Allan and the Holy Flower by H. Rider Haggard (online e reader TXT) 📗

utmost politeness, “and go, visit the god who doubtless is waiting for you. And now, as we shall meet no more—farewell. You are wise and I am foolish, yet hearken to my counsel. If ever you should return to the Earth again, be advised by me. Cling to your own god if you have one, and do not meddle with those of other peoples. Again farewell.”

The advice was excellent, but at that moment I felt a hate for Komba which was really superhuman. To me even the Motombo seemed an angel of light as compared with him. If wishes could have killed, our farewell would indeed have been complete.

Then, admonished by the spear points of the Pongo, we landed in the slimy mud. Brother John went first with a smile upon his handsome countenance that I thought idiotic under the circumstances, though doubtless he knew best when he ought to smile, and the wretched Kalubi came last. Indeed, so great was his shrinking from that ominous shore, that I believe he was ultimately propelled from the boat by his successor in power, Komba. Once he had trodden it, however, a spark of spirit returned to him, for he wheeled round and said to Komba,

“Remember, O Kalubi, that my fate to-day will be yours also in a day to come. The god wearies of his priests. This year, next year, or the year after; he always wearies of his priests.”

“Then, O Kalubi-that-was,” answered Komba in a mocking voice as the canoe was pushed off, “pray to the god for me, that it may be the year after; pray it as your bones break in his embrace.”

While we watched that craft depart there came into my mind the memory of a picture in an old Latin book of my father’s, which represented the souls of the dead being paddled by a person named Charon across a river called the Styx. The scene before us bore a great resemblance to that picture. There was Charon’s boat floating on the dreadful Styx. Yonder glowed the lights of the world, here was the gloomy, unknown shore. And we, we were the souls of the dead awaiting the last destruction at the teeth and claws of some unknown monster, such as that which haunts the recesses of the Egyptian hell. Oh! the parallel was painfully exact. And yet, what do you think was the remark of that irrepressible young man Stephen?

“Here we are at last, Allan, my boy,” he said, “and after all without any trouble on our own part. I call it downright providential. Oh! isn’t it jolly! Hip, hip, hooray!”

Yes, he danced about in that filthy mud, threw up his cap and cheered!

I withered, or rather tried to wither him with a look, muttering the single word: “Lunatic.”

Providential! Jolly! Well, it’s fortunate that some people’s madness takes a cheerful turn. Then I asked the Kalubi where the god was.

“Everywhere,” he replied, waving his trembling hand at the illimitable forest. “Perhaps behind this tree, perhaps behind that, perhaps a long way off. Before morning we shall know.”

“What are you going to do?” I inquired savagely.

“Die,” he answered.

“Look here, fool,” I exclaimed, shaking him, “you can die if you like, but we don’t mean to. Take us to some place where we shall be safe from this god.”

“One is never safe from the god, lord, especially in his own House,” and he shook his silly head and went on, “How can we be safe when there is nowhere to go and even the trees are too big to climb?”

I looked at them, it was true. They were huge and ran up for fifty or sixty feet without a bough. Moreover, it was probable that the god climbed better than we could. The Kalubi began to move inland in an indeterminate fashion, and I asked him where he was going.

“To the burying-place,” he answered. “There are spears yonder with the bones.”

I pricked up my ears at this—for when one has nothing but some clasp knives, spears are not to be despised—and ordered him to lead on. In another minute we were walking uphill through the awful wood where the gloom at this hour of approaching night was that of an English fog.

Three or four hundred paces brought us to a kind of clearing, where I suppose some of the monster trees had fallen down in past years and never been allowed to grow up again. Here, placed upon the ground, were a number of boxes made of imperishable ironwood, and on the top of each box sat, or rather lay, a mouldering and broken skull.

“Kalubi-that-were!” murmured our guide in explanation. “Look, Komba has made my box ready,” and he pointed to a new case with the lid off.

“How thoughtful of him!” I said. “But show us the spears before it gets quite dark.” He went to one of the newer coffins and intimated that we should lift off the lid as he was afraid to do so.

I shoved it aside. There within lay the bones, each of them separate and wrapped up in something, except of course the skull. With these were some pots filled apparently with gold dust, and alongside of the pots two good spears that, being made of copper, had not rusted much. We went on to other coffins and extracted from them more of these weapons that were laid there for the dead man to use upon his journey through the Shades, until we had enough. The shafts of most of them were somewhat rotten from the damp, but luckily they were furnished with copper sockets from two and a half to three feet long, into which the wood of the shaft fitted, so that they were still serviceable.

“Poor things these to fight a devil with,” I said.

“Yes, Baas,” said Hans in a cheerful voice, “very poor. It is lucky that I have got a better.”

I stared at him; we all stared at him.

“What do you mean, Spotted Snake?” asked Mavovo.

“What do you mean, child of a hundred idiots? Is this a time to jest? Is not one joker enough among us?” I asked, and looked at Stephen.

“Mean, Baas? Don’t you know that I have the little rifle with me, that which is called Intombi, that with which you shot the vultures at Dingaan’s kraal? I never told you because I was sure you knew; also because if you didn’t know it was better that you should not know, for if you had known, those Pongo skellums (that is, vicious ones) might have come to know also. And if they had known——”

“Mad!” interrupted Brother John, tapping his forehead, “quite mad, poor fellow! Well, in these depressing circumstances it is not wonderful.”

I inspected Hans again, for I agreed with John. Yet he did not look mad, only rather more cunning than usual.

“Hans,” I said, “tell us where this rifle is, or I will knock you down and Mavovo shall flog you.”

“Where, Baas! Why, cannot you see it when it is before your eyes?”

“You are right, John,” I said, “he’s off it”; but Stephen sprang at Hans