Little God Ben Page 18

  The horrible picture came to him with stark vividness. For a moment the soul of the little god dissolved while the soul of the little stoker took its place again and reeled. But Oomoo materialised once more, and gave Ben ‘what for.’

  ‘Wot are yer worryin’ abart?’ demanded Oomoo. ‘When it ain’t goin’ ter ’appen? When yer goin’ ter stop it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ apologised Ben. ‘I fergot.’

  ‘Well, doncher fergit no more,’ instructed Oomoo, ‘’cos if yer does yer mayn’t do wot I tells yer ter do when I tells yer ter do it.’

  ‘When’s that goin’ ter be?’ asked Ben.

  ‘In the Temple,’ replied Oomoo.

  ‘Wot are yer goin’ ter tell me to do when we’re in the Temple?’

  ‘Do yer want ter know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then wot did yer arsk for? It wouldn’t be good fer yer ter know. Wite fer it! It’d hupset yer ter know afore’and.’

  ‘That’s right. But wot abart givin’ me somethink ter do nah—somethink small—jest ter tike me mind orf, like?’

  ‘’Ave yer stopped bein’ benumb?’

  ‘P’r’aps jest a bit.’

  ‘Well, that won’t do. You git benumb agine. You go ’ome. There ain’t room fer two of us inside yer.’

  ‘All right, I’m goin’. But if yer could give me somethink ter do nah—’

  ‘I was goin’ ter give yer somethink ter do nah, but yer’ve no right ter arsk, see? I’ll tell yer without no arskin’. Go inter the Chief’s ’arf o’ the ’ouse, and find some pint.’

  ‘’As ’e got any pint?’

  ‘Will yer stop torkin’? Of course ’e’s got some pint. ’Ow does ’e pint ’iself if ’e ain’t got no pint? Go and find the pint, and pint yerself. Gold, if there is any. Course, you know I’m inside yer, but the hothers ’ave got ter be kep’ hup ter it, and yer’ve got ter look proper when them Red Squires sees yer.’

  ‘Oh—the Red Squires are goin’ ter see me, are they?’ said Ben.

  ‘Ain’t yer goin’ ter stop the fight?’ demanded Oomoo. ‘’Ow are yer goin’ ter stop it if they don’t see yer?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ben. ‘I fergot.’

  The depressing conference over, he turned and walked mechanically towards the inner portion of the hut, and as he walked his calmness began to return. These mental conversations were a nuisance. They came periodically when some incident or thought hooked his drowning personality to the surface. But they were growing less frequent, partly through a subconscious process of self-hypnotism, and partly through the drugged atmosphere, and he hoped that when he had obeyed this spiritual instruction to paint himself, he would paint Ben completely out of recognition and leave Oomoo in undisputed possession.

  It troubled him a little that Oomoo himself had not a really respectable history. A god who produced storms and who fattened on sacrifices was hardly the happiest instrument of moral progress. But if Oomoo was transforming Ben, so Ben was transforming Oomoo, and a higher power than either was directing them both towards humane ends.

  He passed through the inner curtain, and trod new ground. He had not been in this half of the hut before. The silence here was utter, for he no longer heard the faint music from the village. He had expected to find another large chamber beyond the partition, but instead he found a network of irregular cubicles, and he was amazed at his lack of panic as he groped around them with stately indecision. ‘It’s orl right, I’m losin’ meself agine,’ he reflected gratefully. ‘Waalaala!’

  A few seconds later his gratitude became emotional. He came to a cubicle which appeared to be the Chief’s beauty parlour. It contained four tub-like receptacles, each half-full of thickly-coloured fluid. Red, blue, brown, and yellow. He stared, fascinated, at the yellow.

  ‘That’s me, ain’t it?’ he muttered. ‘Yeller. Gold like. Yus, that’s me.’

  He dipped a finger in the yellow tub. He brought it out and stared at it. The paint looked more gold-like on his finger than in the tub. ‘P’r’aps me and that mikes gold?’ he wondered, vaguely recalling some childhood lesson about pigments.

