Little God Ben Page 17

  ‘Well—if I’m as good at guessing as I think I am—this is what happened to him. He got back to his people. He told ’em about the fate of his companion. He told ’em about the Temple of Gold. That’d explain why they’ve come along, wouldn’t it? Revenge and greed. These attractive qualities are not monopolies of civilisation, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Ardentino.

  ‘There’s one thing you don’t see,’ answered Oakley. ‘The final argument in favour of the sunrise attack. These natives have a neat sense of justice. Almost poetic. I’ve noticed it time and time again. An eye for an eye. A head for a head. A skull for a skull. A boiling for a boiling. If you kill my brother at midday with a poisoned arrow, I shan’t be quite happy if I kill you at 3.37 by breaking your back. What I shall sweetly dream of is killing you at midday with a poisoned arrow—or as near the time and the process as I can devise. Just to bring memory boomeranging back to you at the crucial moment and to prove to you that your demise isn’t a happy accident. Now, the Red Square was done in at sunrise. See the point? Add it to the others, and tack on what I’ve just witnessed half-way up the hill, and the arguments in favour of a sunrise attack become fairly conclusive.’

  ‘Are you descended from Napoleon?’ inquired Ardentino.

  ‘I hope not,’ replied Oakley. ‘He lost Waterloo. But now I’m going to try to be an imitation of Wellington—so lend me thine ears, Mr Ardentino, and pay heed to what I’m going to say. No, wait a moment. We’ve got a bit of time, so there’s something I’d like to ask you first.’

  ‘What is it?’ answered Ardentino.

  Oakley turned his eyes for a moment towards the sea beyond which lay the world of fading memories.

  ‘If, through a spot of anything I do, we escape from this Isle of Loveliness,’ he said bringing his eyes back to Ardentino’s, ‘do you think you could wangle me a signed photograph of Greta Garbo?’

  23

  The Plan

  ‘Can I come in?’ asked Oakley.

  Ben sat up with a start, and stared towards the reed curtain as Oakley pushed his way through it.

  ‘Sorry I always make you jump,’ said Oakley, ‘but I did try to give you a warning that time.’

  ‘I suppose yer thinks I was asleep?’ inquired Ben, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I received that impression,’ admitted Oakley.

  ‘Well, I was.’

  ‘Forgive me for waking you.’

  ‘That’s orl right, I was tryin’ ter wike. See, I was playin’ skittles with the ’Igh Priest and the balls was skulls. Wot’s the noos?’

  ‘I’ve come to tell you. Do you think you can listen to it without interrupting?’

  ‘’Oo’s hinterruptin’? Let’s ’ave it!’

  For the third time—the first to Ardentino, the second to the prisoners in the compound, and now to Ben—Oakley related his discoveries and conjectures, while Ben listened in silence with a solemn face. At the conclusion of the recital, Ben said:

  ‘It’s a mess!’

  ‘It is going to be a very nasty mess,’ nodded Oakley.

  ‘I ’ates blood.’

  ‘I’m not enamoured of it myself, and plenty will be spilt tomorrow, I am afraid—’

  ‘If we don’t do nothink,’ interrupted Ben.

  ‘Yes, if we don’t do anything. The Red Squares will burst in upon the Temple a few minutes after the trial has begun, and there will be a general massacre.’

  ‘Then we gotter do somethink!’

  ‘We’re going to do something—’

  ‘Cos we can’t ’ave no blood.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I ses we can’t ’ave no blood. Or Oomoo ses it. Sime thing.’

  Oakley frowned at him.

  ‘My dear Ben, or Oomoo, sime thing,’ he said. ‘Are you really suggesting that two hostile tribes—one about to attack the other—can meet without hurting each other?’

  ‘Well, they’ve gotter, ain’t they?’ retorted Ben. ‘That’s wot I’m ’ere for. Gits pliner and pliner, don’t it? Why aintcher told our blokes abart these other blokes—the Red Squires, as yer calls ’em? Corse, it might be a good idea ter wait a bit, but wot’s the reason?’

  ‘I have told our blokes.’

  ‘I mean our black blokes.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, if I told our black blokes about the other blokes, there’d be a bust up at once, and we don’t want a bust up at once. We’re not ready for it. Heaven knows what would happen! Moreover, the fight would take place in the worst possible spot for us—’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In the track along which Miss Sheringham has got to escape to the beach—and the boats.’

