CHAPTER 4
Perhaps I was not capable of thinking quite
coherently on what had just happened until I was once more fairly outside of the
forest shadows—out in that clear open daylight, where things seem what they
are, and imagination, like a juggler detected and laughed at, hastily takes
itself out of the way. As I walked homewards I paused midway on the barren
ridge to gaze back on the scene I had left, and then the recent adventure began
to take a semi-ludicrous aspect in my mind. All that circumstance of
preparation, that mysterious prelude to something unheard of, unimaginable,
surpassing all fables ancient and modern, and all tragedies—to end at last in a
concert of howling monkeys! Certainly
the concert was very grand—indeed, one of the most astounding in nature---but still—I
sat down on a stone and laughed freely.
The sun was sinking behind the forest, its broad
red disk still showing through the topmost leaves, and the higher part of the
foliage was of a luminous green, like green flame, throwing off flakes of
quivering, fiery light, but lower down the trees were in profound shadow.
I felt very light-hearted while I gazed on this
scene, for how pleasant it was just now to think of the strange experience I
had passed through—to think that I had come safely out of it, that no human eye
had witnessed my weakness, and that the mystery existed still to fascinate
me! For, ludicrous as the denouement now
looked, the cause of all, the voice itself, was a thing to marvel at more than
ever. That it proceeded from an intelligent being I was firmly convinced; and although
too materialistic in my way of thinking to admit for a moment that it was a
supernatural being, I still felt that there was something more than I had at
first imagined in Kua-ko's speech about a daughter of the Didi. That the
Indians knew a great deal about the mysterious voice, and had held it in great
fear, seemed evident. But they were savages, with ways that were not mine; and
however friendly they might be towards one of a superior race, there was always
in their relations with him a low cunning, prompted partly by suspicion,
underlying their words and actions.
For the white man to put himself mentally on their
level is not more impossible than for these aborigines to be perfectly open, as
children are, towards the white. Whatever subject the stranger within their
gates exhibits an interest in, that they will be reticent about; and their
reticence, which conceals itself under easily invented lies or an affected
stupidity, invariably increases with his desire for information. It was plain
to them that some very unusual interest took me to the wood; consequently I
could not expect that they would tell me anything they might know to enlighten
me about the matter; and I concluded that Kua-ko's words about the daughter of
the Didi, and what she would do if he blew an arrow at a bird, had accidentally
escaped him in a moment of excitement. Nothing, therefore, was to be gained by
questioning them, or, at all events, by telling them how much the subject
attracted me. And I had nothing to fear; my independent investigations had made
this much clear to me; the voice might proceed from a very frolicsome and
tricksy creature, full of wild fantastic humors, but nothing worse. It was
friendly to me, I felt sure; at the same time it might not be friendly towards
the Indians; for, on that day, it had made itself heard only after my companion
had taken flight; and it had then seemed incensed against me, possibly because
the savage had been in my company.
That was the result of my reflections on the day's
events when I returned to my entertainer's roof and sat down among my friends
to refresh myself with stewed fowl and fish from the household pot, into which
a hospitable woman invited me with a gesture to dip my fingers.
Kua-ko was lying in his hammock, smoking, I think—certainly
not reading. When I entered he lifted his head and stared at me, probably
surprised to see me alive, unharmed, and in a placid temper. I laughed at the
look, and, somewhat disconcerted, he dropped his head down again. After a
minute or two I took the metal matchbox and tossed it on to his breast. He
clutched it and, starting up, stared at me in the utmost astonishment. He could
scarcely believe his good fortune; for he had failed to carry out his part of
the compact and had resigned himself to the loss of the coveted prize. Jumping
down to the floor, he held up the box triumphantly, his joy overcoming the
habitual stolid look; while all the others gathered about him, each trying to
get the box into his own hands to admire it again, notwithstanding that they
had all seen it a dozen times before.
