On the fifth day they turned from the mighty Congo into a tributary that threaded the dark mysterious forest, whose depths had never been trodden yet by white men, whose dark retreats and sombre avenues, into which no ray of sunlight struggled, were the haunt of the gorilla, of pigmies, and of cannibals, dreaded most of all.
After the broad Congo this was a mere thread, no more than a few hundred yards across, a gloomy opening in the gloomy woods that marched right down to its sh.o.r.es; that sent out huge branches in a leafy roof over the water near the banks, making dark retreats, in which lurked watchful crocodiles. The stir and bustle of the great river found no echo in this silent byway. Nowhere was there any trace of man. The forest seemed impenetrable, beyond all his puny efforts to make a footing.
There seemed no room enough for a man to set his foot, so close was the foliage from the ground to the topmost bough of the tallest tree. Mile after mile they went on, without a sign of life, then from the sh.o.r.e an arrow whistled, pierced the awning, and rang on the metal deck.
Compton put the wheel over, and the Okapi slid away from that dangerous screen. Then they slowed up and looked, but there was no sound and no sign from the hidden enemy. Doubtless, fierce eyes were glaring out upon them, but they could see nothing, and with a long uneasy look all around they kept on for a mile or so, when they came upon a clearing that spoke of man. It spoke of man, but there was nothing living in the few acres that had been hewn out of the woods.
A ring of black embers showed where huts had stood, a dug-out canoe lay half in, half out the waters, a broken clay pot, a rusty hoe, and a litter of bones were gathered forlornly in one spot, and a strip of cloth fluttered from a scarred post. They ran the Okapi in, and Muata, with his jackal, leapt ash.o.r.e to decipher what this writing in the forest meant. The jackal showed none of the delight that a dog would have shown under similar conditions, but at once vanished into the wood, with his nose to the ground, bent on the serious business of life--that of nosing out the enemy, while his master, with his favourite Ghoorka knife in his hand, rapidly inspected the ground.
Instinctively they all felt the need for caution. The boys had the edge taken off their rash ardour long before, but that sinister warning from the forest in the shape of the arrow had driven home again the lesson that it was necessary to be always on guard.
The forest, in its silence and in its gloom, was menacing. They glanced up the river. It stretched away like an avenue cut out of a solid ma.s.s of vegetation, and all the length to the spot where the banks seemed to run together, as if the river had ended, there was no sign of living thing.
Suddenly an animal darted across the clearing and crouched behind Muata. It was the jackal, the hair on its neck erect, and its body quivering with fear, or excitement. Then a branch snapped with a startling report, there was a violent shaking of leaves, a short bark-like roar, and then a noise of shaking gradually decreasing.
Muata had fallen back to the river"s brink at the roar, but now he turned his attention once more to the clearing.
"What was that?"
"Man-monkey," he said quietly.
"Gorilla! By Jove!" and the boys stared into the forest, and then at each other. "Perhaps he"s gone to call up the others. Will he come back, Muata?"
"Not he," said Mr. Hume. "He"s just about as frightened as we were.
What are the signs, Muata?"
"Wow! Bad--bad signs. These be the bones of men;" and he turned over the ashes with his foot. "They were few who made a home here, and the man-eaters marked them for their own. In the night they fell on the village, killed the men, and rested here while they feasted-- rested till the last was eaten; then with the women and the children they went back. That much the signs tell me."
"Does he mean," asked Venning, in horror, "that they were cannibals?"
Mr. Hume nodded his head.
"The brutes," muttered Compton, turning white.
"I don"t wonder," said Venning, in a whisper. "This place is enough to breed any horror."
"It will be safe to land," said the chief, quietly.
"But what of the arrow?"
"That was not shot by a man-eater. It was the arrow of a river-man; maybe the same man loosened it as tied the fetish cloth to the pole, for one has been here since the man-eaters left."
He put two fingers in his mouth and produced a shrill whistle.
There was no answer; and after a time they all landed to stretch their legs, but the a.s.sociations of the place, with those grim remains of the cannibal feast, were too terrible, and they did not stay long. As the Okapi resumed her voyage up the sombre defile, a faint whistle sounded on the opposite bank. Muata replied in the same fashion, and called out.
Back from the shadows came a quavering answer. Muata called again, and out from under the roof of leaves, formed by the overhanging branches, shot a tiny craft, with two men in her. The Okapi slowed down, and the little canoe, with many a halt, timidly drew near till the occupants could be clearly seen. One--he who wielded the paddle --was a young man, black as soot, with a s.h.a.ggy head of frizzled wool, and wild, suspicious eyes. The other, who appeared to be urging the other to more speed, was an old man, whose head was covered by an Arab fez.
"Peace be with you," said Mr. Hume, in Arab.
"And with you, also," replied the old man, in a thin voice. "Haste, my son!"--this to the paddler. "They are white men, such as I have spoken of."
The canoe gradually drew near, and the old man held out a shaking hand to be helped on board the larger boat; but the wild man remained in his dug-out. The old man told his story slowly in a strange dialect understood by Muata, and the purport of it was that the cannibals had surprised the village at dawn, killed all the men with the exception of themselves, and had gone off with the women.
It was a familiar story to Muata, and he related it coldly; but his indifference did not last very long. It was plain that the old man was not of the same race as his companion, and when the two had eaten, Compton asked the old chap how he came to wear a fez and speak Arabic.
"It is the speech of my fathers, effendi," he said, turning his smoke-bleared eyes on the young face.
"And how came it that an Arab was dwelling with the river-people?"
asked Muata. "Sooner would I have looked for an old wolf living at peace with the goats."
The Arab withdrew his gaze from Compton and fastened it on the otter outlined on the chiefs breast. With a skinny finger he pointed at the chief.
"Allah is great," he said. "This is his work; and you will follow on the track of the man-eaters."
"Save your speech, old man, for we work not for river-people; and you forget the arrow that was loosed at us."
"This one loosed it in rage at the loss of his wife, mistaking you for wolves; but, even so, it was as Allah willed, for the arrow warned you of our presence."
"You speak in circles, my friend," said Compton. "Show us the finger of Allah in this matter?"
"This," said the old man, solemnly, placing his finger on Muata"s breast, "is he they call the River Wolf, the son of the wise woman, the warrior who will follow the track of the man-eaters."
"What know ye of the wise woman?" demanded the chief.
"We talked together, she and I, at the village that is burnt, of the days when Muata was a babe in her arms, when these limbs of mine were strong to do service for a white man, whose voice was the voice of the young effendi."
"And where now is the wise woman, old man?"
"It is four days since the cannibals left. Tell me where they would be, O warrior, for the forest is your hunting-ground."
Muata lowered his eyelids, and took the news of his mother"s capture by the cannibals in silence; but Compton was burning with excitement at the reference to the white man.
"What white man was that you spoke of? I look for such a one."
"Men search not for the dead, effendi."
"But for signs of the dead--for the place of his burial, for the book he wrote, for the things he left."
The old man nodded. "Allah is great. Is it not as I said; you have been guided hither?"
"But tell me of the white man," said Compton, impatiently.
"We two, the wise woman and I, talked of the white man; and she knows all. See, I am old, and the past is like a mist, through which old memories pa.s.s quickly like shadows; but the wise woman can blow the mist away. Find her, and you will learn all of my white man."
More than this the old man could not say, and presently he fell asleep; but from the wild man Muata learnt that his mother had indeed been at the village.
"And you will want to leave us, chief?" said Mr. Hume, when the story had been straightened out.
"Ow aye. Shall a son leave the mother who bore him through the dangers of the wood? I will follow;" and his eyes lingered on the Ghoorka knife.