Little God Ben Page 5

  6

  The Resuscitation of a God

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Lord Cooling, after a few moments of silence broken only by the distant beating of the drum. The fact that it was still distant was the sole bright spot in the situation. ‘Do we adopt Mr Oakley’s advice, and wait?’

  ‘I don’t see any alternative,’ answered Haines.

  ‘Nor do I,’ added Ruth.

  ‘No, not now that the fool’s gone off to tell ’em,’ muttered Smith, nervily. ‘Who let him go? We ought to have kept him, the blasted idiot!’

  ‘Well, I do see an alternative,’ exclaimed Ardentino. ‘At least we can put the ladies into safety!’

  ‘Where’s that?’ inquired Ben.

  Lord Cooling smiled acidly.

  ‘Yes, where is your safe spot?’ he asked. ‘Find it, Mr Ardentino, and I have an idea the ladies will not be the only occupants. Yourself, for example?’

  ‘Are you insinuating anything?’ demanded Ardentino angrily.

  ‘No—suggesting,’ replied Lord Cooling. ‘I am suggesting that the only reason we don’t all climb trees is because we don’t see any with convenient branches low enough. Personally, I think this is just as well. Eight representatives of King George found by a band of naked savages at the tops of eight trees would not be the best advertisement for the Union Jack.’

  Ruth gave a little shriek of laughter. Smith looked scared, and Ardentino frowned.

  ‘You may think this the moment for humour!’ he snapped.

  ‘It is certainly not the moment for panic,’ responded Cooling.

  ‘Who mentioned panic? Or trees, for that matter? Well, I’m going to have a look round, anyway—’

  ‘And I’ll join you,’ interposed Miss Noyes, with sudden efficiency. ‘You’re quite right. What we need is to organise a base. And then someone can come out from it to—to parley with them. Don’t you agree, Mr Smith?’

  ‘Eh? Yes! I must say that sounds sensible,’ answered Smith. ‘Now, then. Base. Let’s find one.’

  He ran towards a mass of rocks, like a lost dog. The film star and the girl guide captain followed him with only a fraction less dignity. The drum was growing considerably nearer.

  ‘Let them go, let them go!’ grunted Medworth. ‘They’ll be caught with the rest of us, and meanwhile we’ve got something more important to talk about!’

  ‘And the whole day, of course, to talk about it,’ commented Lord Cooling.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a minute, haven’t we?… Hallo! What’s that?’

  The drum had abruptly ceased. The cessation was even more unnerving than the sound.

  ‘I expect Oakley’s met the Lord Mayor’s Show,’ said Haines, ‘and is telling them the good news.’

  ‘So now is our last chance to hear yours,’ suggested Cooling, to Medworth. ‘What is this important thing we have to talk about?’

  Medworth glanced towards the forest, then drew close to the others.

  ‘That Temple of Gold,’ he answered, in a low voice. ‘Rather—interesting, eh?’

  Lord Cooling readjusted his eye-glass and stared through it fixedly.

  ‘This is a time for statements, not hints, Medworth,’ he said.

  ‘Then here’s my statement,’ replied Medworth. ‘If there’s gold on this confounded island, let’s see that we leave with a little!’

  ‘Why a little?’ inquired Lord Cooling. ‘Why not a lot?’

  ‘Your idea’s even better than mine,’ grinned Medworth.

  Ruth and Haines frowned at each other. It was Ben, however, who put their thought into words.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be stealin’?’ he blinked.

  ‘Oh, shut your mouth!’ exclaimed Medworth. ‘No one’s asked your opinion!’

  ‘No, but yer gettin’ it, see?’ retorted Ben. ‘I bin in quod once, but it wasn’t fer stealin’, it was fer ’ittin’ a copper wot ’it me fust!’

  ‘Would you mind not wasting valuable time—?’ began Lord Cooling.

  ‘I ain’t wastin’ vallerble time, you are,’ interrupted Ben, with desperate boldness, ‘torkin’ abart carryin’ away gold pillars when they’ll be ’ere any minit! Wot’s the good o’ that? I gotter nidea better’n your’n. Put this ’ere Oomoo back, see? Tha’s where the trouble’s goin’ ter be. Yer could tell that by wot that bloke sed. Pick up the blinkin’ bits, and when they comes and finds ’e’s ’ere agine it’ll put ’em in a good ’umer. ’Ow’s that fer sense?’

  He did not wait for an answer, but dashed to the vacant pedestal. As he began groping in the undergrowth, the drum sounded once more.

  The minute that followed was one of the most confused—and also, as matters transpired, one of the most vital—in Ben’s bewildering experience. He was never able to sort out the details afterwards. The closeness of the drum filled him with a terror that would have sent him leaping towards the sea if he had not been on his hands and knees among the tall, coarse grasses. He did make one jump, but was unnerved by the discovery that he had the god’s head in his hands, and when he dropped the head he lost his own, and fell down flat on top of it. There he lay for a few horrible seconds, while the drumming from the forest grew nearer and nearer. He was doing the ostrich trick again, praying that trouble would pass over him. The grasses were high enough to conceal him temporarily. But as he lay, communicating his palpitations to the foliage, a new thought struck him. Struck him with such force that it brought him to his feet. There was no concealment for him here. The procession would stop at this very spot, and if he were found among the broken pieces of the god he might be held responsible for the catastrophe, and reduced to broken pieces himself. He tried to run. The panic he had striven valiantly to avoid had got him by the throat. It had also got him by the feet. They felt weighted with nightmare lead.

  Vaguely he saw the figures of his companions. Four were stationary. Three were running. Whether towards him or away from him he could not say, and he certainly did not care. The drum was now shouting in his ear, and other sounds came out of the forest. Murmurs. Chanting. Tramping. He felt like a caught mouse, and waited for huge heads to peer and leer at him.

  Then suddenly out of the chaos came to him his mad, insane idea. He acted upon it before he knew that he had got it. He leapt on to the vacant pedestal and, staring heavenwards, struck a godlike attitude.

  The murmurs increased. The chanting rose. The tramping thudded. The drum beat with the force of a sledge-hammer. Then, all at once, every sound ceased. The world seemed to have stopped rotating.

  ‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’ wondered Ben, his eyes still fixed glassily on the tree-tops.

  The next instant a great voice rose, a voice charged with stupendous emotion.

  ‘Oomoo! Oomoo! Oomoo!’

  There was a sound as of an army crashing. A hundred natives fell flat on their faces before the human representation of their Little God.

  7

  Alias Oomoo

  The success of Ben’s ruse was not merely startling. It was terrifying. For the moment he had duped these natives and was being taken for the God of Storms. The dusky, prostrate backs glimpsed out of the corners of his motionless eyes, the strange chorus of awed murmurings that rose from the ground, and the constant repetition of the word ‘Oomoo,’ proved that. He was receiving the island’s worship! But what would happen when the moment passed? When it was discovered that he was not a god but a miserable scared-stiff mortal? When he sneezed, say—he felt the desire rising as the alarming thought occurred—or when his knees gave way and he wobbled from the pedestal?

  Then the worship would be transformed to wrath! He would be seized and torn to bits, and these humble murmurings would change to howls of primitive rage! Ben pictured himself being torn to bits and, in his too lively imagination, watched his limbs being tossed high into the air.

  ‘Well, wot’s goin’ ter ’appen is goin’ ter ’appen,’ he thought, ‘on’y I ’opes it ’appens quick!’

  In spite of the hope, he did nothing
to expedite the happening, but continued earnestly to emulate a Madame Tussaud waxwork.

  The moments slipped by. The murmurings continued. The dawning sneeze was wrestled with and temporarily conquered. But Ben’s limbs began to ache. His pose, not unlike that of Eros, was difficult to hold.

  ‘’Ow long’s this goin’ on?’ he wondered.

  Then the native nearest to him rose to his feet. His head, large and perspiring and not in the least attractive, loomed up into view from a black hell. Two arms, also large, rose above the head, and two black thick lips spoke.

  ‘Vooloo? Vooloo, Oomoo? Vooloo?’

  ‘Wot the ’ell does that mean?’ thought Ben.

  ‘’Ad I better answer ’im, or pertend I ain’t int’rested?’

  He pretended he wasn’t interested, and while the native waited for the answer that did not come, the unresponsive god noticed another figure edging quietly towards him. It was Oakley.

  Now the native, evidently a man of some authority, turned his body, and waved his arms towards Ben’s companions. Four of them—Ruth, Haines, Cooling and Medworth—had not moved since the appearance of the natives, and were awaiting the end of the astonishing episode with tense curiosity. The other three, having failed in their unheroic attempt to escape, were being closely watched by half a dozen giants with spears.