But it was Kua-ko's now and not the stranger's,
and therefore more nearly their own than formerly, and must look different,
more beautiful, with a brighter polish on the metal. And that wonderful
enameled cock on the lid—figured in Paris probably, but just like a cock in
Guyana, the pet bird which they no more think of killing and eating than we do
our purring pussies and lemon-colored canaries—must now look more strikingly
valiant and cock-like than ever, with its crimson comb and wattles, burnished
red hackles, and dark green arching tail-plumes. But Kua-ko, while willing
enough to have it admired and praised, would not let it out of his hands, and
told them pompously that it was not theirs for them to handle, but his—Kua-ko's—for
all time; that he had won it by accompanying me—valorous man that he was! – to
that evil wood into which they—timid, inferior creatures that they were! –
would never have ventured to set foot. I am not translating his words, but that
was what he gave them to understand pretty plainly, to my great amusement.
After the excitement was over, Runi, who had
maintained a dignified calm, made some roundabout remarks, apparently with the
object of eliciting an account of what I had seen and heard in the forest of
evil fame. I replied carelessly that I had seen a great many birds and
monkeys—monkeys so tame that I might have procured one if I had had a
blow-pipe, in spite of my never having practiced shooting with that weapon.
It interested them to hear about the abundance and
tameness of the monkeys, although it was scarcely news; but how tame they must
have been when I, the stranger not to the manner born—not naked, brown-skinned,
lynx-eyed, and noiseless as an owl in his movements—had yet been able to look
closely at them! Runi only remarked,
apropos of what I had told him, that they could not go there to hunt; then he
asked me if I feared nothing.
"Nothing," I replied carelessly.
"The things you fear hurt not the white man and are no more than this to
me," saying which I took up a little white wood-ash in my hand and blew it
away with my breath. "And against other enemies I have this," I
added, touching my revolver. A brave speech, just after that araguato episode,
but I did not make it without blushing—mentally. He shook his head, and said it
was a poor weapon against some enemies; also—truly enough—that it would procure
no birds and monkeys for the stew-pot.
Next morning my friend Kua-ko, taking his
zabatana, invited me to go out with him, and I consented with some misgivings, thinking
he had overcome his superstitious fears and, inflamed
by my account of the abundance of game in the
forest, intended going there with me. The previous day's experience had made me
think that it would be better in the future to go there alone. But I was giving
the poor youth more credit than he deserved. It was far from his intention to
face the terrible unknown again.
We went in a different direction, and tramped for
hours through woods where birds were scarce and only of the smaller kinds. Then
my guide surprised me a second time by offering to teach me to use the
zabatana. This, then, was to be my reward for giving him the box! I readily consented, and with the long weapon,
awkward to carry, in my hand, and imitating the noiseless movements and
cautious, watchful manner of my companion, I tried to imagine myself a simple
Guyana savage, with no knowledge of that artificial social state to which I had
been born, dependent on my skill and little roll of poison-darts for a
livelihood. By an effort of the will I emptied myself of my life experience and
knowledge—or as much of it as possible—and thought only of the generations of
my dead imaginary progenitors, who had ranged these woods back to the dim forgotten
years before Columbus; and if the pleasure I had in the fancy was childish, it
made the day pass quickly enough. Kua-ko was constantly at my elbow to assist
and give advice; and many an arrow I blew from the long tube, and hit no bird. Heaven
knows what I hit, for the arrows flew away on their wide and wild career to be
seen no more, except a few which my keen-eyed comrade marked to their
destination and managed to recover. The result of our day's hunting was a
couple of birds, which Kua-ko, not I, shot, and a small opossum his sharp eyes
detected high up a tree lying coiled up on an old nest, over the side of which
the animal had incautiously allowed his snaky tail to dangle. The number of
darts I wasted must have been a rather serious loss to him, but he did not seem
troubled at it, and made no remark.
Next day, to my surprise, he volunteered to give
me a second lesson, and we went out again. On this occasion he had provided
himself with a large bundle of darts, but—wise man! – they were not poisoned,
and it therefore mattered little whether they were wasted or not. I believe
that on this day I made some little progress; at all events, my teacher
remarked that before long I would be able to hit a bird. This made me smile and
answer that if he could place me within twenty yards of a bird not smaller than
a small man I might manage to touch it with an arrow.
