The Black Parrot

THE DREAM CHANDLER

Lhassa awoke and stared at the dancing flakes that were reflected upon the ceiling; raised herself and looked out into sunlight so brilliant that it stung her eyes; sat there and gazed with a sense of unreality at the immaculate whiteness about her. It required a few seconds to adjust herself. Even then the feeling of unreality lingered.

The cabin was hot, but cool currents coiled in through the port and tunneled the heat. With the breeze came the fragrance of boiling coffee. The odor aroused her appetite. Hungry. The thought was unique. Banal food in the midst of such preposterous events! It made her realize that even adventurers eat; that, indeed, her own adventure, fabulous as it was, would be a succession of normal incidents like food, sleep, and commonplace talk.

She drew her watch from under the pillow: nearly ten o'clock. Again she looked out of the port; looked out at the lonely beauty of the sea, the desolate beauty of the sea. About the yacht heaved an expanse green as melted jade and filagreed with sunlight. She half expected to see a plume of smoke or a faint penciling of land; but the water, made misty blue by distance, blended into the sky.

As her gaze returned to the cabin she wondered if she was expected to go into the dining-saloon for breakfast; wondered if Conquest was waiting. At thought of him she frowned. What would be her attitude toward him? If she antagonized him she would be thwarting her purpose, but, on the other hand, it was not her nature to compromise. An innate dignity rebelled against the freedom he had taken; pride demanded that she be defiant. Yet she realized that only through submission, or pretended submission, could she achieve her object. However, she was wise enough to perceive that, in this instance, to yield beyond regulating her actions to fit the situation would weaken her power. Conquest must be made to feel that although she was acquiescent she was by no means subjugated.

She was about to rise when she noticed a button near the berth. Realizing its purpose, she pressed it. After a few minutes there came sounds outside the door, then a tap. Slipping on her kimono, she admitted a Chino—with a covered tray! This was more than she had expected. Silently he arrayed her breakfast on a table and just as silently departed.

When she had eaten she dressed. It was then a quarter to eleven, and she sought the deck. She was relieved to find it deserted but for two of the crew forward. They merely glanced up and, apparently not surprised, went on with their work. As she circled the main cabin she wondered how she would meet Conquest and what his manner would be. Although she felt that she could deal with any situation that might arise, she dreaded the meeting. Twice she made a round of the deck, expecting at every turn to come upon Conquest. At length, determined to end the strain, she approached the two deck-hands, acutely conscious of their stares. Did they know where she could find Mr. Conquest? One replied that he thought he was in the chart-room.

Resolutely she climbed to the bridge-deck, ignoring the gaze of the swarthy, vizored man in the wheel-house, and stepped over the beamed threshold into the chart-room. Conquest was seated before a table writing, but at her entrance he got up. His gray eyes searched her for a moment, then, as if assured of the absence of hostility, he smiled.

"Good morning."

She returned his greeting but not his smile. "I want to talk to you," she announced.

"Will you sit down?"—gesturing toward a chair.

"No." There was majesty in her manner, splendid disdain in her tone; in the sunlight her hair took on a liquid sheen and became a burnished coronet. "I want to talk to you," she repeated imperiously.

He nodded. "It will relieve the tension if we have an understanding; that is what you think?"

"Precisely. Just what do you intend to do with me?"

A whimsical, boyish expression animated his face; an expression that seemed almost incongruous, graven upon his ghastly pallor.

"Have you ever wandered along the waterfront of a great port?" he asked. "If you have you will better understand what I'm going to say. Near the docks in every harbor are stores that deal in canvas, cordage, and furnishings for all sorts of craft. They're usually dim places, smelling of brine and tar and hemp. Ship-chandleries, they're called."

He paused and she inquired coolly:

"Just what is the significance of that parable?"

He shrugged. "Instead of outfitting ships, I outfit dreams. It pleases me to go among men, and, when I find them lacking in equipment, furnish the necessary materials. That's my business. As I said last night, you want adventure, so I'm making adventure possible."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"—scornfully.

Another shrug. "Believe it or not, it's true."

"What of Garon? I suppose you know no more about him than what you've told me?"

He did not answer; she went on.

"Why am I here? Simply because of some ridiculous whim of yours? You'd like to have me think that. But I don't. I'm here because if I were free I'd be a menace to your plans. For all I know"—recklessly—"it may have been you who killed Dr. Garth—you may be the Black Parrot. At any rate, I'm not such a fool as to believe I'm being carried away because of a benevolent impulse."

He twisted his mouth into a smile.

"As you suggest," he began, "perhaps I am the Black Parrot; perhaps I'm not. Perhaps I know a great deal about Garon; perhaps I know very little. Why destroy your illusions by telling you? Uncertainty! That is the essence of adventure! What's more, if I denied or affirmed, you wouldn't believe me—would you?"

She ignored his query, demanding, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the last stronghold of Romance! To a kingdom where adventure is not an illusion!"

His smile antagonized her, but she controlled herself. Her voice was calm when she spoke.

"You suggested an understanding," she reminded.

"Yes, a temporary understanding. You will be allowed absolute liberty until we reach Kawaras; there I'll arrange——"

"Kawaras?" she interrupted. "Then there really is such a place? You do own a sago plantation?"

"Yes. I'm rajah of Kawaras."

"There are white men there?"

"A few. Most of the work is done by Chinese and Malays. But as I was saying: you are free while on the Narcissus. It will be useless for you to try to buy any member of the crew. Remember they owe me their lives; in a sense they belong to me, for I salvaged them. You'll suffer no unpleasantness nor inconvenience—unless of your own making. And you may have your meals privately or in the dining-saloon. Is that clear enough?"

"No." Curiosity pricked her. "What have you done with my boy? Killed him?"

He assumed exasperation, smiling. "You insist that I'm a murderer! Do I look like one?" He grasped the edge of the table, leaning nearer her. "Can nothing convince you that I'm simply a quixotic fool, gratifying now the whims that were denied me in boyhood, by playing the rôle of destiny to those whom it pleases me? I'm fighting, back to the wall, against a world of sordid realism. In another age, I'd have worn mail and chain, and——" He paused, made a gesture of futility. "But now—now I'm only a renegade, a fool."

That whimsical melancholy smile remained on his face throughout his speech. It baffled her, and she wondered whether he was mocking her or in earnest. She said:

"Are you trying to evade my question?"

Another gesture. "You see, nothing can convince you. You want blatant facts. Very well. Your boy is being held where he can't upset my plans. I intend to keep him there until I consider it wise to release him. Now, are you satisfied?"

"No. How did you get my baggage aboard?"

"More blatant facts! Do you insist?... Ah, well"—with a mock sigh. "While I was waiting for you at the hotel yesterday, I gave instructions, ostensibly at your bidding, to have two boys go to your room as soon as you came down, pack your things, and place them in a car I'd hired. I also settled your account. When we reached the ship I took you on a tour of inspection to prevent you from seeing your luggage brought aboard."

She smiled frigidly. "You are very efficient. It seems a pity that you didn't direct your talents toward a better profession." Then she relented; he looked so white as he stood there, indeed, almost lifeless, like a carven image of melancholy. "Can't you see what a futile thing you're trying to do? Don't you understand that you are setting your own trap? In the end——"

"In the end," he broke in, "I shall undoubtedly pass—how does it go? 'Under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven.' Incredibly romantic, Conrad called his Lord Jim. Perhaps I, too, am that. For who would believe, who could believe, that I am doing all this simply to be romantic? You want to find the Black Parrot; you want to know who killed your doctor friend; who stole the Emerald Buddha; what happened to Barthélemy; if Garon is Letourneau, the garroter; why I am doing this. You shall learn all these things in time—because it's in my power to play Destiny to you. And in the end——" He shrugged. "You at your fireside, on winter nights, dreaming of the great adventure, and I ... 'under a cloud ... forgotten, unforgiven.'"

He was either mad or a very great rogue, she told herself. But, fool or knave, he was picturesque, with his dead-white, perfect features, his scarred wrists and strange smile. She did not attempt a reply to his fantastic speech; none was necessary. She smiled—smiled at his folly, smiled with compassion—and left him. His pallid face, the fires she had glimpsed in his eyes, followed her, haunted her.

2

When the luncheon gong sounded, Lhassa debated whether she would dine with Conquest or alone; a brief debate, for she speedily decided in favor of the former. There was nothing to be gained by isolating herself; indeed, on the contrary, she might be losing.

Conquest was waiting, waiting as though he expected her; which was rather irritating. He held her chair, then seated himself and launched into impersonal conversation—just as if they were dining under the most prosaic circumstances!

To her that meal was the essence of grotesquery. She felt that instead of human beings they were a pair of manikins, moving and speaking at the direction of an invisible person. She found herself regarding the man with something like incredulity. It seemed quite impossible that he had—yes, abducted her. What part was he of the mysterious force that she believed to be behind the murder of Dr. Garth, the death of Barthélemy, and the theft of the Emerald Buddha? Could he have been in Bangkok the night of the crime? On his yacht, perhaps? She did not question for a moment that he was involved; his association might be remote, but, without a doubt, he was connected. He was not a tool, she was sure. Nor was Garon. They were partners. Garon. Where was he? In Saigon? Most likely. It was plausible to assume that they had conspired to hold her somewhere until Garon made his escape. But how long would that be? And what then? Of course, she argued, there was the possibility that she had made a colossal mistake, that there was no connection between the murder of Dr. Garth and the theft of the Buddha, and that Barthélemy had committed suicide. But it was improbable. For why was she being carried away if not because she knew too much?

After lunch she went to her cabin for a siesta, but, as it was intolerably hot, she returned to the deck and settled herself comfortably under the awning. When she awakened, the sun, a red-gold doubloon, was spinning into the west. For several minutes she lay there, gazing across the low burnished undulations, gazing into the smoky red heart of the sun. A savage beauty attended its setting; flash of a helmet through battle-smoke. Then it dropped; and she shivered in the sudden dusk.

Later, when she was in her cabin dressing, she thought of her automatic, and felt under the mattress to make sure it was there. Her hand groped without touching metal. Surprised, she lifted the mattress. Her first emotion was fright, then anger. Had Conquest been in her state-room? Or had the "boy" who make her berth found the weapon and given it to his master? No matter; what mattered was that it was gone. She felt resentful, indignant. She would go to him and demand it.

As soon as she was dressed she sought Conquest. He was not in the saloon nor on deck, and she ascended to the chart-room. It was unoccupied. In the dim light a chart, gleaming palely on the wall, arrested her attention, and, with an involuntary glance behind, she entered.

The chart was tacked above a table and showed a part of Indo-China and Siam and the whole of the Malay Peninsula, Sumatra, Java, and Borneo. The little contours danced with the vibration of the ship. Blue lines marked the currents, black the steamship routes, tiny dots the cables. There was one red line beginning at Saigon and stretching across the South China Sea to Borneo. At its end, written in red ink, were the words "Sadok" and "Kawaras." As she saw them she experienced a shock. Kawaras—on the Bornean coast! She had not tried to place her destination definitely; she had taken it for granted that it was somewhere on the coast of Indo-China or the Malay Peninsula. Kawaras, she perceived, was a narrow strip of territory between Sarawak and Sambas; Sadok was evidently its port. Kawaras, an independent state of Borneo! And Conquest was its rajah!

She stared at the jagged line of the great island, her breathing repressed. Crocodiles drowsing in scum-green rivers; orchids and exotic plants. These things meant Borneo to her. And she was going there. The realization brought a sheer, exquisite thrill; brought a remembrance of something Barthélemy had said. "Jungles ... undiscovered rivers." His words came back with prophetic significance. She continued to gaze at the chart, fascinated. Her feeling of intimacy with the jungle-island was so strong that for the moment she seemed to lose her individuality and became a part of it.

The strokes of a bell abaft the wheel-house intruded upon her absorption, and she threw a quick glance toward the doorway, expecting to see it occupied. But only darkness filled it. With another look at the map, at the outline of Borneo, she hurried out of the chart-room and below.

In the main companionway she met Conquest. At sight of him she remembered the missing revolver, and an ember of indignation glowed.

"You are being entirely too thorough," she announced, halting in front of him.

His expression was one of surprise. "I don't understand."

"No? I wish my revolver."

"Revolver?"

"I suppose"—icily—"you are not aware that some one removed a small automatic from under my berth to-day."

He affected amazement. "No! Really? I'll have to speak to the boy who attends to your cabin. These Chinos! They have a passion for firearms! However, if he took it you shall have it back."

She made no further comment, only smiled coldly, and swept past him.

When she reached her cabin she slammed the door and locked it. She was angry—angry because she was frightened. The loss of the revolver had forced her to realize that she was in the midst of grim intrigue instead of a rather diverting fantasy, and she was shaken by the revelation. Every support, it seemed, had fallen away, leaving her alone to face a situation that she had brought upon herself deliberately. However, the fact that she was deprived of every weapon but her wits acted as a challenge. The macaw had been trapped; but the very cage that served as a prison would also serve as a protection.

A sense of security settled upon her. She unlocked the door. Yes, she knew how to deal with Stephen Conquest.

3

The following night the Narcissus was plunging through incalescent darkness toward a full moon that hung over Borneo.

Lhassa tried to read, but she was restless and the cabin was hot. A glimpse of the stars lured her on deck. Two cigar-ends smoldered in the gloom aft, and so she made her way forward, to the bow, seating herself between hawse-holes and anchor-windlass. The water, as it rushed past the stem, sang a pæan, the pæan of youth and the sea; told in rippling notes of blue bays and drowsy lagoons; of spicy islands and atolls gay with palms. She sat there, arms locked about her knees, lost in the symphony. The jangle of bells, some time later, was part of the harmony, a wind-blown echo of pagoda chimes; indeed, she was so exalted by the rhythm of the sea that the dissonant sound of footsteps failed to break the spell. With something of a shock, she realized that Conquest was standing beside her. After a glance at him she fixed her gaze upon the saraband of moonlight. He drew out cigarettes and lighted one. The spurt of the match must have shown him her expression of annoyance, for he asked:

"Do you dislike me so intensely?"

At that she shifted her gaze to him: in the dim moonlight, his face melted into a featureless oval.

"To-night, yes," she returned coldly. After a moment she went on with cruel intent, "At times, I loathe you; at other times, you're nothing—nothing but a means; again, I pity you."

He laughed in a manner that softened her mood. She knew she had touched raw tissue.

"Why do you loathe me?" he pressed. "Because you think I'm a thief—a murderer?"

The sediment of her irritation remained; she framed her reply carefully.

"A woman," she declared, "can forgive a man for stealing—yes, even for murder—but never for a sin against her vanity. It appeals to her to condone a wrong, principally because the act gratifies a peculiar conceit in her nature. But when a man usurps her sacred right to decide for herself, as you have done in bringing me here, body and baggage, he is guilty of the unpardonable."

He toyed with his cigarette-case in silence for a few seconds. Then:

"You put it very clearly," he commented. "Yet if I were to offer you freedom now, I wonder if you'd accept." He chuckled. "A complex psychology, woman; complex.... No, you wouldn't. And I have no intention of denying you the one great adventure. In years to come you'll look back on me as a benefactor. Stephen Conquest, the fool, who fought for Romance! And the reward? A shadow on a dark sea, a memory.... Oh, you'll remember me! You won't be able to forget. There's satisfaction in that."

Very deliberately she inquired, "Why is there satisfaction in that?" And regretted it.

He made an indeterminate gesture.

"Because—well, you've asked me, so I'll tell you: because I've never loved a woman in just the same way—that is, not a living woman. I don't love you as flesh and blood, but as some one remote, an individual magnificent and inaccessible. The Sibylla Delphica; you're like that—too fine to be real. If I touched you I know you'd be cold, colder than stone; yet you fill me with fire. Oh, never fear; I shan't touch you! I...." His speech ended in silence.

To Lhassa, her heart beating a quick tempo, the ship—the terrace of decks, the masts and rigging—seemed suddenly unreal; unreal, too, was the man who stood above her, white and statuesque in the moonlight. Her impulse was to put an end to his talk, but the fancifulness of the situation held her mute. A faint chill had come over her.

"There was another woman," he resumed presently, "a woman just as remote, just as inaccessible—a figure carved on a wall." He laughed bitterly. "A figure on a wall—a bas-relief! Fancy a man loving a stone woman! But it wasn't the unfeeling rock; it was the spirit." He paused; glanced down at his cigarette-case. "This is she wrought in metal, the figure you noticed the other day—the Apsara I told you of in Saigon. I said there was a story connected with it; you remember? It's a rather long tale, a rather foolish tale—yet——" He hesitated, as though expecting her to speak, but she did not.

"At least," he continued, "you don't forbid me to tell it. You know the story of the building of Angkor, of course. Perhaps it's a myth; it may be history. After all, the difference is very slight. You remember I described the figures on the walls. Well, there are characters, too, one a writing similar to that now used by the Cambodians. These characters, together with the account of an ancient Chinese diplomat, indicate that the Khmers—the builders of Angkor, you know—were a Brahman race that migrated from India. By Jove! I like to picture that migration! The hordes pressing through Manipur and Arakan, through the Shan States and Upper Siam, to the great lake of Tonle Sap; conquering as they came, crushing the weaker or forcing them into servitude. Imagine the color and the raw drama of it! Fancy it! Brahman nobles, mailed warriors, postilions and foot-soldiers; elephants and war-chariots! Stupendous!"

Lhassa sat motionless during the recital, staring up at him; staring with amazement. She marveled at his unflagging enthusiasm, at the persistent spirit of romance that flamed within him. Undoubtedly he was mad, mad with too much dreaming.

"Picture those mammoth battles," he went on. "Elephants trampling bodies, chariots crushing the dead! What arrogance must have come to them from those victories! Is it a wonder that when they built Angkor they created such a colossal city, such a magnificent monument to their madness? And the irony of it, that this mighty people should reach the pinnacle of power and perish within a space of little more than two hundred years! That's what happened. The Thai came, and the Khmers, drunken with conquest, fell. And now: Angkor, a memorial to their greatness and their folly. Tragic, isn't it?"

He seemed to address the darkness into which the boat was plowing, as if there, invisible, was a tribunal before which he was pleading the cause of a vanished race.

"I'm not off on a tangent," he announced. "I'm leading up to my story. Quite a number of years ago—fifty, perhaps—there was a man, an explorer, who believed that bands of Khmers left the main body in their march across Further India and settled and built cities—cities that might be hidden in the jungles, forgotten ruins. So great was his conviction that he set out to prove it. He went up into Manipur, among the Naga tribes, where he found a clue that led him to Upper Burma, and from Upper Burma into the Shan States. There, in that wild territory where Burma, Siam, and Laos-land meet, he came upon the remnants of a town that resembled Angkor. The people living in villages about it were a light-brown color with features altogether different from the Shans. Their religion was different, too; it was a curious combination of ancient Brahmanism and devil-worship.

"I first heard of those ruins when I was a young chap, and I made up my mind then that I'd visit them some day. And I did. Three years ago I went up to Luang-Prabang and struck out northeast. Fever and pestilence! No one will ever know what I suffered for a whim! I was out of my head when I finally reached the ruins, so full of fever that I thought they were part of my delirium. But I pulled through. And what I saw was worth all the agony of the journey. Of course, it wasn't as large as Angkor Thom, but there were the same conical towers, the same exterior cloisters; the huge stairways, the carved Nagas and lotus-buds, the daring relief-work. And such decay! I can't describe it! The ruins were being devoured by the jungle, a cruel, bestial jungle that each year is sinking great roots under its walls, covering it with fungi and choking its dried-up pools with weeds.

"The largest building, a temple, was better preserved than the others. The bas-reliefs were almost perfect. One slab—it ran the length of the south wall—was unforgettable. On it were sacred dancers: Tevadas and Apsaras. The end figure was just below a rent in the roof, and when the sun shone, it seemed to dance in a spot-light. It ... but I told you of it in Saigon. The features were of an Aryan caste, not Mongoloid. They—how can I describe them? The mystery of the Beata Beatrix; the flawlessness of the Astarte Syriaca; the sharp beauty of the alabaster woman in Dante's Dream; and, combined with these, an inscrutable charm entirely Oriental.... Each day while I was convalescent I had my boys carry me into the temple so I could look at it. That sounds as though I were demented, doesn't it? But it wouldn't if I could convey to you the strange beauty of that stone creature. When I looked at her I felt—how can I say it?—I felt as if——" He hesitated, chuckled. "Yes, as if I had loved her in some previous incarnation and she had been preserved in stone to mock me when I returned to earth. Perhaps the fever had left me with a madness; indeed, there are times when I'd be tempted to believe it all a dream if it were not that I have tangible proof.

"My guide learned from the natives a legend about the figure. It represented; no it was Pi-noi, an ancient bayadere, who was a consort of the god Indra. She symbolized bodily perfection; and it was the custom, when a woman was about to have a child, for her to go every day and sit under the image of Pi-noi and pray that if the baby was a girl it would have the features of Indra's consort. A rather ironic twist to the story is the fact—at least, they tell it as a fact—that the only baby who ever bore a resemblance to the celestial courtesan was the child of a native woman and a white adventurer!... Before I left the ruins I photographed the stone Pi-noi, and when I reached Bangkok I had her wrought in gold on this case"—with a gesture—"as a souvenir of my madness."

As he paused, Lhassa contemplated him with a feeling of depression. His linens gave him a ghostly semblance as he stood there, isolated, against the gray darkness. Behind him, high in the firmament, hung the moon: it was ash-pale, and a pellicle lay across it, like mist over a pool.

"There's a singular flaw in the masculine chemistry," he said, resuming abruptly, "a flaw that a woman can't understand. A man may have two loves, a good love and a bad love, without consciously being unfaithful. One is a strange spiritual mystery, the other—well, a means of discharging the evil from his system. It's queer, isn't it, how one will reach for the moon, and, failing, content himself with a polished likeness?... When I returned to civilization, after my trip up into the Shan States, I saw a face one night in Saigon—a face dusky gold and beautiful with an evil beauty. Pi-noi, the bayadere, was a woman of stone, an ideal, inaccessible. Knowing this, I——" He halted; she saw him shrug. "Knowing the moon couldn't be attained, I contented myself with an imitation.... And now, now you come with the spirit of Pi-noi in you; the same fascination, the same spell—and as unattainable. You, being a woman, could never understand the episode of the golden face. It was well expressed when you said that a woman can forgive theft or murder but not a sin against her vanity. And another woman, one of the type of the golden face, is a sin against the vanity of a woman who holds herself above mere passion."

For some reason Lhassa could not resent his speech. Her only emotion was amazement, amazement at the complexity of his character. It was fantastic, inconceivable, that one so obviously without scruples could be capable of the idealism, the innate appreciation of beauty, that his story had disclosed. She was convinced there was a flaw in his psychology, a blemish as conspicuous as the scars on his wrists: he had been modeled after a god—but a blow had fissured the image. His silence, his attitude of waiting, challenged her to speak, but there was nothing she could say. The situation took on a sharp tenseness, and she started to rise. At her first movement he spoke again.

"There's a platitude about confession being good for the soul. But that wasn't my object—I doubt if I have a soul. No, I had another purpose—a purpose you may understand when—well, when I've passed 'under a cloud.'" He raised his arms; stared at the white-ringed wrists. "Chains," he said with a bitter laugh. "Pi-noi, the woman of stone, inaccessible, beyond reach. And yet ... yet ... I have her eternally!"

Lhassa watched him go; watched him disappear in the black rictus of a companionway. "I have her eternally!" What did he mean? A sickly coldness crept over her. She interpreted "her" to mean "you." The story of Pi-noi, the bayadere, had shown her, among other things, that although she was Conquest's prisoner, she had upon him a more potent grasp. It was a weapon that frightened her. Hereafter she must avoid him—tactfully.

She rose, shivering, and stood gazing into the pale reaches of moonlight. The ship, it seemed, was furrowing through a gray immensity, toward the very edge of the world. There was a nameless melancholy in the scene, almost a presagement. It was the same pattern, she told herself; but its colors had changed, had deepened to somber hues. The dull grays and blacks alarmed her. Involuntarily she raised her arms, as though to tear herself out of the design, but the gesture ended in a submissive shrug.

As she went below, the moon looked very old: a haggard profligate squandering its coins on the sea.