THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 375, 28 April 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

ONE SMALL THING. A STORY OF SACRIFICE. In the still hush of the African night three men sat round a lire looking into its glowing embers. Somewhat apart their men sat round another live, anil behind the camp rose up the rock Ivrranku which stands a mighty sentinel ■where fertile land and desert waste meet. Right and left from its base to the east and west stretches out the line that divides tile south from the north, the rich soil of the Soudan wit/i load of rank verdure and its ur.iiity growth of trees from the arid sands of the .Sahara, the fertile from the waste, the rank life from the rusty dead. "I believe I'm in for a go of fever," said David Lindsay wearily. "This is as good a place as any to have it." said Durand cheerfully. "We must take what the Lord sends/ said the third man 'piously, and th* other two looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They hitd only come across the missionary to-day —a broken-down white man, with a face the color of an olive ana grimed with grease and dirt. His clothes were seedy black, ragged and travel-stained, a dirty white tie rose up to his ears, and :i tattered straw hat with a .puggaree had crowned his head. He had looked as if he could not crawl on another mile, had hailed them as deliverers, and then broken down weakly sobbing when they had spoken kindly to him. "It—it is such a relief," he said in explanation. Of course tney had succored him, Had fed him and provided him with fresh garments, but only now when he was thoroughly rested were they hearing his story. He had come from Birmingham ■with some idea of helping the "poor negro," offering himself for Africa.

And these two men had no use for missionaries.

"I have always longed to work for Africa, you know," he said feebly. "Africa," said Lindsay grimly, "has a way of somewhat using up those who devote themselves to her service. One wonders whether the end attained is after all quite equal to what you have expended." "It don't think we should question that," said Gabriel Wilkinson, putting his shaking fingers to his lips. "We must do the right thing when the call comes and take the chance of its consequences. Ine end is with God." "It depends on what the call is," said Lindsay. "It seems to me it was hardly worth your while to come and perish here away from-all you care for. You would have perished in all probability, you know, if you had not struck us this morning." "God's Providence," said the missionary. "Yon started out on too little," growled Durand, who hated missionary talk. "If we always waited for the great things," said the missionary, looking up at the qrolden stars. 'lt may be, you know, that with my small means I may be permitted to do one small thing for the glory of God." "Who's got your gun?" asked Durand sharply.

"'Gun! What have I got to do with gims? 1 carry the message of peace. I have feared —God forgive me—l have feared often, yet see how I have been brought. This morning, just when I was weak enough and unfaithful enough almost to despair, God has brought me to safety and your camp." "And our camp and safety are not synonymous terms by any means," said Lindsav.

Out of the scrub, as if it came to emphasise his words, across the thorn fence to the left, came whirling a stick which fell at Lindsay's feet. Wilkinson sprang up, but Lindsay caught him by the arm and pulled him down again. "■Sit still," he said so insistently that the other obeyed at once. "It's only intended for me." "But " With a motion of his hand Lindsay silenced him and picked up the stick. By the light of the Are they could see quite plainly it was an arrow and bound to it was a long green leaf. Beyond the camp there crept up the long low minor wail of a hyena-, like the cry of a spirit in torment. "But," asked the missionary, "what is the meaning of this?" Lindsay unfastened the leaf anil held it out. It wias a. long lance-shaped leaf of leathery green with a sharp point and -bold vicious saw-like edges. It looked almost black in the lliekering firelight, and tlie dew on its highly-glazed surface struck chill. Durnnd looked at it curiously and then out to the shrubs around.

"Xo." said Lindsay, "I don't think you'll find anyone hereabouts." "Bnt someone shot it," said the missionary uneasily. "They'll not hurt us now," said Lindsay with a laugh, but there was no mirth in his laughter. "It is just one of the ni'groes' cheery little ways.'* "Bnt what is the meaning of it?" aslced Wilkinson. "The meaning," said Lindsay, "is that just before I left Accra I incurred the anger of one of the strongest of those secret societies with which this country is riddled, and this is to tell me they have not forgotten. I found one on mv writing-table the day before I left Accra, and day by day contributes one to my reminding. Sometimes it is on the path, as if blown there by the wind, sometimes it floats on the waters of the pool by which we camp, sometimes

