Little God Ben Page 21

  The natives leapt up. Spears were held high, no longer in menace. They were raised to the little yellow god who had just emerged unscathed—and not even wet—from a boiling bath, and who had united two belligerent tribes.

  But the yellow god did not see the raised spears. His eyes were closed, and, as the new High Priest explained to the company, he had gone into a trance of divine ecstasy that necessitated his immediate solitude.

  29

  For the Duration

  When Ben opened his eyes he found himself back on the throne, but the first thing his eyes fell on was a streak of sunlight. It lay on the floor of the Temple like a bar of gold that had come to life, and he kept his eyes on it for a while, feeling that it was bringing him back to life, also. Though whether he desired to be brought back to life was, for the moment, mere conjecture.

  Near the streak of sunlight squatted Oakley, adding another touch of brightness to the scene. Oakley was still wearing the white robe in which he had re-entered the Temple to rescue Ben from the suffocating pot.

  ‘Take your time,’ advised Oakley, watching Ben recover.

  ‘’Ave—we got it?’ mumbled Ben shakily.

  ‘All we want,’ replied Oakley. ‘It’s going to be a fine day. There must be an anti-cyclone off the north-west of Ireland.’

  ‘’Ow did I git ’ere?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I carried you here,’ answered Oakley, ‘after the guests had departed.’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Never mind. How are you feeling?’

  ‘There ain’t no word fer it. Wot’s ’appened?’

  ‘Well, quite a lot of things. But do you feel up to hearing them?’

  ‘Gotter some time, ain’t I?’ muttered Ben feebly. ‘Where’s the hothers?’

  ‘Which others? White or black?’

  ‘Eh? Oh! Let’s ’ave the white fust.’

  ‘Right. The white folk are legging it across the Pacific.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘Are you surprised? Isn’t that what we’ve been working for?’

  ‘Yus—corse it is. But—’

  ‘Why didn’t they wait for you?’ interposed Oakley. ‘Don’t forget, you did rather insist on staying behind, didn’t you? And, afterwards—well, here’s the story. Beginning from where I left you alone in the Temple—’

  ‘And locked me in!’

  ‘No, Ben, I didn’t lock you in. The High Priest did that. As a matter of fact, it was the H.P. who started the whole ball rolling—by eventually rolling himself off the edge of the ridge and falling through the tree-tops bang into the camp of the Red Squares.’

  ‘Go on!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘’Ow did that ’appen?’

  ‘Well, I am afraid he received a little assistance over the edge,’ murmured Oakley. ‘You see, he whipped out his knife—I saw him doing it as he left the Temple—and he wanted to take the law into his own hands … Nasty bit of work, I’m afraid, but it just had to be, old sport—it just had to be. Couldn’t let him run amok with that knife, could I?’

  ‘I ’eard ’is cry,’ said Ben. ‘’Orrerble!’

  ‘It wasn’t pretty,’ answered Oakley. ‘It worried some others, too. Of course, his abrupt descent brought the invaders up, but by that time the rest of us had got into the Priest’s house—my God, what a hovel, I shall have it spring cleaned!—so they didn’t spot us when they trooped into the Temple here. Pretty narrow squeak, though. Some of our party lost their heads, and nearly scotched the whole thing. If Haines and I hadn’t lugged ’em back they’d have dashed straight down into the lion’s mouth. That’s how you got overlooked till it was too late, though I don’t suppose you’d have come away anyhow till you’d done your good act, would you?’ Ben did not answer. ‘Stout feller, eh? And Haines is another stout feller. I expect he’ll pair up with Miss Sheringham … Not that it matters … where was I?’

  ‘’Idin’ in the Priest’s ’ouse,’ prompted Ben.

  ‘That’s right. So I was. With the rest of them. We found Miss Sheringham in there, of course.’

  ‘And the kid?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The kid? The black kid? Yer fahnd ’er, too?’

  ‘Yes—she was inside. Neither hurt. But—well, dazed to the world. The hovel they’d been shut up in stank with sickly incense. Whew! It’s used to dope the privileged victims. I admit I slipped up in my predictions there. I knew the H.P. wouldn’t hurt them, but I’d forgotten the possibility of the dope. Of course, it complicated things.’

  ‘’Ow?’

