Why fidget over a delay in getting out of that village? It was not likely to come twice in a lifetime. Let’s have the full taste of it, at leisure. We resurrect from the dead only in odd moments—might as well let the moment live itself out. Wasteful to hurry over a sudden flavour of the richness of the earth, as though it were the invasion of a licentious and inappropriate thought. It would take about a week for him to make sure that he was really there. He had had no time to ascertain that. The fact then seemed doubtful. In an unusual fancy dress which anticipated, when its wearer did not, an unaccustomed mode of living, Colet was uncertain of his own identity. This was just a bit absurd. He was only a self-conscious character in an unusual theatrical setting—round about Drury Lane—and the limelight was too bright. A mass of rigid metallic fronds shadowed the house, and formed motionless crenated black patterns on the road. There was a glimpse of the China Sea at the end of the street, a name which suited it. Too much like the China Sea. One could have guessed its name. The Chinese shopkeepers opposite were waiting for custom beside wares which would have been useless, without descriptions, in a museum. Not easy to believe all this. The sun now was full on the street, and Colet began to wonder how he would shape, marching in that white intensity. But he could sit and look at it forever.
Norrie left the men and strolled over to Colet, affecting a complete faith in the outcome of eternity.
“No carriers yet. We’ve got to pay for that entertainment on the ship coming round. We were expected by the last steamer.”
“Shall we get away this morning?”
“We may, as you don’t happen to be able to tell them all about the amok. It’s such a juicy story. They don’t often get one, and they’re so sorry you can’t tell ’em about it. All. Every crimson wound.”
“So am I.”
“They can’t bear to lose us so soon. That’s what it is. We’ve brought bright news—all about a butchery. They’ve no newspapers. Don’t you think we ought to be kind to them?”
“You could make it better for them than it was, Norrie. Let yourself go. You couldn’t make it worse than it was. Give it a little art.”
“I haven’t got the cosy love for it. The story would be prettier if your friend the ass in the eyeglass was one of the coloured exhibits. But it is tame without him.”
“Queer. I’ve been watching them. These villagers don’t seem to be made of the stuff which goes off with a bang, like that Malay on the ship. They’re sane enough.”
“Of course they are. So are you. So was he. We’re all fine, till some button is touched. That Malay was all right. He only wanted to commit suicide, but his God said no to it. So what’s the poor beggar to do? Only one thing in reason, Colet. You can see that yourself. Make others do the dirty work. But don’t let us talk about it any more. It’s such a fine morning. If we begin to chin over the springs of human conduct we should be here when Gabriel tootled, and so intent with enjoyment that we shouldn’t hear him. We’ll surprise God Himself on the Judgment Day. He thinks He knows us, but does He, Colet, does He?”
The sun was lord of that country when at last they got going. Beyond the village they entered level rice-fields, and moved towards a dark escarpment of trees, low with distance, which in that torrid light suggested the unapproachable. Norrie led the way, solidly, at an enduring gait; the Malay carriers followed him, and Colet marched at the end of the line, behind the Chinese cook. They had to walk indirectly across that half-dried marsh, one step behind the other arduously along the ridges which parcelled the expanse into square aqueous areas. Some of the ridges were as hard as rock, and others sank under them into a black sludge with a stink of its own. Colet occasionally glanced in hope towards the trees. They took their time over getting higher and plainer. A buffalo bull ahead, broad and black as a rhinoceros, with horns as lengthy as a ship’s yard, snorted at Norrie. Colet heard him, and knew that he must pass the same way. He would be the beast’s last opportunity. The bull had its nose up, waiting, sunk to its belly in mud, just aside from the ridge along which they were looking for a sound patch for each step. If that brute attacked he was done. It snorted again when Colet was level with its nose, and heaved its bulk impatiently. Colet saw the bubbles stir in the mire about it, and realised what moral control is required, at times, for even so simple an act as putting your foot in the right place with care.
The cliff of trees rose over them. There was a clear deep stream bridged by a fallen trunk. When Colet removed his strict attention from a difficult poise over that greasy bole he saw that the rest of the party, even the Chinaman, had disappeared. There was a portal of two great tree trunks, and gloom beyond it. He saw it was the gate to the stuff of the legends. That must be the door through which the party had gone. He entered it, too, and at once relished the coolness of the forest. The track ascended. It was sandy. The twilight was green. Once he was assured by a glimpse of a man ahead that he was not alone in the silence, for the quiet had quickened his pace; the anxious thought had moved him that he would be comforted there by a contiguous human creature. He foresaw that solitude in
