpret for me. Of course, I got as mad as—when the feller told me about the husband business of the magic tree an' all that. He said they had all been wiped—except himself—and eaten.

"After that I tried to escape. I told you, eh? That cured me—or broke me. I dunno. I was delirious when they brought me back here. I pulled through an' found all my gear here—more or less—except guns. The other things they thought were magic an' were scared to interfere with 'em, even the whisky, thank Heaven."

"The whisky?" queried the doctor sharply. "Didn't they drink that?"

"No. Brought up all, nearly all, my gear except my rifles. Didn't know what whisky was probably—or thought it was magic stuff."

"Oh," commented the doctor. "Um. Um. I say, how about your medicine-chest? Have you got it still?"

"Oh yes; quinine all finished."

"Um! How about opium?"

"Finished, too. You see, old boy, that was rather useful sometimes—when the whisky had run out. Gives you sleep at at any rate."

"Got any aconite?"

"No."

"Laudanum?"

"Finished, too. Partly for same reason; also had dysentery, y'know. Why?"

"Why because I don't intend to provide a post-mortem lecture for your witch-doctor friend."

"Oh, well you'll have twelve moons to think it over."

"Nonsense."

Warren-Dukely yawned lazily.

"You'll find out, old boy, same as I did. A year of contemplation sobers you up a bit. What's it matter after all? I don't care what they do afterward."

"Look here, Dukely; get that out of your mind."

"That's all right, Doc. You're fresh an' eager—same as I was then. I was mad to see a white once more. An' you've given me that. Of course, I'm sorry that you'll have to pay such a price for my amusement, but, it, old man, I didn't lug you here, did I? I wish you better luck than I've had. By the way, you'll find in my effects various letters an' things for my people. An', Doc, if God's kinder to you than He is to me, I want you not to give away the cheap horrors to—to my own people and pals, an' don't let the papers get hold of the yarn.

"I'm not dancin' round in hell to make a journalists' holiday. All details of my trip an' notes on customs, particularly the legends an' practises among our dear friends here, are together in the canvas-covered book addressed to the R. G. S." He glanced at the doctor, who was leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring fixedly at embers. "Don't seem interested, eh, Doc? You're right. Talkin' rot, ain't I? I mean, how the blazes 're you goin' to get 'em out yourself? I tried—all sorts of crazy ideas.

"Put notes in bottles an' chucked 'em in the swamp. Island don't touch the main stream; of course they stopped there—unless old Surgeon Yamala has found 'em an' turned 'em into ju-ju medicine or somethin'. Well, I'm goin' to turn in. Get plenty of rest for the show tomorrow night—or is it today." He glanced at the moon. "No; can't be more than eleven. Ha! All the theaters comin' out, eh? Poor old Piccadilly. Recollect that night I was chucked out of the Empire! Ah well—I can give you a dose on the floor, Doc, same as me."

"SIT down." snapped the doctor as he began to rise from his chair. "I've got an idea."

"Sweet infant! So had I by the dozen. Brilliant ideas every ten minutes. I know."

"Shut up and sit down!"

"All right, old man. I'm not pressed for time. Fire ahead!"

"Look here; as far as I can make out from what you tell me and what I've seen, we may have a sportin' chance."

" sportin'!"

"Shut up, Dukely! You're fagged. With twelve months of this an' fever an' all that your nerves are in a rotten condition, naturally; your constitution's undermined, which affects your will. You see things"

"See things! Oh my hat!"

"I said see things as they are not. Now try to pull yourself together an' answer my questions."

"Certainly, old boy. Fire ahead!"

"Sit up in your chair with your head forward and your back stiff, Dukely," commanded the doctor. "Get that spineless despair out of your mind—just for five minutes—and I'll give you a tonic that'll buck you up. That's it! Now! What time exactly do they begin the—the show?"

"Eight-thirty; early doors seven!"

"Don't be a fool, Dukely. I'm serious."

"Sorry, old boy; thought it was a joke!"

"Well, what time? Before sunset or after?"