This speech had a very unexpected and remarkable
effect. He stopped short in his walk, stared at me wildly, then grinned, and
finally burst into a roar of laughter, which was no bad imitation of the
howling monkey's performance, and smote his naked thighs with tremendous
energy. At length recovering himself, he asked whether a small woman was not
the same as a small man, and being answered in the affirmative, went off into a
second extravagant roar of laughter.
Thinking it was easy to tickle him while he
continued in this mood, I began making any number of feeble jokes—feeble, but
quite as good as the one which had provoked such outrageous merriment—for it
amused me to see him acting in this unusual way. But they all failed of their
effect—there was no hitting the bull's-eye a second time; he would only stare
vacantly at me, then grunt like a peccary—not appreciatively—and walk on. Still,
at intervals he would go back to what I had said about hitting a very big bird,
and roar again, as if this wonderful joke was not easily exhausted.
Again on the third day we were out together
practicing at the birds—frightening if not killing them; but before noon, finding
that it was his intention to go to a distant spot where he expected to meet
with larger game, I left him and returned to the village. The blow-pipe
practice had lost its novelty, and I did not care to go on all day and every
day with it; more than that, I was anxious after so long an interval to pay a
visit to my wood, as I began to call it, in the hope of hearing that mysterious
melody which I had grown to love and to miss when even a single day passed
without it.
CHAPTER 5
After making a hasty meal at the house, I started,
full of pleasing anticipations, for the wood, for how pleasant a place it was
to be in! What a wild beauty and
fragrance and melodiousness it possessed above all forests, because of that mystery
that drew me to it! And it was mine,
truly and absolutely—as much mine as any portion of earth's surface could belong
to any man—mine with all its products: the precious woods and fruits and
fragrant gums that would never be trafficked away; its wild animals that man
would never persecute; nor would any jealous savage dispute my ownership or pretend
that it was part of his hunting-ground.
As I crossed the savanna I played with this fancy;
but when I reached the ridgy eminence, to look down once more on my new domain,
the fancy changed to a feeling so keen that it pierced to my heart and was like
pain in its intensity, causing tears to rush to my eyes. And caring not in that
solitude to disguise my feelings from myself, and from the wide heaven that
looked down and saw me—for this is the sweetest thing that solitude has for us,
that we are free in it, and no convention holds us—I dropped on my knees and
kissed the stony ground, then casting up my eyes, thanked the Author of my
being for the gift of that wild forest, those green mansions where I had found
so great a happiness!
Elated with this strain of feeling, I reached the
wood not long after noon; but no melodious voice gave me familiar and expected
welcome; nor did my invisible companion make itself heard at all on that day,
or, at all events, not in its usual bird-like warbling language. But on this day
I met with a curious little adventure and heard something very extraordinary, very
mysterious, which I could not avoid connecting in my mind with the unseen
warbler that so often followed me in my rambles.
