The success of Ben’s ruse was not merely startling. It was terrifying. For the moment he had duped these natives and was being taken for the God of Storms. The dusky, prostrate backs glimpsed out of the corners of his motionless eyes, the strange chorus of awed murmurings that rose from the ground, and the constant repetition of the word ‘Oomoo,’ proved that. He was receiving the island’s worship! But what would happen when the moment passed? When it was discovered that he was not a god but a miserable scared-stiff mortal? When he sneezed, say—he felt the desire rising as the alarming thought occurred—or when his knees gave way and he wobbled from the pedestal?
Then the worship would be transformed to wrath! He would be seized and torn to bits, and these humble murmurings would change to howls of primitive rage! Ben pictured himself being torn to bits and, in his too lively imagination, watched his limbs being tossed high into the air.
‘Well, wot’s goin’ ter ’appen is goin’ ter ’appen,’ he thought, ‘on’y I ’opes it ’appens quick!’
In spite of the hope, he did nothing to expedite the happening, but continued earnestly to emulate a Madame Tussaud waxwork.
The moments slipped by. The murmurings continued. The dawning sneeze was wrestled with and temporarily conquered. But Ben’s limbs began to ache. His pose, not unlike that of Eros, was difficult to hold.
‘’Ow long’s this goin’ on?’ he wondered.
Then the native nearest to him rose to his feet. His head, large and perspiring and not in the least attractive, loomed up into view from a black hell. Two arms, also large, rose above the head, and two black thick lips spoke.
‘Vooloo? Vooloo, Oomoo? Vooloo?’
‘Wot the ’ell does that mean?’ thought Ben.
‘’Ad I better answer ’im, or pertend I ain’t int’rested?’
He pretended he wasn’t interested, and while the native waited for the answer that did not come, the unresponsive god noticed another figure edging quietly towards him. It was Oakley.
Now the native, evidently a man of some authority, turned his body, and waved his arms towards Ben’s companions. Four of them—Ruth, Haines, Cooling and Medworth—had not moved since the appearance of the natives, and were awaiting the end of the astonishing episode with tense curiosity. The other three, having failed in their unheroic attempt to escape, were being closely watched by half a dozen giants with spears.
‘Holalulala?’ cried the native spokesman.
Only by the upward inflexion did Ben gather that this was not a statement but a question. Hadn’t he heard the word before? Memory stirred uneasily.
‘Moose?’
He knew he hadn’t heard that one.
‘Lungoo?’
Ben remembered Lungoo. Oakley had mentioned that it meant ‘Fried knuckles.’ Was this fellow inquiring whether Ben, alias Oomoo, would like his companions’ knuckles to be fried? ‘Lumme, I can’t git away from knuckles!’ thought Ben. Then, in a sudden flash, he remembered Oakley’s interpretation of Holalulala: ‘Take his eyes out.’
‘Nah, then, I must do somethink!’ reflected Ben, hoping that gods were permitted to perspire. ‘Orl I gotter decide is, wot?’
Oakley evidently shared Ben’s opinion that something must be done. He had been quietly edging closer and closer, and now he stood only a few feet away. His lips moved softly, as though still urged by prayer, and the prayer ran:
‘Waa—lala, Make-a-sign lala,
Holdi-tongue, li,
Waa—lala.’
If this was the strangest injunction Ben had ever received, it was also the most welcome. It was, in fact, exactly what he needed, providing him with a method of postponing further the dreaded moment of discovery. Yes, of course, that was it! Make a sign! Gods didn’t speak—not, anyway, in Ben’s voice—but they did make signs, and Ben knew a lot of signs. Which one should he choose? A slow, solemn wink? One of these new-fangled continental salutes? Something in the thumb line? Or could he kill two birds with one stone by bringing his nose into it and settling a tickle?
While these alternatives were flashing through Ben’s mind, the decision was taken out of his hands by the spokesman.
‘Chehaka!’ he roared, like a despairing animal, and his great arms once more shot upwards.
Startled into activity, and misinterpreting the intention of the arms, Ben raised his own arms to ward off an expected blow. The effect was instantaneous. Instead of attacking Ben, the spokesman clasped his fingers together and bellowed seraphically:
‘Oomoo poopoo! Oomoo poopoo!’
‘I’ve pooped,’ thought Ben.
Then another silence fell, faintly broken a second later by Oakley’s low chanting again:
‘Waa—lala, Wave-your-arms lala,
Hurry O li,
Waa—lala!’
Ben waved his arms. He waved them slowly and solemnly, like a windmill in a gentle breeze. His impulse was for quicker motion, which would have been more in keeping with the beating of his heart, but the intelligence of Oakley was having an effect upon him, and he was doing his best to emulate it. Oakley’s mind working to save Ben’s skin supplied the one faint ray of hope.
The spokesman—he was, as Ben learned later, the Chief of the tribe, though not the actual ruling spirit—stared intently at the godly motions, trying to interpret them. Failing, he turned to Oakley and muttered:
‘Kwee? Kwee?’
It was the moment Oakley had played for. He realised before Ben did that immediate danger was past, and with the realisation came a totally novel sense of power. The sense would have elated another. It might have produced a feeling of drunken joy, but Oakley remained calm. He was beyond joy or misery. He accepted what came with the same passive exterior and almost the same emotion, or lack of it. All he experienced now, as he found the Chief’s inquiring eyes upon him, was a feeling of vague comfort.
The comfort was not shared by the other white folk. The three who had attempted escape were too near six sharp spears, and Ardentino was wondering whether to make a second attempt; while the four who had stood firm were perilously near the snapping point. Ruth’s fingers were gripping Haines’s sleeve, though only he of the two knew it, and Medworth was in ripe condition to shriek. Cooling, unhampered by the altruistic anxiety infused into Haines by the pressure on his sleeve, was the least mentally perturbed. He disliked pain intensely, and was ready to go to considerable lengths to avoid it, but even if his knuckles were destined to be fried, he would not lose his sense of superiority. He even smiled when he found that Oakley was looking towards him.
Medworth, on the other hand, rebelled.
‘What the hell are you staring at us for?’ shouted Medworth suddenly bursting. ‘If you think—’
Oakley raised his head sharply. Ben followed suit. The Chief’s expression grew as black as his skin. Medworth subsided. Then Oakley turned to the Chief again, made a little gesture towards Ben, and gave his interpretation of slowly-moving arms when revolved by the will of a heathen god.
‘Sula,’ said Oakley.
The Chief nodded eagerly.
‘Domo,’ went on Oakley.
The Chief nodded again.
‘Toree,’ concluded the interpreter.
The Chief nodded a third time. Then he fell on his face at the feet of Ben and muttered with reverence, ‘Hya! Hyaya, Oomoo! Hya!’ Then he leapt up again—for a large and fleshy man he had wonderful agility—swung round, and screamed to his people, ‘Oomoo poopoo! Sula! Domo! Toree!’ Then he made a sign, and two of the natives jumped to their feet and disappeared into the forest.
The rest of the natives now also rose from the ground and began softly murmuring to each other. Their voices made an eerie buzz. A pause had evidently been reached in the proceedings, and Lord Cooling, after a glance at Haines, cleared his throat and ventured an inquiry.
‘Of course, Mr Oakley,’ he said with ironic politeness, ‘all this is intensely interesting and instructive, but personally I have always objected to studying a language without a key. May we know—with all due deference to the great god Oomoo, on whose rise from the coal-dust to fame let me be the first to congratulate him—may we know what precise bearing the entertaining conversation we have just heard has upon—us?’
‘Yes, and may we know where those two black blighters have gone?’ added Medworth. ‘If you think, just because we’ve—we’ve stood here quietly we’re going to allow any nonsense, you’ll find out your mistake!’
The Chief’s eyes blazed, but Oakley stepped to him quickly and whispered in his ear. The whispering continued for several seconds, and was accompanied by glances and gestures towards Ben. When at last the Chief shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms, Oakley turned from him and spoke in a sing-song voice that contrasted oddly with his words.
‘Listen, Oh, unwise white worms!’ he said. ‘The Chief of this island has agreed, since I have assured him that it is Oomoo’s will, that the situation shall be explained to you, but let me remind you that if you are not careful your blasted impatience will land you in the soup-tureen—and that, dear brothers, is no mere figure of speech on this island. Got that? Good. Then now to the translation. And remember that the Chief’s present interest in listening to our strange foreign sounds will not last for ever. Sula means trial—’
‘What’s that?’ interrupted Medworth.
‘Yes, you really are a pitiable white worm,’ replied Oakley. ‘Interrupt me again, and I shall be obliged to make a very unpleasant suggestion to our Chief. It will be “Moose,” and it will cost you that trifle, your head.’
Lord Cooling smiled. There were moments when Oakley’s lugubrious sense of humour quite appealed to him.
‘To proceed,’ continued Oakley. ‘Sula means trial. Domo means tomorrow. Compare demain, French for the same thing. And Toree is the place where the trial will occur tomorrow. The Temple of Gold.’
Once more Ernest Medworth forgot himself.
‘Temple of Gold?’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you mean—we’re all going there?’
‘To be tried,’ Oakley reminded him grimly. ‘I hope you will like it.’
‘But for what crime are we to be tried?’ asked Cooling. ‘Gate-crashing?’
‘Gate-crashing is an undoubted offence here,’ answered Oakley, ‘but you are more likely to be tried for the crime of being white.’
‘A crime we are criminal enough to be proud of,’ murmured Lord Cooling, screwing his monocle more firmly into his eye and regarding the Chief, who had drawn a little closer as though fascinated by the incomprehensible voices of his prisoners. ‘And who,’ queried Cooling, ‘is going to be our judge?’
‘Who but Oomoo, since it was Oomoo who ordered the trial,’ replied Oakley.
‘I see. And—er—you will interpret the judgment of Oomoo?’
‘If the High Priest permits me. He may have his own ideas on the subject.’
‘Let us hope they will be nice ideas, Mr Oakley. Meanwhile, what is happening? This stage wait is a little trying—and most of all, judging from his expression, to Oomoo. Can you do anything to shorten it? I fear our god will not last.’
The fear was shared by Ben himself, whose god-like mien was now being violently invaded by the increasing tickle on his nose. But before Oakley could answer, the Chief suddenly issued a new instruction, and pointed to Cooling. The instruction ran:
‘Karamee valogee O lahala laholee. Vooloo malooloo karamo sula somo domo toree. Gala majeela O wooleeja, cloom lungoo—huh?’
‘Meaning?’ murmured Cooling.
For an instant all eyes were on him. Oomoo seized the instant, and scratched his nose with a thoroughness and rapidity that created a record in nasal history.
‘Meaning,’ translated Oakley, ‘that the Chief is taking a special interest in you and that your voice gives him a sort of spinal pleasure. For this reason—and also, I think, because he is attracted by your eyeglass—he desires you to address him personally, and to give him a sample of the defence you will put up tomorrow before Oomoo in the Temple of Gold. Of course, he will not understand it. A word of advice. Make it snappy.’
‘It cannot be too snappy for me,’ retorted Cooling, retreating a little as the Chief grew uncomfortably close. ‘I suppose you couldn’t call the fellow off, could you?’
‘Kwee?’ said the Chief, pointing to Cooling’s monocle, and continuing to advance as Cooling backed.
‘I beg you to keep your distance,’ answered Cooling, doing his best to wave away the traffic. ‘If you come too close I may forget myself and make your face even less beautiful than it is at present, and thus achieve an impossibility … Yes, sir, this is an eyeglass. One day, if you are a good little boy, I may buy you one, but meanwhile let me inform you, sir, that you are going to receive a surprise at the trial domo in your toree. Your little god, to whom these words are addressed as much as to yourself—kindly note that, little god—is going to pronounce a verdict that will considerably surprise you … Yes, yes, I have told you before, this is an eyeglass … Believe me, sir, Oomoo will find some way—he will indeed, be instructed to find a way, and will receive the precise instructions later—to recompense me and my companions for the indignity you are putting upon us. Oh, and to recompense himself, also, of course—’
‘One per cent,’ muttered Medworth.
‘We might make it two,’ suggested Cooling, ‘and two per cent of the gold in his temple will buy quite a lot of things in dear old Leicester Square. Yes, Mr Chief, our price is going to be a stiff one, a damned stiff one, and you will pay it because if you disobey your little god he will send a storm that will sink your confounded island to the bottom of your confounded ocean—AH!’
The abrupt termination of the speech was caused by the Chief’s hand, which suddenly shot out and snatched the eyeglass from the lordly optic. Delighted with his prize the Chief sprang back, and held the glass before his own optic. The next moment he gave a shout of terrified rage and sent the monocle spinning through the air.
‘Hooja, hooja, hooja!’ he howled.
For a few seconds pandemonium existed. Gazes were riveted on an island chief having spasms. Even the six stalwart guards with spears forgot their duty of guarding the three most restless of the white folk, and Ardentino, suddenly finding the chance he had been seeking, slipped away and bounded round a rock. Then a fresh diversion was created. It came from the forest.
The two natives returned. They carried a golden litter. Behind them, chanting and dancing, were a score of dusky girls. The Chief ceased foaming at the mouth, made a sign to the procession, and waved towards Oomoo.
‘Wot’s this?’ wondered Ben. ‘A revoo?’
He fought a strange embarrassment. The dusky girls were undoubtedly attractive, but they were hardly decent. Then the embarrassment changed to new alarm as the procession made a bee-line for him. Reaching him, it stopped. The golden litter was raised to his level. The dusky girls fell below his level, and flopped down on their faces.
‘’Ere! Am I ter git on it?’ thought Ben. ‘It ain’t sife!’
He tried to glimpse Oakley without moving his eyes. He failed, because Oakley had moved out of his direct line of vision. This was a nuisance. He had the sense to realise that if he openly appealed to Oakley, revealing his dependence on him, his authority would vanish like smoke, so he rolled his eyes round majestically. At the most easterly point of their circular tour they found Oakley. Oakley was nodding quietly, with the unobtrusive skill of a conjuror’s confederate.
‘Well, there ain’t no fare ter pay,’ reflected Ben resignedly. ‘’Ere goes!’
He stepped on to the litter. As soon as he was on it, it began to move again. It moved so suddenly and swiftly that Ben lost both his balance and his head, sat down promptly, and ejaculated:
‘Oi!’
‘Oi!’ repeated the natives, with awed reverence.
The divine word echoed through the forest as the gasping god was borne into it.