Discovery by the woman called Queen Mamaloi was a prospect bad enough, but recognition of the fact that the Chinese doctor was possibly directing this black saturnalia frankly appalled me. And now from far in the rear came a new sound.
There were cries, greetings. Above the Song of Darnballa, the throbbing of drums, I detected the clatter of horse’s hoofs.
“This may be difficult,” said Smith, speaking over his shoulder. “Some senior official is apparently approaching, and ii is just possible—”
“God help us!” I groaned.
“We can probably manage,” Smith replied, “assuming that he is Haitian—although I confess I should prefer to have my back to the wall. You have no Chinese or Hindustani?”
“Not a word.”
“Arabic, then. This has a powerful effect on these descendants of West Africans. It has come down to them as the language of their oppressors.”
“Yes, I have a smattering of Arabic.”
“Good. If anyone addresses you, reply in Arabic. Say anything you can remember—don’t stop to consider the meaning.”
Now, the outcry grew nearer. The horseman was forcing his way up the mountain path, passing the slow moving pilgrims to the shrine of Voodoo. I looked back. We had just negotiated a dizzy bend and I could see nothing of the approaching rider.
* * *
“Have your gun ready,” said Smith, and brought his donkey to a halt.
I did the same, although the iron-jawed little beast was strongly disinclined to pull up. The horseman was now not fifty yards behind.
“If he is looking for us,” said Smith, “and we are recognized, don’t hesitate.”
Looking back, I could make out dimly that the pilgrims between ourselves and the perilous bend had halted their march and were standing back against the rocky wall to give passage to the horseman. A moment later he rounded the comer, riding a lean bay mare and obviously indifferent, to the chasm which yawned beneath him. As he passed each of the standing figures he bent in his saddle and seemed to scrutinize features. A moment later he had reached us.
He partly reined up and bent, looking into my face. I sat in the shadow, the moon behind me, but its light shone directly upon the features of the mounted man.
He was that fierce-eyed mulatto whom we had passed on our way to the house of Father Ambrose, who had stared so hard into the car!
He shouted something in a strange patois, and remembering Smith’s injunction: “Imshi ruah Bundukiyah I replied sharply.
The mulatto seemed to hesitate; then, as the prancing bay almost lashed the flanks of my donkey: “Yalla Ydlla” cried Smith.
The mulatto spurred ahead.
“Move!” said Smith; “or the others will overtake us.”
And once again we proceeded on our way.
We presently came to a welcome break or bay in that perilous mountain road, and here I saw that numbers of the marching multitude had halted for a rest. An awesome prospect was spread at our feet. We were so high, the moon was so bright, and shadows so dense, that I seemed to be looking down upon a relief map illuminated by searchlights. Eastward, at a great distance, shone a lake resembling a mirror, for in it were the inverted images of mountains which I assumed must lie beyond the Dominican border. As I reined up and gazed at this breath-taking prospect, a hand was laid upon my saddle. Swiftly I glanced down at a man who stood there,
He was a pure Negro, and when he spoke he spoke in halting English,
“You come from Petionville—yes?” he asked.
“Kattar kherak,” I replied, and extended my hand in a Fascist salute.
Smith edged up beside me.
“El-hamdu li’llah” he muttered and repeated my gesture.
The Negro touched his forehead, stepped aside and was swallowed in shadow.
“So far,” said Smith, speaking cautiously, “we are doing well, but it is fairly obvious that when we have mounted another two or three thousand feet, we shall arrive at the real gateway to the holy of holies. There we must rely upon our amulets. Above all, Kerrigan, never speak a word of English, and pray that we meet no one who speaks a word of Arabic!”
He was looking about him at dimly perceptible groups who had paused there to rest. Of the mounted mulatto there was no trace, nor—and of this above all things I was fearful—of Dr. Fu Manchu. Many of the pedestrians were refreshing themselves, seated upon the ground. Newcomers arrived continuously. Chanting had stopped, but from near and far came the throbbing of the drums.
“A drink is perhaps indicated,” said Smith, “and then for the next stage.”
As we extracted flasks from our pockets, I was watching the silver and ebony ribbon speckled with moving figures which led higher and higher towards the crest of the Magic Mountain. What awaited us there? Should I learn anything about Ardatha? What was the meaning of this monstrous congregation patiently toiling up the slope of Morne la Selle? That it was something of interest to Dr. Fu Manchu we knew; but what was the mystery behind it all—and who was the Queen Mamaloi?
Smith was very reticent throughout the halt. I recognized the fact that he was afraid of being overheard speaking English, and I fully appreciated the danger. So, our flasks stowed away, we presently started again with scarcely a word exchanged, the Padre’s donkeys obediently ambling along at our command.
The chanting began again as we ascended the mountain: the drums had never ceased.
CHAPTER XXX
THE SEVEN-POINTED STAR
“This,” said Smith,“I assume to be the Voodoo Custom House. Here we shall be called upon to produce our passports.”
We were up, I suppose, between seven and eight thousand feet. We had traversed some of the most perilous mountain paths I had ever met with, but I had learned that the little donkeys, provided one did not attempt to interfere with them, particularly with their fondness for walking upon the extreme outer edge of the precipice, were sure-footed as goats.
For the past two or three miles the road had led through a pass or gorge to which no moonlight penetrated. A mountain stream raged and splashed at the bottom and the path lay some little way above it. The darkness at first seemed impenetrable; but the procession wound on without interruption and our plodding steeds proceeded with unabated confidence. And so presently, through that velvety blackness dotted with moving torches, I too began to discern the details of the route.
Now it opened with dramatic suddenness upon what seemed to be an almost circular valley, hemmed in all around by mountain crests. Its slopes were densely wooded, but immediately facing the gorge there was a clearing as flat as a sports stadium and fully half a mile across. Torches moved among the trees; there were drums very near to us, now; and I saw hundreds of figures gathered before a long, low building which blazed with lights. Away on the right there was a sort of compound where horses, mules and donkeys were tethered. Towards these horse-lines Smith led the way.
“Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.
The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys: “A dollar for the two.”
“Imshi, hammar!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.