it is in the camp itself. We see no one, hear no one, but day by day the sign comes." "But what is it a sign of'i" asked Wilkinson. "It is a call to judgment." "But surely you do not recognise Iheir courts? You have nothing tu ao with negro .secret societies?" "I certainly do not. But as to having nothing to <iu with the secret societies that is quite a different matter. I don't want to have anything to do with them, I assure von. My main object is to keep out of their way. liut unfortunately they don't see things in the same light. That is why I say this camp and safety are by no means synonymous terms. Mr. Durand may be able to help you.: very likely I shan't." "I'm in with you, Lindsay, you know," said Durand. "But, gentlemen, what do you mean?" asked the missionary, leaning on his elbow. "There can't be any danger to you. You must be dreaming." "I am not dreaming," said Lindsay tersely. "Did you ever hear of the Ju-ju?" "I have read of it in books." said Wilkinson, looking from one to the other —Durand was digging a. hole in the earth with the arrow Lindsay had dropped—"and the other day—but surely it's a'l! nonsense," "No, it is not nonsense," said Lindsay. "In my mouth I—well by an unfortunate accident I was alliliated to one of these societies." "You—a white man!" "I, a white man. It's an old story now. The other day I broke the oaths that bound me, and used my knowledge of their movements to frustrate their plans and save their victim. Now this offence is punishable by death, and to death I shall certainly be put to if they can take me." He hold out his hand with the leaf on the palm. "That leaf is plucked from a branch that is carried by the .party that shadows me. livery time I find one it reminds me, if I need reminding, that I am not forgotten. I am called to judgment, and judgment means death. So long as I inn on African soil I don't think even an American insurance company would take the risk on my life." j

"And you sit here and tell me this!" cried the missionary. "Oh, Africa! Africa! How is she calling! I did not believe in the Ju-ju," he went on, his eyes still fixed on the leaf, "and ye.t, my hoy, Albert Edward, who is a Christian "

"I do not want to liurt your feeL-ngs," said Lindsay gently, "but much of tflis Christianity is only veneer. A man may be a professing Christian, hut he will fly to his native Ju-ju when he is in trouble, or angry, or sick—believes in it, and more—he fears it." "Albert Edward was afraid," said Wilkinson wonderingly, as if a new light , had come to him, and then he put his hand in his pocket, and taking out a , small article he handed it to Lindsay. "I found this," he said, "by a dead man. It is made of bone, I think. Albert Edward was afraid; he said it was Ju-ju, and wanted me to throw it away, but it was not heavy, so I took it. It is a sort of whistle,'' and ne put it to his lips. Like a flash Lindsay had seized his hand. ''For heaven's sake, man, don't uo that. You'll be the destruction of us all. Throiv it away, throw it away. It is the death whistle. The man who blows that is certainly condemned ta death." Wilkinson's haggard face grew whiter in the dim light. "I don't understand," he said. "Don't understand? No, there are many things in Airica I don't understand, and many I'm sure you don't. I'm telling you the- simple truth. The man who blows that whistle condemns himself to death. My own servants would kiil you, and I could not help you." Durand was taking a keen interest now. "Are you quite sure?" he asked, taking tile whistle and examining it gingerly. "For pity's sake throw the thing away," said Lindsay uneasily. ''Yes! I'm quite sure. I know unluckily too much about tlie back of the black's mind." "Supposing I did blow it, what would be the effect?-" "Everybody would be paralysed for the moment. The noise is weird, strange, unearthly. No matter what a man was doing—if he had his hands at another's throat, and was throttling him, he would lot him go and give him a chance for his life, and then—well, somebody would put a knife into you. If yon were alone among them they most certainly would, and I hardly think my presence would restrain them, The man nearest to yon would regard himself as condemned to death if he did not. Sometimes, you know, they torture a man and lie asks for death." "I found it beside a dead man who was bound to a tree." The missionary spoke in a low tone, and lie shuddered at the remembrance. "The ants had got at liim, and——" '"Hero throw the thing away," said Lindsay; "it's unsafe to have it about." "No," said the missionary doggedly, "I found it and I will keep, it. Oh, Africa! Africa! If I were but permitted to do but one small tiling before I die!" Durand rose to his feet. "Look here." he said, "I think we'd better turn it. We're getting gruesome in our conversation. If you will keep that blessed whistle, look out that you don't blow it." Next day the missionary would have returned to the conversation of the night before, but the other two men would have none of it. Durand would ! have no missionary talk, and Lindsay resented any reference to Ju-ju. He felt he was in for a bout of fever and was irritable. When Wilkinson, in his quavering, hesitating voice, asked him if

he had found another leaf, he shut him up sharply. "See here. Mr. Wilkinson," he said u'li.'Tßcimi.-ly. "I told you that story ■.cause I felt I must. As you have joined in our company I felt it was only fair. 'Now, I shall be obliged if you will say no more on the subject. I can bear my own tribulations, but I can't have them pricked into me every day by you. Besides, it\s ju?t as wcli tile men should have no inkling of what may befall." .So in the days that followed Wilkinson held UN tongue. He was very feeble and weak, and the rest in the camp, the good and ample food, and the freedom from anxiety, worked wonders in his personal appearance, lie was fervent in his gratitude both to Lindsay and Durand, and to the Guiding Hand that had brought him to them. Unfortunately, glad though they were to help him, they did not appreciate his gratituae. If he could only have held his tongue! Lindsay had a bad bout of fever, and Wilkinson irritated him beyond endurance. He lay and tossed about restless and ill, and, when the missionary took his scat beside his mat, he could hardly trust himself to reply civilly. "For heaven's sake keep the man away!" he implored Durand. "He gets on my nerves like a ghostly dream." And forbidden the tent in the daytime. Wilkinson lay down in the shade outside, and declared openly to Durand that he should watch lest any evil should befall his benefactor "Don't let Lindsay catch you at it, then," said Durand grimly; "he won't thank you for your care." Once sure of Wilkinson's absence, Lindsay gave himself up to being ill. For a couple of days he was barely conscious. Then came another restless day. when through a kind of half-slumber he heard the hum of the flies, the whisk of the fan, and the remarks of Durand and Adaniu as he came in to see how he did. Then the darkness fell, and Adaniu stopped fanning because the flies had gone with the night, and presently Durand came again, and sat smoking his pipe and looking at him. "I think you're better to-night, old chap," he said. "I think I am," said Lindsay. "Leave me a drink when you turn in. I expect I'll be all right to-morrow morning."

He was better, but he was very weak and restless. Presently he fell into a doze, and when he awakened he found he had knocked over the water which Durand had put beside him before he went to sleep. He was very thirsty; his throat seemed on fire, out Durand and Wilkinson were sleeping soundly, and there was no more water in the tent. He made up his mind to lie still and bear it, but the thirst increased its hold. Lie still he could not. His temperature ran up, and he began to see strange things about him, mistv forms that burnt him with their breath. If he could only —only get some water. He thought of rousing one of the others; he listened to their regular breathing; they were certainly sound asleep. The missionary's very voice would irritate him, and to Durand he had been a good deal of trouble of late. Why should he not get the water himself? He dragged himself from' his bed and made his way into the open. The moon had long sinve set. Dimiy in the starlit darkness he could see the fence of the compound, and over it the mass of rock, its ragged crown shining deeply above its base buried in the dense black shadows below. The loan dome of the meg that overshadowed the well stood out like a dark blot on the luminous sky. He had not thought of the well before; lie had dragged himself out of the tent with nothing more definite in his miiid than the mere abstract idea of getting water, but the

.sight of the meg blotted out everything else. He liad no distinct remembrance of reaching the well, but a kind of numbed consciousness seemed to come to him again as he groped round the top for the hide bucket. There were bull frogs in the well, and at the time they were croaking volubly. When he threw ■ down the bucket the croaking suddenly ceased. He hauled it up again clear of the side, and v,-hen the water, was in his hands he stood erect as if he had been strong, and grasping the bucket by both its sides drank from it as one would dTink from a two-handled flagon. And :as he drank the surplus water poureu in a blessed torrent over his shoulders and chest.

That draught was like an elixir of life. It loosened his tongue, his eves no longer burned, his skin softened and became moist and bit by bit his strengtli came ebbing back to his limbs. As it coursed through his veins a mist seemed lifted from around him. He could foci the soft cool breezes of the night, see the glorious starlight scene. He gazed around as if newly awake. There was the harsh line of the fence, the break at the slip rails. There were the roofs of the huts, the dew glimmering softly on the broad ,eaves of the gourds that clambered over them. There, in the open whs the hot i»cd eye of the men's fire, the yellow gleam of his own warmed the shadows among the sycamores and palms. the now empty bucket lying beside him, lie stood luxuriating in the coolness of the water and the freshness of the night. Every fibre in his body was relaxed in repose. He raised his eyes to the rock above and there v>* 3 an end of repose. The crown of the rook stood out clear against the night sky. As Lindsay looked up at. it a tall shadowy figure rose out of the dark mass, and, taking a step forward, dashed up skyward at its full length the beam of a spear. As the spear flashed up the falling starlight gleamed on it and turned the steel to silver. Lindsay gazed blankly. For a moment his mind was numbed, as the subtle mist seemed to hang between him and the figure. But as the steel gleamed cold and white in the light of the stars, the mist vanished and the situation broke on him. With a bound he made for his tent. But it was 100 late. The darkness round wa.; thick with shadowy firrnre-. there was a rush. his arms were seized, and when ho would hace orVi! aloud a hand was pressed over hi.s mouth. The momentary mental paralysis was followed bv a 1. sing rush of thought. It was the end! It flashed through his mind almost instinctively—the very end. His enemies had him in their grip, the mighty Power lie had defied had foreclosed on him. Now he was going to pay. But instinct is strong. He struggled, and he was a man of muscle and sinews, and in his extremity his ,atrejigth came back to him. Backwards and for l , wards lie swayed, dragging his- assailants with him, moment by moment cx-

pecting to find the keen steel searching for his life. It was a mute struggle. The ruffle of the robes, the soft padding of the feet upon the ground, the creak of a joint, or the chance crack of a sinew were the only sounds that broke the silence. They were flesh and blood, these enemies of his, that he could feel and see and smell, yet there was no sound of voice, no word, 110 cry, almost it seemed to their struggling victim as if they did not breathe. Tt was uncanny. He longed to shriek aloud, if only to break what seemed to be a spell, but the hands about his face and throat close pressed and following his every movement as if they were part of him, effectually held him dumb Breath! Breath! lie must have breath! Pausing an instant in his struggle lie drew a long screeching inspiration through his nostrils, then another. It was more than a minute since he had. been seized—it seemed to him a year. He bent to the struggle again, but his captors had availed themselves of the moment's grace to pin his legs, and they lifted him bodily from the ground and prepared to bear him away. Then he gave up, for he was utterly helpless, a mere log in their hands. Would they end it here, or were they taking him away? Was this the bitterness of death?

There broke nn the flour night air, cutting it like a knife, a sound-' wcinl, shrill, unearthly. it echoed and reechoed round the rock. ewrv rrannv and eleff seemed to <<;Heh it. held it for a moment, and then sent it forth, redoubled as a lo«r tuat has been stopped for a moment seems to (rain fresh loive when it is caught again by the swirl of the stream. The hand about Lindsay's face lifted, the grip on his legs and arms relaxed, for a second he was standing alone, and he knew that for'him was not the bitterness of death, at least not j - et. The sound died away, and the next moment a wild hubbub broke on the air. He liearti JDuvaiul's shout, a-fierce cry from 'Adamu, the ear-piercing yells .of his 'and above- it and 1 through it all another sound quite close—the gurgle

of the blood that rises in the throat aiul mingles with a man's breath. At the roar from the camp and the sound of rushing feet his opponents melted and left him standing alone. He looked about him dazed. Where had the timely help come from ? He turned and close beside him on the ground lay a huddled figure. As Durand and Adamu readied his side he stopped and bent over it. It was the man he had succored, the man whose oiler of aid he had scoffed at, whose constant watchfulness irritated him. The. weak blue eyes looked up him, and there was consciousness in them, but he was almost past speech, and his life was ebbing fast. "I told you not to blow that whistle," cried Lindsay passionately r.s he dropped on his knees beside him.' The dying man put his hand up to something that was round his neck. "It was the—only— way," he gasped. "Tell " There came a rush of blood from his lungs. lie struggled to rise. Lindsay put his arms around him and, with Durand's help, carried him into the light of the fire; but before they laid him down the flow of blood had stopped and his life liad gone with it. Lindsay rose to his feet and his eyes met hia comrade's. He stood up before him shamefaced. '"One small thing," he said, repeating the dead man's words, "and I scoffed at him for a weakling." Even in the dim light the look in his eyes made the other man long to find some ci'infoi'i for him. ''The poor beggar's life was hard." he said roughly: "lie could not have had much to hope for." k The dead hand was still holding fast .something that was round his neck. Lindsay unclasped it very tenderly. It was a locket—a poor tawdry silver thing. ]le opened it. In it was the photograph of a girl. lie tilted it round and the firelight fell upon a pair of i frank, honest English eyes and a mouth 1 sweet and smiling. I "Xot much to hope for," repeated, Lindsay." . . • *1 ■'« And outside camp a hyena. I tongue In a burst 'grmm&rdtin