  ‘Yer mean she might, well, trip over the cashilties, like?’

  ‘She would probably become a casualty herself. But those are only some of the reasons,’ said Oakley. ‘Do you think you could be a good, quiet boy again while I tell you our plan?’

  ‘Oh, yer’ve got a plan, then?’ queried Ben.

  ‘Of course. Didn’t we agree that something had to be done?’

  ‘That’s right, on’y I didn’t know yer’d thort o’ the somethink.’

  ‘Well, I have, Ben. And they’ve all agreed to it, so what you’ve got to do is just to listen, and then do your bit—’

  ‘If I agree to it,’ murmured Ben, ‘which I ain’t doin’ if they’re still arter the gold.’

  Oakley smiled grimly.

  ‘Oomoo,’ he said, ‘do you realise the position?’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’ answered Ben.

  ‘I mean that we are between two hostile tribes who will shortly be at each other’s throats, and that although we are planning to escape from the sandwich, and are going to have a jolly good try, our chance of success is about one in a million. I’m asking you if you realise it?’

  ‘Well, nah yer menshuns it, I dunno if I do,’ replied Ben. ‘See, I gone sort o’ benumb.’

  ‘I believe you have.’

  ‘It’s me forrid. It ain’t be’avin’ nacherel. Orter be runnin’ rivers, but it ain’t, ain’t it?’

  ‘Looks perfectly waterproof to me.’

  ‘Eh? And then me ’eart. It ain’t jerkin’. And then me knuckles. They ain’t hitchin’. ’Ere I am, sittin’ like we might be torkin’ abart the weather instead o’ running abart like a jelly. That’s right, I’ve gone benumb.’

  ‘Yes, and if you weren’t—benumb,’ interposed Oakley, ‘you’d realise that your friends are not thinking of gold any more, but simply and solely of their own skins.’

  ‘And the reason I’ve gone benumb,’ Ben went on, paying no attention to Oakley’s remark, ‘is becorse Gawd’s sent me perteckshun so’s I can do wot I got ter do. See, if I wasn’t benumb I couldn’t do it. Wunnerful ’ow it works.’

  ‘But don’t you want to know what you’ve got to do?’ inquired Oakley patiently.

  ‘I’ll know when the time comes,’ returned Ben staring ahead of him.

  In a firm voice Oakley retorted.

  ‘You’re going to know now, and if you start going into a trance I’ll give you a wallop that will end your benumbness for ever more! For heaven’s sake, man, forget your part for a few moments and listen to what I’m saying!’

  ‘’Oo ain’t listenin’?’ answered Ben. ‘Let’s ’ear the plan.’

  ‘Right!’ said Oakley. ‘It’s this. It begins as soon as I leave you. You may not know it, but you are telling me at this moment that you want the trial to commence an hour earlier than at present arranged—an hour before sunrise. I shall broadcast this new order from Oomoo to the Chief and to the whole village, saying that the reason for the alteration is that you have a matter of vital importance to communicate to them at the Temple.’

  ‘Wot’ll that be?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ replied Oakley. ‘Don’t interrupt! I shall not broadcast the information to the High Priest till considerably later. He might raise objections, and there are not going to be any
objections. In fact, he won’t be told until you all arrive. Then I shall communicate with him by means of our special contrivance used only in emergency—I call it our burglar alarm—’

  ‘’Ow’s it work?’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Yus. I may ’ave ter use it meself!’

  ‘You won’t have to. Still, you can hear how it works. I think I’ve told you I am never allowed in the Priest’s quarters, so when I am in the Temple and need him badly I pull a skull that hangs over a door. The skull is connected by a cord that runs through holes with another skull in the H.P.’s house. When my skull comes down, his goes up. And along he comes. Of course, there’s a penalty for pulling the communication cord without sufficient reason, but there will be quite sufficient reason this time. He will find, to his astonishment, that the Temple is filled not, as he usually plans, with the Chosen Few, but with as many of his flock as can pack into it. And they will all be armed … I wonder if you begin to get the idea?’

  ‘No,’ said Ben. ‘Wot ’appens next?’

