The White Witch of the South Seas Page 2

  They left the city by one of the tunnels and continued for several miles up into the mountains. It was now almost pitch dark, but on either side of the road they could make out dense jungle. After some twenty minutes they came upon a long line of parked cars. A few hundred yards further on, their cars pulled up and the party got out, to be led by Captain Sousa up a long flight of some sixty steps cut out of the bare earth, which was kept in place only by rough pieces of wood. On the steps they passed several chickens which had been decapitated, and, as they mounted, the rhythmic beat of many drums grew ever louder.

  At the top of this flight they emerged on to a small plateau that had been made into a primitive auditorium. In the centre there was an oblong, open space about the size of a tennis court, surrounded by a waist-high wall. A line of tumbledown huts faced one side of the open space; on the side opposite there were benches for the congregation and, at the far end, where the ground sloped up, more benches. These latter faced the other narrow end of the ‘court’, the whole length of which was occupied by an altar. It consisted of long, white, draped tables, above which there were shelves to the height of about ten feet. Every inch of space was occupied with an extraordinary collection of objects, crammed higgledy-piggledy together—offerings of all kinds including melons, bottles of rum and beer, sugar cakes, crude paintings, jam jars holding wilting flowers, a number of quite large figures, including those of the Virgin Mary, St. George and the Devil—the whole being lit by chains of fairy lamps.

  Except for the open space the whole area was swarming with people, and Gregory had already noticed that the women of the congregation were separated from the men: the former occupying the benches to one side of the ‘court’ and the men those on the slope at its far end. When they reached the slope the police-woman led the other women of the party off, while Captain Sousa found places halfway up the slope for the men. As they squeezed through to them they were given some rather ugly looks and there were angry mutterings about ‘Americanos’. But both Sousa and da Fonseca spoke to the Macumba votaries in Portuguese, the surly muttering was replaced by smiles and the party settled down without incident on a bench.

  It was now getting on for midnight and the whole auditorium was packed. The majority of the people were apparently of pure Negro blood, but there were complexions of every shade, through coffee up to white tinged only faintly with yellow; quite a number had hooked noses and a few even had blue eyes and straight, golden hair.

  Here and there among them were people wearing quite expensive clothes, but most of the congregation were poorly clad; many were barefooted and in rags. It was very hot. The atmosphere was most oppressive and unpleasantly acrid with the smell of stale sweat. Few jackets were to be seen; the rows of black faces stood out sharply against open-necked white shirts, and the native women appeared to have on only a single garment.

  For a time the drumming contended with the noise and laughter coming from the crowded benches. Then, suddenly, there fell a hush and the tempo of the drums became faster. An elderly Negro walked a little unsteadily out into the middle of the open space. He wore dirty white cotton trousers, bagging at the knees, a sagging jacket and, at a rakish angle on his head, an old cloth cap. His grey hair was wavy and he had a beard. He was smoking a pipe and carried a walking stick with a crook handle. After grinning round at the congregation he began gradually revolving in a very slow shuffle.

  His supporting cast then appeared. It consisted of about twenty women, mostly black, but including a few near-whites. All of them were dressed in white, with high-necked bodices and long, full skirts that swept the ground as they moved. Forming a line, with their backs to the female congregation, they swayed, rather than danced, slowly backwards and forwards, gradually forming a circle.

  The old ‘Godfather’ continued to puff at his pipe of marijuana while shuffling round and round, occasionally waving his stick and, in a quiet voice, calling out a few words. As he grinned after each utterance, Gregory thought it probable that he was making jokes, and he certainly had more the appearance of a clown than a witch-doctor.

  Without any alteration, except for a slight acceleration in the pace of the shuffling and swaying, this went on for a good twenty minutes. Becoming bored, Gregory moved restlessly in his seat. Hugo, who was sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered:

  ‘Pity we couldn’t have come in later; but they wouldn’t have that. I gathered that they don’t really get going until about two o’clock in the morning, so we’ll have to be patient.’

