THE TERRACES OF NIGHT Page 20

  ‘“Kinnersley—good heavens, man, are you mad?”

  ‘My strange voice seemed to sting the man to sanity. He stopped, and though the sweat of fury was still wet on his face, he managed a faint apologetic smile.

  ‘“By Jove, yes—sorry, Garnett!” He wiped his forehead and panted a little, regaining his self-control. “I’ve got a filthy temper—seems to have got worse lately somehow. I’m sleeping badly, and it makes one deuced edgy. Overlook it, there’s a good chap. Hullo, there’s Joan. Come on up and meet her.”

  ‘To my surprise, Mrs Kinnersley was quite a girl, not more than twenty-four or five at most. She had, I gathered later, been engaged to Kinnersley when a mere kid of twenty, and only came out to marry him in Zanzibar a year previously. She was small and slight and pale, but her eyes were a lovely hazel, her voice low and pretty; altogether she was pretty—very pretty—in a fragile way, with curling hair that lay in damp rings on her white forehead. Although she must have seen from the top of the steps her husband’s scene with his “boy”, she made no allusion to it, but greeted me gravely, after a quick, worried glance at Kinnersley; and in half an hour, after a tub and a change, I found myself sitting opposite to her at an attractively English-looking dinner-table laid in the pretty low-ceiled dining-room leading off the veranda near the head of the steps.

  ‘The huge stars were out in the deep night sky, and the dark bush fenced us in with an impenetrable blackness—but within all was bright and homelike. The little night winds blew softly through the fine mosquito-curtains, and certainly I for one began to revise my first impressions of Pemba and enjoyed my dinner thoroughly. We had an excellent meal: the usual sardines served with limes; onion soup, as good as one could wish; chicken curried with red chillies and grated fresh coconut; and pawpaw fruit to finish, its delicately orange-tinted pulp deliciously cool and refreshing.

  ‘It was all strange and fascinating to me, and I’m afraid I ate a huge meal. I noticed that Kinnersley merely picked and pushed his food about, only eating a little fruit, but drank heavily, first whisky-and-soda, then stinging peppermint liqueur—a horrible mixture, I thought privately; but my boss’s taste in drink was no business of mine, so naturally I said nothing. After dinner we sat out on the veranda smoking and talking in a desultory sort of way. The house-boy, another tall, silent Swahili, whom Mrs Kinnersley called Joma, brought out the eternal whisky-bottle, siphons and glasses, and I had a peg to keep Kinnersley company. Mrs Kinnersley produced a guitar—they were fashionable in the days of my youth—and played a little. Quite well she played, but it was obvious she was not concentrating on it, merely playing, or so I thought, to fill in the gaps in the talk, and prevent awkward pauses—or subjects.

  ‘She glanced at me from time to time as I tried to make conversation with my new chief, but it was uphill work—such a restless, erratic devil I never met. He was up and about, sitting down a moment, jumping up the next, for no reason; beginning stories but never completing them; interrupting, breaking off at a tangent to start some other subject. . . . It was really exasperating, yet he gave me the impression of a man talking fast, hurriedly, at random—against time, as it were, to try and stave off something. . . . He began telling me some triviality, some way in which he’d “put one of these niggers in his place”, when his wife looked at him quickly, and broke in in her quiet little voice.

  ‘“You know, Hugh, you shouldn’t anger them! They . . . we . . . well, we can’t afford to.”

  ‘He opened his mouth to protest, but she went quietly on, striking an idle chord from time to time on her guitar that chimed oddly with her small voice.

  ‘“Mr Garnett, don’t think I’m trying to raise bogies, but I think you might as well know now that we—aren’t popular with the natives on the island.” Her voice quavered a little, and the sternly held fear that spoke in the quaver stung me oddly, while I admired the dauntlessness of it. “I’ve tried my best, but it’s no use. They just do what we pay them for, but nothing further, and I feel sometimes . . .” She changed her sentence hastily, but swept on. “I tell you so that you may be able to help my husband a little, for I know he is often in danger, and this danger is—increasing.”

  ‘Kinnersley hung his head. However he had treated her once, it was quite obvious that she had the whip hand of him now. He winced and was cowed if she looked at him.

