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Файл:The Dynamiter. More new arabian nights
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THE DYNAMITER
“Master,” said I, “you look pale, deathly pale; your pallor
fi lls me with dread. Your eyes are bloodshot; they are red like
the rubies that we seek.”
“Wench,” he cried, “look before you; look at your steps.
I declare to Heaven, if you annoy me once again by looking
back, I shall remind you of the change in your position.”
A little after, I observed a worm upon the ground, and told,
in a whisper, that its touch was death. Presently a great green
serpent, vivid as the grass in spring, wound rapidly across
the path; and once again I paused and looked back at my companion, with a horror in my eyes. “The coffi n snake,” said I,
“the snake that dogs its victim like a hound.”
But he was not to be dissuaded. “I am an old traveller,”
said he. “This is a foul jungle indeed; but we shall soon be at
an end.”
“Ay,” said I, looking at him, with a strange smile, “what
end?”
Thereupon he laughed again and again, but not very
heartily; and then, perceiving that the path began to widen and grow higher, “There!” said he. “What did I tell you?
We are past the worst.”
Indeed, we had now come to the bayou, which was in that
place very narrow and bridged across by a fallen trunk; but on
either hand we could see it broaden out, under a cavern of
great arms of trees and hanging creepers: sluggish, putrid, of
a horrible and sickly stench, fl oated on by the fl at heads of alligators, and its banks alive with scarlet crabs.
“If we fall from that unsteady bridge,” said I, “see, where
the caiman lies ready to devour us! If, by the least diver-
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
gence from the path, we should be snared in a morass, see,
where those myriads of scarlet vermin scour the border of
the thicket! Once helpless, how they would swarm together to the assault! What could man do against a thousand of
such mailed assailants? And what a death were that, to perish alive under their claws.”
“Are you mad, girl?” he cried. “I bid you be silent and
lead on.”
Again I looked upon him, half relenting; and at that he
raised the stick that was in his hand and cruelly struck me on
the face. “Lead on!” he cried again. “Must I be all day, catching
my death in this vile slough, and all for a prating slave-girl?”
I took the blow in silence, I took it smiling; but the blood
welled back upon my heart. Something, I know not what, fell at
that moment with a dull plunge in the waters of the lagoon,
and I told myself it was my pity that had fallen.
On the farther side, to which we now hastily scrambled,
the wood was not so dense, the web of creepers not so solidly
convolved. It was possible, here and there, to mark a patch of
somewhat brighter daylight, or to distinguish, through
the lighter web of parasites, the proportions of some soaring
tree. The cypress on the left stood very visibly forth, upon
the edge of such a clearing; the path in that place widened
broadly; and there was a patch of open ground, beset with
horrible ant-heaps, thick with their artifi cers. I laid down
the tools and basket by the cypress root, where they were instantly blackened over with the crawling ants; and looked
once more in the face of my unconscious victim. Mosquitoes
and foul fl ies wove so close a veil between us that his features
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THE DYNAMITER
were obscured; and the sound of their fl ight was like the turning of a mighty wheel.
“Here,” I said, “is the spot. I cannot dig, for I have not
learned to use such instruments; but, for your own sake, I beseech you to be swift in what you do.”
He had sunk once more upon the ground, panting like
a fi sh; and I saw rising in his face the same dusky fl ush that
had mantled on my father’s. “I feel ill,” he gasped, “horribly ill;
the swamp turns around me; the drone of these carrion fl ies
confounds me. Have you not wine?”
I gave him a glass, and he drank greedily. “It is for you to
think,” said I, “if you should further persevere. The swamp has
an ill name.” And at the word I ominously nodded.
“Give me the pick,” said he. “Where are the jewels buried?”
I told him vaguely; and in the sweltering heat and closeness,
and dim twilight of the jungle, he began to wield the pickaxe,
swinging it overhead with the vigour of a healthy man. At fi rst,
there broke forth upon him a strong sweat, that made his
face to shine, and in which the greedy insects settled thickly.
“To sweat in such a place,” said I. “O master, is this wise?
Fever is drunk in through open pores.”
“What do you mean?” he screamed, pausing with the pick
buried in the soil. “Do you seek to drive me mad? Do you think
I do not understand the danger that I run?”
“That is all I want,” said I: “I only wish you to be swift.”
And then, my mind fl itting to my father’s deathbed, I began to
murmur, scarce above my breath, the same vain repetition of
words, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Presently, to my surprise, the treasure-seeker took them up;
and while he still wielded the pick, but now with staggering
and uncertain blows, repeated to himself, as it were the burthen of a song, “Hurry, hurry, hurry;’ and then again, “There is
no time to lose; the marsh has an ill name, ill name;’ and then
back to “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” with a dreadful, mechanical,
hurried, and yet wearied utterance, as a sick man rolls upon
his pillow. The sweat had disappeared; he was now dry, but all
that I could see of him, of the same dull brick red. Presently his
pick unearthed the bag of jewels; but he did not observe it, and
continued hewing at the soil.