  Gregory nodded, and lit one of his fat, four-inch long Sullivan cigarettes.

  With little variation, the sombre dance continued for a further quarter of an hour. Then there came a spattering on the leaves of the trees that surrounded the enclosure. It had begun to rain.

  Hugo swore under his breath. ‘Let’s hope this is only a shower. If it’s one of our big tropical storms, we’ve had it.’

  ‘With so much thunder about, I’ll bet you it’s a downpour,’ Gregory replied. And after a few minutes it was clear that he was right. From large, scattered splashes, the rain rapidly increased until it was sheeting down. In tropical countries Negroes go about lightly clad, but they nearly always carry umbrellas. A solid mass of them shot up, obliterating the congregation, but the torrents of rain descending were such that the umbrellas offered little protection.

  Thunder boomed like a broadside of heavy guns, temporarily drowning the sound of the drums. The strings of fairy lights above the altar suddenly went out, but great jagged streaks of forked lightning continued from minute to minute to light the scene. By their light, through the curtain of rain, it could be vaguely seen that the ceremony was still proceeding. The old Negro continued to stumble round, but was now waving his stick above his head and yelling at the sky. Captain Sousa leaned forward and shouted, ‘’E is telling rain to go away, but I think ‘e don’t ‘ave much luck.’

  Within a matter of minutes everyone was soaked to the skin. As the rain was lukewarm, the discomfort it inflicted was minimised; but the storm showed no sign of abating and the congregation rapidly began to break up.

  ‘No good staying on,’ said Hugo abruptly. ‘We must find the girls and get them to the cars.’

  Leaving their seats, they began to struggle through the seething mass of people. Captain Sousa blew his whistle. There came a shrill reply from some distance off and, knowing that it came from the police-woman, they headed in that direction. Five minutes later, to their great relief, they found Patricia and the others. Taking the arms of the women, they strove to get them through the crowd to the head of the long flight of steps. At length they succeeded, but only to find that rain from the plateau was cascading down the primitive staircase like a waterfall.

  Gregory was leading, with Manon de Bois-Tracy. In one swift movement he picked her up and plunged knee deep into the torrent. Some of the boards supporting the steps had already given way. The earth had turned to mud and was extremely slippery. Lurching from side to side and only just succeeding in keeping his balance, he got her down to the solid road and, gasping for breath, set her on her feet.

  For several minutes they waited for the others. Stumbling, sliding, some on their backs, scores of the congregation were swept down the steep slope, but none of Hugo’s party was among them.

  With a frown, Gregory said, ‘They must have decided that the steps have become too dangerous, and mean to wait up there until the storm is over. We had better try to find one of the cars.’

  Like two drowned rats, their clothes clinging to them, while the rain still sheeted down, they set off along the line of motors parked at the roadside. A few, the owners of which had got away early, were pulling out and setting off for Rio, but the majority were lightless and unoccupied. Angrily, Gregory realised that the drivers of the police cars must have left them to go up and see the ceremony and were now trapped among the milling mob above the torrent. It was too dark for there to be any chance of identifying the cars, so for a few moments he
stood silently cursing while wondering what best to do.

  There came a deafening clap of thunder. Lightning streaked down from almost immediately overhead, a great tree nearby was struck and one of the larger branches was peeled off, to crash across the roof of a car. Manon screamed and threw her arms round Gregory.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t be afraid. As long as we stay clear of the trees we’ll come to no harm. But we must find shelter somewhere.’

  Swinging her round, he drew her back up the road. After covering a hundred yards he glimpsed through the trees the white walls of a bungalow. Taking the path that led to it, they went up the steps to the porch and he banged on the door. There was no reply, but the door swung open.

  Staggering inside, they found the place deserted, but an oil lamp that had been turned low was burning in the main room. Turning up the wick, they looked about them. The room was better furnished than might have been expected. It even had shelves on one wall, carrying a hundred or more books, and a writing desk in front of one of the windows. Exhausted after their struggle against the elements, they sank down on the sofa.

