intruded upon some harmless feast day frolic, she handed change to the man.
“Now,” whispered Smith, “watch closely.”
The drinks, I was unable to Judge of their character, were quickly despatched; the man squeezed the girl’s hand and lolled upon the counter. The girl walked quickly along left, and I saw the second attendant open a door and close it again as the Negress made her departure.
“Exactly what does that mean?” I murmured.
“It means,” said Smith, “that, still speaking Arabic, we go to the counter and order drinks. Do nothing further until I give the word, and leave the talking to me.”
We crossed.
There was something hellish, something of a Witch’s Sabbath, in the behaviour of those around us. To a man, to a woman, they were now swaying in time with the beating of the drums; eyes were rolling and in some cases teeth were gnashing. I did not know what to expect, but presently I found myself at the bar, and with affected nonchalance leaned upon it.
One of the women attendants, who had been chatting in quite a natural way with the pock-marked man, broke off her conversation and approached us: she had feverishly bright eyes.
“
The woman spoke rapidly in Haitian, then in English: “You want some whisky Black and White?”
“
The woman poured out two liberal portions and set before us a bottle of some kind of mineral water. Smith put down a dollar bill and she gave him change. At first, she had seemed somewhat suspicious, and the pockmarked man had looked at us with jaundiced eyes; now, however, she seemed to have accepted us. Someone else came up to the bar and her attention was diverted. The newcomer was a full-blooded Negro and a magnificent specimen. He nodded casually to the pock-marked man who returned die salutation and then turned his back upon him. Smith touched my arm.
I watched intently. The newcomer ordered a packet of cigarettes; they were placed before him and he set several coins on the counter. Smith bent to my ear: “Look!” he breathed.
Held in the Negro’s palm as he had opened it to drop the coins, I had a momentary glimpse of a green object . . . It was the coiled snake of Damballa!
The signal exchanged between the woman who had served him and the other at the further end of the counter must have been imperceptible to one not anticipating it. The Negro walked along, nodded to the second woman, the door was opened, and he went out.
“That’s our way!” murmured Smith.
An evil spiritual excitement, a force that could be physically felt, was throbbing about the room. Out in front of the verandah drums began to beat softly, and starting as a whisper, but ever increasing in volume, came that hymn of Satan, the Song of Damballa.
As I looked, men and women, singly and in pairs, sprang up and began to dance. They appeared to be entirely oblivious of their surroundings, to be, in the evil sense, possessed; one after another they threw themselves with utter abandonment into the rhythmical but incomprehensible dance. They moved out to the verandah, across it and out into the torch-speckled dusk of the clearing beyond. The atmosphere was foul with human exhalation. Treating us to a further and comprehensively suspicious glance, the pock-marked man also walked out.
“Now for it,” muttered Smith. “Don’t touch this stuff!”
Surreptitiously he emptied his glass on to the floor. I followed suit.
“When I call the woman, show her the green snake. Leave the rest to me.” He turned in her direction. “
She started, stared for a moment then drew near. Opening my palm, I exhibited the green serpent. “Ah!” she exclaimed, and seemed taken aback. Smith held the seven-pointed star before her eyes. “
From here it seemed that pines climbed unbroken to the mountain ridge, and at first it was so dark that I found it bewildering. But as we stood there taking our bearings, I presently noticed, in what little moonlight filtered through from above, that a track, a mere bridle-path, led from the door onward and upward amongst the pines.
No living thing was in sight. From before that strange house of entertainment which we had left, singing and drumming grew even louder. Beyond, very far beyond it seemed, deep in the forest, other drums were beating, deep-toned, mysterious drums, and I thought that they were calling to us.
“Clearly this is our way,” said Smith, in a low voice. “I am evidently a person of some consequence, as Father Ambrose assured us, and one presumes that initiates are supposed to know the path. Come on.”
We set out. The track climbed up and up through the trees, and although I was keeping a tight hold upon myself, one obsession there was which I could not conquer. It seemed to be fostered by those distant drums. It was not fear of those who worshipped the serpent, bloodthirsty though their rites may be—indeed, according to some accounts cannibalistic—nor tremors that we had been betrayed. It was a fear which constantly made me mistake some odd-shaped bush, some low-growing branch, for the gaunt figure of Dr. Fu Manchu. Amid all the other horrors of the night I found it impossible to forget the fact that the great and sinister Chinese doctor was somewhere near.
Large nocturnal insects flew into our faces; other, unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth. The sound of the deep-toned drums grew even nearer, so that that of the saturnalia we had left behind was rarely audible at all. More and more stars gleamed into view, until the darkness beneath the pines became a sort of twilight; we had glimpses of the disc of the moon.We were nearing a crest beyond which it was evident that there lay another plateau or perhaps a high valley. The going was very heavy. We had been steadily climbing for close upon an hour, and my condition was not too good. Suddenly Smith pulled up.
“Do you know, Kerrigan,” he said, breathing rapidly, “except for the fact that we are nearing the place at which the drums are beating, I should have begun to doubt if we had taken, the right route.”
“Why?”
“Unless the pace of everyone using that path is more or less attuned to ours, how is it (a) that we have overtaken no one, and (b) that no one has overtaken w?”
It was a curious point, the force of which struck me at once. Smith took out his flask, and I was not sorry to resort to mine.
“I am inclined to believe,” I replied, “that all, or nearly all, the chosen few preceded us. In other words, we are late—”
“Ssh!” he checked me: “do you hear it?”
And during a momentary diminuendo in the passionate throbbing of the drums, I heard it—a faint, but unmistakable disturbance of the pine needles which formed a carpet upon most of the path below. Someone followed in our footsteps.
“Just time to take cover,” snapped Smith, “if we are quick!”
On the right of the path at this point a ravine yawned darkly: only the crests of the tallest trees rose above it.On the left the ground sloped gently upward. Some kind of flowering shrub abounded, and here the pines were scanty. Smith scrambled up this slope and dived into its sheltering darkness. His voice reached me in a whisper: “Down here, Kerrigan! There’s a perfect view of the path and we can’t be seen. Also, it may be dangerous to go further. There may be unsuspected chasms.”
I groped my way until he seized my hand. He was lying prone near the comer of a flowering bush. Wearily I threw myself down beside him. The throbbing of the drums was producing an effect wholly dissimilar to that which it seemed to exercise upon the black devotees: a sort of stupefaction. It was bemusing me, drugging me. I found it