It was an exceedingly bright day, without cloud,
but windy, and finding myself in a rather open part of the wood, near its border,
where the breeze could be felt, I sat down to rest on the lower part of a large
branch, which was half broken, but still remained attached to the trunk of the
tree, while resting its terminal twigs on the ground. Just before me, where I
sat, grew a low, wide-spreading plant, covered with broad, round, polished
leaves; and the roundness, stiffness, and perfectly horizontal position of the
upper leaves made them look like a collection of small platforms or round
table-tops placed nearly on a level. Through the leaves, to the height of a
foot or more above them, a slender dead stem protruded, and from a twig at its
summit hung a broken spider's web. A minute dead leaf had become attached to
one of the loose threads and threw its small but distinct shadow on the
platform leaves below; and as it trembled and swayed in the current of air, the
black spot trembled with it or flew swiftly over the bright green surfaces, and
was seldom at rest. Now, as I sat looking down on the leaves and the small
dancing shadow, scarcely thinking of what I was looking at, I noticed a small
spider, with a flat body and short legs, creep cautiously out on to the upper
surface of a leaf. Its pale red color barred with velvet black first drew my attention
to it, for it was beautiful to the eye; and presently I discovered that this
was no web-spinning, sedentary spider, but a wandering hunter, that captured
its prey, like a cat, by stealing on it concealed and making a rush or spring
at the last. The moving shadow had attracted it and, as the sequel showed, was
mistaken for a fly running about over the leaves and flitting from leaf to
leaf. Now began a series of wonderful maneuvers on the spider's part, with the
object of circumventing the imaginary fly, which seemed specially designed to
meet this special case; for certainly no insect had ever before behaved in quite
so erratic a manner. Each time the shadow flew past, the spider ran swiftly in
the same direction, hiding itself under the leaves, always trying to get near
without alarming its prey; and then the shadow would go round and round in a
small circle, and some new strategic move on the part of the hunter would be called
forth.
I became deeply interested in this curious scene;
I began to wish that the shadow would remain quiet for a moment or two, so as
to give the hunter a chance. And at last I had my wish: the shadow was almost
motionless, and the spider moving towards it, yet seeming not to move, and as
it crept closer I fancied that I could almost see the little striped body
quivering with excitement. Then came the final scene: swift and straight as an arrow
the hunter shot himself on to the fly-like shadow, then wiggled round and
round, evidently trying to take hold of his prey with fangs and claws; and
finding nothing under him, he raised the fore part of his body vertically, as
if to stare about him in search of the delusive fly; but the action may have simply
expressed astonishment. At this moment I was just on the point of giving free
and loud vent to the laughter which I had been holding in when, just behind me,
as if from some person who had been watching the scene over my shoulder and was
as much amused as myself at its termination, sounded a clear trill of merry
laughter.
I started up and looked hastily around, but no
living creature was there. The mass of loose foliage I stared into was agitated,
as if from a body having just pushed through it. In a moment the leaves and
fronds were motionless again; still, I could not be sure that a slight gust of
wind had not shaken them. But I was so convinced that I had heard close to me a
real human laugh, or sound of some living creature that exactly simulated a
laugh, that I carefully searched the ground about me, expecting to find a being
of some kind. But I found nothing, and going back to my seat on the hanging
branch, I remained seated for a considerable time, at first only listening,
then pondering on the mystery of that sweet trill of laughter; and finally I
began to wonder whether I, like the spider that chased the shadow, had been
deluded, and had seemed to hear a sound that was not a sound.
On the following day I was in the wood again, and
after a two or three hours' ramble, during which I heard nothing, thinking it
useless to haunt the known spots any longer, I turned southwards and penetrated
into a denser part of the forest, where the undergrowth made progress difficult.
I was not afraid of losing myself; the sun above and my sense of direction,
which was always good, would enable me to return to the starting-point.
In this direction I had been pushing resolutely on
for over half an hour, finding it no easy matter to make my way without constantly
deviating to this side or that from the course I wished to keep, when I came to
a much more open spot. The trees were smaller and scantier here, owing to the
rocky nature of the ground, which sloped rather rapidly down; but it was moist
and overgrown with mosses, ferns, creepers, and low shrubs, all of the
liveliest green. I could not see many yards ahead owing to the bushes and tall
fern fronds; but presently I began to hear a low, continuous sound, which, when
I had advanced twenty or thirty yards further, I made out to be the gurgling of
running water; and at the same moment I made the discovery that my throat was
parched and my palms tingling with heat.
I hurried on, promising myself a cool draught,
when all at once, above the soft dashing and gurgling of the water, I caught yet
another sound—a low, warbling note, or succession of notes, which might have
been emitted by a bird. But it startled me nevertheless—bird-like warbling
sounds had come to mean so much to me—and pausing, I listened intently. It was
not repeated, and finally, treading with the utmost caution so as not to alarm the
mysterious vocalist, I crept on until, coming to a greenheart with a quantity
of feathery foliage of a shrub growing about its roots, I saw that just beyond
the tree the ground was more open still, letting in the sunlight from above, and
that the channel of the stream I sought was in this open space, about twenty
yards from me, although the water was still hidden from sight. Something else
was there, which I did see; instantly my cautious advance was arrested. I stood
gazing with concentrated vision, scarcely daring to breathe lest I should scare
it away.
