Little God Ben. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘What is this important thing we have to talk about?’

      Medworth glanced towards the forest, then drew close to the others.

      ‘That Temple of Gold,’ he answered, in a low voice. ‘Rather—interesting, eh?’

      Lord Cooling readjusted his eye-glass and stared through it fixedly.

      ‘This is a time for statements, not hints, Medworth,’ he said.

      ‘Then here’s my statement,’ replied Medworth. ‘If there’s gold on this confounded island, let’s see that we leave with a little!’

      ‘Why a little?’ inquired Lord Cooling. ‘Why not a lot?’

      ‘Your idea’s even better than mine,’ grinned Medworth.

      Ruth and Haines frowned at each other. It was Ben, however, who put their thought into words.

      ‘Wouldn’t that be stealin’?’ he blinked.

      ‘Oh, shut your mouth!’ exclaimed Medworth. ‘No one’s asked your opinion!’

      ‘No, but yer gettin’ it, see?’ retorted Ben. ‘I bin in quod once, but it wasn’t fer stealin’, it was fer ’ittin’ a copper wot ’it me fust!’

      ‘Would you mind not wasting valuable time—?’ began Lord Cooling.

      ‘I ain’t wastin’ vallerble time, you are,’ interrupted Ben, with desperate boldness, ‘torkin’ abart carryin’ away gold pillars when they’ll be ’ere any minit! Wot’s the good o’ that? I gotter nidea better’n your’n. Put this ’ere Oomoo back, see? Tha’s where the trouble’s goin’ ter be. Yer could tell that by wot that bloke sed. Pick up the blinkin’ bits, and when they comes and finds ’e’s ’ere agine it’ll put ’em in a good ’umer. ’Ow’s that fer sense?’

      He did not wait for an answer, but dashed to the vacant pedestal. As he began groping in the undergrowth, the drum sounded once more.

      The minute that followed was one of the most confused—and also, as matters transpired, one of the most vital—in Ben’s bewildering experience. He was never able to sort out the details afterwards. The closeness of the drum filled him with a terror that would have sent him leaping towards the sea if he had not been on his hands and knees among the tall, coarse grasses. He did make one jump, but was unnerved by the discovery that he had the god’s head in his hands, and when he dropped the head he lost his own, and fell down flat on top of it. There he lay for a few horrible seconds, while the drumming from the forest grew nearer and nearer. He was doing the ostrich trick again, praying that trouble would pass over him. The grasses were high enough to conceal him temporarily. But as he lay, communicating his palpitations to the foliage, a new thought struck him. Struck him with such force that it brought him to his feet. There was no concealment for him here. The procession would stop at this very spot, and if he were found among the broken pieces of the god he might be held responsible for the catastrophe, and reduced to broken pieces himself. He tried to run. The panic he had striven valiantly to avoid had got him by the throat. It had also got him by the feet. They felt weighted with nightmare lead.

      Vaguely he saw the figures of his companions. Four were stationary. Three were running. Whether towards him or away from him he could not say, and he certainly did not care. The drum was now shouting in his ear, and other sounds came out of the forest. Murmurs. Chanting. Tramping. He felt like a caught mouse, and waited for huge heads to peer and leer at him.

      Then suddenly out of the chaos came to him his mad, insane idea. He acted upon it before he knew that he had got it. He leapt on to the vacant pedestal and, staring heavenwards, struck a godlike attitude.

      The murmurs increased. The chanting rose. The tramping thudded. The drum beat with the force of a sledge-hammer. Then, all at once, every sound ceased. The world seemed to have stopped rotating.

      ‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’ wondered Ben, his eyes still fixed glassily on the tree-tops.

      The next instant a great voice rose, a voice charged with stupendous emotion.

      ‘Oomoo! Oomoo! Oomoo!’

      There was a sound as of an army crashing. A hundred natives fell flat on their faces before the human representation of their Little God.

       7

       Alias Oomoo

      The success of Ben’s ruse was not merely startling. It was terrifying. For the moment he had duped these natives and was being taken for the God of Storms. The dusky, prostrate backs glimpsed out of the corners of his motionless eyes, the strange chorus of awed murmurings that rose from the ground, and the constant repetition of the word ‘Oomoo,’ proved that. He was receiving the island’s worship! But what would happen when the moment passed? When it was discovered that he was not a god but a miserable scared-stiff mortal? When he sneezed, say—he felt the desire rising as the alarming thought occurred—or when his knees gave way and he wobbled from the pedestal?

      Then the worship would be transformed to wrath! He would be seized and torn to bits, and these humble murmurings would change to howls of primitive rage! Ben pictured himself being torn to bits and, in his too lively imagination, watched his limbs being tossed high into the air.

      ‘Well, wot’s goin’ ter ’appen is goin’ ter ’appen,’ he thought, ‘on’y I ’opes it ’appens quick!’

      In spite of the hope, he did nothing to expedite the happening, but continued earnestly to emulate a Madame Tussaud waxwork.

      The moments slipped by. The murmurings continued. The dawning sneeze was wrestled with and temporarily conquered. But Ben’s limbs began to ache. His pose, not unlike that of Eros, was difficult to hold.

      ‘’Ow long’s this goin’ on?’ he wondered.

      Then the native nearest to him rose to his feet. His head, large and perspiring and not in the least attractive, loomed up into view from a black hell. Two arms, also large, rose above the head, and two black thick lips spoke.

      ‘Vooloo? Vooloo, Oomoo? Vooloo?’

      ‘Wot the ’ell does that mean?’ thought Ben.

      ‘’Ad I better answer ’im, or pertend I ain’t int’rested?’

      He pretended he wasn’t interested, and while the native waited for the answer that did not come, the unresponsive god noticed another figure edging quietly towards him. It was Oakley.

      Now the native, evidently a man of some authority, turned his body, and waved his arms towards Ben’s companions. Four of them—Ruth, Haines, Cooling and Medworth—had not moved since the appearance of the natives, and were awaiting the end of the astonishing episode with tense curiosity. The other three, having failed in their unheroic attempt to escape, were being closely watched by half a dozen giants with spears.

      ‘Holalulala?’ cried the native spokesman.

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