The Island of Fu Manchu

THE SEVEN-POINTED STAR

“This,” said Smith,“I assume to be the Voodoo Custom House. Here we shall be called upon to produce our passports.”

We were up, I suppose, between seven and eight thousand feet. We had traversed some of the most perilous mountain paths I had ever met with, but I had learned that the little donkeys, provided one did not attempt to interfere with them, particularly with their fondness for walking upon the extreme outer edge of the precipice, were sure-footed as goats.

For the past two or three miles the road had led through a pass or gorge to which no moonlight penetrated. A mountain stream raged and splashed at the bottom and the path lay some little way above it. The darkness at first seemed impenetrable; but the procession wound on without interruption and our plodding steeds proceeded with unabated confidence. And so presently, through that velvety blackness dotted with moving torches, I too began to discern the details of the route.

Now it opened with dramatic suddenness upon what seemed to be an almost circular valley, hemmed in all around by mountain crests. Its slopes were densely wooded, but immediately facing the gorge there was a clearing as flat as a sports stadium and fully half a mile across. Torches moved among the trees; there were drums very near to us, now; and I saw hundreds of figures gathered before a long, low building which blazed with lights. Away on the right there was a sort of compound where horses, mules and donkeys were tethered. Towards these horse- lines Smith led the way.

“Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.

The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys: “A dollar for the two.”

“Imshi, hammar!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.

“Not enough! not enough!” he exclaimed.

“Etia bdrra! gehdnnum” I growled and gave the Fascist salute.

As before, this singular behaviour proved effective. He looked from face to face, pocketed the money, glanced at the donkeys and walked away.

“So far so good,” muttered Smith. ‘“Now let us take our bearings and make our plans. Here, you observe, is a perfect landing ground.”

We walked slowly towards the verandah of the lighted house on the further side of the clearing; and it soon became apparent that the place was a sort of rest-house or caravanseri. All around in the extensive space before it, pilgrims were squatting on the ground, devouring refreshments which they had brought with them. But, as I saw, the more prosperous were entering the building. Many already were seated upon the verandah, and I could see movement in a room beyond. The front of the house was masked in shadow, and Smith grasped my arm as we stepped into the dark belt.

“You see what this is, Kerrigan; a separation of the sheep from the goats. Judging from the sound of the drums our real objective is beyond.”

I stood there listening.

In some manner which I find myself unable to explain, this continuous throbbing of drums had wrought a sort of change of the spirit. It had stirred up something Celtic and buried, provoked urges of which hitherto I had been unconscious. My desire for Ardatha had become a fever; my hatred of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu Manchu, of all those who held her captive, had increased hour by hour until now it was a burning fiery torrent. This recognition, or rather, I suppose, the reassuming of control by the conscious over the subconscious, rather shocked me. Unperceived by my Christian self I had been reverting to savagery!

“‘Yes,” I spoke with studied calmness. “As you say, here is the gateway. The Queen Mamaloi is somewhere beyond.”

“Here is the gateway,” Smith replied, “and here is our test. Remember, stick to Arabic.”

Whereupon, still grasping my arm, he moved forward to the verandah of the lighted building.

As we mounted three wooden steps, I was thinking of Ardatha.

* * *

Crossing the verandah I found myself in a long, low room which in many respects resembled a canteen. One glance convinced me, in spite of the light complexions of some of those present, that Smith and I were the only people in the place of non-African blood. There were a number of chairs and tables spread about the unpolished floor, and I think nearly as many women as men were present.

Their behaviour was so strange that I wondered what they had been drinking—for at one end of the room there was a counter presided over by two coloured women. I saw that in addition to a quantity of solid fare, most of it unfamiliar and from my point of view unappetizing, bottles of rum, gin and whisky were in evidence. In some of the faces a sort of ecstasy began to dawn; and watching, I realized the fact that they were responding to the drums.

Movements of shoulders and arms, shuffling of feet, and already a muted chanting, told me that at any moment all the great coloured throng might obey that deep tribal impulse which is part of Africa, and throw themselves wildly into the abandonment of a ritual dance.

Smith spoke in my ear.

“Don’t seem to be curious,” he whispered, “and remember—nothing but Arabic.Let us stand here for a while and smoke. I see that some of the men are smoking.”

I lighted a cigarette whilst he began to load his briar. I cannot say if it was the drums, the overstrung human instrument represented by those about me, or something else. But I was tensed to a pitch of excitement which I knew to be supernormal. I tried, as I lighted the cigarette, to drag myself down to facts; to watch Smith calmly loading his pipe; to study those about me; to appreciate our perils and how we were to deal with them.

“Hang on to yourself, Kerrigan,” said Smith in a low voice. “e are near to the Master Drums. They have a queer effect—even upon Europeans.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have been watching your eyes.” He replaced the pouch in his pocket and lighted his pipe, his penetrating glance fixed upon me over the bowl. ‘It’s a kind of hypnotism, but you mustn’t let it touch you.”

His words acted like a cold douche. Yes, it was a fact. In common with the Negroes and Negresses about the place, I had been reacting to those satanic drums! I knew it now, and knowing, knew also that the insidious influence could never prevail upon me again.

“Thanks, Smith,” I said. “I agree. It was getting me.”

“I am particularly interested,” he went on, “in the fact that there seems to be no one in the room Whom we know. But the traffic at the bar has curious features.”

“What are they?”

“Well, if you watch, you will be able to check my own impresssions. You will observe, I think, that certain customers go there, give an order, and then almost immediately head for that door on the left and go out. The others either remain at the bar, or carry their purchases back to their table. Just watch this pair for example.”

A man and a woman coming in from the verandah outside crossed straight to the counter. The girl was a full-blooded Negress and physically a beautiful creature; her male companion was light brown, his complexion pitted like that of a smallpox patient, his small yellow eyes darting from right to left suspiciously as he crossed the room. But, failing other evidence, his hair, for he wore no hat, must have betrayed his African origin.

“Watch,” said Smith.

I watched.

The pair walked to the counter; the man gave an order to one of the women. Glasses were filled and set before them. But as payment was made I detected a change of attitude on the part of the server. She glanced swiftly at the girl and then at her companion. In a businesslike way which momentarily made me think that we had