  ‘Don’t ask silly questions! How could Miss Sheringham walk when she was in that condition?’

  ‘Oh! Well, ’ow did she git away, then?’

  ‘Haines accepted the situation without any noticeable complaint, and carried her.’

  ‘Dahn ter the boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I s’pose you carried the black kid?’

  ‘No, I—er—carried Miss Noyes.’

  ‘Wot, did she pop orf, too?’

  ‘It was more of an ooze than a pop. She just oozed away.’

  ‘Oh. Then ’oo carried—’

  ‘There was, as you can imagine, some confusion. There was, in fact, nothing but confusion. It reached its height when, just as we got to the boat, an arrow sailed through the air, missing Haines by three inches.’

  ‘Lumme!’

  ‘So I thought myself.’

  ‘And ’e was carryin’ Miss Sheringham!’

  ‘Yes. It was a nasty moment. You’ll realise now, Ben, that there wasn’t much time, and that some of the party got quite out of hand.’

  ‘Yus, but ’oo—’

  ‘Shot the arrow?’

  ‘No, ’oo was carryin’—’

  ‘A Red Square shot the arrow. He must have overslept, or risen late. Or maybe he was left at the camp to keep guard there while the rest came up to the Temple. Anyhow, he spotted us going down, and followed us. He sent about a dozen arrows in all, but only two did any damage.’

  ‘Crikey—’

  ‘Medworth has a sore foot, and Smith has a sore thumb. Personally, I’m not grieving. They were only slight grazes, and the arrows weren’t poisoned—I proved this afterwards by examining one that had not found its mark. Both the casualties will live to tell the tallest stories, and I think it quite pleasant that they should take little souvenirs back with them to England. Let us hope they will smart in damp weather. But I didn’t want any more souvenirs, so I gave the boat a shove, and away she glided on the tide.’

  Ben had been gazing at the ground while picturing the departure. Now he shifted his eyes to Oakley.

  ‘Why didn’t you go orf with ’em?’ he asked.

  ‘I always thought you were a spot of an ass, Ben,’ answered Oakley. ‘Now I know it.’

  There was a short silence. The Temple had a long lurid history, most of it forgotten and none of it recorded, but within the past hour it had surpassed itself in the range of varying emotions it had witnessed. After the silence Ben said:

  ‘Seems ter me, Mr Hoakley, yer a bit of orl right.’

  ‘That, coming from Oomoo, is a compliment,’ replied Oakley gravely. ‘But, don’t forget, there was plenty of clearing up to do yet, and I never make a journey till I’ve ticked off all the items on my list. One item on my list was that arrow-slinger. I had to settle with him, didn’t I?’

  ‘And—did yer?’

  ‘I did. Odd, isn’t it, that among all these bloodthirsty blighters, the only killing during the last dozen hours should have been done by peace-loving Robert Oakley! Don’t think I like it.’ He regarded his right hand with disapproval. Then went on, ‘And another item was that other little person you’ve been inquiring about so persistently. The black child—’

  ‘Wot!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘Wasn’t she with ’em?’

  ‘No. In the confusion she got left behind. Cooling would have carried her down, I expect, if he’d realised … but, after all, it’s just as well, isn’t it—as matters have turned out?’
<
br />   ‘Wotcher mean?’

  ‘Use your ha’p’orth of sense, lad. Where is that child’s danger now—with the island in charge of Mr Benjamin Oomoo and a new High Priest? You note, of course, that on my way up I stepped into the High Priest’s raiment?’

  Ben did not answer. He was thinking hard.

  ‘Yes, it’s rather an interesting position, isn’t it?’ said Oakley. ‘You and I make quite a useful combination. Especially after the amazingly good work you did in here while I was messing about outside. Of course, I didn’t know that. That miracle in the pot just about completed the trick—with, I admit, a few final touches of my own. After you went into your last trance—’

  ‘Oh, trarnce, was it?’

  ‘Bens pop off, but Oomoos go into trances. You ought to know that! And when Oomoo was in this trance, communing with Hojak, Mooane Kook, and Gug—Gug, you recall, is the God of Eatables—we’ll tell him about Eustace Miles, eh?—I bundled the company into the outer hall and had a little pow-wow with them. I explained that Oomoo had caused the High Priest to leap to his death as a penalty for once having slain an innocent Red Square. I explained that the High Priest had committed other misdeeds the full particulars of which would in due course be communicated to them by Oomoo, divine brother of the Red Square’s Chongchong—who I understand you kissed when he was presented to you by the Red Square’s High Priest. I told them that one of the misdeeds was an attempt to exterminate two loving tribes who were destined by the gods to be blood-brothers, and that it was actually to put an end to the High Priest’s evil acts that Oomoo had sent his last storm and had come in person to the island. And then, Ben, I told them to run away and play. They are having high jinks at this moment down in the village.’

  ‘Coo, yer’ve got a brine!’ murmured Ben.

  ‘Well, I’m doing my best to take it out of cold storage,’ responded Oakley.

  ‘But wot abart them Red Squires wot you’ve finished orf? Won’t that mean a bit o’ trouble?’

  ‘Oh, no, Ben. I haven’t finished any Red Squares off. Don’t you know Bob Oakley better than that? The High Priest finished them off. Killed ’em in the night. Really that H.P. has an awful lot to account for!’

  ‘Oh! So that’s ’ow it’s goin’?’

  ‘That is how it is going.’

  ‘Well—wot abart the boat wot’s gone, with—’

  ‘With the white folk whose deaths were not required by gentle Oomoo? And whose lives on this island would have been just as useless? Oomoo’s orders, Ben, Oomoo’s orders—carried out by Oomoo’s right-hand man, the new High Priest.’

  ‘Lumme!’ gulped Ben. ‘Yus—we do mike that there combernashun you spoke of jest nah! Do yer suppose—’

  ‘What?’ inquired Oakley as Ben paused.

  ‘I was goin’ ter say—do yer suppose we could keep it up?’

  ‘We might, Ben.’

  ‘It’d—be funny, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Unique.’

  ‘U ’oo?’

  ‘Unique means unprecedented in the annals of Wells’s History of the World. Or, to put it more simply—unusual.’

  ‘Unushel? Ah, I git yer. It’s a fack! But when yer come ter think abart it, well, we might do a bit o’ good ’ere—like wot I sed?’

  ‘Like wot you said, Ben. It was all your idea.’

  ‘The hidea wouldn’t ’ave bin no use if you ’adn’t bin ’ere ter ’elp it along,’ said Ben. ‘Yus, but—well—would it be fer hever, like?’

  ‘Is anything for ever, like?’ inquired Oakley.

  ‘So it ain’t!’

  ‘It undoubtedly ain’t. You, I, the natives, Oomoo, Haines—Miss Sheringham—all the people who are alive today, all who were alive yesterday, all who will be alive tomorrow—this Temple that has stood so long and that looks so solid, the world, the silly little sun …’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘I wunner!’ murmured Ben. ‘But wot abart ’Eving?’

  ‘Ask me another,’ smiled Oakley.

  ‘Well, I believe in ’Eving,’ said Ben, ‘’cos if there ain’t no ’Eving, wot the ’Ell do they mike yer go through ’Ell for?’

  ‘Perhaps Oomoo will help you to get into Heaven?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When St Peter asks you at the gate, “What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?” you could answer, “I taught some cannibals to live on cabbages.”’

  ‘Corse, the way yer tork mikes me feel funny, but I see wot yer mean. But—look ’ere—mightn’t wot’s-’is-nime say, “Yer did it by cheatin’!’

  ‘Cheating?’

  ‘Yus. I ain’t Oomoo really—though, mindjer I thort I was fer a bit—and you ain’t no ’Igh Priest. So wot I ses. It’d be cheatin’.’

  ‘It won’t be the first time Religion has cheated, Ben,’ answered Oakley. ‘It’s always cheating—’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘—pretending to knowledge it hasn’t got. Every religion can’t be right, can it? Protestants, Jews, Catholics, Buddhists, Confucians—’

  ‘Oo’s Confusions?’

  ‘Shut up, Oomoo, I’m talking! After years of numbness and silence, I’m saying things!… Methodists, Christian Scientists, Heathens, Atheists—the whole shoot! And countries, too, each imagining itself the only one that matters, and forming God in its own image—just as these gods are formed here. After all, what is truth? Does anybody know it? Will anybody ever know it? We’re talking of cheating, but truth isn’t just saying that Y e s spells Yes and that N o spells No. Listen, you blinking owl—why shouldn’t there be a bit of God in you—and of High Priest in me—if we chuck the spelling and try to do a spot of work we think God might like?’

  He rose suddenly, and turned towards the open doorway to the sea over which virgin sunlight was dancing.

  ‘Yer mean, lend a ’and,’ said Ben, ‘and let the rest go?’

  ‘That’s just what I mean—lend a hand in the muddling struggle towards happiness. Our souls can remain truthful even if our lips have to spell backwards.’ He thought of the little boat, somewhere on that sparkling expanse—speeding away in the tide towards a continuation of that muddling struggle in another spot. Then he added, abruptly, ‘Of course, Ben, we needn’t stay here. We can go down to the beach now, if we like, get another of the boats, take our chance, and follow them.’

  There was no answer from the throne.

  ‘I told Haines we’d follow them before I shoved their boat off. He didn’t like leaving us, but with all those arrows flying, and for all we knew the worst happening up here, it was just sauve qui peut. “Meet you in London,” I said to him. “If not, I’ll come back for you,” he answered. “Not till you’ve seen Miss Sheringham safely home to Piccadilly Circus,” I told him, “and she won’t get home if we stop to talk.” He understood. And then came another arrow … Well, what about it? Do we follow?’

  ‘Come back fer us,’ murmured Ben, ‘might they?’

  ‘They might,’ nodded Oakley.

  ‘P’r’aps we could show ’em a surprise when they come?’

  ‘P’r’aps we could.’

  ‘And then, corse, there’s another thing,’ said Ben. ‘’Avin’ got so fur, like, with these black blokes ’ere, wot’s goin’ ter ’appen to ’em if we goes and leaves ’em, like?’

  ‘Do you mind what happens to them, Ben?’ inquired Oakley.

  ‘I mind wot ’appens to that kid!’ answered Ben. ‘Where is she?’

  Oakley smiled, moved to a spot behind the throne, and returned to Ben with the black child in his arms.

  ‘I thought she’d had enough of the stuffy atmosphere in the Priest’s house,’ he said, ‘so I brought her in here.’

  Ben stared at the child. Her eyes were closed. She had long, pretty lashes.

  ‘My Gawd, she ain’t dead?’ gasped Ben.

  ‘Just asleep,’ replied Oakley.

  Ben held out his arms, and Oakley placed the sleeping child in them.

  ‘Might as well stay—doncher think?’ muttered Oomoo, rather
unsteadily. ‘See, I sorter promised ’er mother.’ He lowered his nose and touched the sleeping child’s. ‘Lumme—tork abart feelin’ foolish!’

  THE END

  About the Author

  Son of novelist Benjamin Farjeon, and brother to children’s author Eleanor, playwright Herbert and composer Harry, Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) began work as an actor and freelance journalist before inevitably turning his own hand to writing fiction. Described by the Sunday Times as ‘a master of the art of blending horrors with humour’, Farjeon was a prolific author of mystery novels, with more than 60 books published between 1924 and 1955. His first play, No. 17, was produced at the New Theatre in 1925, when the actor Leon M. Lion ‘made all London laugh’ as Ben the tramp, an unorthodox amateur detective who became the most enduring of all Farjeon’s creations. Rewritten as a novel in 1926 and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock six years later, with Mr Lion reprising his role, No.17’s success led to seven further books featuring the warm-hearted but danger-prone Ben: ‘Ben is not merely a character but a parable—a mixture of Trimalchio and the Old Kent Road, a notable coward, a notable hero, above all a supreme humourist’ (Seton Dearden, Time and Tide). Although he had become largely forgotten over the 60 years since his death, J. Jefferson Farjeon’s reputation made an impressive resurgence in 2014 when his 1937 Crime Club book Mystery in White was reprinted by the British Library, returning him to the bestseller lists and resulting in readers wanting to know more about this enigmatic author from the Golden Age of detective fiction.

  Also in this series

  No. 17

  The House Opposite

  Murderer’s Trail

  Ben Sees It Through

  Detective Ben

  Ben on the Job

  Number Nineteen

  About the Publisher

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