  Well, his finger was already transformed. How to transform the rest of him? The method was obvious, if the prospect made one pause. But one did not pause long, for the method was appropriate as well as obvious—a sort of religious ablution—and the sooner it was begun, the sooner it would be over. Ben climbed into the tub and stooped.

  As his body went down, the yellow fluid came up. It rose to his neck—he felt it rising like a thick ascending coil of cold—and at neck-level he stopped stooping. That was enough for the moment. One needed a breather.

  He knew, however, that he would have to complete the job, and that the final portion would be the least pleasant. He wondered for an instant whether he might omit it. But the humanness of his natural head would be too glaringly apparent above his unhuman body, and there was no honourable escape. So, taking a deep breath, and closing his mouth and his eyes more tightly than he had ever closed them before—he closed his mouth so tightly that he bit himself—he ducked, counted four, and came up again.

  Then he left the tub, and returned glistening to his seat to dry.

  If the effect of his bath on his body was considerable, it was even more considerable on his mood. As his golden casement hardened around him, he felt as though he were being armoured against terror, and also against the material oppressions that gave terror birth. It was now impossible for anyone to treat him as an ordinary human being. He could not even treat himself so. Within this new skin of startling splendour he could function clearly and authoritatively, provided his general attitude were of the same colour. Yes, until his job was done there must be no further undermining conversations, either mental or actual. He must keep others in their place, to keep himself in place … to seal the dignity that would make him supreme in the Temple …

  While revolving these matters in his elevated mind, an idea dawned which proved by its very audacity how definitely he was feeling his wings. In his right colour the idea could never have occurred to him. Even now it had to form the subject of a mental conversation, despite his vow to veto such things; but the conversation was no longer undermining. On the contrary, without interfering with Oomoo’s dominance (for, as he explained later when attempting to elucidate his condition, there was only a very little bit of Ben left, and it was this little bit that put the questions to the big bit), the discourse and the manner of it added a touch of distinction to the proceedings.

  ‘Should I go and show meself, O, Oomoo?’ asked the little bit.

  ‘Why not, O, Ben?’ answered the big bit.

  ‘Jest ter see’ ow they tikes it, O, Oomoo?’

  ‘Why not, O, Ben?’

  ‘Fer a dress re’ersil, like, O, Oomoo?’

  ‘For the third time, O, Ben, why not, O, Ben?’

  ‘That means, Yus,’ reflected the little bit.

  He rose from his seat, and walked slowly and with dignity to the exit. It was Oomoo’s walk, not Ben’s. Ben’s walk was quick and jerky. Out of the corner of his eye he detected yellow flashes. They were his own moving limbs. Ben would have poked his face all over himself in amazement at his transformation, but Oomoo, taking it for granted, refused to pry upon himself, kept his eyes fixed ahead, and contented himself with these vague and accidental glimpses.

  The music from the village of skulls rose up to him once more, borne through the heavy evening air.

  ‘Pom-pom!’

  ‘Waaaaaa-waaaaaa!’

  ‘Pom-pom!’

  ‘Waaaaaa-waaaaaa!’

  This time he did not pause to listen. With measured steps, he walked out into it.

  The first native he came upon was a young man standing by himself and beating his chest. The young man was so intent on this occupation that he did not notice the approaching wonder till it was right up to him. Then he raised his eyes, and stiffened in terror.

  Ben stopped and regarded him. Ben, a miserable sto
ker, put fear into the heart of a cannibal. The cannibal was looking as Ben himself ought to have looked! ‘’E ’ad one o’ them Gawd-’elp-me expreshuns,’ Ben related afterwards. Well, here was a god, ready at hand, to help him. So why not?

  Ben extended a yellow hand and placed it on the young man’s head. Then he risked a smile. A short one, that leapt for an instant from the godly mien and then leapt back again. The young man’s terror changed, and he fell upon his face and rubbed it on Ben’s feet.

  ‘Lumme, ’e’s ticklin’!’ thought the lesser part of the god, and he proceeded on his way before the weakness of the flesh undid him.

  The young man rose behind him, and followed at a distance.

