The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ “the capita of this village, who is responsible to the Government for all people who pass, and especially for thieves who may have escaped from the Village of Irons, desires your presence, being sure that you are no thief, but a great one, and wishing to do honour to you.” Thus he recited, and being a peaceable man, who had been chosen for the part because he was related by marriage to the principal wife of the chief, he kept a cautious eye on the broad-headed spear, and determined the line of his flight.

      “Go back to your master, slave,” said Imgani, “and say to him that I go to find a spot of sufficient loneliness, where I may sleep this night and occupy myself with high thoughts. When I have found such a place I will return. Say, also, that I am a prince of my own people, and that my father has legions of such quantity that if every fighting man of the legions were to take a handful of sand from the bottom of the river, the river would be bottomless; also say that I am named Imgani, and that I love myself better than any man has loved himself since the moon went white that it might not look like the sun.” He went on, leaving the messenger filled with thought.

      True to his promise, Imgani returned.

      He came back to find that there was a palaver in progress, the subject of the palaver being the unfortunate relative by marriage to the chief’s principal wife.

      “Who,” the chief was saying, “has put shame upon me, being as great a fool as his cousin, my wife.”

      “Master,” said the poor relation humbly, “I entreated him to return; but he was a man of great pride, and, moreover, impatient to go.”

      “Your mother was a fool,” said the chief; “her mother also was a fool, and your father, whoever he was, and no man knows, was a great fool.” This interesting beginning to a crude address on hereditary folly was interrupted by the return of Imgani, and as he came slowly up the little hillock the assembly took stock of him, from the square, steel razor stuck in the tight-fitting leopard-skin cap to the thin bangles of brass about his ankles.

      The chief, a portly man of no great courage, observed the spears, noting that the hafts were polished smooth by much handling.

      “Lord,” said he mildly, “I am chief of this village, appointed by the Government, who gave me a medal to wear about my neck, bearing on one side the picture of a great man with a beard, and on the other side certain devil marks and writings of vast power. This was given to me that all people might know I was chief, but I have lost the medal. None the less, I am chief of this village, as this will show.” He fumbled in the bosom of his cloth and brought out a bag of snake skin, and from this he extracted a very soiled paper.

      With tender care he unfolded it, and disclosed a sheet of official notepaper with a few scrawled words in the handwriting of Mr Commissioner Sanders. They ran; “To all Sub-Commissioners, Police Officers, and Commanders of Houssa Ports: Arrest and detain the bearer if found in any other territory than the Isisi.” There was a history attached to this singular document. It had to do with an unauthorized raid upon certain Ochori villages and a subsequent trial at headquarters, where a chief, all aquiver with apprehension, listened to a terse but knowledgeable prophecy as to what fate awaited him if he put foot out of his restricted dominion. Imgani took the paper in his hand and was interested. He turned it about, rubbed the writing lightly with his fingers to see whether it was permanent, and returned it to the chief.

      “That is very wonderful, though I do not fear magic, except an especial kind such as is practised by a certain witchdoctor of my father’s,” he said; “nor do I know any government which can govern me.” After which he proceeded to tell them of his father, and of his legions and wives, and various other matters of equal interest.

      “I do not doubt that you will understand me,” he said. “I am a Lonely One, hating the company of men, who are as changeable as the snow upon the mountains. Therefore, I have left my house with my wives, who were faithful as women go, and I have taken with me no legion, since they are my father’s.”

      The chief was puzzled. “Why you are lonely, I cannot tell,” he said, “but certainly you did right to leave your father’s legions. This is a great matter, which needs a palaver of older men.” And he ordered the lo-koli to be sounded and the elders of the village to be assembled. They came, bringing their own carved stools, and sat about the thatched shelter, where the chief sat in his presidency.

      Again Imgani told his story; it was about fifty wives, and legions of warriors as countless as the sand of the river’s beach; and the trustful Isisi listened and believed.

      “And I need this,” said Imgani, in his peroration; “a little house built on the edge of the river, in such a place that no path passes me and no human being comes within sight of me, for I am very lonely by nature — and a great hater of men.” Imgani went to live in the clearing Nature had made for him, and in a hut erected by his newfound friends. Other hospitalities he refused.

      “I have no wish for wives,” he stated, “being full of mighty plans to recover my kingdom from evil men who are my father’s councillors.”

      Lonely he was in very truth, for none saw him except on very special occasions.

      It was his practice to go hunting by night and to sleep away the hot days. Sometimes, when the red ball of the sun dropped down behind the trees on the western bank of the river, the villagers saw the straight, blue film of smoke as he cooked his evening meal; sometimes a homeward-bound boatman saw him slipping silently through the thin edge of the forest on his way to a kill.

      They called him the Silent One, and he enjoyed a little fame.

      More than this, he enjoyed the confidence of his hosts. The Isisi country is within reach of the Foreign River, down which strangely-shaped boats come by night empty, and return by night full of people who are chained neck to neck, and the officials of French West Africa — which adjoins the Isisi country — receive stories of raids and of burnings which they have not the facilities for investigating, for the Isisi border is nearly six hundred miles from the French headquarters, and lies through a wilderness.

      Imgani, in his hunting trips, saw things which might have filled him with amazement, but for the fact that he was a man who was not given to emotion.

      He saw little caravans that came stealing from the direction of the territory of France, with whimpering women and groaning men in bondage.

      He saw curious midnight shippings of human souls, and grew to know the white robed Arabs who handled the whip so deftly.

      One night as he stood watching all these things, El Mahmud, that famous trader, espied him in the moonlight and saw that he was of a strange people.

      “What man are you?” he asked.

      “Lord,” said Imgani, “I am of a strange people — the N’Gombi.”

      “That is a lie,” said the slaver, “for you have not the face marks of the N’Gombi; you are a half-bred Arab,” and he addressed him in Arabic.

      Imgani shook his head.

      “He does not understand,” said the slaver to his lieutenant; “find out where this man’s hut is; one night we will take him, for he is worth money.” He spoke in Arabic, and his subordinate nodded.

      When the slaver came again three men visited Imgani’s house, but he was hunting, and he was hunting every time the long boats came by night to O’Fasi.

      Sanders did not go to O’Fasi for six months, during СКАЧАТЬ