  ‘The H.P. is informed of the alteration in the time—too late for him to object—and then you make your communication. You will gesticulate as you have never gesticulated before. And I, interpreting your signs, will look more astounded than I have ever looked before. Because you will have informed me of the attack that is about to be made on the Temple at sunrise, and by this uncanny knowledge you will prove, beyond doubt, that you are indeed Oomoo, the God of Storms, who not only sends storms, but who knows when they are coming. Well, Ben, what do you think of it—so far?’

  Ben was impressed.

  ‘It don’t seem so bad,’ he admitted, ‘on’y I don’t see why they’ve brort their weppins—yer sed they was harmed—when they didn’t know abart the attack.’

  ‘That was your order, Oomoo. Don’t worry about these little details.’

  ‘Oh! Well, wot ’appens next?’

  ‘Having given them this vital information, and having saved them from massacre, I am banking on the hope that they will do anything more you tell them.’

  ‘Wot more do I tell ’em?’

  ‘You tell them to curb their impatience and not to rush out to slaughter. You tell them to retire to the outer chamber, and to wait there. You will tell the High Priest that you yourself desire to wait, with him, with me, and with all the prisoners, in the High Priest’s quarters. If the High Priest objects, and suggests that the prisoners are left in the Temple to be the first victims, you will inform him that the prisoners are to be your own victims, not the enemy’s, and that they are to be preserved in the High Priest’s house till the battle is over. Then they will be sacrificed, to celebrate victory—’

  ‘Wot’s that?’ interrupted Ben. ‘Sakerficed?’

  ‘That, Oomoo, is what you will tell the High Priest,’ answered Oakley. ‘He must have something to pacify him. Otherwise your orders may not be obeyed. Assuming that they are, the natives will retire to the outer chamber, ready to pounce upon the foe when the foe is trapped. We shall retire—by the opposite door—to the Priest’s house, the only evidence of which is a small door in a rocky wall. I mention this, Ben, because the Red Squares will have to pass that door when they enter the Temple at sunrise. The door will be in deep shadow at that time, and will probably not be noticed. That, again, is a hope. Anyhow it will be secured on the inside, and since the door to the Temple itself will be immediately ahead of the Red Squares, their eyes will be fixed on that. They will enter the Temple. They will find it empty. They will begin their work of vengeance—smashing—pillaging—looting—what a scene, Ben, eh? Shall we pop our heads in, and see it?’

  He paused. Ben was gazing ahead of him, picturing the episode, and completing the picture in his mind even as Oakley supplied the final touches …

  ‘No, Ben, we will not pop in and see it. The people who will pop in will be our islanders, from the other side. But, first, we shall have popped out of the Priest’s house—after the last Red Square has gone into the Temple—and we will have barred the door so that they cannot come out again. And while two tribes are slaying each other, we shall be leaving the Priest’s house, and descending the track up which the Red Squares came—descending past their camp—where they are now at this moment, Ben, while you and I are talking—past that spot, and down to the beach, where we shall find Ardentino waiting in the best boat, and the best boat packed with supplies.’

  He paused again, but Ben did not ask the question he had expected. Ben was visualising the battle in the Temple, and was unable to tear his mind away from the horrible picture.

  ‘Of course, I shall have been working on the boat and the supplies during the night,’ said Oakley, answering the unasked question. ‘That will be my job after I have given out the news of the advanced time of the gathering in the Temple. In fact, I hope to start forraging in about an hour from now, and maybe I shall be able to find some of the supplies that tipped out of the boat you arrived in. Anyhow, that’s up to me. We are assuming that I have filled the boat with all that is necessary for our long voyage—and the voyage itself is in God’s hands.’

  Ben jerked himself out of his reverie.

  ‘It seems ter me,’ he muttered, ‘that there’s a lot in Gawd’s ’ands.’

  ‘That is true, Ben,’ nodded Oakley solemnly. ‘I have told you what I hope will happen—but you will remember I prefaced my remarks with the observation that there is about one chance in a million that all the plans will go as arranged. Or, let us be optimistic, and say one chance in five hundred thousand. I believe in looking on the bright side of things.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Do yer call it the bright side o’ things a lot o’ blokes killin’ each hother?’

  ‘It is the bright side for us,’ answered Oakley. ‘The occupation will be so intensive that no one will think of us till it is all over—and till we are well away.’

  ‘’Ave you gorn benumb?’

  ‘I am endeavouring to recapture that enviable condition.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Ben,’ said Oakley sharply, ‘are you still thinking about the impossible?’

  ‘Nothink’s himposserble when Gawd’s be’ind yer.’

  ‘Then why does God permit wars? If—as you think—God’s hand is in this, don’t worry about the method, but be grateful that God is giving us a slender chance to save Miss Sheringham. Be grateful that the bloodthirstiness of warring tribes, which is a natural instinct you can’t prevent, and have no obligation to prevent, happens on this occasion to give Miss Sheringham a chance of going on living! Do you understand what I am talking about, or am I using too long words?’

  ‘I unnerstan’ wot yer torkin’ abart,’ replied Ben, ‘but you don’t unnerstan’ wot I’m torkin’ abart. Mind yer, I ain’t sure I unnerstan’ it meself, but I’ve jest got a feelin’ that somethink’s gotter be done, and that I’ll know wot it is when the time comes, like wot I sed. And any’ow, there’s one thing yer’ve fergot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The kid. Wot ’appens to ’er?’

  ‘We might take her along with us.’

  ‘Yus, that’s a nidea! P’r’aps I could adop’ ’er. I’ve always wanted one. But there’s another thing yer’ve fergot, too.’

  ‘I dare say there are plenty of other things,’ replied Oakley, ‘and that one of them will trip us up. What is this particular other thing?’

  ‘The ’Igh Priest. Wot’s ’e goin’ ter do abart it, when we wanter pop orf from ’is ’ouse?’

  ‘The High Priest is one of the things I have not forgotten, Ben,’ answered Oakley gravely. ‘To use your own phrase, we’ll know what to do with the High Priest when the time comes.’

  ‘Kill ’im?’ asked Ben bluntly.

  ‘What, kill that darling old gentleman, Ben?’ exclaimed Oakley. ‘My lad, how could you even suggest such a thing?’

  They stared at each other. From the distance sounded the pom-pom of the villagers’ drums.

  ‘Course,’ said B
en, ‘the kid ’d feel a bit ’ome-sick in Lunnon. I wunner if the hother kids ’d go fer ’er?’

  Oakley smiled despairingly.

  ‘That’s one thing I can’t stand,’ said Ben, ‘people goin’ fer each hother. I seen a lot of it.’

  ‘If you’re going to reminisce, I’ll be off,’ replied Oakley moving. ‘Well, glad to have met you, though you’re the rummest ass I ever struck, and I give you up.’

  ‘That’s where yer keep on goin’ wrong,’ retorted Ben. ‘This ain’t me!’

  24

  Blessings Before Battle

  Ben’s conviction that he was not himself increased as the hours of strange loneliness slipped by. No one came near him to remind him of his true identity. Oakley had ensured his solitude, and was himself too busy elsewhere to pay any more calls. Thus, in an atmosphere appropriate to the transition, the little stoker imagined himself slipping more and more certainly out of his familiar form and assuming a shape beyond mere physical dimensions.

  For a long while after Oakley left him he sat and thought. Or, more correctly, he sat and let thoughts come. His ‘benumbness’ seemed to have removed the material barriers that might otherwise have prevented the entry of a spiritual guide, and he was quite convinced that from now onwards he merely had to be obedient to superior direction. Even when he left his seat at last and walked to the curtained exit, he believed that his legs were being propelled by a force considerably greater than the force of unadulterated Ben.

  He stood by the curtain and listened to the queer noises that rose from the village.

  Pom-pom, pom-pom, pom-pom, sounded the drums.

  Waaaaaa—waaaaaa, chanted the voices.

  Pom-pom, waaaaaa-waaaaaa, pom-pom, waaaaaa-waaaaaa, pom-pom, waaaaaa-waaaaaa …

  The uncanny music, with its monotonous endlessness, added its hypnotic influence to Ben’s metamorphosis. The old Ben would merely have been astonished or terrified by the unnatural din. The new Ben accepted it, and hardly felt it, indeed, to be unnatural. He did not visualise a band of strangers doing incomprehensible, idiotic things. He visualised a band of fellow-creatures, including pretty children who could smile, doing sad and pathetic things. He visualised them pomming and waaing in the afternoon sunlight feeling as normal to themselves as folk-dancers in an English village; and then retiring to their huts to sleep (unless they kept this up all night?); and then, in the cold grey hour before dawn, marching up to the Temple, in obedience to his, Oomoo’s order; and then—conflict and bloodshed, shrieks and agony, death …