  Then he came upon a group. There were about a dozen, half of them squatting on the ground and beating their little drums, the other half chanting and swaying. Seeing Ben, they ceased, and stood transfixed as the young man had stood.

  Now a humble stoker was striking terror into the hearts of twelve cannibals!

  Ben did not hesitate. He had settled his simple routine and he walked slowly round the circle, giving a pat and a smile to each member. And while he smiled, noting the various receptions—one old woman, he believed, smiled back—an illuminating thought came to him. ‘This is the langwidge we orl wants,’ ran the thought. ‘It don’t need no hinterpreter!’

  When the ceremony was over and he strode towards the next group, the group he had just blessed, joined by the original young man, followed him.

  The next group stood silently while he approached. He became aware, all at once, that there was now silence everywhere. With the swiftness of wireless, the news had travelled. He blessed the second group, and passed on.

  He came to a line of huts. Little children were outside each hut, saving one. He paused before the hut that was childless.

  ‘I—wunner?’ reflected the smaller part of the yellow god. The greater part did not interfere.

  He stared at the entrance. Behind him, the crowd waited. In the dimness of the interior he thought he vaguely saw a form. He walked to the entrance and went in.

  An old man and a woman gaped at him. ‘Wash the old bloke’s fice,’ thought Ben, ‘and I seen a chap like that once diggin’ pertaters.’ He went to him, and touched his forehead, and smiled.

  Then he turned to the woman. ‘And I seen people like you,’ thought Ben. Her eyes were wet with her personal tragedy. They had no right to be, but they were. She was not a perfect heathen. After putting his hands on her head, Ben put both hands on her shoulders and gave her a longer smile. Suddenly the woman threw herself on the ground and began jabbering.

  The old man looked frightened. He muttered to himself, and then sprang to the woman, and heaved her up. The woman shook him off, turned again to Ben, and beat her breast. She seemed to be imploring him. She twisted round, pointed to a little bundle, then beat her breast again. ‘She seems ter be offerin’ ’erself like,’ thought Ben as she fell once more upon her face.

  Ben looked at the little bundle. He came to the conclusion that it was some form of doll. He bent down, touched the woman’s back, and helped her to her feet. Then he walked to the doll, took it up, patted it, smiled at it, and put it down again. The woman stopped protesting, and was crying quietly when he left.

  He continued his queer journey until he reached a point where the village ended. He gazed into the woods beyond, wondering whether a track he saw led to the prisoners’ camp. But he decided not to take it. He was playing a lone hand, and he did not believe he could give any assistance to his companions until he met them on the morrow at the Temple. Moreover, he had done as much for the moment as his mind could stand.

  So he turned, and retraced his way through the village, while the villagers processioned after him at a respectful distance.

  ‘Are they goin’ ter foller me orl the way ’ome?’ he reflected. ‘We don’t want that, do we?’

  When he came to the last hut he paused, turned round slowly, and raised a hand like a golden policeman. The natives immediately halted, and fell on their faces. He completed the last stage of the homeward journey alone.

  As he resumed his seat of honour, he heard the village music starting up again.

  25

  Through the Night

  The sun slipped below the clear-cut horizon of the sea and dusk crept over the island. The brilliant shore lost its colours. The tree-tops were no longer distinct, yielding their outlines to the shadows. The huts became grey blotches, and the natives retired into them. Acutely conscious of the coming of night, the scattered white folk wondered what the morrow would bring. More than one wondered whether, for them, there would be any morrow.

  ‘The whole thing seems a mess-up to me!’ muttered Medworth, gazing out into the gathering gloom from the prison doorway. Like the natives, the prisoners had retired indoors. ‘Waiting like this—when we could slip off almost at once, if we decided to.’

  ‘And leave Miss Sheringham behind?’ exclaimed Haines sharply.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ retorted Medworth, although in his heart he had meant it. It wasn’t sound mathematics to risk too many skins for the sake of only one—provided that one were not his own. ‘But we could have found some way of getting her if we hadn’t left matters to the three most incompetent fools in the place.’