"At the rising of the moon. But what that's got to"

"Shut up and listen! Do they start drinking immediately?"

"You bet they do!"

"Good. What's the beer kept in? Large calabashes?"

"Yes "

"Where?"

"All over the place. Mostly near the tree."

"When do they bring the beer?"

"Bring the beer? Why several days beforehand. Has to settle, y'know."

"Is it here now, then?"

"Yes." Dukely gestured behind him. "At the back of my hut there. Gallons of the stuff."

"Um." The little doctor wriggled slightly. "Now about this tree. What is it?"

"The magic tree. Tree of Life they call it."

"You said it was poisonous?"

"Yes."

"Of what species is it?"

"I dunno. Seems to be' of the same family as the baobab—Andansonia, y'know. But yet quite unlike the baobabs of the South. Never seen one like it before."

"Um. Citric tribasic," muttered the doctor. "No good." He stared up at the great boughs and, jumping to his feet in his nervous manner, went across and began to pick at the bark of the great bole. "That's not Andansonia!" he commented with a leap in his voice as he returned to his chair. "Don't know what it is. Unclassified, I should say."

"No, I don't think it's baobab. Wouldn't be poisonous if it were."

"Do they ever use it?"

"Yes. On the—husband. They say that it is the blood of the mother which he must eat before he is—married."

"Ah! What's the effect?"

"Oh God, Doc, that's what I want to know. They—they don't give the poor devil a chance to die. The stuff of the pod is thrust down his throat an' then—what I described. But what's the scheme?  Shove it in the beer an' poison the swine? My hairy aunt!" Dukely leaped to his feet with a yell. "You've got it, by God, old man!"

"Wait a minute," said the doctor quietly. "Not so fast."

"By God. I feel alive once more! We must do it, Doc. That'll fix them."

"That's the—sit down, Dukely. The point is: will it fix 'em? How do we know what poison it is? What quantity is required to produce the desired effect?"

"Oh the devil! Oh, it must."

"Desire has no effect on organic matter, my friend. Um. Um. Haven't got any animals around here to experiment on?"

"Not a thing. They bring me food every morning: fowls and sometimes goats but always ready killed."

"Um. Wish to heaven we knew what family it is." He stared at the great tree by which the moon in midarc was almost obscured. "Have you got anything to knock down one of these pods?"

"No, but I've some here," said Warren-Dukely, fumbling in his pocket. "I—I thought they might be useful in case anything happened before schedule, y'know."

The doctor took one, split it open and examined the contents: seeds embedded in a yellowish creamy matter.

"Um. Um," he muttered, sniffing it. "Wonder what the devil it can be. The odor seems familiar. Very. What the— if I know. Tastes sweetish." he added putting a grain upon his tongue-tip.

"For God's sake be careful, old man!" cried Warren-Dukely.

The doctor held the pod in one hand and stared at the moonlit glade.

"If only I could think what that reminds me of, I might get a clue. I've half a mind to try. Have you any mustard for an emetic?"

"Don't be crazy, Doc! And I haven't any, anyway. It may be anything; maybe the stuff some of these devils poison their arrows with. I know that's a vegetable poison of some sort and absolutely deadly."

"True!"

"Besides, if it takes a long time, the actual knowledge won't do us any good. I mean that's our only chance either way."

"True again. What time do they come in with food?"

"Sunrise or before."

"Well, well have to take the chance, that's all. Come, we must fix up the stuff now. Grind it up, I suppose, as much as possible, and stick it in their beer. Thank heaven it's sweetish. They probably won't notice it or rather like the sweet effect. How much have you got there of the stuff?"

"Oh, only about a handful, I thought that would be enough for me."

"Put that idea out of your head," said the doctor sharply. "Now come along. I'll bunk you up on that bough and you grab the pods. About a quarter of a pound per gallon ought to be enough. If it were aconite, it would knock 'em stiff at the first gulp."

Into the gloom of the great tree's interior disappeared the coat-tails of Warren-Dukely, looking like some monstrous white-breasted bird clumsily seeking to roost.