The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ last had come? There was one in the N’Gombi country years ago, a sad god who lived in a hut which no man dare approach — there was another god who came with thunder demanding sacrifice — human sacrifice.

      This was an exceptionally bad god, and had cost the British Government six hundred thousand pounds, because there was fighting in the bush and a country unsettled.

      But, in the main, the gods were good, doing harm to none, for it is customary for new gods to make their appearance after the crops are gathered, and before the rainy season sets in.

      So Sanders thought, sitting in the shade of a striped awning on the foredeck of the little Zaire.

      The next day, before the sun came up, he turned the nose of the steamer upstream, being curious as to the welfare of the shy Ochori folk, who lived too near the Akasava for comfort, and, moreover, needed nursing. Very slow was the tiny steamer’s progress, for the current was strong against her. After two days’ travel Sanders got into Lukati, where young Carter had a station.

      The deputy commissioner came down to the beach in his pyjamas, with a big pith helmet on the back of his head, and greeted his chief boisterously.

      “Well?” said Sanders; and Carter told him all the news. There was a land palaver at Ebibi; Otabo, of Bofabi, had died of the sickness; there were two leopards worrying the outlying villages, and— “Heard about the Isisi god?” he asked suddenly; and Sanders said that he had.

      “It’s an old friend of yours,” said Carter. “My people tell me that this old god-box contains the stone of the Ochori.”

      “Oh!” said Sanders, with sudden interest.

      He breakfasted with his subordinate, inspected his little garrison of thirty, visited his farm, admired his sweet potatoes, and patronized his tomatoes.

      Then he went back to the boat and wrote a short dispatch in the tiniest of handwriting on the flimsiest of paper slips. “In case!” said Sanders.

      “Bring me 14,” he said to his servant, and Abiboo came back to him soon with a pigeon in his hand.

      “Now, little bird,” said Sanders, carefully rolling his letter round the red leg of the tiny courier and fastening it with a rubber band, “you’ve got two hundred miles to fly before sunrise tomorrow — and ‘ware hawks!” Then he gathered the pigeon in his hand, walked with it to the stern of the boat, and threw it into the air.

      His crew of twelve men were sitting about their cooking-pot — that pot which everlastingly boils.

      “Yoka!” he called, and his half-naked engineer came bounding down the slope.

      “Steam,” said Sanders; “get your wood aboard; I am for Isisi.” There was no doubt at all that this new god was an extremely powerful one.

      Three hours from the city the Zaire came up to a long canoe with four men standing at their paddles singing dolefully. Sanders remembered that he had passed a village where women, their bodies decked with green leaves, wailed by the river’s edge.

      He slowed down till he came abreast of the canoe, and saw a dead man lying stark in the bottom.

      “Where go you with this body?” he asked.

      “To Isisi, lord,” was the answer.

      “The middle river and the little islands are places for the dead,” said Sanders brusquely. “It is folly to take the dead to the living.”

      “Lord,” said the man who spoke, “at Isisi lives a god who breathes life; this man” — he pointed downwards— “is my brother, and he died very suddenly because of a leopard. So quickly he died that he could not tell us where he had hidden his rods and his salt. Therefore we take him to Isisi, that the new god may give him just enough life to make his relations comfortable.”

      “The middle river,” said Sanders quietly, and pointed to such a lone island, all green with tangled vegetation, as might make a burying ground. “What is your name?”

      “Master, my name is N’Kema,” said the man sullenly.

      “Go, then, N’Kema,” he said, and kept the steamer slow ahead whilst he watched the canoe turn its blunt nose to the island and disembark its cargo.

      Then he rang the engines full ahead, steered clear of a sandbank, and regained the fairway.

      He was genuinely concerned.

      The stone was something exceptional in fetishes, needing delicate handling. That the stone existed, he knew. There were legends innumerable about it; and an explorer had, in the early days, seen it through his glasses. Also the ‘ghosts clad in brass’ he had heard about these fantastic and warlike shades who made peaceable men go out to battle — all except the Ochori, who were never warlike, and whom no number of ghosts could incite to deeds of violence.

      You will have remarked that Sanders took native people seriously, and that, I remark in passing, is the secret of good government. To him, ghosts were factors, and fetishes potent possibilities. A man who knew less would have been amused, but Sanders was not amused, because he had a great responsibility. He arrived at the city of Isisi in the afternoon, and observed, even at a distance, that something unusual was occurring. The crowd of women and children that the arrival of the Commissioner usually attracted did not gather as he swung in from midstream and followed the water-path that leads to shoal.

      Only the king and a handful of old men awaited him, and the king was nervous and in trouble.

      “Lord,” he blurted, “I am no king in this city because of the new god; the people are assembled on the far side of the hill, and there they sit night and day watching the god in the box.” Sanders bit his lip thoughtfully, and said nothing.

      “Last night,” said the king, “The Keepers of the Stone appeared walking through the village.” He shivered, and the sweat stood in big beads on his forehead, for a ghost is a terrible thing.

      “All this talk of keepers of stones is folly,” said Sanders calmly; ‘they have been seen by your women and your unblooded boys.”

      “Lord, I saw them myself,” said the king simply; and Sanders was staggered, for the king was a sane man.

      “The devil you have!” said Sanders in English; then, “What manner of ghost were these?”

      “Lord,” said the king, “they were white of face, like your greatness. They wore brass upon their heads and brass upon their breasts. Their legs were bare, but upon the lower legs was brass again.”

      “Any kind of ghost is hard enough to believe,” said Sanders irritably, “but a brass ghost I will not have at any price.” He spoke English again, as was his practice when he talked to himself, and the king stood silent, not understanding him.

      “What else?” said Sanders.

      “They had swords,” continued the chief, “such as the elephant-hunters of the N’Gombi people carry. Broad and short, and on their arms were shields.” Sanders was nonplussed.

      “And they cry ‘war,’” said the chief. “This is the greatest shame of all, for my young men dance the death dance and streak СКАЧАТЬ