The Black Parrot

SALAZAR

Daybreak and a foggy splendor. Lhassa, seated under the thatched shelter amidships, felt as though the proa was carrying her into a filmy, unsubstantial world, a world of apple-green, of jade and olive. Ahead, through rifts in the mist, the river gleamed like a band of agate, its transparency clouded with foam as it rushed, rock-cloven, out of green twilight. Green were the mangroves whose roots writhed at the water's edge; green the growths that flung up a wild snare on either bank. Even the atmosphere was touched with the pigment that saturated earth, for an ice-green glow illuminated the haze.

The beings that peopled this indefinite world seemed as foreign as the surroundings. Bronze torsos, sweat-bright, glistened before her, shoulders and arms heaving with the sweep of the paddles. She knew that behind, sternward, were more bronze torsos. Sitting in the bow was Salazar; she could see only his helmet and red neck. She hated that neck. It looked raw and cruel. She had seen it for five days, brick-red in the glare, purplish at dusk. But after to-day she would no longer be forced to stare at it through the brutal hours: with late afternoon they would reach their destination.

In the cool shade of the thatch her face was a lustrous, milky oval. But, in reality, she was not pale: the sun had burned her skin to a tawny ripeness. Shadows absorbed the lines of her European dress and made it seem a loose, flowing robe; her sola-topee resolved into a burnished helmet. Thus panoplied, and with her proud, golden features, she might have been the queen of these bronze men, journeying through the forests of her primeval dominion.

But, sovereign though she seemed, her thoughts were not of empire or conquest. She was thinking that when the sun arched, blood-orange, over the wilderness, and the darkness she dreaded settled down, the journey would be ended, the last five days a memory; raw, primitive colors on a scroll. Involuntarily she unrolled that scroll.

2

She would never forget that first dawn after her departure from Sadok. The early morning fog, lying in gauzy layers on the river, did not impart a soft tone to the landscape but seemed to make more indefinite the menace that hovered over her. The very odors that breathed out from the banks—stench of mangroves and nameless rotting plants—were threatening. When the mist dissolved, a magnificent vista was cleared: the river blending into luxuriant groves and thickets, and, beyond the forests, mountains. But, to her, their blue peaks, swimming detached from earth, were cold, even supercilious, and too splendid to be affected by human pleas. Their aloofness increased the feeling that she was utterly, terribly alone. Salazar sat in the bow, his neck a red blur in the sunlight; remained there throughout the day, with the exception of a few minutes at noon when he crawled under the shelter to distribute food, and at which time he affected toward her an indifferent manner that would have been comforting had she believed it genuine.

In mid-afternoon they reached a confluence: one branch of the stream drifted languidly into cane-brake while the other whirled indignant, foam-lipped waves against enormous boulders. Passage was difficult, but the canoe, guided by hardened muscles, charged into the rapids, tossing aside spume and miraculously avoiding the rocks that seemed to lie in wait for it. Excitement for the while crowded out all thoughts except those centering upon immediate safety, but when the craft, sides a-quiver, nosed once more into placid waters her fears for the future returned.

That night they camped on a gravel bank flanking a soggy wilderness. From her lanko—an improvised shelter made of saplings, thatch, and canvas—she could see the natives' fires, red wasps that stung the darkness. Salazar had taken up quarters in the proa. He did not come near her; two Malays served her dinner. After the meal, she sat in the doorway of the lanko, the revolver that Tuan Muda had given her in her bosom. Behind, in the morass, strange insects rasped; across the river, wau-waus called to one another. It was her initiation into jungle-night, and these sounds were shuddersome—not that she feared the creatures who uttered them, but because the rasps and cries forced her to realize how much she had depended, all her life, upon the mere presence of human animals. Once she heard the sorrowful note of an argus-pheasant. She did not know what it was; knew only that it expressed an infinitude of loneliness and despair. Tired nerves and a tired body soon compelled her to try to sleep. The glow of a cigar marked the beached canoe. She tied the flap of the lanko; lay down with the revolver beside her. But sleep would not come. She stared at the reflections of flames on the canvas and listened to the tapping of her heart. Once a tall shadow was flung upon the wall. But it passed, leaving her chilled by an icy aftermath of fright. Soon she slipped into a doze, only to awaken suddenly, startled by the stillness. She rose and moved quietly to the division of the canvas, peeping out. Embers against the gloom; a chaos of shadows. Shivering in the night chill, she returned to the cot. When she surrendered to drowsiness again it was to sleep until dawn.

The second day was marked by a change in the scenery. The river entered a great black cathedral of jungle whose nave stretched beneath vaults of foliage and from whose reaches steamed poisonous vapors. Narrow, murky channels trickled into the main stream, the combined sounds swelling into an obscene liturgy. Through the vine-woven roof came an infiltration of sunshine, its brilliance toned to twilight. Monkeys chattered incessantly; several times she saw a corrugated hide bedded in slime. Broad-leaved plants grew on the banks; mauve and yellow convolvuli, mosses and tall ferns. The odors from these flowering parasites almost smothered her. By noon a headache was pulsing at the back of her neck. The polluted fragrances dulled her faculties, and she sank into a lassitude, her mind a stage for fantasies.... The dusk was the green nebula of the moon, the Malays weird creatures of that world, and she was on the barge of some moon-lord, being carried, a captive, into the cryptic fastness of his kingdom.... To her intense relief, close to sunset the river coiled out of the dense jungle. Ahead, floated the peaks of the mountains. She was fervently thankful for the sight of them—and thankful for the luxury of clean air.

Again, as on the foregoing night, she sat in the doorway of the lanko and watched the natives' fires; watched the glow of Salazar's cigar as he smoked in the canoe. He puzzled her. The fact that he rarely spoke and seemed to avoid her was not assuring, but suggested a fold of character she had not suspected. She felt that he had some ulterior motive in taking her to the plantation, some purpose that he was keeping concealed until a time when he deemed it wise to disclose it. His manner was constrained; and she knew he was not a type voluntarily to repress himself without a selfish reason. He became symbolical of the jungle, a dark spirit, threatening by virtue of his very restraint. Salazar was waiting—for what? Wondering, she repeated the performance of tying the flap of the shelter and lying down to stare at the reflections on the canvas....

Morning, and on toward the mountains that seemed always far away, unattainable. Now and then a break in the forest yielded a view of some stockaded village; of bamboo houses with conical roofs; of fowls and bullocks and naked brown beings. A snatch of song from the boatmen; the splash of fish leaping out of the water. Smell of damp plants and sweet herbs; smell of woodsmoke from kampongs behind the trees; smell of tobacco from Salazar's pipe. To Lhassa, it was a tapestry of vivid colors and emotions. Stitched into its fabric were threads of thought, some broken, others weaving on, disappearing and recurring at intervals. There were moments when she regretted having come: it seemed foolish that she had plunged into the jungle on a quest likely to lead into a blind alley—and danger. In all probability Conquest did not know the name of the white adventurer whose child resembled Pi-noi; he might have heard the story without learning the identity of its chief character. And perhaps the story itself was simply a fabrication told by the dwellers in the ruined city to give authenticity to the legend of Indra's consort. And what if it were true, what if her mother had been born of a Khmer woman and an American? What then? Nothing, she answered herself. Nothing—except that the mystery surrounding her grandfather would then be dispelled; nothing—except that she would then know the truth. There would be relief in that.

Frequently she thought of Tuan Muda; wondered where he had gone. These recollections and doubts were bitter-sweet. She tried to analyze her attitude toward him and decided it was made up of sympathy and impersonal interest; sympathy for his loneliness, interest in his romantic career. He was a criminal—a thief or even a murderer—so how could she feel more? A strange friendship born of a strange situation, she summarized. That was why, in moments of deepest isolation or fear, her thoughts sped to him.

Another night: a replica of those preceding it.

The next morning she saw her first egret. It flashed up from the rush-encumbered shallows, white-winged, blue-throated, a herald of the exotic swamp they were approaching. The stream had narrowed to a mere channel that coursed sluggishly through a wilderness of reed-like plants, and the boatmen were forced to abandon the paddles for poles. Growing in the spongy ground were lilies and small coral-hued buds; orchids and morbific blossoms. In the sunlight the lush earth stewed, sending up vapors impregnated with the reek of decayed matter. Mingled with this foul exhalation were scents of intoxicating sweetness. The green mirrors of swamp-pools were shadow-flaked, as butterflies, pale blue and black, careened between the mud and the incandescent sky.

The sun melted in a furnace of smoky gold. The swamp had thinned, the river widened, and wild bananas and betel-palms fringed the banks. Again the flare of fires in the dusk. A new moon floated in the sky, pale and thin as an ivory shaving. Lhassa was seated in the door of the lanko, speculating upon the morrow, when she saw a red coal approaching. Salazar halted in front of her; he did not remove the cigar from his mouth as he spoke.

"To-morrow afternoon, late, we'll reach Barabbas Town."

And she repeated: "Barabbas Town?"

A sudden glow of his cigar showed surprise on his swarthy face. Followed a sibilant: "Sapristi! Monsieur the Rajah didn't tell you of Barabbas Town?... mmm.... Well, it's the settlement at the plantation, near the sultan's village."

"Who lives there? Why is it called that?" The name, Barabbas Town, kindled her fancy.

"Who lives there? Why, the men who work the sago." He took the cigar from his mouth; sucked through his teeth. "As for the name, Barabbas Town, Monsieur the Rajah seems to think it amusing. Why I don't know. Barabbas. What does it mean? Monsieur the Rajah knows; ask him when you see him."

"Who are these men who work there?" she interrogated.

He returned the cigar to his mouth and drew on it. He was smiling.

"You are too inquisitive. However, they'll not trouble you—for they sha'n't see you. I'll leave you in the sultan's village, in the palace with some of his wives, while I go to inform Monsieur the Rajah that you want him."

She was not sure she approved the idea.

"Why not take me directly to Mr. Conquest—to Barabbas Town?"

He grunted and seemed to consider the question before replying meagerly, "Oh, for a reason."

"What reason?" she pressed.

Another grunt. "You force me to be ... mmm ... indelicate. At the fort are men—men who have not seen a white woman for several months. Some of them ... well ... perhaps you understand."

She laughed, not at the content of his speech, but at his choice of words. For a moment he seemed about to say something, then turned and strode away. She wanted to call him back and question him, but she only stared inquisitively at his receding figure.

The thin wafer of a moon floated downward, and Lhassa retired into the lanko; retired wondering if at Barabbas Town were the men who had escaped from Guiana, if there lay the solution of the Black Parrot mystery. Barabbas Town—the village of thieves. The flames reflected on the canvas flickered out. The only sounds were from insects and night birds. Barabbas Town....

3

And now it was morning of the fifth day, and as the proa pressed into mist as uncertain as her future she saw all this in retrospect. Each heave of the boatmen's shoulders was sweeping her nearer a refuge from the fears that had held her captive since leaving Sadok. It mattered little that Conquest might be displeased at her coming. He could only send her back, and by then she would know the truth, she would have fulfilled the prophecy that Barthélemy had read in her eyes.

Noon. Another marshy plain; viscid pools, and bogs green with corruption. The river frayed into several narrow streams, and the canoe followed the widest of these channels, gliding over the speared shadows of nipa and sago palms. With the passing of afternoon the mountains sank into a great forest; a forest that, as it gulped the sun, seemed to extend and include the world in its black embrace. One of the boatmen broke into song. The forest snatched up the sound, and, like a vast stringed instrument, vibrated a weird accompaniment.... Gloom and silence and fireflies. Suddenly Lhassa saw a break in the sable wall. A huge stockade impended, stretching grayly into dusk. Above it swelled cone-shaped roofs. The reflection from a fire somewhere in the inclosure outlined a gateway and illuminated the lower boughs of trees.

She sighed—with relief, with weariness.

Came a squelch as the proa furrowed mud. Close by were other canoes, empty, lying like great logs on the bank. From the gateway surged a multitude of half-clothed beings. Shouting from the boatmen, shouting from the villagers; sounds not unlike the chatter of apes. Indeed, to her, the men hurrying down to the water's edge were no better than the simians that inhabited the same jungle.

Salazar made no move to help her from the boat; and, vexed at his rudeness, she picked up her hand-bag and climbed over the side, sinking ankle-deep in mud. Two Malays lifted her out of the ooze. Vexation flamed into fury. She was tired in body and nerves; and the mud seemed a culminating insult to her dignity. She hated the noise and confusion about her, but, more fiercely, she hated Salazar.

Presently the man approached and said something about going to the palace. Burning with rage and humiliation, she followed.

Inside the stockade, bamboo houses, log-raised, were huddled in closely packed groups. Some distance from the gate, perhaps a thousand yards, was what appeared to be a monster building, a tumbled pile of grass roofs and wattled walls flung upon poles; but she perceived, at closer range, that instead of one great building, it was a series of houses joined by narrow verandas. Before it, in a clearing, was a fire, reflecting upon a crowd of men and women. Salazar halted by the notched poles that served as a ladder to the entrance of the palace. A heavy, sensual-looking Malay, impressive in silks and gold ornaments, greeted him, and the two held a long conversation while she stood by regarding them with hostility.

"The Datu Tumanggong says you may stay with Dalima, the sultan's head wife," Salazar informed her at length.

She wanted to ignore him, but there were questions to be answered.

"When will I see Mr. Conquest?"

"In the morning."

"Why not now?"

"The fort is two miles further up the river."

"You can send one of the boatmen."

He shook his head. "Monsieur the Rajah won't be pleased when he learns you are here; and there's a matter I wish to discuss with him while he's in a good humor. I'll bring him in the morning."

She was too weary to argue. Several women had appeared behind Salazar and were smiling at her shyly. Knowing, intuitively, that they were the sultan's wives, she joined them without more talk. The oldest, a gray-haired woman wearing silks and many beads, motioned toward the ladder. Obviously none of them spoke English. Lhassa climbed up.

Into a labyrinth she was conducted, through rooms with sagging floors and across frail verandas, and to an apartment in the very heart of the palace. It was bare but for two chests and a bed. The bed, a truly Malay affair, was curtained and had gold-embroidered valences and seven stiff brocaded pillows. Lhassa wanted to be alone, but, seeing that the women had no intention of leaving, she realized they would be offended if she sent them away. The oldest, evidently Dalima, the head wife, opened one of the chests and removed several silk garments, which she laid out on the bed. This offered an excuse to dismiss the women, and Lhassa gestured toward the silks, then indicated the door. The gray-haired woman nodded and spoke to the others, who immediately filed out.

When Lhassa's clothes were exchanged for one of the native robes, a luxurious drowsiness filled her. The silk, clinging coolly to her skin, seemed to smother her resentment against the world, against even Salazar. She sank upon the bed, so utterly exhausted that its hard pillows were comfortable. To sleep—to sleep without fear. Nothing else mattered, nothing. To-morrow would care for itself. Suddenly she remembered her revolver and wished she might transfer it from her hand-bag to a nearer spot without being observed. But that was impossible, as the head wife had established herself beside the bed with an air of permanence. However, Lhassa decided, it was not likely she would have need of it during the night.

A few minutes later, when the women returned with food, she waved them away, smiling faintly, and Dalima dismissed them. Evidently Dalima did not intend to leave, for she began to croon softly, swaying back and forth. Lhassa gazed at her drowsily; closed her eyes. A river of darkness flowed over her, drowning her senses. The crooning was far away; was from a figure in a dream.... Was her grandmother yellow-skinned, like Dalima? she wondered. A faint resentment followed the question. But the next instant it was lost in the void that inclosed her.

4

She awoke early. A warm infusion of sunlight introduced a golden tone into the room, and Dalima and the lesser wives were seated near the bed, chewing betel and contemplating her with characteristic curiosity.

She made them understand that she desired water, then, when she had washed, food. After a breakfast of fruit and cocoanut-milk, she was brought a robe of dark-blue silk and a gold brocaded head-scarf. Not wishing to appear unappreciative, she smilingly accepted the garments. While she dressed, the women hovered about, stroking the silk or touching her burnished hair and making little sounds of approval.

Her toilette finished, she sat down, wondering how long she would have to wait for Salazar. It would probably be noon before he arrived with Conquest. With a sigh of resignation, she rose and looked out of the irregular opening that served as a window. A glimpse of queer-looking huts, Dyak houses she imagined, gave her the impulse to inspect the village. But as she moved toward the door Dalima blocked the way. Forgetting that the other did not know English, she demanded to pass. However, Dalima must have understood, for she shook her head. Impatient, Lhassa made a move to thrust her aside, but the head wife grasped her sleeve and poured out a volume of words. One of the other women made a hurried exit.

"I don't understand," said Lhassa, trying to translate her meaning into a gesture.

Dalima continued her outpouring of words, repeatedly jerking her hand toward the door. Relief came with the return of the woman who had made a hurried departure. She brought with her a girl whose features were more Aryan than those of the sultan's wives and who addressed Lhassa in English, telling her that at the "skola" in Pontianak, she had been taught the tongue of the "orang-dagang," and, because she was learned, she had been instructed to say to the "mem" that she must not disobey the command of the "Tuan-besar" by leaving the palace. This information had the effect of a cold spray upon her thoughts.

"Who is Tuan-besar?" Lhassa demanded, sensing the truth.

Why, her husband, the Big Lord! the girl replied, apparently amazed at such a ridiculous question.

Resentment shook Lhassa. Husband! Yes, she knew who the "Big Lord" was—what she did not know was why he had left an order confining her in the palace.

"Did he say how long I was to be kept here?" she asked.

The girl translated her inquiry to Dalima, then repeated the head wife's answer: Until he returned.

"When will that be?"—persistently. "Where has he gone?"

He had gone to the fort on the Tuan Rajah's plantation, and it was not known when he would return.

Lhassa realized there was nothing to do but submit. But there was no reason why she should not be angry. So she swept to the bed and flung herself upon it, venting her temper in flaming thoughts. A prisoner. No less than that. And why? Why? Why? She indulged herself to the point of imaginary scenes with Salazar, the choicest of which she intended to repeat when she saw him. As a consequence of her rage she spent a thoroughly miserable morning. Once she considered forcing her way out with her revolver, but she realized that such a drastic step would gain nothing. Repeatedly the thought came to her that Salazar might, for a reason she did not care to dwell upon, keep Conquest in ignorance of her presence. But each time she thrust the suspicion away, ridiculing it. Thus far he had not molested her; he would not dare now. Her nerves were responsible for these—she called them abnormal thoughts.

Through the dull afternoon she sat there, waiting; sat there like a captive queen, proudly impatient. She was not alone for a second; at least two of the sultan's wives were with her constantly. Their smiles no longer seemed friendly, but were mocking. She hated them all, even Dalima, who had crooned her to sleep.

Toward sunset, when the trees rose black against an amber sky, she paced the floor, the sibilant swish of her robes seeming, to her, audible proof of the tension she felt. A great hollow dread enveloped her as the sunlight took on a claret hue. She ceased her frenzied walking and sank upon the bed, fingers pressed to her eyes. A short time afterward she heard some one enter; heard voices. But she did not look—not until she felt a touch on her arm.

It was the girl who spoke English.... The Tuan-besar had returned, she announced.

Lhassa sprang up. "Where?..."

The girl, motioning her to follow, moved through the doorway.

Again the labyrinth, the many rooms, the many verandas, then a large, dim hall; and in it, Salazar, his clothing stained by the ruddy glow reflected through the windows. She was not startled at finding him alone; she had known from the moment she was summoned that he would be alone. Now, as she saw him, the reason flashed upon her. He was no longer symbolical of the jungle, a dark, restrained spirit: in that flash he was simplified. With the blow a great weight seemed felled; the burden of mental anxiety crumbled. It left her unafraid, but weak, so weak that she doubted her power to command a pose of coolness.

"I know what you've come to say," she began; "I know Mr. Conquest isn't at Barabbas Town." She paused; resumed dispassionately. "It was beastly of you to make me wait all day before showing me—this. It was more than beastly. I suppose you learned at Cayenne that waiting is exquisite torture." Another pause; then, "Where is he?"

Salazar stirred for the first time since her entrance. The red stain was fading from his suit as the sun declined. Admiration sharpened his gaze.

"Monsieur the Rajah, you mean? Probably on his way here."

Her glance wandered about the room while she tried to think of something to say. She observed that the girl had gone. Each object, the mats, the lamps, and even the seams in the walls, stood out as if under a magnifying-glass. She felt that she was but a husk of her real self, empty of the power to move or speak. Finally:

"Here?" she echoed. "Will Tuan Muda be with him?"

He shrugged.

"Where were they when—when you lied to me?"

"At a village not far from Sadok. They did leave with the sultan that morning—but they parted from his flotilla at the confluence; you remember? A kampong on the branch; business." After a moment he added: "They were to be there two days. According to that, they returned to Sadok ... mmm ... day before yesterday. That would make them now—well, about half-way here if——"

"They would follow immediately," she broke in.

He nodded. "Monsieur the Rajah will bring a little army of his Malays. I've counted on that."

"Counted?"

"Yes. He can't possibly have more than two hundred, while the sultan's warriors...." A gesture expressive of great numbers.

"Then you've bought the sultan?"—surprised at her ability to keep on talking coolly.

He chuckled. "What happens if you touch a match to gunpowder? Belly of St. Gray! He has been waiting, afraid to act without encouragement, but now...." Another gesture.

She pressed on. "What do you intend to do about them—Tuan Muda and Mr. Conquest?"

"Oh, the sultan's warriors will be waiting in ambush below the village."

For some reason she could not be shocked; her only sensation was a remoteness from everything. An annulated film had formed before her, multiplying its black rings. She asked:

"Am I worth—that?"

He laughed. "There are other reasons."

"Namely?"

"Why should I tell?"

"But how will you get away?"

He spread out his hands—ugly hands, she thought, brutish. He had garroted a warrior with them....

"I have the whole coast between Sarawak and Sambas. When the British—or the Dutch—hear what has happened ... well, I shall be beyond reach."

At a sudden thought she inquired:

"What of the men at Barabbas Town?"

He laughed again. That was his only answer. The sun had set, the ruddy tone gone from his clothing. He seemed unreal, a ghost; a black ghost, she thought.

"Are they the men from Guiana, the convicts?" she heard herself asking.

Salazar nodded—Salazar, the unreal, the black ghost.

"Twenty-seven," he said. He smiled; sucked through his teeth. "Bartoli, a thief; Guichon, who made coins that deceived even himself; Troissard, who led a mutiny in Algeria; Beluche, king of killers"—naming them off on his fingers—"Chevreul, a poisoner; Marigny, Condé, Aymonier, Cadière, Doudart.... Twenty-seven."

She forced a smile; the skin over her cheek-bones seemed parchment.

"Are you trying to frighten me?"—her voice still calm, but with a calmness that presaged storm. She must end this interview, end it quickly, or he would realize she was acting.

"I suppose," she continued, "you will turn me over to them if I don't do as you want me to; and what do you want me to do?"

She did not intend to laugh, but the sound broke from her. That laugh seemed to snap something vital within her. The film was thickening, the black rings expanding and contracting.

"You're too impossible, Monsieur Salazar. You're not real—you—you must be out of a book ... a book.... Plotting and sudden death! A white man setting savages to murder other white men! Oh, you're too impossible! But I forgot—forgot what Tuan Muda told me. You're not white!"

Little sparks appeared among the rings; she was dizzy.

"I forgot," she went on, laughing hysterically. "But you're so impossible. Beluche, king of killers! As if you could frighten me with that! I suppose you'll say next that when you've killed Tuan Muda and Conquest you'll carry me off—carry me off! Not Beluche—no—Salazar, king of killers ... Monsieur Salazar, the impossible...."

Suddenly the man became a pivot around which the room revolved. She remembered, crazily, a place she had once visited at a street fair, a papier-mâché castle, ridiculous with stairways on chains, winds that came out of nowhere, and, as a climax, a chute that flung one, unharmed, upon a pile of sawdust. How silly! Too old for that now. Stairways on chains; winds; and a shoot—But something was wrong, wrong. For it cast her, not upon a pile of sawdust, but into a coal-pit.