  ‘“Don’t, Joan. Garnett saw me go mad at Tugi this evening; he won’t be surprised these black devils hate me. Don’t blame ’em either. . . .” His blood-shot eyes looked at me with a curious despair in their depths. “I’m not myself these days; they’ve got me down till I can’t sleep, and my nerves go all to shreds if I’m crossed.”

  ‘I disliked the man, but somehow I couldn’t help being sorry for him. I muttered something vaguely sympathetic, but inwardly I felt all the embarrassment of the healthy young male before a confidence. I was still fumbling for words when a shattering thing happened: from the silent forest that on three sides surrounded the tiny house arose a cry! How can I describe it? Ever heard a pariah dog wail to the moon? A jackal prowling beside a new-made grave? Think of these and add to them a ghastly, quite indescribably human element, and you will get a faint idea of that terrible howl that, rising to a crescendo that tore like a lightning streak through the peace of the lovely evening, and shrilling tremulous, piercing, till our very eardrums rang, died away into the silent trees, reluctantly, like a lingering evil thing loth to leave go its hold!

  ‘Mrs Kinnersley had sprung to her feet, her hand on her husband’s shoulder. I admit that I was sitting gripping the arms of my chair, shivering, in a perfect sweat of fear. Oh, I know you’ll say it must have been a wandering, wild thing of some sort, but I tell you you never heard a sound quite like that . . . and I hope you never may. For beast-like as it was, it was yet quite horribly—human!

  ‘I stared at Kinnersley. He was shaking, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dusk like a dog’s; it did not occur to me till afterwards that this in itself was odd, for it was not the lamplight that caught them and made them shine; a little trickle of saliva drooled from his thick hanging under-lip. It was quite horrible to see a man reduced to so ghastly a state of fright, and though it startled me, it was in a sense a relief when suddenly he sprang to his feet with a sort of hysterical bravado, throwing off his wife’s hand and calling out at the top of this voice as he shook his fist towards the forest:

  ‘“Sikie! Mbwana wanalia sana usiku! Don’t think you’ve got me yet. I tell you I’ll stick it out—you and your damned witch-stuff! . . .” He rushed off into a string of Swahili obscenities that I could not follow. Mrs Kinnersley, her face white in the gloom as a peeled almond, was trying to soothe him. I felt somehow acutely sorry for the little woman as I watched the two. She was very quiet, perfectly self-contained, but the terrible dead pallor of her face told plainly enough her inner dread, and I wondered as I listened, slowly regaining my own balance, what particular sort of horrors this little woman had had to face with Hugh Kinnersley gibbering, distraught, at her side; and for how long.

  ‘Seeing Kinnersley quietened, drinking a fresh peg, I ventured a question.

  ‘What—of course, it must be a beast of some sort—but what in the world, Mrs Kinnersley, makes that horrible cry?’

  ‘She shivered suddenly as her eyes met mine over the table.

  ‘“We—don’t know!” she said slowly. “It comes—like that. Sometimes, not for several nights; sometimes two or three times in succession. . . .”

  ‘Kinnersley, restless as ever, rose to his feet, and with shaking hands chose a cheroot from the open tin box and lighted it. There was a faint but obvious defiance in the gesture.

  ‘“There’s a lovely mystery for you, Garnet!” There was a sneer in his voice that stung me. “One of the ‘mysteries of the Bush’ these damn’ journalists are so fond of! You can take it from me it isn’t a dog—dogs are village beasts, and no dog will ever go into the Bush. Yet from the Bush it comes, nobody knows how. . .
.” His voice trailed away, and for a minute we all sat silent. Then he turned, as if he had a fresh idea and broke out into defiance again, his tone hard, truculent. “I know it’s just some joke of those damn’ niggers. I swear it—some of their infernal stunts, tryin’ to frighten me; but I won’t be frightened; they can’t get me, however hard they try. . . .”

  ‘He was off again. Little Mrs Kinnersley took his hand quietly, firmly, and led him towards the wide French windows.

