The Tree of Life. Charles Beadle

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       Charles Beadle

      The Tree of Life

      Published by Good Press, 2020

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066408879

Table of Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

      Chapter 1

      I

       Table of Contents

      A VEIN of platinum on a jade ring was the river Mfunyaballa flowing through the forests of the French Congo. Above the place of a thousand islands is a slight rise of ground like a furry tongue protruding from the cavern of the forests, brown with the huts of the village of Basayaguru.

      On a hot afternoon, when the only moving things were the scraggy goats, lazily scratching, open-beaked native chickens and chromatic lizards, a faint throb vibrated on the sulky air like the pulse of a distant drum. A yodeling cry from the steamy cavern of the forest caused the village to swarm with lithe ebon figures whose heads were decorated with frizzly hair, built a foot high above the forehead, streaming with long-bladed spears in their hands, like a flood of ants, to a point upon the riverside. Again came the cry from the forest from down the river. The distant throb grew into the "Eh! Ahh! Eh! Ahh! Eh! Ahh!" of the chant of paddlers. Presently around a bend appeared a canoe. As the host of natives squatted in silence, came stalking solemnly a tall figure with an ivory comb like a dagger stuck through the head-dress of hair and carrying an Express rifle. In the midst of his people he sank upon his haunches, gazing from a masklike face down the river with the eyes of a repressed child. The strange canoe hugged the far bank of the river, indicating by neglect of the rowers to avoid the sweep of the stream that they were uncertain of their reception.

      Amidship of the leading canoe was a hood of woven grass from which protruded the helmet of a white man. When the canoe was immediately opposite the village, the paddlers backed water, and a tall man garbed in white calico with a green turban after the Arab manner stood up in the bow and chanted rapidly in a loud voice. The mob of natives watching gravely on the beach listened in silence. When the stranger had ceased, one cried back and was again answered by a chant and a signal made with the right hand raised.

      Immediately the tall chief with the Express rifle rose to his feet, cried out imperiously and sat down. The canoe continued up-stream for fifty yards, swung round, came diagonally across the current and nosed its way through a flotilla of small and large canoes upon the village strand.

      From the canoe sprang a short slender man clad in weather-worn khaki and wearing a small dark beard. The chief rose to his feet as the white approached and raised one hand, murmuring the Arabic word—

      "Salaama!"

      "Salaama!" responded the white.

      As he raised his hand in the salute, his quick dark eyes were upon the Express rifle.

      Solemnly the chief turned and led the way through the mob of his people up the hill to an open dusty space littered with goats, chickens and calabashes, where stood a thatched roof upon half a dozen poles, the palaver-house. Opposite to each other upon carved wooden stools, with the white man's interpreter in the green turban beside him, they began the formal palaver.

      After more greetings and the solemn sniffing by the white man of the snuff proffered in a tiny gourd, the young chief indifferently accepted presents of several bales of cloth and a Snider rifle with cart- ridges. During the interview the white man's sharp eyes were unobtrusively noting details. The interpreter informed him that the chief had graciously permitted the strange white man to camp in the open space of the village.

      The white recalled the topographical surroundings, and after swift reflection he consented, knowing that, except for field clearings in the dense forest, there probably was no other ground suitable for a camp. These matters having been arranged, the chief intimated that he would present the credentials to his august father, Basayaguru, which entailed the presentation of another Snider rifle. As the young chief rose to depart, the white man eyed the Express as the warrior handed it to his superior.

      "Notice that .450, Ali?" he commented to the interpreter as they continued to sit in the shade while their equipment was brought from the canoes. "D'you think there are any white traders round here?"

      "Allah is all-wise," responded Ali Mohammed. "Perhaps the person has traded it from the South, sir."

      "South!" exclaimed the little doctor briskly. "These people are not nomadic, are they? I've understood from the agent at Kavaballa's that no whites have yet been here; district only touched by occasional countrymen of yours. Isn't that right?"

      "Allah is all-wise," repeated Ali monotonously, blinking both eyelids. "But my countrymen are not disposed to carry weapons of that kind, Doctor."

      "Um. Um," muttered the little doctor. "Hi!" he shouted in broken Kiswahili, pointing his cane. "Make those men clear up this ground before you pitch the tent. Fahamshi? Tell 'em, Ali. This ground is nothing but a bug-preserve."

      He took out a cigar and lighted it. "What's the particular pet superstition here, Ali? Same as below or a new pope or something, eh?"

      "Allah is——"

      "I asked you what you think?" snapped the doctor.

      "I do not think, sir," returned Ali imperturbably. "The savage think many things that they dream."

      "Dream! Dream!" He glanced at Ali and grinned like a friendly terrier through his short beard. "Um. You're right All this ju-ju business is merely the projection of a dream."

      "In my country that is what our wise men say."

      "Do they, begad? Then they're a —— sight wiser than ours! Um. Um. Ali, do you know what particular legend they have, here?"

      "No, Doctor," admitted Ali. "I do not. There are many strange and mystical things in Africa."

      "Mystical tommyrot!" snorted Dr. Herdwether. "I don't believe you know much about it all."

      "Only Allah knows the truth."

      "I didn't bring you here to know Allah's opinion upon every —— thing from yarns to folklore. As soon as you possibly can, get them to talk."

      "They will not tell us," said Ali, "for these peoples always seek to hide their cult from the infidel eyes of strangers."

      "Um. Um. Well, try, confound it, try!"

      The