  ‘Holalulala?’ cried the native spokesman.

  Only by the upward inflexion did Ben gather that this was not a statement but a question. Hadn’t he heard the word before? Memory stirred uneasily.

  ‘Moose?’

  He knew he hadn’t heard that one.

  ‘Lungoo?’

  Ben remembered Lungoo. Oakley had mentioned that it meant ‘Fried knuckles.’ Was this fellow inquiring whether Ben, alias Oomoo, would like his companions’ knuckles to be fried? ‘Lumme, I can’t git away from knuckles!’ thought Ben. Then, in a sudden flash, he remembered Oakley’s interpretation of Holalulala: ‘Take his eyes out.’

  ‘Nah, then, I must do somethink!’ reflected Ben, hoping that gods were permitted to perspire. ‘Orl I gotter decide is, wot?’

  Oakley evidently shared Ben’s opinion that something must be done. He had been quietly edging closer and closer, and now he stood only a few feet away. His lips moved softly, as though still urged by prayer, and the prayer ran:

  ‘Waa—lala, Make-a-sign lala,

  Holdi-tongue, li,

  Waa—lala.’

  If this was the strangest injunction Ben had ever received, it was also the most welcome. It was, in fact, exactly what he needed, providing him with a method of postponing further the dreaded moment of discovery. Yes, of course, that was it! Make a sign! Gods didn’t speak—not, anyway, in Ben’s voice—but they did make signs, and Ben knew a lot of signs. Which one should he choose? A slow, solemn wink? One of these new-fangled continental salutes? Something in the thumb line? Or could he kill two birds with one stone by bringing his nose into it and settling a tickle?

  While these alternatives were flashing through Ben’s mind, the decision was taken out of his hands by the spokesman.

  ‘Chehaka!’ he roared, like a despairing animal, and his great arms once more shot upwards.

  Startled into activity, and misinterpreting the intention of the arms, Ben raised his own arms to ward off an expected blow. The effect was instantaneous. Instead of attacking Ben, the spokesman clasped his fingers together and bellowed seraphically:

  ‘Oomoo poopoo! Oomoo poopoo!’

  ‘I’ve pooped,’ thought Ben.

  Then another silence fell, faintly broken a second later by Oakley’s low chanting again:

  ‘Waa—lala, Wave-your-arms lala,

  Hurry O li,

  Waa—lala!’

  Ben waved his arms. He waved them slowly and solemnly, like a windmill in a gentle breeze. His impulse was for quicker motion, which would have been more in keeping with the beating of his heart, but the intelligence of Oakley was having an effect upon him, and he was doing his best to emulate it. Oakley’s mind working to save Ben’s skin supplied the one faint ray of hope.

  The spokesman—he was, as Ben learned later, the Chief of the tribe, though not the actual ruling spirit—stared intently at the godly motions, trying to interpret them. Failing, he turned to Oakley and muttered:

  ‘Kwee? Kwee?’

  It was the moment Oakley had played for. He realised before Ben did that immediate danger was past, and with the realisation came a totally novel sense of power. The sense would have elated another. It might have produced a feeling of drunken joy, but Oakley remained calm. He was beyond joy or misery. He accepted what came with the same passive exterior and almost the same emotion, or lack of it. All he experienced now, as he found the Chief’s inquiring eyes upon him, was a feeling of vague comfort.

  The comfort was not shared by the other white folk. The three who had attempted escape were too near six sharp spears, and Ardentino was wondering whether to make a second attempt; while the four who had stood firm were perilously near the snapping point. Ruth’s fingers were gripping Haines’s sleeve, though only he of the two knew it, and Medworth was in ripe condition to shriek. Cooling, unhampered by the altruistic anxiety infused into Haines by the pressure on his sleeve, was the least mentally perturbed. He disliked pain intensely, and was ready to go to considerable lengths to avoid it, but even if his knuckles were destined to be fried, he would not lose his sense of superiority. He even smiled when he found that Oakley was looking towards him.

  Medworth, on the other hand, rebelled.

  ‘What the hell are you staring at us for?’ shouted Medworth suddenly bursting. ‘If you think—’

  Oakley raised his head sharply. Ben followed suit. The Chief’s expression grew as black as his skin. Medworth subsided. Then Oakley turned to the Chief again, made a little gesture towards Ben, and gave his interpretation of slowly-moving arms when revolved by the will of a heathen god.