  ‘“Don’t work yourself up, Hugh—it’s no good. Come and try to get some sleep. I’ll give you some aspirin. Come.” She led him indoors, and for a long time I sat staring into the dense impenetrable blackness that was the forest crowding about the little house, wondering, speculating—secretly more disquieted than I liked to admit. London seemed very far away; the Mysterious loomed very near—and now with the primitive world and its people at our door-sills, all my glib self-confidence fell away from me and left me feeling unspeakably naked and shivering and frightened, face to face with the Unknown . . . darkest Africa and her people. A shadow moved at my side, and I jumped like a shot rabbit; but it was only Mrs Kinnersley, a black shawl thrown over her light frock, her face whiter than ever above the dark folds. She poured out a glass of soda-water and drank it with a steady hand. Amazing, the pluck of that little woman! I thought so then, and I think so still; but to resume. She accepted the cigarette I offered, and for a moment we smoked in silence; then she spoke.

  ‘“Mr Garnett, I’ve got to talk to you! I’m sorry, your first night, it’s too bad, and if that cry—hadn’t come, I would have left it. But it came, and . . .”

  ‘Her voice shook. I bent forward eagerly.

  ‘“Mrs Kinnersley, please let me help! I don’t know what is wrong, but you can depend on me. . . . Please go on.”

  ‘She continued, her voice toneless, dry.

  ‘“I believe it started just a little while before I came out. Not so badly—oh, no! My husband merely thought some wild thing had taken to howling about the house at first . . . but now? I’m not so sure! I’m not so sure. Mr Garnett, these people of Pemba are the most strange and mysterious in the world. Aloof, secretive, unfriendly—not exactly hostile; at least, I understand they were not so at first; but they keep themselves utterly apart from everybody, even from other natives. They have their own customs, their own rigid caste rules, their own secret ceremonies . . . and I feel—no, I’m quite sure—that for something he has done, though he will not tell me what it is, they have ‘put’ something on my husband—called down one of their horrible curses on him. Oh, I know it sounds rubbish, but I’m serious! Do you know, since I came out, eight months ago, that ghastly howling has grown slowly, steadily more frequent, nearer to the house?

  ‘“At first it was merely a far distant wailing in the night, and it came only at long intervals; sometimes we would be free for several weeks from it. You see, I came out here in absolute ignorance of the East. . . . I was engaged to my husband very young; in fact, I had not seen him since we became engaged five years ago; when he felt he wanted me, I came out here to him. He was a good deal altered, and I hadn’t a very easy time at first. . . .” She paused, biting her lip, then continued hurriedly, as the pause grew eloquent. “Anyway, that has nothing to do with the present situation. Tell me, did you—notice anything odd about my husband?”

  ‘The abrupt question sent a curious chill up my spine.

  ‘“I don’t know!” I found my voice coming rather stickly. “He seems frightfully restless, if that’s anything . . . can’t sit still . . . and of course he’s rather snappy.”

  ‘She caught me up.

  ‘“Snappy—like an irritated animal snarling! I know! But didn’t you notice that he ate scarcely anything at dinner? Just sat and—and drank—but never ate a scrap to speak of. And he used to be a man with a big healthy appetite.”

  ‘“Yes,” I admitted. “Now I remember—I did notice how little he ate. But . . .”

  ‘“Oh, he does eat—at times. But he’s grown oddly secretive about it—won’t eat when I’m there. But he eats—sometimes. . . .” Her voice sank, and she shivered. “That I know. I’ve caught him once or twice bent over something in his room, chewing and tearing it with his teeth! But he always hastily smuggles it away, and I can only surmise . . . and fear. . . .”

  ‘She shuddered violently, and against my will I felt myself shuddering too. What horrible mania could the man be suffering from?

  ‘She rushed on, as if impelled by her hunger for sympathy, to tell all, all, and share a little of the terror, the anxiety.

  ‘“The extraordinary part is that—this oddness of Hugh’s—has slowly but steadily increased as the howling increased—as if that brought these awful manifestations with it! And again, he is so odd about sleeping! Most men get tired out at night after a day’s work in this climate, but it’s at night he gets most restless. We . . . we have different rooms now; he wanted it.” There was a telling little pause, and she frowned away a faint sigh. “But Joma tells me that Hugh’s bed is never slept in! Does he sleep on the floor or go out to roam this horrible sinister forest at night? I’m getting so utterly unnerved that when I heard you were coming I could have cried with thankfulness—at least I felt, I should not feel quite so terribly alone and afraid. . . .”