  The rain drummed with unceasing ferocity on the roof, thunder continued to roll and every few moments lightning made the window a blinding glare that lit up every detail of the room.

  Gregory soon pulled himself together, stood up and went to explore the other rooms of the dwelling. After a short absence he returned carrying a bottle three-quarters full of rum and two mugs. He had already taken a good swig himself and now he made Manon do likewise. As the fiery liquid went down her throat she gasped, but her sallow cheeks took on colour and she gave him a faint smile. Then she asked:

  ‘What now? How will we ever get back?’

  He grinned at her. ‘All the odds are that the owner of this place went to the party and is still stuck among the crowd. When he does return we’ll ask him to get a car for us or, if he can’t do that, fix us up here for the night.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t be able to get back,’ she hazarded.

  Gregory’s grin deepened. ‘I’m afraid that’s too much to hope for. All the same, you ought to get those wet things off. There are some women’s clothes in the second room on the right down the passage. In the circumstances, their owner is hardly likely to object to your making temporary use of them.’

  As he spoke, his glance swept over her from top to toe. Her thin frock was so saturated that it clung to her skin, revealing every detail of her good figure. After a moment he added:

  ‘It looks as if you are going to have difficulty getting that dress off. If you do, give me a shout and I’ll come and help.’

  ‘I’m sure you would like to,’ she replied a shade tartly, ‘but at the moment I’m in no mood to accept such attentions from a gentleman.’

  ‘Now, don’t pretend to be a prude,’ he mocked her. ‘No woman with such a lovely figure as yours isn’t glad of an excuse to show herself off in a bikini or her undies. As for the “attentions” you appear to fear, you wrong me. I indulge in that sort of pastime only in warm and comfortable surroundings, with a magnum of champagne at hand and after having given my companion an excellent dinner.’

  Before she could reply, sounds came from the front door and a little group of people came hurrying into the room. At their head was the old ‘Godfather’; he was followed by a gangling-limbed but quite well-dressed young Negro of about nineteen and three of the Negro women who had taken part in the ceremony, their long white skirts now slushing round their ankles.

  The old man looked at Gregory, gave a sudden start and dropped his stick. Picking it up, he stared at Gregory for a moment as though seeing a ghost, then spoke to him in what Gregory took to be a bastard form of Portuguese. Hoping that one of them understood some English and choosing the simplest words he could, he explained that he and Manon had taken refuge there from the storm. Whereupon the youth said in a squeaky voice:

  ‘Americanos, eh? I speek yo’ language. Am educating at university. My father an’ the womans not. My name Enrico.’

  Gregory then asked if it was possible for him to get them a car, to which Enrico replied, ‘I ’ave auto in garage. Later I takes yo’ to city. But not yet. Much, much rain. Yo’ wait here fo’ while.’

  Having thanked him, Gregory asked if Manon could be provided with a change of clothes. The youth translated to the women, who had been standing staring wide-eyed at them from the doorway. Their black faces broke into wide grins, then they beckoned to Manon and she went off down the passage with them.

  Meanwhile, the old Macumba priest had seated himself in a rocking chair. He had a white film over one eye, but the other was as keen as that of an eagle. He was regarding Gregory in a by no means friendly fashion.

  Glancing at Enrico, Gregory said, ‘Please tell your father how distressed we are for him that the storm should have spoilt his ceremony.’

  Enrico translated, then said in English, ‘He much opset. He believe yo’ an’ yo’ friends who come with Police enemies of him an’ make bad magic that bring rain.’

  Gregory raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Please assure him that is not so. We came only out of scientific interest and were just as disappointed as he is that the ceremony had to be stopped.’

  When he learned this the old man looked slightly mollified and Gregory said, ‘I would very much like to hear what would have taken place if the ceremony had continued.’

  ‘Spirits enter bodies of some of the womans,’ Enrico answered. ‘Then spirits talk; denounce bad peoples, make prophecy, help father to tell future.’

  Manon had just re-entered the room with the other women. She had not accepted a loan of clothes but stripped and wrung her own out, knowing that in the intense heat they would soon dry on her. Hearing Enrico’s last words, she said with swift interest, ‘So your father, ‘e tells fortunes. ‘E make me very ‘appy if ‘e tell mine.’

  Enrico grinned at her. ‘I make persuade him. That is, if yo’ pay ’im good money.’

  Turning to Gregory, she said in French, ‘When you were carrying me down that stairway I dropped my bag. Could you lend me enough money for this?’

  ‘I expect so,’ he smiled, and took a two-inch-thick wad of half-sodden notes out of his jacket pocket. They looked to be worth a small fortune, as most of them were five-thousand-cruzeiro bills, the highest value normally then in circulation in Brazil. But, largely owing to the immense sums expended in recent years on the new capital of Brasilia, Brazil’s finances have fallen into such a parlous state that the cruzeiro had slumped to over six thousand to the pound sterling. So, to the considerable inconvenience of people who live fairly expensively, such unwieldy packages of currency had to be carried about.

  Peeling off five of the five-thousand-cruzeiro notes, Gregory offered them to the old man while Enrico was making Manon’s request. His solitary eye glinting brightly, he stretched out a claw-like hand and took the money.

  Enrico then walked over to the desk. From a drawer he took a canvas bag and a piece of similar material, both of which he handed to his father.

  The ‘Godfather’ eased himself out of his rocking chair on to his knees and spread the piece of canvas on the floor. It was about two feet square and marked on it in black there were a number of crude symbols. Picking up the floppy bag, he began to mutter what was evidently an incantation, meanwhile shaking the bag gently up and down and to and fro.

  With each movement something inside the bag made a soft clicking sound and, from what Gregory had read of Negro magic, he had little doubt that this descendant of long-dead African witch-doctors was about to ‘throw the bones’.

  He proved right. After chanting in a low voice for about five minutes, the old man loosened the string round the neck of the bag and tipped a score or more of small bones out on to the square of canvas.

  For quite a while he silently studied the way they had fallen in relation to the symbols, while the three woman peered timidly over his shoulder. Then he looked up and spoke to Enric
o, who translated:

  ‘My father, he say yo’ soon have new lover. But yo’ very fond of another mans. Also, with him yo’ have big money interest. So your heart divided; understand? Much happiness for yo’ with new lover, but to keep much courage needed. My father then ask: “Have yo’ ever kill?” Kill a man, that is. He think yo’ have.’

  Manon suddenly went pale and her brown eyes distended until they looked enormous. Giving a slight nod, she whispered, ‘Yes, but—but only because I had to.’

  The old man spoke again and Enrico interpreted. ‘My father, he say, “Then yo’ should kill again. There is a White Witch. She comes into yo’ life. Yo’ will lose yo’s happiness—lose all, unless yo’ kills her when yo’ has the chance”.’

  There fell a sudden silence. Having understood what the ‘Godfather’ had said, the woman were regarding Manon with awed curiosity. Enrico had thrust his thumb between the first and second fingers of his hand, and was pointing it at her as a defence against her possibly malign influence. Gregory, hearing her confess to having killed a man, caught himself looking at her with increased interest. To break the tension, he again pulled out his wad of notes, peeled off another five and offered them with the request that the bones should be thrown for him.

  The old man swiftly gathered up the bones and thrust them back into the bag, but he did not take the money. Waving it away, he got from his knees and spoke swiftly to his son.

  Enrico’s mouth fell open and he gave a slight gulp. Then, recovering himself, he said in a tremulous voice, ‘My father, he say yo’ have no future to tell. Sometimes he have visions. Jus’ now, when he come in this room, he have one. He see yo’ this time tomorrow night as dead—dead in a ditch.’

  2

  His Last Twenty-four Hours

  Again a shocked silence fell. They could hear the rain still pattering on the roof, but none of them noticed that its beat had lessened or had registered the fact that thunder now rumbled only in the distance. At length Gregory said to Enrico: