I
Utterbourne sat with impassive face in the house of Tsuda. Finally he said: “We will go to see King.”
Nipek-kem went proudly on ahead with a lantern. He did not know exactly what it was all about—he was just faithfully fulfilling the demands of his destiny.
“I want you to see for yourself, Captain—gn—what I’ve been up against here,” wheezed Tsuda, adding in high-pitched oriental petulance: “For months every damn scrap of business fall on me. He smoke ten—twenty—mebby fifty pipe a day—yes, sir—and then sleep it off—and eat it, too, just like a Malay. You see for yourself when you go in where he is—gn—what a damn job I have of it!”
Utterbourne hummed and made no reply.
When they neared the house, Tsuda volunteered, a sad look in his bright, equivocal eyes: “Last time I pay a friendly visit, Captain, the White Kami throw a chair at me.” Tsuda sighed and shook his long head. “The will of the gods—gn—something we can’t understand....”
“The will of the gods,” mused Utterbourne, a little mystically.
“After that,” Tsuda added, “I keep my distance, you damn bet! A man don’t care to risk his life—no, sir!” And he cringed a little, the posture seeming subtly to add to the impressiveness of his own earlier words—“what I’ve been up against here.”
“Tsuda,” said Utterbourne dreamily, “what’s the name of this favourite son of his people who’s honouring us with the lantern?”
“That is Nipek-kem, Captain.”
“Nipek-kem,” ordered Utterbourne, turning toward the Ainu, “come here with the light a minute.”
The young savage stared. Tsuda uttered a few curt foreign syllables, and then the Ainu bounded toward them.
“Nipek-kem,” suggested the Captain in his lazy drawl, “please hold the lantern just here.”
Tsuda, vaguely alarmed, repeated the command in the crude dialect of Paromushir. All his antennae were out. He sniffed the psychic air between them.
The Ainu youth, his shirt royal with souvenirs of service, like that of a general after a life of triumphant campaigns, held the light where he was bidden to hold it.
Captain Utterbourne glanced round the circle, then murmured: “I’ve been wondering, Tsuda, about that curious little pouch at your belt. You never used to wear it.”
The two men stared at each other, striving to break through those barriers which the Great Mother teaches her children to throw up about their souls.
“That, Captain? Oh—gn—it’s—”
“Quite so, Tsuda. Nevertheless, I think you’d better give us the gun.”
The duel of eyes continued, each holding the other. It became more primitive from moment to moment.
“The gun, Captain?”
Not all his cleverness was quite equal to the task of maintaining, in presence of this awful poker stare, a convincing mask of innocence. His life might depend on his holding the Captain’s eyes; but it was an ordeal beyond his powers. He faltered. Suddenly, however, a great light broke across the lined old face with its strangely youthful eyes, and he explained: “It was a present—from Wife-of-the-Kami. I guess what you call it—gn—a keepsake!” And he brought out then, in triumph, the island’s only revolver, handling the little weapon as a child would a cherished toy.
The Captain didn’t fail to appreciate it all: the light of triumph, the fondness; still he insisted, quietly but with an undertone of iron firmness: “You’d better give it to Mr. Sutherland. Keepsakes are sometimes dangerous, Tsuda. I must have neglected to warn you.”
Tsuda shivered a little with terror and foreboding. However, Captain Utterbourne made no further comment in this connection.
“I’m going in alone,” the Captain said. “It might excite Mr. King if we all descended upon him together. He might think us some of Tsuda’s ogres—the Ogres of Oyeyama.... Sometimes frenzy carries them very far—h’m? There’s a story told of an opium fiend in Java—or perhaps it was hashish, I don’t remember. He ran amuck at Batavia and killed a lot of people in the street before reserves arrived and he was finally run through by a soldier. The strength of fiends in certain stages—h’m?—it’s said to be sometimes enormous. The fellow was run through with a pike, yet such still was the desperation of the man that he—h’m?—he worked himself forward on the pike, and when he got near enough, stabbed the soldier to death with a dagger. Therefore—h’m?” the Captain ended, “I will enter alone. But I will take the lantern from Nipek-kem. Tsuda, will you assure this impressive individual that he may safely trust the lantern in my hand?”
II
At first it was hard to make out much of anything in Mrs. King’s “parlour.” A murk of opium smoke made the gloom tangible. The lamp was not lighted. It had a crazy newspaper shade now, and the chimney was streaked black. The table on which it stood was cluttered with rubbish and clumsily opened tins which had held meats and fish. The whole place was foul, and the air was so thick it could only be breathed with the greatest difficulty by lungs not inoculated.
From a corner of the room came the sound of measured breathing. King was expelling opium smoke from mouth and nose. He seemed to be drawing up the smoke from the very soles of his feet, and his eyes were closed in ecstasy—partly immediate, but more depending upon a knowledge of the sweet torment in store for him. There was another steady intake from the pipe, another exhalation; and, the resources of the pipe exhausted, it was laid aside. For a few moments the inert man made feeble wafting motions in the air with one hand.
And above him, on the wall, Captain Utterbourne perceived a bright print of a sailor returned to his own fireside. Below it was the last leaf of a calendar, with all the dates blocked black. And beside it was a sheet of paper on which several new months had been indicated with a pencil. He seemed to realize what it meant with something faintly like a flicker of emotion.
Utterbourne went to the man on the cot, leaned down over him, and said, in a clear, loud voice:
“Mr. King!”
The crouching figure shuddered, and with a wretched, baffled effort, tried to shake off the mounting lethargy. He opened his eyes, wanly questioning, and at length managed to stagger up from the cot.
King was meagrely clothed, and dirty—a sad object, all in all, and a pretty far cry, now, from any reasonable conception of a god.
Suddenly, as he faced the newcomer with the lantern, a light of frenzied recognition flamed in his face, making the havoc there singularly vivid. He took a lurching step and stretched out his arms, his eyes moving with obscured intelligence.
“Utterbourne!” he cried out in a terrible voice and flung his arms heavily about the other’s neck, as a drunkard might. “Good God, Utterbourne! What a hell to leave a man in....” But it flickered weakly.
His cheeks were grey, and so far shrunk from their former appearance as to resemble a tough, thin substance stretched tightly over the bones of the face. He was afflicted with general marasmus or consumption of the flesh, and to look into the man’s face now was almost like looking at a skull plastered with smoked wax.
He bore down on Utterbourne’s shoulders, and a ray of drifting content came into his eyes—eyes which began to look even a little blue and round again, though the dull fire of delirium made their expression still one of wreck and hopelessness. The Captain manœuvred him back on to the cot, pushing him with an arm that partly repelled and partly supported. King dropped, an almost grateful little cry on his lips, and for a while sat looking helplessly up at the face bent down toward him, so unchanging.
“I’d like to know more about everything here,” said Utterbourne, in a firm yet inviting voice.
“Yes?” answered King, his hands dangling forlornly. “Yes?” And he gazed with vacant eyes in which the last spark of fascination had long ago smouldered and gone out. He had an odd way of swaying and dodging, occasionally even raising an arm, as though to ward off some menace. When he spoke it was in a clear but singularly detached voice, and he seemed frequently to grope about for even the most commonplace words.
“Will you sit down and—talk to me?” he implored. “You don’t know—what did I start to say? You don’t know—what it’s like to hear a white man speak again!”
“I will,” agreed the Captain quietly. “Let me light the lamp. Where do you keep your matches?”
“I don’t seem to understand—very well. Would you mind being a little more—a little more....” He swayed and his eyes closed.
“Never mind. I have matches.” And in a moment the lamp was lighted, though it did not materially relieve the gloom of the place. Then Utterbourne sat down and spoke King’s name again in loud, commanding tone.
“Mr. King!”
It smote against the silence ominously. Utterbourne, with his life of multiple sensation, had perhaps never before found himself immersed in an atmosphere so profoundly sombre.
“Yes—yes,” muttered the swaying cadaver.
The Captain shook him, and the man on the cot made another genuine effort to control his waning senses.
“I am—Ferdinand King,” he said, almost in a chanting way. “I came out here to take charge of a—of a....” He seemed to drift again and lose the thread.
“I know,” encouraged the other man.
“Opium! That was it! Sometimes it all seems—to fade away. We were keeping it dark....” A sound like a rattling chuckle drifted off his lips. Then his eyes gradually filled with such a look of penetrating anguish that the Captain shaded his own eyes and gazed at the tiny spirit flame beneath its dome of glass. “Even my wife ...” murmured King. It was a look, surely, that came from the very bottom of the beaten man’s soul; and it takes a superhuman courage indeed to behold such a look with no flinching.
Tears rushed from King’s eyes, and he went on murmuring: “I had a wife once—a lovely girl—so pretty and gentle—but perhaps you’ve seen her....” His voice was low, and he went on more brokenly, rocking himself slowly back and forth: “They say she has died. She seems—to be gone away....” He struggled, his eyes moving vaguely. “Gone away.... Oh, God help me!” he suddenly cried out with a hollow yet considerable force. Then he grew dense and inaudible again, though continuing to mutter, apparently under the persuasion that he was still speaking intelligently.
Utterbourne, his glance roving about the dim sombre place, caught sight of an uncased hunting knife on the table beneath the lamp with its crazy shade. The knife had a menacing, a naked look.
The man on the cot was babbling weakly, and to bring him back once more to a state of coherency, Utterbourne spoke with the former incision: “Look here, King!”
“I’m glad you’ve—come,” the other managed thickly, his eyes gazing sadly out through tears that had pooled and ceased flowing. “I was looking for you—there’s a big book over there—over there....” His arm waved with childish vagueness. “I started in to write up—a report. There would have been time....” He made a ghastly attempt to smile. Then, “I’m afraid,” he drifted, “you’ll find it—not quite up to date....”
Utterbourne perceived the book, down on the floor under a mantle of dust. He crossed, curious, and took it up. The first hundred pages or so were filled with a flowing and elegant penmanship, but toward the end the writing had grown shaky and rough. The last entry was dated November 17.
“In a little while,” muttered King nebulously, “I’m going—on with it....” When Utterbourne returned he found him examining his nails with close attention. Now and then he rubbed his palms together gently. The tears that lay splashed on his cheeks already were emblems of an emotion so ancient that the wretched man had forgotten it, almost as though through eons of Brahmic life.
“Yes—yes.... What was I saying? About the crop? We’ve been—very successful—but I hope another year....” He dozed and came to. “I say I hope we’ll be able to put up—a tank for the rains so we can irrigate. Then you see ... I don’t know.... Does that answer your question?”
“King,” said the Captain sadly and a little dryly, “how did you come to fall for your own goods?”
The other looked up wanly and again tried to smile. It was long before he comprehended what had been said, but at length he began murmuring: “I really can’t say—no, I can’t. It seems—such a long time....” And after another somnolent pause he asked: “What did I say?”
“We won’t go into it tonight,” sighed Captain Utterbourne, rising heavily. “Go to sleep, King. In the morning we’ll try to get at more of the facts.”
Then a look of groping alarm came into the face of the White Kami, and he began beating his hands together. “I wish you wouldn’t go away!” he pleaded. “Only a little while after you’re gone, they’ll begin to come in for the night!” His eyes smouldered wildly. “Don’t go away just yet. I—I’ll see if I can answer your question—if you’ll wait.” He beat his fists against his head, but rather coaxingly than savagely. The veins stood out as he made a terrific effort at concentration. “Yes!” His face lighted faintly. “It was about the opium. Not the crop—no....” He shook his head, as though patiently arguing with himself. “Me—me! Wasn’t that what you wanted? At first—at first I used very little. Yes—don’t go away! I’m—going to tell you how it was. It was—Tsuda.... I guess he uses a little now and then, too. Perhaps some day you’ll want to try—a jaunt. In that case.... What was I saying? Did I say Tsuda? Yes—that’s right. That’s right.... I kept telling myself,” he rambled, his manner growing more and more agitated, and wilder, with an inflection of impatience, “I’d quit—I’d quit....” Then, his tone growing warm and dreamy, and fresh tears springing to his eyes: “We were going to settle down—in some little ... in some little place where nothing much ever happens—but it seems sometimes—no, don’t go! I try to hold on, and my fingers ... my fingers keep slipping off....” He regarded his fingers ruefully, flexing them at the joints in a childish way. His expression grew very dull and hopeless. “The lamp,” he muttered. “Would you mind—looking? I’m afraid the oil’s very low.”
“Never mind, King,” said Utterbourne huskily. “In the morning....”
But he paused in his departure, and saw with amazement a look of swift and convulsing terror leap into the other’s eyes. It was almost as though flames darted from them, as King cried:
“In at the windows and doors—they’ll come—all of them—together!”
And he sprang up, screaming. He beat at the air with mill-like motions, his eyes starting from his head in an ecstasy of horror. He darted over to the table and seized the knife. His cries were the kind that must live on forever. As he approached Utterbourne, he raised the knife tremblingly in the air, and said:
“If you try to leave me—I’ll kill you!”
A slight movement at the door—Utterbourne’s officers, together with Tsuda, were in the room. But Utterbourne merely stood his ground, gazing hard at the frenzied being before him, while he spoke again, in a ringing voice: “Mr. King!”
It seemed to have a calming and disarming effect. The victim shivered and breathed in noisily. His threatening pose dissolved, his arms dropping like pieces of flexible lead, while the knife clattered harmlessly on to the floor.
King staggered, and a moment later was lying on the cot. But he was not yet quiescent, for he beat at his hands furiously, and bit them, drawing blood. Muffled cries came from him on long sighs.
