Little God Ben Page 19

  ‘Well, I don’t care!’ she muttered. ‘It’s not going to send me to sleep!’

  As though in answer to this boast, she became suddenly conscious of the child’s weight against her. The child had already yielded to the fumes.

  She took the child in her arms, partly through sympathy, and partly for the comfort of feeling something solid. Solidarity was slipping away … ‘But I’m not going to sleep!’ she thought. ‘I’m not, I’m not, I’m not …’

  On the unseen beach below the Temple, Ardentino and Oakley worked throughout the night. Oakley had examined and bound Ardentino’s foot, and fortunately, although the film star could just hobble, his duties did not involve much moving about. Once the boat had been selected and shoved into the required position for launching on the early morning tide—it was the largest of the war canoes, with more than enough room for its intended new crew—he merely had to assist with the loading and the storing when Oakley made his periodic visits. If Oakley expended the more physical energy, Ardentino had the more nerve-racking job—or so he declared. Sitting alone in the darkness during Oakley’s interminable absences, with the knowledge that not far above him on the heights was a camp of bloodthirsty warriors, Ardentino died countless deaths, all equally unpleasant.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ he whispered once as Oakley was about to leave him to another lonely vigil, ‘is why there aren’t any scouts poking about!’

  ‘They left one with the boats,’ Oakley reminded him grimly.

  ‘Yes, and now they seem to have forgotten all about him,’ replied Ardentino.

  ‘A scout reports to an army, not an army to a scout,’ said Oakley. ‘Just the same, I agree that these fellows are a bit over-confident. So are our chaps when there’s a war on, for that matter. Primitive emotions go to extremes, you know— exaggerated cowardice, exaggerated courage, exaggerated everything. When they fight they deal with the exaggerated cowardice by working themselves up to the exaggerated courage. That’s how they lose their natural caution. Queer—but we needn’t worry about it. It’s all to our advantage.’

  ‘Then you—you don’t think there’s much chance of any- one popping down from the camp?’ asked Ardentino.

  ‘Not much chance,’ answered Oakley, ‘though, of course, nothing’s certain.’

  ‘No. They may upset our plans by invading the Temple before sunrise.’

  ‘They may. But I’ve never known a night attack yet. They want to see what they’re doing, and to have light for the get-away.’

  ‘Some of them will get away anyhow, and follow us.’

  ‘Not the Red Squares. I know the direction they’ve come from, and we shall take one exactly opposite. Anyhow, I’m not sure that any of ’em will get away, after the surprise attack, and with their only exit barred against them. If any do, it’ll be sauve qui peut with them. They’ll be thinking of their own skins, not ours.’

  ‘But the conquerors—the natives here?’

  ‘If our plan works, it’ll keep them busy for all the time we want. Keep your pecker up.’

  ‘So simple!’ murmured Ardentino. ‘Are the others keeping their peckers up?’

  ‘Haven’t had time to inquire.’

  ‘Not even of the stoker?’

  ‘Not even of the stoker. When Oomoo and I get together we just go round and round. So does the inside of my head. I’ve decided not to have any more mental revolutions with Oomoo until just before we all go up to the Temple—which, incidentally, will be after a couple more visits to you here, by my present reckoning. I think I can finish by then, and it’ll be about time to begin the fun. Well, so long. I must be off. Keep the eggs warm.’

  Oakley’s reckoning proved correct. Two more journeys to the boat completed the preparations, and he found that he had worked almost exactly to the time-table he had set himself.

  His next visit was to the Chief, whom he instructed to form the procession and to lead it to the hut where Oomoo and the Low Priest would be awaiting its arrival. Then he went to the hut, and received the shock of his life.

  ‘My God!’ he gasped, staring at the transformation. ‘But—I say! It’s great!’

  26

  The Yellow God

  The yellow god stared back with the expressionless fixity of an idol. Then he said, and Oakley noticed a change of voice as well as of appearance.

  ‘’Ow long ’ave we got, O, Oakley?’

  With quick intelligence Oakley decided not to interfere with the god’s poise. He replied, in kind:

  ‘The procession will be here in a few minutes, O, Oomoo. Say, five.’

  He hoped his solemnity—and in truth he felt solemn enough, in spite of the grotesqueness of the situation—would assist Ben to maintain his own. If it was Ben? In any case, whether Ben or Oomoo sat before him, the unique atmosphere he pervaded was too valuable to be disturbed.

  ‘And wot ’appens ezackly, O, Oakley, when the perceshun comes?’ inquired the yellow god.

  ‘You will be carried on the golden litter, borne by six men, to the Temple, O, Oomoo,’ answered Oakley. ‘The Low Priest will walk on one side, the Chief on the other. Behind will be torch-bearers and armed men. In the middle of the line will be five of the prisoners. Of the other two, O, Oomoo, one is at the boat, which is ready and provisioned for its voyage, and the other, as you know, is in the Priest’s house.’

  ‘And wot ’appens ezackly, O, Oakley, when we gits ter the Temple?’ continued the yellow god, after a pause during which he considered the details he had just learned.

  ‘If your will is obeyed, I summon the High Priest. And I am beside you to obey your will. He comes. You inform him, through me, of the enemy outside the gate. You order the prisoners to be sent into the High Priest’s house, under my escort. You order the rest to retire to the outer chamber, there to wait. You join us in the High Priest’s house. At sunrise, the enemy pours into the Temple. We secure the door so they cannot pour out again. And by these means, O, Oomoo, you save many lives, including that of a very gracious lady. Thinking of this lady, O, Oomoo, you will decide that nothing shall be allowed to interfere with this plan. No other consideration will weigh with you, O, Oomoo. You will think only of the lady, so that she may meet life instead of death.’

  Now the yellow god removed his staring eyes from Oakley’s for the first time, and turned them upwards. ‘Poor chap,’ thought Oakley, ‘I really believe he is quite, quite mad—and I don’t wonder.’ He waited anxiously, and Oomoo’s next words increased the theory of madness.

  ‘Do yer ever ’ave vishuns, O, Oakley?’ asked the yellow god.

  ‘I think we are best without them,’ replied Oakley apprehensively.

  ‘I’m ’avin’ one now,’ said the yellow god. ‘It’s a vishun of the boilin’ pot. It’s a very big pot.’

  ‘Very big indeed,’ answered Oakley. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘’Oo ’eats the water?’

  ‘The High Priest keeps the water warm all night. The Low Priest brings it to boiling point. The High Priest waits till the steam issues from the hole in the lid.’

  ‘’Oo goes near the pot, beside them two and the victims? There ain’t nobody else in my vishun.’

  ‘Nobody else goes near it. It is taboo.’

  ‘I don’t see no fire in my vishun.’

  ‘Nobody can see the fire from the Temple floor. Only I can see it. It burns beneath the pot, and the recess is out of sight.’

  ‘That is a good answer, O, Oakley. Are you seein’ my vishun, too?’

  ‘I don’t know, O, Oomoo.’

  ‘Do you ever chinge the water?’ continued the yellow god, after another short session at the ceiling.

  ‘The water is holy,’ replied Oakley, ‘and is always changed after contamination.’

  ‘When’s contermashun?’ inquired the yellow god. ‘One o’ the Fite Days?’

  Oakley swallowed. He was feeling a little dizzy.

  ‘It occurs after each ceremony,’ he said.

  ‘’Ow do yer chin
ge the water? I don’t see no bale in my vishun.’

  ‘There is a hole at the bottom. I remove a plug.’

  ‘Does the water go quickly?’

  ‘Very quickly.’

  ‘And quietly? I don’t ’ear no noise?’

  ‘Very quietly. Apart from the final moments. But if one put the plug in and left, say, a depth of one inch, the final sound would not occur.’

  ‘Could one tell when ter do it?’

  ‘One could, for there is a soft warning that precedes the final violence.’

  ‘O, Oakley,’ said the yellow god, ‘do yer see my vishun a bit pliner?’

  ‘I see it plainer,’ said Oakley, ‘but I do not see the use of what I see. Our plan does not need it.’

  ‘Our plan does need it, O, Oakley,’ answered the yellow god, ‘so now yer knows wot ter do when ye’re told ter bring up the fire.’

  ‘But the High Priest will not now tell me to bring up the fire!’

