The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ bound him hand and toot to a long pole and laid him in the bottom of a canoe. Then his six cousins got in with him and paddled swiftly down stream. They were making for the Forest of Devils, which is by the Silent River — a backwater into which only crocodiles go to lay their eggs, for there are sandy shoals which are proper for the purpose.

      At dawn they stopped, and, lighting a fire, cooked their meal. They gave their prisoner some fish and manioc.

      “There is a hungry time waiting you, brother,” said one of the cousins; “for we go to make an end of you, you being mad.”

      “Not so mad am I,” said K’maka calmly, “but that I cannot see your madness.”

      The cousin made no retort, knowing that of all forms of lunacy that which recognised madness in others was the most hopeless.

      The sun was well up when the canoe continued its journey, K’maka lying in the bottom intensely interested in the frantic plight of two ants who had explored the canoe in a spirit of adventure.

      Suddenly the paddles ceased.

      Steaming up stream, her little hull dazzling white from a new coat of paint, her red and white deck awning plainly to be seen, came the Zaire, and the tiny blue ensign of Mr. Commissioner Sanders was hanging lazily from the one stub of a mast that the vessel boasted.

      “Let us paddle nearer the shore,” said the chief of the cousins, “for this is Sandi; and if he sees what we carry he will be unkind.”

      They moved warily to give the little steamer a wide berth.

      But Sanders of the River, leaning pensively over the rail of the forebridge, his big helmet tilted back to keep the sun from his neck, had seen them. Also, he had detected concern in the sudden cessation of paddling, alarm in the energy with which it was resumed, and guilt confessed in the new course.

      His fingers beckoned the steersman, and the helm went over to port. The Zaire swung across to intercept the canoe.

      “This man,” said the exasperated chief cousin, “has eyes like the okapi, which sees its enemies through trees.”

      He stopped paddling and awaited the palaver.

      “What is this, Sambili?” asked Sanders, as the steamer came up and a boat hook captured the tiny craft. Sanders leant over the side rail and addressed the cousin by name.

      “Lord,” said Sambili, “I will not lie to you; this man is my cousin, and is mad; therefore we take him to a witchdoctor who is famous in such matters.”

      Sanders nodded, and flecked the white ash of his cheroot into the water.

      “I know the river better than any man, yet I do not know of such a doctor,” he said. “Also I have heard that many mad people have been taken to the Forest of Devils and have met a doctor whom they have not seen. And his name is Ewa, which means Death.”

      Two of his Houssas hauled the trussed man aboard.

      “Release him,” said Sanders.

      “Lord,” said the cousin, in agitation, “he is very mad and very fierce.”

      “I also am fierce,” said Sanders; “and men say that I am mad, yet I am not bound to a pole.”

      Released from his bondage, K’maka stood up shakily, rubbing his numbed limbs.

      “They tell me you are mad, K’maka,” said Sanders.

      K’maka smiled, which was a bad sign, for native men, far gone in sleeping sickness and touching the verge of madness, often smile in this way. Sanders watched him curiously.

      “Master,” said K’maka, “these cousins of mine think I am mad because I think.”

      “What manner of things do you think, K’maka?” asked Sanders gently.

      The other hesitated. “Lord, I fear to say, lest you, too, should believe in my madness.”

      “Speak,” said Sanders, “and have no fear; for I am as your father and your king, being placed here to rule you by a man who is very high in the council of kings.”

      K’maka drew a long breath.

      “I think of life,” he said, “and of the stars; of why men do certain acts. I think of rivers. Lord,” he asked, “why does a stone thrown into still water make little ripples in true circles widening, widening until the waves reach beyond sight?”

      Sanders looked at him narrowly. He had heard of this thinker.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “Lord, this also I think,” Said K’maka, encouraged, “that I am nothing, that all is nothing” — he waved his hand to the white hot world— “that you, our lord, are nothing.”

      “This is a shameful thing to say,” said the chief cousin, shocked, “and proves beyond doubt that he is mad.”

      “Why am I nothing, K’maka?” asked Sanders quietly.

      “Lord,” said the man gravely, “that-which-is-not-always is nothing.”

      “Hear him!” appealed Sambili in despair. “Hear this madman. Oh ko ko! Now, K’maka, you have shown your madness to our lord beyond doubt.”

      He waited for Sanders to summon the Man of Irons to shackle K’maka to the deck. Instead, Sanders was leaning against the rail, his head sunk in thought.

      “K’maka,” he said at last, “it appears to me that you are a strange man; yet you are not mad, but wiser than any black man I have seen. Now you are so wise that if I leave you with your brethren they will surely kill you, for stupid men hate the learned, and it seems to me that you have too much learning.”

      He gave orders that K’maka should be housed with the crew.

      As for the cousins, he turned them into their canoe.

      “Go in peace,” he said, “for you have rid yourself of your ‘madman’ and have saved yourself a hanging — I will have no putting out of eyes in this land.”

      Sanders had no man handy to whom he might speak of the thinker, for his two subordinates were down with fever and on leave at the coast. He was inclined towards experiments. Bosambo of Monrovia had been an experiment, and a most successful one. Just now Bosambo was being a nuisance, as witness this journey which Sanders was making.

      Contiguous to the land of the Ochori was a narrow strip of territory, which acted as a tiny buffer state between the Ochori and the Isisi. It occupied a peculiar position, inasmuch as though completely unimportant, it was desired by both the Ochori and the Isisi, and had at various times been absorbed by both, only to be ruthlessly restored to its neutrality by the iron hand of Sanders. There was no reason in the world why both nations should not have free access and passage through the Lombobo — as it was called — and a wise chief would have so ordered things that whilst Ochori man and Isisi moved in and through it, neither nation should claim the right to lordship.

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