The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ did not rise as Sanders came up.

      Five hundred pairs of eyes were watching the Commissioner; all the countryside had assembled, for M’dali had dreamt of the Commissioner’s coming.

      “Hi, white man!” said M’dali loudly, “have you come for my dreams?”

      Then he stood up quickly.

      Twice Sanders landed at him with his pliant cane, and each blow got home.

      Sanders heard the rustle of spears behind him, and turned — a heavy black automatic pistol in his hand.

      “I had a dream,” snarled Sanders, his pistol covering the nearest group. “I dreamt that a man raised his spear to me and died. And after he died his soul lived in a place filled with fishes, and every morning the fishes fed little by little upon it, and every night the soul grew again.”

      They dropped their spears. With their knuckles to their teeth — a sure sign of perturbation — they regarded him with horror and consternation.

      “I dreamt,” said Sanders, “that M’dali came with me to the Village of Irons, and when he left, all his property and all the rich presents of the foolish were divided amongst the people of this village.”

      There was a little murmur of approval, but some there were who regarded him sullenly, and Sanders judged these to be the country folk.

      He turned to M’dali, a dazed man rubbing the growing weals on his shoulder with a shaking hand.

      “Ih, dreamer!” said Sanders softly, “speak now, and tell these people how, when you leave them, all things shall be well.”

      The man hesitated, raised his sulky eyes to the level of the Commissioner’s, and read the cold message they carried.

      “People,” he said shakily, “it is as our lord says.”

      “So you dreamt,” suggested Sanders.

      “So I dreamt,” said M’dali, and there was a big sigh of relief.

      “Take him to the boat,” said Sanders. He spoke in Arabic to Abiboo. “Let none speak with him on your life.”

      He followed the Houssas with their crestfallen prisoner, and losing no time, cast off.

      This ended the episode of the dreamer — for a while.

      But though M’dali worked in the Village of Irons for the good of the Empire, his work went on, for he had been a busy man. There were unaccountable deaths. Men and women lay down in health and woke only to die. And none thought it remarkable or made report, for M’dali had dreamt thus, and thus it happened.

      Yet rumour has feet to carry and mouth to tell; and in course of time Sanders went up country with a hastily-summoned doctor from headquarters, and there were people who were sorry to see him.

      Men who had lost inconvenient wives, others who had buried rich relations, wives who found freedom by the fulfilment of M’dali — his dreams — sat down and waited for Sanders, gnawing their knuckles.

      Sanders administered justice without any other evidence than his doctor could secure in unsavoury places; but it was effective, and M’dali, a chopper of wood in the Village of Irons, saw many familiar faces.

      The Village of Irons stands on a tongue of land which thrusts the Isisi River to the left and the Bokaru River to the right. It is the cleanest village in Sanders’ land, save only headquarters; but nobody appreciated its cleanliness except Sanders.

      Here the streams run so swiftly that even strong swimmers dare not face them. At the base of the triangle a broad canal had been cut for five or six hundred yards connecting the two rivers, so that the little tongue of land was less a peninsula than an island, and a difficult island to leave — since a barbed-wire fence had been erected on both sides of the canal. Moreover, this canal was the abiding-place of three crocodiles — thoughtfully placed there by Mr. Commissioner Sanders — and their egress at either end of the canal was barred by stout stakes.

      The village itself was divided into three parts, one for men, one for women, and a third — and this overlooking the only landing-place — for half a company of Houssas.

      Though it was called the Village of Irons, none but shameless or hardened men wore the shackles of bondage, and life ran smoothly in this grim little village, save and except that the men were on one side of a tall wire and the women on the other. M’dali arrived, and was given a number and a blanket. He was also told off to a hut with six other prisoners.

      “I am M’dali of Isisi,” he said, “and Sanders has sent me here because I dreamt.”

      “That is strange,” said the headman of the hut, “for he sent me here because I beat one of his spies — I and my brother — till he died.”

      “I came here,” said another man, “because I was a chief and made war — behold I am Tembeli of the Lesser Isisi.”

      One by one they introduced themselves and retailed him their discreditable exploits with simple pride.

      “I am a dreamer of dreams,” said M’dali in explanation. “When I dream a thing it happens, for I am gifted by devils and see strange things in my sleep.”

      “I see,” said Tembeli wisely. “You are mad.”

      It is not difficult to explain how it came about that M’dali secured a hold upon the credulity and faith of his new companions.

      There is a story that he predicted the death by drowning of one of the guards. Certainly such a fatality occurred. Every new prisoner from Tombolini was a fresh witness to his powers.

      And in his most fluent manner M’dali dreamt for them. And this is one great dream he had:

      It was that Sandi came to inspect the Village of Irons, and that when he reached a certain hut six men fell upon him and one cut his throat, and all the soldiers ran away terrified, and the prisoners released themselves, and there was no more bother.

      He dreamt this three nights in succession.

      When he retailed his first dream, Tembeli, to whom he related it, said thoughtfully:

      “That is a good thought, yet we are without any weapon, so it cannot come true.”

      “In my dream tonight it will be revealed,” said M’dali.

      And on the next morning he told them how he had seen in his vision a Congo man among the prisoners, and how this Congo man carried a little razor stuck in his hair.

      And, truth to tell, there was such a Congo man who carried such a razor.

      “Who struck the blow?” asked Tembeli. “That is a matter which requires great revelation.”

      Accordingly M’dali dreamt again, and discovered that the man who killed Sanders was Korforo, a halfwitted prisoner from Akasava.

      All things were now ready for the supreme moment. There was a certain missionary lady, a Miss Ruth Glandynne, who had come to СКАЧАТЬ