  ‘No, Oomoo will tell yer ter bring up the fire—and yer’ll know wot ter do when ’e tells yer. Yer’ll put it aht, and let the water aht. And when yer comes hup from doin’ it, yer’ll tell the ’Igh Priest that Oomoo ses ’e’s not ter go near the pot, becos’ it’s bein’ got ready fer—somethink speshul—somethink ’e’s never seed afore—somethink nobody’s never seed afore! A mirrercle, wot’s goin’ ter mike Oomoo so grite ’e’ll be able ter do wotever ’e likes!’ The yellow god’s voice became, for the first time, a little emotional. ‘Do yer know, O, Oakley, that Oomoo’s begun ’is good hinfluence orlready? Do yer know, O, Oakley, ’e went fer a walk larst night through the villidge?’ Oakley opened his eyes in astonishment. ‘Do yer know, O, Oakley, ’e give ’em orl ’is blessin’, and ’ad the ’ole lot follerin’ ’im when ’e walked back? Now will you trust Oomoo, and do orl ’e tells yer?’

  The sound of softly tramping feet fell upon Oakley’s acute ears. Nothing more. No drums, no chanting this time. By Oomoo’s orders.

  ‘I’ll trust you, Oomoo,’ said Oakley quietly. ‘But if you have any more orders, you’ll have to be quick.’ To himself he thought, ‘Lunacy’s catching—now there are two madmen in this room!’

  The little god also heard the tramping. He relapsed into his stolid calm as he concluded the interview with two requests.

  ‘I’ll want a fag and a box o’ matches in the Temple—can yer get ’em orf one o’ the prisoners?’ was the first.

  ‘If they are to be got, you shall have them,’ answered Oakley. ‘I believe Medworth has a secret hoard. That all, O, Oomoo?’

  ‘No, one thing more, O, Oakley,’ replied the little god, and made the second request. ‘’Ow do these nitives kiss each hother?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Wot I sed.’

  ‘They rub noses.’

  ‘Go on! I mean, is that so? ’Ave they a spechul one?’

  ‘Yes. If they raise their right hands afterwards and repeat the process, it means everlasting friendship.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured the yellow god. ‘Everlastin’ frien’ship!’

  The tramping reached the hut, and stopped.

  27

  The Flaw in the Plan

  The procession moved silently up the hill like a long black snake with an illuminated golden head. The head was the yellow god on his raised litter, gleaming in the light of the foremost torch-bearers, and at intervals down the snake’s long line were other torch-bearers, making other bright points that culminated at the end of the tail. The chanting sounds that should normally have accompanied the snake’s progress would have been eerie enough, but the silence, broken only by the soft, slow tramp of naked feet, seemed even more eerie than sound.

  Not a word was spoken during the journey. Thought loomed supreme. When the outer gate was reached, it was silently opened by Oakley, and after a momentary halt the procession passed through, and on to the second gate. Then, after another short halt, it flowed into the dark space of the Temple.

  The Temple had not been illuminated, and the torches of the bearers provided the only light. They picked out garishly the most prominent and brilliant spots, and left the rest in deep, flickering shadow. It was a scene to make one gasp, and some of the prisoners did gasp. Even the three who had already seen the Temple gazed at it with fresh wonder in this new awe-inspiring aspect. But Ben did not gasp. He had seen it all before in his vision; or he believed he had. The impressive throne towards which he was being borne—he had seen that. The great pot, with its sliding, perforated lid—he had seen that. The steps that led downward, behind the pot, to the hidden recess beneath it—the effigies—the gold-streaked columns of rock—the one column of pure gold— the high, domed roof—the little door that led to the High Priest’s passage at the far end of the Temple—he had seen them all, and although Oakley in a later discussion denied the possibility of this, Ben held on to his conviction.

  But one fact was beyond discussion. The yellow god did not behave as Ben, in his right mind, would have behaved. His mouth did not open. His eyes did not stare. He did not exclaim, ‘Lumme!’ He accepted the terrible grandeur as a natural environment for the events to come, and he moved from the litter to the throne with a dignity that fitted the occasion.