“Master,” said I, “there is the treasure.” He seemed to waken from a dream. “Where?” he cried; and then, seeing it before
his eyes, “Can this be possible?” he added. “I must be lightheaded. Girl,” he cried suddenly, with the same screaming
tone of voice that I had once before observed, “what is wrong?
is this swamp accursed?”
“It is a grave,” I answered. “You will not go out alive; and as
for me, my life is in God’s hands.”
He fell upon the ground like a man struck by a blow, but
whether from the effect of my words, or from sudden seizure of
the malady, I cannot tell. Pretty soon, he raised his head. “You
have brought me here to die,” he said; “at the risk of your own
days, you have condemned me. Why?”
“To save my honour,” I replied. “Bear me out that I have
warned you. Greed of these pebbles, and not I, has been
your undoer.”
He took out his revolver and handed it to me. “You see,” he
said, “I could have killed you even yet. But I am dying, as you
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THE DYNAMITER
say; nothing could save me; and my bill is long enough already.
Dear me, dear me,” he said, looking in my face with a curious,
puzzled, and pathetic look, like a dull child at school, “if there
be a judgment afterwards, my bill is long enough.”
At that, I broke into a passion of weeping, crawled at his
feet, kissed his hands, begged his forgiveness, put the pistol
back into his grasp and besought him to avenge his death; for
indeed, if with my life I could have bought back his, I had not
balanced at the cost. But he was determined, the poor soul,
that I should yet more bitterly regret my act.
“I have nothing to forgive,” said he. “Dear heaven, what
a thing is an old fool! I thought, upon my word, you had taken
quite a fancy to me.”
He was seized, at the same time, with a dreadful, swimming
dizziness, clung to me like a child, and called upon the name of
some woman. Presently this spasm, which I watched with
choking tears, lessened and died away; and he came again to
the full possession of his mind. “I must write my will,” he said.
“Get out my pocket-book.” I did so, and he wrote hurriedly on
one page with a pencil. “Do not let my son know,” he said; “he
is a cruel dog, is my son Philip; do not let him know how you
have paid me out;’ and then all of a sudden, “God,” he cried,
“I am blind,” and clapped both hands before his eyes; and then
again, and in a groaning whisper, “Don’t leave me to the crabs!”
I swore I would be true to him so long as a pulse stirred; and
I redeemed my promise. I sat there and watched him, as I had
watched my father, but with what different, with what appalling thoughts! Through the long afternoon, he gradually sank.
All that while, I fought an uphill battle to shield him from
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
the swarms of ants and the clouds of mosquitoes: the prisoner of my crime. The night fell, the roar of insects instantly redoubled in the dark arcades of the swamp; and still I was not
sure that he had breathed his last. At length, the fl esh of his
hand, which I yet held in mine, grew chill between my fi ngers,
and I knew that I was free.
I took his pocket-book and the revolver, being resolved
rather to die than to be captured, and laden besides with
the basket and the bag of gems, set forward towards the north.
The swamp, at that hour of the night, was fi lled with a continuous din: animals and insects of all kinds, and all inimical to life, contributing their parts. Yet in the midst of this
turmoil of sound, I walked as though my eyes were bandaged,
beholding nothing. The soil sank under my foot, with a horrid,
slippery consistence, as though I were walking among toads;
the touch of the thick wall of foliage, by which alone I guided
myself, affrighted me like the touch of serpents; the darkness
checked my breathing like a gag; indeed, I have never suffered such extremes of fear as during that nocturnal walk, nor
have I ever known a more sensible relief than when I found
the path beginning to mount and to grow fi rmer under foot,
and saw, although still some way in front of me, the silver
brightness of the moon.
Presently, I had crossed the last of the jungle, and come
forth amongst noble and lofty woods, clean rock, the clean,
dry dust, the aromatic smell of mountain plants that had
been baked all day in sunlight, and the expressive silence of
the night. My negro blood had carried me unhurt across that
reeking and pestiferous morass; by mere good fortune, I had
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THE DYNAMITER
escaped the crawling and stinging vermin with which it was
alive; and I had now before me the easier portion of my enterprise, to cross the isle and to make good my arrival at the haven
and my acceptance on the English yacht. It was impossible by
night to follow such a track as my father had described; and
I was casting about for any landmark, and, in my ignorance,
vainly consulting the disposition of the stars, when there fell
upon my ear, from somewhere far in front, the sound of many
voices hurriedly singing.