It was a human being—a girl form, reclining on the
moss among the ferns and herbage, near the roots of a small tree. One arm was
doubled behind her neck for her head to rest upon, while the other arm was held
extended before her, the hand raised towards a small brown bird perched on a
pendulous twig just beyond its reach. She appeared to be playing with the bird,
possibly amusing herself by trying to entice it on to her hand; and the hand
appeared to tempt it greatly, for it persistently hopped up and down, turning
rapidly about this way and that, flirting its wings and tail, and always
appearing just on the point of dropping on to her finger. From my position it was
impossible to see her distinctly, yet I dared not move.
I could make out that she was small, not above
four feet six or seven inches in height, in figure slim, with delicately shaped
little hands and feet. Her feet were bare, and her only garment was a slight
chemise-shaped dress reaching below her knees, of a whitish-gray color, with a
faint luster as of a silky material. Her hair was very wonderful; it was loose
and abundant, and seemed wavy or curly, falling in a cloud on her shoulders and
arms. Dark it appeared, but the precise tint was indeterminable, as was that of
her skin, which looked neither brown nor white. All together, near to me as she
actually was, there was a kind of mistiness in the figure that made it appear somewhat
vague and distant, and a greenish gray seemed the prevailing color. This tint I
presently attributed to the effect of the sunlight falling on her through the
green foliage; for once, for a moment, she raised herself to reach her finger nearer
to the bird, and then a gleam of unsubdued sunlight fell on her hair and arm,
and the arm at that moment appeared of a pearly whiteness, and the hair, just
where the light touched it, had a strange luster and play of iridescent color.
I had not been watching her more than three
seconds before the bird, with a sharp, creaking little chirp, flew up and away in
sudden alarm; at the same moment she turned and saw me through the light leafy
screen. But although catching sight of me thus suddenly, she did not exhibit
alarm like the bird; only her eyes, wide open, with a surprised look in them,
remained immovably fixed on my face. And then slowly, imperceptibly—for I did
not notice the actual movement, so gradual and smooth it was, like the motion
of a cloud of mist which changes its form and place, yet to the eye seems not
to have moved—she rose to her knees, to her feet, retired, and with face still
towards me, and eyes fixed on mine, finally disappeared, going as if she had melted
away into the verdure. The leafage was there occupying the precise spot where
she had been a moment before—the feathery foliage of an acacia shrub, and stems
and broad, arrow-shaped leaves of an aquatic plant, and slim, drooping fern fronds,
and they were motionless and seemed not to have been touched by something
passing through them. She had gone, yet I continued still, bent almost double,
gazing fixedly at the spot where I had last seen her, my mind in a strange
condition, possessed by sensations which were keenly felt and yet contradictory.
So vivid was the image left on my brain that she still seemed to be actually
before my eyes; and she was not there, nor had been, for it was a dream, an
illusion, and no such being existed, or could exist, in this gross world; and
at the same time I knew that she had been there—that imagination was powerless
to conjure up a form so exquisite.
With the mental image I had to be satisfied, for
although I remained for some hours at that spot, I saw her no more, nor did I
hear any familiar melodious sound. For I was now convinced that in this wild
solitary girl I had at length discovered the mysterious warbler that so often
followed me in the wood. At length, seeing that it was growing late, I took a
drink from the stream and slowly and reluctantly made my way out of the forest and
went home.
Early next day I was back in the wood full of
delightful anticipations, and had no sooner got well among the trees than a soft,
warbling sound reached my ears; it was like that heard on the previous day just
before catching sight of the girl among the ferns. So soon! thought I, elated, and with cautious steps I
proceeded to explore the ground, hoping again to catch her unawares. But I saw
nothing; and only after beginning to doubt that I had heard anything unusual,
and had sat down to rest on a rock, the sound was repeated, soft and low as
before, very near and distinct. Nothing more was heard at this spot, but an
hour later, in another place, the same mysterious note sounded near me. During
my remaining time in the forest I was served many times in the same way, and
still nothing was seen, nor was there any change in the voice.
Only when the day was near its end did I give up
my quest, feeling very keenly disappointed. It then struck me that the cause of
the elusive creature's behavior was that she had been piqued at my discovery of
her in one of her most secret hiding-places in the heart of the wood, and that
it had pleased her to pay me out in this manner.
On the next day there was no change; she was there
again, evidently following me, but always invisible, and varied not from that
one mocking note of yesterday, which seemed to challenge me to find her a
second time. In the end I was vexed, and resolved to be even with her by not
visiting the wood for some time. A display of indifference on my part would, I
hoped, result in making her less coy in the future.
Next day, firm in my new resolution, I accompanied
Kua-ko and two others to a distant spot where they expected that the ripening
fruit on a cashew tree would attract a large number of birds. The fruit,
however, proved still green, so that we gathered none and killed few birds.
Returning together, Kua-ko kept at my side, and by and by, falling behind our
companions, he complimented me on my good shooting, although, as usual, I had
only wasted the arrows I had blown.
"Soon you will be able to hit," he said;
"hit a bird as big as a small woman," and he laughed once more
immoderately at the old joke. At last, growing confidential, he said that I would
soon possess a zabatana of my own, with arrows in plenty. He was going to make
the arrows himself, and his uncle Otawinki, who had a straight eye, would make
the tube. I treated it all as a joke, but he solemnly assured me that he meant
it.
Next morning he asked me if I was going to the
forest of evil fame, and when I replied in the negative, seemed surprised and,
very much to my surprise, evidently disappointed. He even tried to persuade me
to go, where before I had been earnestly recommended not to go, until, finding
that I would not, he took me with him to hunt in the woods. By and by he returned
to the same subject: he could not understand why I would not go to that wood,
and asked me if I had begun to grow afraid.
"No, not afraid," I replied; "but I
know the place well, and am getting tired of it." I had seen everything in it—birds and
beasts—and had heard all its strange noises.
"Yes, heard," he said, nodding his head
knowingly; "but you have seen nothing strange; your eyes are not good
enough yet."
I laughed contemptuously and answered that I had
seen everything strange the wood contained, including a strange young girl; and
I went on to describe her appearance, and finished by asking if he thought a
white man was frightened at the sight of a young girl.
What I said astonished him; then he seemed greatly
pleased, and, growing still more confidential and generous than on the previous
day, he said that I would soon be a most important personage among them, and
greatly distinguish myself. He did not like it when I laughed at all this, and
went on with great seriousness to speak of the unmade blowpipe that would be
mine—speaking of it as if it had been something very great, equal to the gift
of a large tract of land, or the governorship of a province, north of the
Orinoco. And by and by he spoke of something else more wonderful even than the
promise of a blow-pipe, with arrows galore, and this was that young sister of
his, whose name was Oalava, a maid of about sixteen, shy and silent and
mild-eyed, rather lean and dirty; not ugly, nor yet prepossessing. And this
copper-colored little drab of the wilderness he proposed to bestow in marriage
on me!
Anxious to pump him, I managed to control my
muscles and asked him what authority he—a young nobody, who had not yet risen
to the dignity of buying a wife for himself—could have to dispose of a sister
in this offhand way? He replied that
there would be no difficulty: that Runi would give his consent, as would also
Otawinki, Piake, and other relations; and last, and LEAST, according to the
matrimonial customs of these latitudes, Oalava herself would be ready to bestow
her person—queyou, worn figleaf-wise, necklace of accouri teeth, and all—on so
worthy a suitor as myself. Finally, to make the prospect still more inviting,
he added that it would not be necessary for me to subject myself to any
voluntary tortures to prove myself a man and fitted to enter into the
purgatorial state of matrimony. He was a great deal too considerate, I said,
and, with all the gravity I could command, asked him what kind of torture he would
recommend. For me—so valorous a person—"no torture," he answered
magnanimously. But he—Kua-ko—had made up his mind as to the form of torture he
meant to inflict some day on his own person. He would prepare a large sack and
into it put fire-ants—"As many as that!" he exclaimed triumphantly, stooping and
filling his two hands with loose sand. He would put them in the sack, and then
get into it himself naked, and tie it tightly round his neck, so as to show to
all spectators that the hellish pain of innumerable venomous stings in his
flesh could be endured without a groan and with an unmoved countenance.
The poor youth had not an original mind, since
this was one of the commonest forms of self-torture among the Guyana tribes. But
the sudden wonderful animation with which he spoke of it, the fiendish joy that
illumined his usually stolid countenance, sent a sudden disgust and horror
through me. But what a strange inverted kind of fiendishness is this, which
delights at the anticipation of torture inflicted on oneself and not on an enemy! And towards others these savages are mild and
peaceable! No, I could not believe in
their mildness; that was only on the surface, when nothing occurred to rouse
their savage, cruel instincts. I could have laughed at the whole matter, but
the exulting look on my companion's face had made me sick of the subject, and I
wished not to talk any more about it.
But he would talk still—this fellow whose words,
as a rule, I had to take out of his mouth with a fork, as we say; and still on
the same subject, he said that not one person in the village would expect to
see me torture myself; that after what I would do for them all—after delivering
them from a great evil—nothing further would be expected of me.
I asked him to explain his meaning; for it now
began to appear plain that in everything he had said he had been leading up to
some very important matter. It would, of course, have been a great mistake to
suppose that my savage was offering me a blowpipe and a marketable virgin
sister from purely disinterested motives.
In reply he went back to that still unforgotten
joke about my being able eventually to hit a bird as big as a small woman with
an arrow. Out of it all came, when he went on to ask me if that mysterious girl
I had seen in the wood was not of a size to suit me as a target when I had got
my hand in with a little more practice. That was the great work I was asked to
do for them—that shy, mysterious girl with the melodious wild-bird voice was the
evil being I was asked to slay with poisoned arrows! This was why he now wished me to go often to
the wood, to become more and more familiar with her haunts and habits, to
overcome all shyness and suspicion in her; and at the proper moment, when it would
be impossible to miss my mark, to plant the fatal arrow! The disgust he had
inspired in me before, when gloating over anticipated tortures, was a weak and
transient feeling to what I now experienced.
I turned on him in a sudden transport of rage, and
in a moment would have shattered on his head the blow-pipe I was carrying in my
hand, but his astonished look as he turned to face me made me pause and
prevented me from committing so fatal an indiscretion. I could only grind my
teeth and struggle to overcome an almost overpowering hatred and wrath. Finally
I flung the tube down and bade him take it, telling him that I would not touch
it again if he offered me all the sisters of all the savages in Guyana for
wives.
He continued gazing at me mute with astonishment,
and prudence suggested that it would be best to conceal as far as possible the
violent animosity I had conceived against him. I asked him somewhat scornfully
if he believed that I should ever be able to hit anything—bird or human
being—with an arrow.
"No," I almost shouted, so as to give
vent to my feelings in some way, and drawing my revolver, "this is the
white man's weapon; but he kills men with it—men who attempt to kill or injure
him—but neither with this nor any other weapon does he murder innocent young
girls treacherously."
After that we went on in silence for some time; at
length he said that the being I had seen in the wood and was not afraid of was
no innocent young girl, but a daughter of the Didi, an evil being; and that so
long as she continued to inhabit the wood they could not go there to hunt, and
even in other woods they constantly went in fear of meeting her. Too much
disgusted to talk with him, I went on in silence; and when we reached the stream
near the village, I threw off my clothes and plunged into the water to cool my
anger before going in to the others.
