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

“Leave go, Baas,” he said, “or you may hurt the rifle.”

Stephen obeyed in sheer astonishment. Then, oh! then Hans did something to the end of his great bamboo stick, turned it gently upside down and out of it slid the barrel of a rifle neatly tied round with greased cloth and stoppered at the muzzle with a piece of tow!

I could have kissed him. Yes, such was my joy that I could have kissed that hideous, smelly old Hottentot.

“The stock?” I panted. “The barrel isn’t any use without the stock, Hans.”

“Oh! Baas,” he answered, grinning, “do you think that I have shot with you all these years without knowing that a rifle must have a stock to hold it by?”

Then he slipped off the bundle from his back, undid the lashings of the blanket, revealing the great yellow head of tobacco that had excited my own and Komba’s interest on the shores of the lake. This head he tore apart and produced the stock of the rifle nicely cleaned, a cap set ready on the nipple, on to which the hammer was let down, with a little piece of wad between to prevent the cap from being fired by any sudden jar.

“Hans,” I exclaimed, “Hans, you are a hero and worth your weight in gold!”

“Yes, Baas, though you never told me so before. Oh! I made up my mind that I wouldn’t go to sleep in the face of the Old Man (death). Oh! which of you ought to sleep now upon that bed that Bausi sent me?” he asked as he put the gun together. “You, I think, you great stupid Mavovo. You never brought a gun. If you were a wizard worth the name you would have sent the rifles on and had them ready to meet us here. Oh! will you laugh at me any more, you thick-head of a Zulu?”

“No,” answered Mavovo candidly. “I will give you sibonga. Yes, I will make for you Titles of Praise, O clever Spotted Snake.”

“And yet,” went on Hans, “I am not all a hero; I am worth but half my weight in gold. For, Baas, although I have plenty of powder and bullets in my pocket, I lost the caps out of a hole in my waistcoat. You remember, Baas, I told you it was charms I lost. But three remain; no, four, for there is one on the nipple. There, Baas, there is Intombi all ready and loaded. And now when the white devil comes you can shoot him in the eye, as you know how to do up to a hundred yards, and send him to the other devils down in hell. Oh! won’t your holy father the Predikant be glad to see him there.”

Then with a self-satisfied smirk he half-cocked the rifle and handed it to me ready for action.

“I thank God!” said Brother John solemnly, “who has taught this poor Hottentot how to save us.”

“No, Baas John, God never taught me, I taught myself. But, see, it grows dark. Had we not better light a fire,” and forgetting the rifle he began to look about for wood.

“Hans,” called Stephen after him, “if ever we get out of this, I will give you £500, or at least my father will, which is the same thing.”

“Thank you, Baas, thank you, though just now I’d rather have a drop of brandy and—I don’t see any wood.”

He was right. Outside of the graveyard clearing lay, it is true, some huge fallen boughs. But these were too big for us to move or cut. Moreover, they were so soaked with damp, like everything in this forest, that it would be impossible to fire them.

The darkness closed in. It was not absolute blackness, because presently the moon rose, but the sky was rainy and obscured it; moreover, the huge trees all about seemed to suck up whatever light there was. We crouched ourselves upon the ground back to back as near as possible to the centre of the place, unrolled such blankets as we had to protect us from the damp and cold, and ate some biltong or dried game flesh and parched corn, of which fortunately the boy Jerry carried a bagful that had remained upon his shoulders when he was thrown into the canoe. Luckily I had thought of bringing this food with us; also a flask of spirits.

Then it was that the first thing happened. Far away in the forest resounded a most awful roar, followed by a drumming noise, such a roar as none of us had ever heard before, for it was quite unlike that of a lion or any other beast.

“What is that?” I asked.

“The god,” groaned the Kalubi, “the god praying to the moon with which he always rises.”

I said nothing, for I was reflecting that four shots, which was all we had, was not many, and that nothing should tempt me to waste one of them. Oh! why had Hans put on that rotten old waistcoat instead of the new one I gave him in Durban?

Since we heard no more roars Brother John began to question the Kalubi as to where the Mother of the Flower lived.

“Lord,” answered the man in a distracted way, “there, towards the East. You walk for a quarter of the sun’s journey up the hill, following a path that is marked by notches cut upon the trees, till beyond the garden of the god at the top of the mountain more water is found surrounding an island. There on the banks of the water a canoe is hidden in the bushes, by which the water may be crossed to the island, where dwells the Mother of the Holy Flower.”

Brother John did not seem to be quite satisfied with the information, and remarked that he, the Kalubi, would be able to show us the road on the morrow.

“I do not think that I shall ever show you the road,” groaned the shivering wretch.

At that moment the god roared again much nearer. Now the Kalubi’s nerve gave out altogether, and quickened by some presentiment, he began to question Brother John, whom he had learned was a priest of an unknown sort, as to the possibility of another life after death.

Brother John, who, be it remembered, was a very earnest missionary by calling, proceeded to administer some compressed religious consolations, when, quite near to us, the god began to beat upon some kind of very large and deep drum. He didn’t roar this time, he only worked away at a massed-band military drum. At least that is what it sounded like, and very unpleasant it was to hear in that awful forest with skulls arranged on boxes all round us, I can assure you, my reader.

The drumming ceased, and pulling himself together, Brother John continued his pious demonstrations. Also just at that time a thick rain-cloud quite obscured the moon, so that the darkness grew dense. I heard John explaining to the Kalubi that he was not really a Kalubi, but an immortal soul (I wonder whether he understood him). Then I became aware of a horrible shadow—I cannot describe it in any other way—that was blacker than the blackness, which advanced towards us at extraordinary speed from the