“What news today?”
“An evil thing has happened, Tuan. We cannot see Tuan Parsell. Where is he?”
Where is he? Oh, spirited away, of course. Colet glanced over at the professor’s corner. Why, Parsell never left the camp, unless accompanied. He never had. But his place was empty.
Nobody, Colet was told, had heard him go. They supposed that he had gone down to bathe, but no, he had not been to the pool. He had gone downhill, though; that they knew for they had found the signs. If they might say so, the Tuan had walked lightly, but as though he knew where he was going, and yet would not disturb those who slept. It was hard to follow his track below, for truly, Mat explained, he thought the Tuan had been gone many hours. There had been rain. What thing was this?
Colet was up and at his gear in the first jolt of the misgiving. That old child out alone in such a country … he paused. Here, cool off. Getting scared would not help. Parsell could not have gone far.
Had he taken anything with him? What had he taken? What, his pack had gone? So it had. Food, and his compass, too, and his staff. Parsell was moonstruck. Colet began to rave at the impersonal, but caught Mat’s quiet and steady eye, which yet expressed anxiety; and so gazed out at the woods instead, deliberately still, seeking inspiration. He was up against it.
They would find him. After all, the old fellow could not travel far. Not alone. Not in that place. But how far need he travel to get lost? You just turned your head in the woods, lost it entirely, and there you were till domesday; and the camp about five minutes away.
He was buckled and taut. “Come,” he called to Mat.
“If Tuan will allow me,” said Mat, “it is not good to begin a journey without food. It is also better to sit awhile, when the liver is sick. It is hard for a man to consider what he should do while he runs.”
You bet it is. Very well, then. But that old buffer would have to be found if they stayed there till the coconuts were ripe. But Mat was right. It was no good rushing at the forest. The mountains did not care. They had all the time they wanted. All the same, if old Parsell was not in camp before sundown … better not think about it.
“I believe he thinks he can find those Sakais.”
“Truly, Tuan, that is what I fear also.”
No other sign of him. Time was getting on. Two o’clock now. Where was Mat?
Colet retraced his steps through the forest a little distance. Hallooed. No answer. Only something like a jackass in the woods. Naturally, it would be a jackass. Colet hurried down and back a little more—damn the rattans. He—damn the rattans, they were everywhere. Put there to stop him, probably.
Quite right, too. The thorns knew better than he did. Fancy trying to run to someone in that tangle. He stood, collected himself, and hallooed again. This time not even a jackass. He waited, and watched the sweat trickle down the back of one hand. Not a sound.
Well, they had found Parsell’s helmet at the bottom of that gully, and he was going to get to the head of it. But was this the same valley? Of course it was. He had not been paying much attention, knowing that Mat knew the business better. But it must be the same cleft in the hills. He would have to push on, guide or no guide. Mat could look after himself. He must find Parsell. No point in being there unless he did.
He shouted. “Parsell! Mat!”
Oh, don’t be a damned fool. They’re not on the telephone.
Better get on with it. Some hours yet to sunset. He turned, and ascended the slope. This was his own particular job, anyhow. He had asked for it. He would have to do it alone. This was the same gully, of course. Why doubt it? Parsell could hardly have gone another way without wings. The leeches had made a mess of that leg, by the look of it. Might have been stuck by a bayonet. No time now to see to it, though. When Parsell was found they’d put everything in order, and get out of that country at the double, even if they had to truss up the old boy. He ought to have been trussed up at first. He must have wandered up that valley; to what did it lead?
Those rocks and tree-trunks were inhuman, as if, in that glassy stillness, they were shapes at the bottom of the sea. No day was there; it was too far below the surface for much to show. Was it getting dark already? More likely the sides of the narrow valley were closing in; they would, of course, towards the head of it. But if you looked up, nothing could be seen. Nothing was there but ropes and wreckage dangling from a ceiling out of sight.
He stopped again and listened. Great lichened hummocks of rock, like grey couched animals, watched him. Sable pillars receded, the endless aisles of an unholy tabernacle. Shouldn’t like to meet its priests. Nobody there, though. Roots were coiled and contorted in an everlasting agony. And not a sound. If Parsell was left there he would die that night—he would go properly mad. No wonder the Malays called it forbidden. He must get the old man out of it.
That fallen tree—he supposed he would have to climb over it. No way round it. But only night was beyond it. What was the good?
Anyway, Parsell’s helmet was at the bottom of that valley. Where else could he have gone? But could he have ascended so far, through that stuff? It wanted some doing.
