'Not my Mr Darwin,' the Irishwoman replied.
The Krooman steward, in loincloth now instead of tailcoat, was behind the three whites with a hissing bull's-eye lantern. Dame Alice feared to raise its shutter, though, and instead ran her fingers nervously along the margins of her open book. Three other blacks, armed only with knives, stood by de Vriny as couriers in case the whistle signals were not enough. The rest of the captain's force was invisible, spread to either side of him along the margin of the trees.
'Don't like this,' Sparrow said, shifting his revolvers a millimeter in their holsters to make sure they were free in the leather. 'Too many niggers around. Some of 'era are apt to be part of the mob down there, coming back late from a hunt or something. Any nigger comes running up in the dark and I'm gonna let 'im hold one.'
'You'll shoot no one without my order,' de Vriny snapped. The colonel may be sending orders, Osterman may need help - this business is going to be dangerous enough without some fool killing our own messengers. Do you hear me?'
'I hear you talking.' A stray glimmer of firelight caught the throbbing vein in Sparrow's temple.
Rather than retort, the Belgian turned back to the clearing. After a moment he said, 'I don't see this god you're looking for.'
Dame Alice's mouth quirked. 'You mean you don't see a fetish,' she said. 'You won't. Ahtu isn't a fetish.'
'Well, what kind of damned god is he then?' de Vriny asked in irritation.
The Irishwoman considered the question seriously, then said, 'Maybe they aren't gods at all, him and the others ... it and the others A]hazred wrote of. Call them cancers, spewed down on earth ages ago. Not life, surely, not even things - but able to shape, to misshape things into a semblance of life and to grow and to grow and to grow.'
'But grow into what, madam?' de Vriny pressed. 'Into what?' Dame Alice echoed sharply. Her eyes flashed with the sudden arrogance of her bandit ancestors, sure of themselves if of nothing else in the world. 'Into this earth, this very planet, if unchecked. And we here will know tonight whether they can be checked yet again.'
'Then you seriously believe,' de Vriny began, sucking at his florid moustache to find a less offensive phrasing. 'You believe that the Bakongos are worshiping a creature which would, will, begin to rule the world if you don't stop it?'
Dame Alice looked at him. 'Not "rule," the world,' she corrected. 'Rather become the world. This thing, this seed awakened in the jungle by the actions of men more depraved and foolish than I can easily believe... this existence, unchecked, would permeate our world like mould through a loaf of bread, until the very planet became a ball of viscid slime hurtling around the sun and stretching tentacles towards Mars. Yes, I believe that, captain. Didn't you see what was happening last night in the village?'
The Belgian only scowled in perplexity.
A silver note sang from across the broad clearing.
De Vriny grunted, then put his long bosun's pipe to his lips and sounded his reply even as Osterman's signal joined it.
The dance broke apart as the once-solid earth began to dimple beneath men's weight.
The Forest Guards burst out of the tree line with cries punctuated by the boom of Albini rifles.
'Light!' ordered Dame Alice in a crackling alto, and the lantern threw its bright fan across the book she held. The scaffolding moved, seemed to sink straight into ground turned fluid as water. At the last instant the three figures on it linked hands and shouted, 'Ahtu? in triumph. Then they were gone.
In waves as complex as the sutures of a skull, motion began to extend through the soil of the clearing. A shrieking Baenga, spear raised to thrust into the nearest dancer, ran through one of the quivering lines. It rose across his body like the breaking surf, and he shrieked again in a different tone. For a moment his black-headed spear bobbled on the surface. Then it, too, was engulfed with a faint plop that left behind only a slick of blood.
Dame Alice started chanting in a singsong, moulding a tongue meant for liquid Irish to a language not meant for tongues at all. A tremor in the earth drove towards her and those about her.
It had the hideous certainty of a torpedo track. Sparrow's hands flexed. De Vriny stood stupefied, the whistle still at his lips and his pistol drawn but forgotten.
The three couriers looked at the oncoming movement, looked at each other... disappeared among the trees. Eyeballs white, the Krooman dropped his lantern and followed them. Quicker even than Sparrow, Dame Alice knelt and righted the lantern with her foot. She acted without missing a syllable of the formula stamped into her memory by long repetition.
Three meters away, a saw-blade of white fire ripped across the death advancing through the soil.
The weaving trail blasted back towards the centre of the clearing like an ant run blown by carbon disulphide.
De Vriny turned in amazement to the woman crouched so that the lantern glow would fall across the black-lettered pages of her book. 'You did it!' he cried. 'You stopped the thing!'
The middle of the clearing raised itself towards the night sky, raining down fragments of the bonfire that crowned it. Humans screamed - some at the touch of the fire, others at tendrils extruding from the towering centre wrapped about them.
Dame Alice continued to chant.
The undergrowth whispered. 'Behind you, captain,' Sparrow said. His face had a thin smile. De Vriny turned, calling a challenge. The brush parted and a few feet in front of him were seven armed natives. The nearest walked on one foot and a stump. His left hand gripped the stock of a Winchester carbine; its barrel was supported by his right wrist since there was a knob of ancient scar tissue where the hand should have been attached.
De Vriny raised his Browning and slapped three shots into the native's chest. Blood spots sprang out against the dark skin like additional nipples. The black coughed and jerked the trigger of his own weapon. The carbine was so close to the Belgian's chest that its muzzle flash ignited the linen of his shirt as it blew him backward.
Sparrow giggled and shot the native through the bridge of his nose, snapping his head around as if a horse had kicked him in the face. The other blacks moved. Sparrow killed them all in a ripple of fire that would have done justice to a Gatling gun. The big revolvers slammed alternately, Sparrow using each orange muzzle flash to light a target for his other hand. He stopped shooting only when there was nothing left before his guns; nothing save a writhing tangle of bodies too freshly dead to be still. The air was thick with white smoke and the fecal stench of death. Behind the laughing gunman, Dame Alice Kilrea continued to chant.
Pulsing, rising, higher already than the giants of the forest ringing it, the fifty-foot-thick column of what had been earth dominated the night. A spear of false lightning jabbed and glanced off, freezing the chaos below for the eyes of any watchers. From the base of the main neck had sprouted a ring of tendrils, ruddy and golden and glittering overall with inclusions of quartz. They snaked among the combatants as flexible as silk; when they closed, they ground together like millstones and spattered blood a dozen yards up the sides of the central column. The tendrils made no distinction between Forest Guards and the others who had danced for Ahtu.
Dame Alice stopped. The column surged and bent against the sky, its peak questing like the muzzle of a hunting dinosaur. Sparrow hissed, 'For the love of God, bitch!' and raised a revolver he knew would be useless.
Dame Alice spoke five more words and flung her book down. The ground exploded in gouts of cauterizing flame.
It was not a hasty thing. Sparks roared and blazed as if the clearing were a cauldron into which gods poured furnaces of molten steel. The black column that was Ahtu twisted hugely, a cobra pinned to a bonfire.
There was no heat, but the light itself seared the eyes and made bare flesh crawl.