  ‘Well, I—I rather agree with you there,’ said Smith with a glance towards Miss Noyes, who was no longer protected from painful knowledge by slumber.

  ‘The three fools being Oakley, Ardentino, and Ben?’ queried Lord Cooling.

  ‘Obviously!’ snapped Medworth.

  ‘I seem to remember that the first of the fools has got us out of several scrapes—including, once, death by pressure in a very confined space in a temple,’ replied Cooling. ‘I was being slowly and surely flattened when Oakley came along and sounded the “All clear.” I am not sure whether I have completely filled out again yet … The second fool, one admits, did not begin well, but at least he found some boats, while we, Medworth, were looking for gold—’

  ‘Yes, and we’ve made no provision for carting away any of that!’ interrupted Medworth savagely.

  ‘Perhaps we shall manage a few handfuls in passing,’ suggested Cooling.

  ‘The third fool could help us there, if he had a mind!’

  ‘The third fool, Ben? Yes, but unfortunately Ben does not seem to have a mind—’

  ‘No, a vacuum!’

  ‘Undoubtedly a vacuum. Yet there is something in the vacuum that defies description. He ought to be given over to Sir Ernest Spilsbury for analysis when we get back.’

  ‘If we get back,’ corrected Medworth.

  ‘When we get back,’ responded Cooling. ‘I still retain my confidence in our mindless third fool.’

  ‘You’re sure you oughtn’t be given over to Sir Ernest Spilsbury when we get back?’ inquired Medworth, while Smith looked shocked.

  But Lord Cooling merely smiled.

  ‘You and I will call on him together, Medworth,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile we are not committed to the Three-Fool-Plan if we can produce a better. Produce it, Medworth, and we are yours!’

  ‘Provided you don’t leave Miss Sheringham out,’ added Haines.

  ‘Who’s leaving anybody out?’ growled Medworth. ‘But what I say is this. With the whole night before us, and boats all ready, we ought to be able to fetch Miss Sheringham along so we could be well away by morning.’

  ‘That’s a hope, not a plan,’ commented Cooling. ‘Still, while we get to the boats and wait, Medworth, if you like you can just slip up that track to the Temple, tread over an army of black warriors with red squares on their chests, break into the High Priest’s house, rescue Miss Sheringham, carry her down—treading again over the Red Square Army—and rejoin us. Only, of course, if you don’t rejoin us, we’ll gather that you didn’t tread quite lightly enough, and so we will have to push off without you.’

  ‘Being funny again?’ inquired Medworth.

  ‘No—quite serious.
It is you who are developing into the comic turn. Of course, there is an alternative to the simple little plan I have just suggested for you. You may prefer to climb the road to the Temple—don’t wake any of the villagers, will you?—and break open two doors—no, three—don’t make a noise, will you?—no, four doors, I had forgotten the final door to the High Priest’s palace—hit the High Priest on the head, and then carry Miss Sheringham back through the village, or down past the Red Squares—whichever route of the two most delights your fancy.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ exclaimed Medworth.

  ‘Certainly,’ answered Cooling, ‘if it’s to be a fifty-fifty arrangement. Personally, I am all for sitting here quietly and enjoying this perfect night.’

  In another prison high above them Ruth Sheringham sat staring out of a slit window over softly waving tree-tops.

  She was alone with the child, and had been for several hours. After conducting his captives into a small chamber, the High Priest had paid them two very short visits, and had then left them to themselves.

  On the first visit he had brought them a large bowl of food. The child had eaten her share at once; Ruth had eaten hers after hesitation, to find it surprisingly pleasant if a little rich. It appeared to be some vegetable concoction—reserved, possibly, for prisoners of distinction.

  On the second occasion the High Priest had brought in a thick dark mass of some compressed substance, had fixed it in a deep socket in the wall, and had lit it. It smouldered slowly, emitting considerable heat and a sweetly, sickly odour.

  The odour had a soporific effect, and as she now sat by the window she was fighting it. Once she had attempted to extinguish the smouldering substance, but as the ignited surface covered a large area and the heat penetrated downwards as well as outwards, she had merely scorched her fingers.