  Oakley, by now accustomed to Ben’s attitude and appearance, was able to detach himself sufficiently to glance towards the prisoners to whom the transformation was new, and to note their emotions. Indeed, Ben was quite as astonishing to them as was the Temple. Smith’s eyes were very nearly out of his head. The lips of Miss Noyes appeared to have become permanently parted. ‘I can’t understand why I’m not fainting!’ she thought. ‘Really, I can’t understand it! Perhaps I have fainted? If not, I soon will!’ Medworth’s amazement had a flush of indignation in it. He was striving to be angry at the outrageousness of it all to bolster up his courage.

  There was no anger, however, in the breasts of Haines and Cooling. On the contrary, the sight of Ben, and of the reverence of the natives, stirred them with new hope.

  Oakley was particularly conscious of this reverence. He was conscious of the personal note in it …

  For a few tense seconds after Ben was seated on his new throne, nothing happened. The stage wait was due to the absence of the usual producer. The Chief looked around for the High Priest.

  ‘Kooala!’ he muttered glancing at Oakley. ‘Kwee? Kooala?’

  Ben heard the mutter, and, staring at Oakley, pointed to the Priest’s door. Oakley walked slowly to the door, grasped the skull that was suspended above it, and pulled it down. Then he returned to the throne.

  There was another tense pause. All eyes were turned to the Priest’s door. The minute that passed seemed like ten. Then the door opened, and the High Priest entered.

  As his eyes fell upon the crowded chamber, the torches, the gleaming spears, the assembled prisoners, and Oomoo already seated on his throne, an expression leapt into his eyes that, to some of those who saw it, was unforgettable. The surprise in it was swamped by savage indignation and hatred. The little god was yellow, but the High Priest at that instant was yellower.

  But the instant passed. Intelligent instinct burned behind those baleful eyes, and he would never lose his power by a momentary passion. Something had gone wrong. Those responsible should, in due course, receive the complete gift of his venom. But, first, the cause would have to be discovered, and it could only be discovered by, at this early stage, apparent acceptance. Rulers may deal out surprises. They must not let it appear that they themselves can receive them.

  The High Priest advanced slowly. His eyes moved from Oakley to the little god. The eyes of the little god stared back with unquenchable purpose. Before the High Priest reached him, Oomoo was giving his next order. He was pointing to the great pot.

  The High Priest paused. This should have been his order! And it should not have come just yet!

  The Low Priest made no inquiry into the High Priest’s state of mind. There had been moments in the Chief’s hut when the High Priest had domi
nated him, but now he was slave only to Oomoo. As soon as Oomoo pointed to the pot, he prostrated himself, and then, taking a taper from the wall, and lighting it from one of the torches, he moved to the descending steps and disappeared.

  A curious thought came into the mind of Ernest Medworth. ‘Oh, so that wasn’t why he wanted my silver lighter!’ He had yielded it to Oakley unwillingly, with his last cigarette, before the procession had continued on its way from the Chief’s hut.

  Now all eyes were turned towards the spot where Oakley had vanished. The assembly awaited his reappearance. He was away a long time, and the High Priest began to grow impatient. But when he made a movement towards the steps, Oomoo gave another order, this time directly to the High Priest. He waved him back, and pointed to a spot beside the throne.

  The High Priest hesitated. He noticed the expressions of the nearest spearmen. These men, obviously, had no doubts as to the authenticity of Oomoo. The High Priest could not quite understand the expressions, but he decided to be guided by them. He bowed his head, and stayed where he was. Before long he would have an understanding with Oomoo. Yes, undoubtedly, he and Oomoo must get to know each other better. But the improvement in their relationship would be established when they were alone. Quite alone.

  At last Oakley reappeared. He walked back to the throne slowly, made a motion with his hands, and once more prostrated himself. Ben found himself immensely interested in the hands, and as Oakley rose he stretched out his own hands. For a moment their hands met. Ben’s came away clenched, Medworth’s lighter in one, and his last cigarette in another.

  The necessity of keeping his fists clenched and of camouflaging the true reason expedited Ben’s next move. He began suddenly to gesticulate on a grand scale. The clenched fingers supplied a usefully bellicose touch, but as the gesticulations were unique in the language of signs, no one could possibly have interpreted them without a foreknowledge of their meaning. Oakley, however, possessed this foreknowledge, and after he had removed himself to a safe distance he watched the extraordinary performance with the required expressions of astonishment and incredulity.