I scarce knew upon what grounds I acted; but I shaped
my steps in the direction of that sound; and in a quarter of
an hour’s walking, came unperceived to the margin of
an open glade. It was lighted by the strong moon and by
the fl ames of a fi re. In the midst, there stood a little low and
rude building, surmounted by a cross: a chapel, as I then remembered to have heard, long since desecrated and given
over to the rites of Hoodoo. Hard by the steps of entrance
was a black mass, continually agitated and stirring to and fro
as if with inarticulate life; and this I presently perceived to
be a heap of cocks, hares, dogs, and other birds and animals,
still struggling, but helplessly tethered and cruelly tossed
one upon another. Both the fi re and the chapel were surrounded by a ring of kneeling Africans, both men and women. Now they would raise their palms half-closed to heaven, with a peculiar, passionate gesture of supplication; now
they would bow their heads and spread their hands before
them on the ground. As the double movement passed and
repassed along the line, the heads kept rising and falling,
like waves upon the sea; and still, as if in time to these ges-
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
ticulations, the hurried chant continued. I stood spellbound,
knowing that my life depended by a hair, knowing that I had
stumbled on a celebration of the rites of Hoodoo.
Presently, the door of the chapel opened, and there came
forth a tall negro, entirely nude, and bearing in his hand
the sacrifi cial knife. He was followed by an apparition still
more strange and shocking: Madam Mendizabal, naked also,
and carrying in both hands and raised to the level of her face,
an open basket of wicker. It was fi lled with coiling snakes; and
these, as she stood there with the uplifted basket, shot through
the osier grating and curled about her arms. At the sight of
this, the fervour of the crowd seemed to swell suddenly higher;
and the chant rose in pitch and grew more irregular in time
and accent. Then, at a sign from the tall negro, where he stood,
motionless and smiling, in the moon and fi relight, the singing died away, and there began the second stage of this barbarous and bloody celebration. From different parts of the ring,
one after another, man or woman, ran forth into the midst;
ducked, with that same gesture of the thrown-up hand, before
the priestess and her snakes; and with various adjurations, uttered aloud the blackest wishes of the heart. Death and disease were the favours usually invoked: the death or the disease of enemies or rivals; some calling down these plagues
upon the nearest of their own blood, and one, to whom I swear
I had been never less than kind, invoking them upon myself.
At each petition, the tall negro, still smiling, picked up some
bird or animal from the heaving mass upon his left, slew it
with the knife, and tossed its body on the ground. At length, it
seemed, it reached the turn of the high-priestess. She set down
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THE DYNAMITER
the basket on the steps, moved into the centre of the ring,
grovelled in the dust before the reptiles, and still grovelling
lifted up her voice, between speech and singing, and with so
great, with so insane a fervour of excitement, as struck a sort of
horror through my blood.
“Power,” she began, “whose name we do not utter; power
that is neither good nor evil, but below them both; stronger
than good, greater than evil – all my life long I have adored
and served thee. Who has shed blood upon thine altars? whose
voice is broken with the singing of thy praises? whose limbs
are faint before their age with leaping in thy revels? Who
has slain the child of her body? I,” she cried, “I, Metamnbogu!
By my own name, I name myself. I tear away the veil. I would
be served or perish. Hear me, slime of the fat swamp, blackness of the thunder, venom of the serpent’s udder – hear or
slay me! I would have two things, O shapeless one, O horror of
emptiness – two things, or die! The blood of my white-faced
husband; oh! give me that; he is the enemy of Hoodoo; give
me his blood! And yet another, O racer of the blind winds, O
germinator in the ruins of the dead, O root of life, root of corruption! I grow old, I grow hideous; I am known, I am hunted
for my life: let thy servant then lay by this outworn body; let
thy chief priestess turn again to the blossom of her days, and
be a girl once more, and the desired of all men, even as in
the past! And, O lord and master, as I here ask a marvel not
yet wrought since we were torn from the old land, have I not
prepared the sacrifi ce in which thy soul delighteth – the kid
without the horns?”
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Even as she uttered the words, there was a great rumour of
joy through all the circle of worshippers; it rose, and fell, and
rose again; and swelled at last into rapture, when the tall negro, who had stepped an instant into the chapel, reappeared
before the door, carrying in his arms the body of the slave-girl,
Cora. I know not if I saw what followed. When next my mind
awoke to a clear knowledge, Cora was laid upon the steps
before the serpents; the negro with the knife stood over her;
the knife rose; and at this I screamed out in my great horror,
bidding them, in God’s name, to pause.
A stillness fell upon the mob of cannibals. A moment more,
and they must have thrown off this stupor, and I infallibly have
perished. But Heaven had designed to save me. The silence of
these wretched men was not yet broken, when there arose, in
the empty night, a sound louder than the roar of any European tempest, swifter to travel than the wings of any Eastern
wind. Blackness engulfed the world; blackness, stabbed across
from every side by intricate and blinding lightning. Almost in
the same second, at one world-swallowing stride, the heart of
the tornado reached the clearing. I heard an agonising crash,
and the light of my reason was overwhelmed.
When I recovered consciousness, the day was come. I was unhurt; the trees close about me had not lost a bough; and I might
have thought at fi rst that the tornado was a feature in a dream.
It was otherwise indeed; for when I looked abroad, I perceived
I had escaped destruction by a hand’s-breadth. Right through
the forest, which here covered hill and dale, the storm had
ploughed a lane of ruin. On either hand, the trees waved uninjured in the air of the morning; but in the forthright course of
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