Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [69]
For a malign miracle had happened, and there had materialised, under their very eyes, in shape to be seen and in substance which daring men might feel, the most horrific of the river legends.
Sandi-by-night had come, and Sandi-by-night was a distinct and deadly personality. He had arrived from nowhere between sunset and moonrise, and now sat before the hut of Molaka the fisherman. Bold men, peering fearfully from their little houses, saw him, a stooping figure in a grey-green suit, which in the flooding moonlight seemed to possess a radiance of its own. His face was in darkness, for the brim of his big helmet threw a black shadow, and, moreover, his back was toward the serene orb that touched the fronds of the palms with a silver edging.
Whence he came none knew or troubled to think. For Sandi was well known to possess magical qualities, so that he could fly through the air or skim on his feet across the water at an incredible speed.
And he had come, not to the chief’s hut, but to the humble dwelling of this eloquent fisherman, who told such beautiful stories.
Sandi was talking in liquid Bomongo. “Also it seems you have spoken to the people of the Forest, Molaka.”
“Lord, they like my pretty stories,” pleaded the man; “and because I am a poor spearer of fish and desire to please all people, I tell them tales, though I am often weary.”
Sanders chuckled softly. “What race are you, Molaka, for I see that you have no cuts on your face such as the people of the Middle River make upon their children?”
“I am from the Lapori River near Bongunda,” replied Molaka.
Again he laughed, this slim figure that crouched on the stool which Molaka had brought for him.
“O Bantu, you lie!” he said, and then he spoke in English. “Your name is Meredith; you are a native of Kingston, Jamaica, and you are a general in the All-Africa Army.”
There was a silence.
“You are one of five hundred specialists especially trained by the Black Africa Syndicate to organise native rebellion,” Sanders went on in an almost monotonous tone. “My men have been watching you for two years! You were trained at Louisville College for coloured men for this job, and you receive two hundred dollars a month for your services.”
“Sic itur ad astra,” Molaka quoted with a certain smugness.
“It is indeed the way to immortality,” said Sanders grimly. “Now, tell me, my man, when did you last see a Supreme Councillor of your pestiferous order?”
Molaka yawned ostentatiously. “I’m afraid I cannot afford you any information, Mistah – er – I haven’t the honour of knowing your name. I suppose you are Sanders, that these dam’ niggers talk about?” (He himself was as black as the ace of spades, though his English was excellent.) “So far I have had the luck to miss you.”
Sanders said nothing, then: “When did you see one of your bosses last?”
“I can give you no information,” said Molaka, or Meredith, rising. “I presume you will deport me? I shall not be sorry. I have spent two miserable years in this wilderness, and I shall be glad to go home to my dear home town.”
Sanders rose too, and now he towered above the squatting figure.
“Come,” he said, and strode through the village behind his prisoner.
The people saw them pass, and tapped their teeth in terror. The two men vanished into the forest path. At two o’clock in the morning, the village watchman, dozing over his fire, heard a shriek and leapt up. The cry was not repeated, and he went to sleep again.
In the morning they found a place, just outside the village, where a man had evidently been pegged, spread-eagle fashion, to the ground, for the thongs that had bound his ankles and wrists were still attached to the peg. Also, there were the ashes of a fire and a piece of iron which had been heated. From these indications, the men of the village concluded that Molaka had been asked questions.
It is certain that he did not tell Sanders of the great palaver which was to be held in the country south of the Isisi River, because the messenger