The Albini bullet was big and slow and had the punch of a medicine ball. The father spun backward and knocked one of the Baengas down with him. Despite the wound he stood again and staggered forward towards Samba. Both the remaining rifles went off. This time, when the shots had sledged him down, five of the spearmen ran to the body and began stabbing.
The Baenga with the whip got up, leaving Samba on the ground. The boy's eyes were open and utterly empty. Lieutenant Trouville stepped over him to shout, 'Cease, you idiots!' at the bellowing knot of spearmen. They parted immediately. Trouville wore a waxed moustache and a white linen suit that looked crisp save for the sweat stains under his arms, but the revolver at his belt was not for show. He had once pistoled a Guard who, drunk with arrogance and palm wine, had started to burn a village which was still producing rubber.
Now the slim Belgian stared at the corpse and grimaced. 'Idiots,' he repeated to the shamefaced Baengas. øI~ree bullets to account for, when there was no need at all to fire. Does the quartermaster charge us for spear thrusts as well as bullets?'
The askaris looked at the ground, pretending to be solely concerned with the silent huts or with scratching their insect bites. The man with the chicote coiled it and knelt with his dagger to cut off the dead man's right ear. A thong around his neck carried a dozen others already, brown and crinkled. They would be turned in at Boma to justify the tally of expended cartridges.
'Take the boy's too,' Trouville snapped. 'He started it, after all. And we'll still be one short.'
The patrol marched off, subdued in the face of their lieutenant's wrath. Trouville was muttering,
'Like children. No sense at all.' After they were gone, a woman stole from the nearest hut and cradled her son. Both of them moaned softly.
Time passed, and in the forest a drum began to beat.
In London, Dame Alice Kilrea bent over a desk in her library and opened the book a messenger had just brought her from Vienna. Her hair was gathered in a mousy bun from which middle age had stripped all but a hint of auburn. She tugged abstractedly at an escaped lock of it as she turned pages, squinting down her prominent nose.
In the middle of the volume she paused. The German heading provided instructions, stating that the formula there given was a means of separating death from the semblance of life. The remainder of the page and the three that followed it were in phonetic transliteration from a language few scholars would have recognized. Dame Alice did not mouth any of those phrases. A premonition of great trees and a thing greater than the trees shadowed her consciousness as she read silently down the page.
It would be eighteen years before she spoke any part of the formula aloud.
Sergeant Osterman drank palm wine in the shade of a baobab as usual while Baloko oversaw the weighing of the village's rubber. This time the Baenga had ordered M'fini, the chief, to wait for all the other males to be taken first. There was an ominous silence among the villagers as the wiry old man came forward to the table at which Baloko sat, flanked by his fellow Forest Guards.
'Ho, M'fini,' Baloko said jovially, 'what do you bring US?'
Without speaking, the chief handed over his greywhite sheets of latex. They were layered with plantain leaves. Baloko set the rubber on one pan of his scales, watched it easily overbalance the four-kilogram weight in the other pan. Instead of setting the rubber on the pile gathered by the other villagers and paying M'fini in brass wire, Baloko smiled. 'Do you remember, M'fini,' the Baenga asked, 'what I told you last week when you said to me that your third wife T'sini would never sleep with another man while you lived?'
The chief was trembling. Baloko stood and with his forefinger flicked M'fini's latex out of the weighing pan to the ground. 'Bad rubber,' he said and grinned. 'Stones, trash hidden in it to bring it to the weight. An old man like you, M'fini, must spend too much time trying to satisfy your wives when you should be finding rubber for the King.'
'I swear, I swear by the god Iwa who is death,' cried M'fini, on his knees and clutching the flapping bulk of rubber as though it were his firstborn, 'it is good rubber, all smooth and clean as milk itself!'
Two of the askaris seized M'fini by the elbows and drew him upright. Baloko stepped around the weighing table, drawing his iron-bladed knife as he did so. 'I will help you, M'fini, so that you will have more time to find good rubber for King Leopold.'
Sergeant Osterman ignored the first of the screams, but when they went on and on he swigged down the last of his calabash and sauntered over to the group around the scales. He was a big man, swarthy and scarred across the forehead by a Tuareg lance while serving with the French in Algeria.
Baloko anticipated the question by grinning and pointing to M'fini. The chief writhed on the ground, his eyes screwed shut and both hands clutched to his groin. Blood welling from between his fingers streaked black the dust he thrashed over. 'Him big man, bring nogood rubber,' Baloko said.
Osterman knew little Bantu, so communication between him and the Guards was generally in pidgin. 'Me make him no-good man, bring big rubber now.'
The burly Fleming laughed. Baloko moved closer, nudged him in the ribs. 'Him wife T'sini, him no need more,' the Baenga said. 'You, me, all along Guards we make T'sini happy wife, yes?'
Osterman scanned the encircling villagers whom curiosity had forced to watch and fear now kept from dispersing. In the line, a girl staggered and her neighbours edged away quickly as if her touch might be lethal. Her hair was wound high with brass wire in the fashion of a dignitary's wife, and her body had the slim delight of a willow shoot. Even in the lush heat of the equator, twelve-yearolds look to be girls rather than women.
Osterman, still chuckling, moved towards T'sini. Baloko was at his side.
Time passed. From deep in the forest came rumblings that were neither of man nor of Earth.
In a London study, the bay window was curtained against frost and the grey slush quivering over the streets. The coal fire hissed as Dame Alice Kilrea, fingers tented, dictated to her male amanuensis. Her dress was of good linen but two buttons were missing, unnoticed, from the placket, and the lace front showed signs of lunch bolted in the library ... 'and, thanks to your intervention, the curator of the Special Reading Room allowed me to handle Alhazred myself instead of having a steward turn the pages at my request. ! opened the volume three times at random and read the passage on which my index finger fell.
'Before, I had been concerned; now I am certain and terrified. All the lots were congruent, referring to aspects of the Messenger.' She looked down at the amanuensis and said, 'Capital on
"Messenger," John.' He nodded.
'Your support has been of untold help; now my need for it is doubled. Somewhere in the jungles of that dark continent the crawling chaos grows and gathers strength. I am armed against it with the formulas that Spiedel found in the library of Kloster-Neuburg just before his death; but that will do us no good unless they can be applied in time. You know, as I do, that only the most exalted influence will pass me into the zone of disruption at the crucial time. That time may yet be years to come, but they are years of the utmost significance to Mankind. Thus I beg your unstinting support not in my name or that of our kinship, but on behalf of life itself.
'Paragraph, John. As for the rest, I am ready to act as others have acted in the past. Personal risk has ever been the coin paid for knowledge of the truth.'
The amanuensis wrote with quick, firm strokes. He was angry both with himself and with Dams Alice. Her letter had driven out of his mind thoughts of the boy whom he intended to seduce that evening in Kettners.