They beheld in his face a look of ravenous hunger. Presently a hand trembled over to the tabouret, and with fluttering fingers King took up the pipe. Even in this crazed and moribund condition he seemed to know to an exquisite fineness when the tiny browning ball had attained just the proper pitch—never the least bit burned, never toasted a shade too dry.
III
It was perhaps not so startling as kneeling on her grave and beholding her emerge from a temple; nevertheless, the entrance of Stella a few minutes later was distinctly sensational. Jerome came in just behind her—a situation complex in the extreme. As was characteristic, Utterbourne adjusted himself to it without the contraction or flurry of a single feature, and in one of his sharp, enigmatic silences.
Tsuda, after the first stupefied moment, seemed to wilt and shrink. He saw that he had been somehow outwitted. He was lost—Tsuda knew that conclusively. He did not dare look at the Captain, but stood where he was, shrinking, trembling a little. The game was up—it had been a curious conspiracy.... All at once he seemed to become a very old man.
Stella barely paused as she entered the room and the wave of almost tangible amazement broke about her. She crossed the room, her face white and unmoving, and dropped down beside the cot. She did not lay her hands upon her husband, but her words embraced him pityingly.
“Ferd—I’ve come back.”
The little spirit lamp was calmly alight, and she gazed at it with eyes in which there was nothing but misery.
King’s lips moved, though there was no sound of words. A look of ruined radiance shone in his face. Stella settled in a little heap. Her head sank on to her arms, and she uttered a soft, desperate cry.
The tragic tableau held the men about her in a state of breathlessness.
“Mrs. King,” murmured Captain Utterbourne; and there was an unmistakable element of thanksgiving in his voice.
He would have questioned her. But after all, there could not be much to say. The little spirit lamp beside the cot, and the pipe and dipper and the covered box seemed telling the story over and over each time a glance fell upon them.
Tsuda, shrunken and aged, moved almost imperceptibly round to the door. He waited until the wife of the Kami crumpled into a heap, and then, with the spell of motionless tenseness broken, he saw his way clear to slipping out into the night.
However, the gods, for whom he had always evinced so lofty an affection, were not very kind to Tsuda. It was like a run of ill luck in faro. Scarcely had he left the house, when a furious beast sprang upon his shoulders and crushed him to the ground under a storm of blows. The furious beast had once been a quiet little clerk in Market street. But much water had run under the bridge, and besides—the clerk had lost his head completely.
He was magnificent and elemental. He was mad to taste blood, and he pounded with the merciless hammer of fists which possessed little science but their full quota of untrained punishing power. One blow thrilled him profoundly. Tsuda lurched back with a groan and thrust an arm across his eyes. Then he, too, fought—furious and desperate, like a wounded jaguar, using his teeth and nails freely, and butting with his bullet-like Mongolian head. Tsuda had naturally known something of defense in his younger days, for he had considered it a good thing for a man to know how to take care of himself, even if he did expect to be a priest. They clinched and Tsuda neatly tripped his foe and they went down together in a crashing sprawl.
But somehow, by sheer force of youth and recklessness, probably, Jerome managed to capture both of Tsuda’s wrists. The man’s muscles strained and quivered, while his lusty opponent, with swift red passion in his eye now, bent to the grip, his teeth grinding. The belligerent contact intoxicated him. It was like his first champagne. It was the finishing stroke of victorious manhood.
In this position he could have broken Tsuda’s arms, and Tsuda knew it and cried out warningly. Never since the ancient day in Nemuro, when he got into a row with miners over a little dancing girl, had Tsuda been so tempestuously set upon. This time the row was not over a geisha, but the only white woman on Hagen’s Island.
Jerome felt Captain Utterbourne standing calmly yet a little grimly above them.
“He can’t get away, Mr. Stewart. Release his arms.”
So Jerome sprang up, bloody and sweaty, and stood panting. The heroic flash of melodrama was over.
And the Captain said: “We’ll take Tsuda aboard with us tonight for safe-keeping; in the morning we’ll all feel more rational. Mrs. King insists upon staying beside her husband, but we can’t leave her without protection. Sargeant—”
But Jerome broke in: “I’m staying, please. We knew each other once. We lived just around the corner from each other. I’d rather not go back to the ship tonight.” It seemed a magnificent moment.
Utterbourne stared at him, and, his lips trembling a little with devious mirth, he muttered, in almost a tone of quizzical exaltation: “Will wonders never cease?” After that there fell a pause, and then, under the stars, like the first welcome note of a returning serenity after much storm, they heard the Captain gently humming his favourite snatch of Macdowell.