  ‘I stretched out a hand to her trembling one, and we smiled at each other; she smiled at me tremulously but confidently.

  ‘“Look here, Mrs Kinnersley,” I said, “I’m awfully glad you’ve told me. I think you’re simply amazingly plucky to have stuck things as you have done. But now I want you to let me share things—and first of all, take my advice and go straight to bed now. Get a good night, and in the morning we’ll have another talk. Believe me, I’m here to help if the smallest thing goes wrong; you can sleep in peace. You’ll trust me, and go?”

  ‘She stood up like an obedient child, and smiling up at me, slipped away into the shadowy house like another shadow. I heard the faint click of her door. Somehow I felt—already—glad that her husband’s oddness had taken the form of separating them at night. . . . Yes, I had got as far as that.

  ‘I sat for a few minutes thinking over her extraordinary story, and at last, stepping very softly to avoid creaks, made my way round the angle of the veranda to Hugh Kinnersley’s room. I paused outside the open window. Inside, the narrow white bed, with its protecting mosquito curtains, lay full in the moonlight, but she was right—it was unoccupied. Then a sound of deep and heavy breathing directed my attention to a corner, and—I saw him, with a quick catch of the breath. There lay Kinnersley, curled upon the bare floor, stripped to the waist, his great torso hairy as a beast’s, most curiously hairy, his head tucked down towards his knees as a dog lies—as a dog lies!

  ‘The phrase danced ominously through my mind as I watched the unconscious man—watched him breathe heavily and settle down again into his coiled position; watched him raise a hand and flick away a stray mosquito with precisely the action of a sleepy dog—fingers and thumb close-pressed together, the whole action like the use of a great clumsy paw. . . . It was horrible to see! And if more horror were needed, as I moved slightly, my shadow moved with me and revealed, stark in the moonlight, the cause of the man’s lack of appetite at dinner—a half-gnawed lump of raw meat, scarred and torn with the savaging of the teeth that, still in a human face, were rapidly becoming animal!

  ‘As I stared, dumbfounded at this instant confirmation of Mrs Kinnersley’s story, something—perhaps a faint echo of my Celtic ancestry whispering in my modern blood—made me start, holding my breath, and listen—then like a flash draw back from the opening and, flattening myself against the outer wall, wait, my heart hammering in my throat, my eyes wandering from the moonlit veranda to the silent darkness of the bush outside, that black mouth that lay so close to the little lonely house, waiting, it seemed to my excited fancy, to engulf it. That bush! That dark, sinister stretch of giant tree and stream and swampland, of strangling creeper and poiso
n thorn, of beast and snake and reptile terrible and unknown; of people still more terrible, more unknown! My heart thumping queerly, strangely, in my throat, I saw the feathery head of a tall acacia wave and shiver against the clear violet sky, as something passed beneath it; and out into the white-lit clearing stepped a group of five figures. They were mere black silhouettes in the moonlight —tall, finely built men, all but one, a tiny dwarfed creature decked with wildly waving feathers and strings of beads and shells that swung and rattled in the breathless silence. . . .

  ‘In silence they faced the house, in dead and awful silence they squatted in a semicircle opposite Kinnersley’s window; in the middle, the only one upright, the horrible hunched figure of the medicine-man stood, his arms folded across his wizened chest, his eyes gleaming uncannily in his shadowed face. For a moment they were still, motionless, as so many statues, while the night wind blew softly, surprisedly, about them, and the moonlight, brilliant as day, picked out each grass-blade at their feet—then, with a suddenness that made me jump, the leader flung both arms upwards to the skies, and as if in response to a signal, there shrilled, aloud and startlingly, horribly near, that dreadful Cry!

  ‘Let me make this quite plain—it was not done by the natives themselves. From where I was I could distinctly see each man, and he was squatting, rigid immovable, head bent towards the ground. It would have taken a dozen men, shouting at the full force of their lungs, to have raised that appalling yell, and these were most obviously breathing evenly, lips closed. Wild, menacing as an avenging spirit, the Cry arose, piercing and quivering, a howl whose agony wrung your heartstrings while its horror chilled your blood! The howl of a dog with the soul of a man, a beast hunting, blood-mad, savage, yet shrill with anguish and fury and despair the while it hunted . . . oh, there are no words for that ghastly hell-born sound!