Danger in the Dark

THE medicine drums were beating wearily and another, greater drum had commenced to boom with a hysteria which spoke of breaking nerves. The slither and slap of bare feet sounded upon Billy’s verandah, and he straightened up to see that Wanoa and several lesser chiefs had come.

They greeted him with deep bows, their faces stiff to hide the terror within them.

“Hafa?” said Billy, giving it the “What’s the matter” intonation.

“We come to seek your help,” said Wanoa.

“I have done all I can,” replied Billy. “But if you think what little medicine I have may stave off any new case . . .” He got slowly to his feet and reached mechanically for his topee, although it was already night.

“Medicine does no good,” said Wanoa with dignity. “We have found it necessary to use strong means—” He paused, cutting the flow of his Chamorro off short, as though he realized that what he was about to say would not go well with the mahstah.

“And?” said Billy, feeling it somehow.

“We turn back to old rite. Tonight we sacrifice young girl to Tadamona. Maybe it will be that he will turn away his anger—”

“A young girl?” gaped Billy. “You mean … you’re going to kill—”

“We are sorry. It is necessary. Long time ago priests come. They tell us about fellah mahstah Jesus Christ. We say fine. Bime-by island got nothing but crosses. Tadamona is boss god Kaisan. Tadamona does not like to be forgotten. For a long time he slept. And then he see no sacrifices coming anymore. He get angry. For thirty years we get no rest. We get sick, all the best people die, the crops are bad, the typhoons throw our houses down. Then white men here get plenty power and Tadamona jealous and not like. Things get worse and worse. Tadamona no like white man because white man say he is boss. Tadamona is boss.”

“You can’t do this,” said Billy quietly. “I won’t let you murder—”

“We not murder anybody,” said Wanoa. “Christina say she happy to die if people get saved.”

“Christina! Why, she … she’s a mission girl! You’re lying! She’s half-white! She would never consent to such a thing!”

Wanoa made a beckoning motion at the door, and Christina came shyly inside to stand with downcast face.

Billy walked toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Very often these last months he had watched her and wondered why he should go on forever alone. He would spend the rest of his life here, and Christina—she had that fragile beauty of the mestiza, beauty enough to turn the heads of most white men.

“You consented to this?” said Billy.

She nodded, not looking at him.

“Christina, you know something of white ways. You know what you have been taught. This Tadamona—why, he is nothing but airy mist. He is a superstition born out of typhoons and sickness and the minds of men who know little. Tadamona does not exist except in your imagination, and your death could do nothing to drive off this plague. You would only add another gravestone in the cemetery, and all the village would weep for you when the disease went on unabated.” And as she did not seem to be listening, he raised his voice with sudden fury. “You fools! Your island god doesn’t live! He never did live, and he never will! Give me this week and I’ll stop this plague! Obey my orders and it will take no more of your people! Tadamona! Damn such a rotten idea!”

They stared at him with shocked attitudes, then glanced uneasily out into the darkness.

“You must not speak so,” said Christina in a hushed voice. “He … he will come for you.”

“How can he come for me if he doesn’t exist?” cried Billy.

“You have seen the footprints in the rock,” said Wanoa.

“A trick of lava!” shouted Billy. “No man or god has feet ten feet long!”

“You have heard him grumbling in the caverns of the point,” said Wanoa.

“A trick of the sea in hollow coral!”

“You have seen where he has torn up palms by the roots,” persisted Wanoa.

“They were ready to fall at the slightest breeze. I tell you, you can’t do this! Tadamona is in your heads, and only in your heads, do you understand? If he lives, why haven’t I seen him? Why?”

“He is too cunning for that,” said Wanoa. “And to see him, to look him full in the face, is to die. Those of our people who have seen him have been found dead, unmarked, in the streets. The wise ones here never stir about after midnight.”

“Bah! If he exists let him come and show himself to me! Let him walk up that path and call on me!”

They shrank back away from him as though expecting him to fall dead on the instant. Even Christina moved until his hand fell from her arm.

He was tired again. He felt so very alone and so small. “You can’t do this, Christina. Give me a week and I’ll stop this plague. I promise it. If I do not, then do what you like. But give me that.”

“More people will die,” said Christina. “I am not afraid.”

“It is the white blood in her,” said Wanoa. “It will quiet Tadamona. In a week, we will lose many, many more.”

Billy walked up and down the grass mat for minutes. He was weary unto death himself, and these insistent voices bored like awls into his skull. Again he flared:

“So a week is too much to give me?”

“You have had a week,” said Wanoa impassively.

Billy faced them, his small face flushed under the flickering hurricane lantern, the wind from the sea stirring his silky blond hair. For the moment he filled his narrow jacket completely. “Yes, damn you, I’ve had a week! A week obstructed by your yap-yap-yap about Tadamona. If a week is too much, how many days?”

“One day,” said Wanoa. “Not many people die in one day.”

“One day?” cried Billy. “What— All right,” he said, jacket emptying again. “One day. And when that is through I suppose …” He glanced at Christina and saw that she would hold to her word then.

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