  ‘Sula,’ said Oakley.

  The Chief nodded eagerly.

  ‘Domo,’ went on Oakley.

  The Chief nodded again.

  ‘Toree,’ concluded the interpreter.

  The Chief nodded a third time. Then he fell on his face at the feet of Ben and muttered with reverence, ‘Hya! Hyaya, Oomoo! Hya!’ Then he leapt up again—for a large and fleshy man he had wonderful agility—swung round, and screamed to his people, ‘Oomoo poopoo! Sula! Domo! Toree!’ Then he made a sign, and two of the natives jumped to their feet and disappeared into the forest.

  The rest of the natives now also rose from the ground and began softly murmuring to each other. Their voices made an eerie buzz. A pause had evidently been reached in the proceedings, and Lord Cooling, after a glance at Haines, cleared his throat and ventured an inquiry.

  ‘Of course, Mr Oakley,’ he said with ironic politeness, ‘all this is intensely interesting and instructive, but personally I have always objected to studying a language without a key. May we know—with all due deference to the great god Oomoo, on whose rise from the coal-dust to fame let me be the first to congratulate him—may we know what precise bearing the entertaining conversation we have just heard has upon—us?’

  ‘Yes, and may we know where those two black blighters have gone?’ added Medworth. ‘If you think, just because we’ve—we’ve stood here quietly we’re going to allow any nonsense, you’ll find out your mistake!’

  The Chief’s eyes blazed, but Oakley stepped to him quickly and whispered in his ear. The whispering continued for several seconds, and was accompanied by glances and gestures towards Ben. When at last the Chief shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms, Oakley turned from him and spoke in a sing-song voice that contrasted oddly with his words.

  ‘Listen, Oh, unwise white worms!’ he said. ‘The Chief of this island has agreed, since I have assured him that it is Oomoo’s will, that the situation shall be explained to you, but let me remind you that if you are not careful your blasted impatience will land you in the soup-tureen—and that, dear bro
thers, is no mere figure of speech on this island. Got that? Good. Then now to the translation. And remember that the Chief’s present interest in listening to our strange foreign sounds will not last for ever. Sula means trial—’

  ‘What’s that?’ interrupted Medworth.

  ‘Yes, you really are a pitiable white worm,’ replied Oakley. ‘Interrupt me again, and I shall be obliged to make a very unpleasant suggestion to our Chief. It will be “Moose,” and it will cost you that trifle, your head.’

  Lord Cooling smiled. There were moments when Oakley’s lugubrious sense of humour quite appealed to him.

  ‘To proceed,’ continued Oakley. ‘Sula means trial. Domo means tomorrow. Compare demain, French for the same thing. And Toree is the place where the trial will occur tomorrow. The Temple of Gold.’

  Once more Ernest Medworth forgot himself.

  ‘Temple of Gold?’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you mean—we’re all going there?’

  ‘To be tried,’ Oakley reminded him grimly. ‘I hope you will like it.’

  ‘But for what crime are we to be tried?’ asked Cooling. ‘Gate-crashing?’

  ‘Gate-crashing is an undoubted offence here,’ answered Oakley, ‘but you are more likely to be tried for the crime of being white.’

  ‘A crime we are criminal enough to be proud of,’ murmured Lord Cooling, screwing his monocle more firmly into his eye and regarding the Chief, who had drawn a little closer as though fascinated by the incomprehensible voices of his prisoners. ‘And who,’ queried Cooling, ‘is going to be our judge?’

  ‘Who but Oomoo, since it was Oomoo who ordered the trial,’ replied Oakley.

  ‘I see. And—er—you will interpret the judgment of Oomoo?’

  ‘If the High Priest permits me. He may have his own ideas on the subject.’

  ‘Let us hope they will be nice ideas, Mr Oakley. Meanwhile, what is happening? This stage wait is a little trying—and most of all, judging from his expression, to Oomoo. Can you do anything to shorten it? I fear our god will not last.’

  The fear was shared by Ben himself, whose god-like mien was now being violently invaded by the increasing tickle on his nose. But before Oakley could answer, the Chief suddenly issued a new instruction, and pointed to Cooling. The instruction ran: