The Great Taboo

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WA­GER OF BAT­TLE.

Fe­lix wound his way painful­ly through the deep fern-​brake of the jun­gle, by no reg­ular path, so as to avoid ex­cit­ing the alarm of the na­tives, and to take Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's palace-​tem­ple from the rear, where the big tree, which over­shad­owed it with its droop­ing branch­es, was most eas­ily ap­proach­able. As he and Toko crept on, bend­ing low, through that dense trop­ical scrub, in death­ly si­lence, they were aware all the time of a low, crack­ling sound that rang ev­er some paces in the rear on their trail through the for­est. It was Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's Eyes, fol­low­ing them stealthi­ly from afar, foot­step for foot­step, through the dense un­der­growth of bush, and the crisp fall­en leaves and twigs that snapped light be­neath their foot­fall. What hope of suc­cess with those watch­ful spies, keen as bea­gles and cru­el as blood­hounds, fol­low­ing ev­er on their track? What chance of es­cape for Fe­lix and Muriel, with the can­ni­bal man-​gods toils laid round on ev­ery side to in­sure their de­struc­tion?

Silent­ly and cau­tious­ly the two men groped their way on through the dark gloom of the woods, in spite of their mute pur­suers. The moon­light flick­ered down athwart the track­less soil as they went; the hum of in­sects in­nu­mer­able droned deep along the un­der­brush. Now and then the star­tled scream of a night jar broke the monotony of the buzz that was worse than si­lence; owls boomed from the hol­low trees, and fire­flies dart­ed dim through the open spaces. At last they emerged up­on the cleared area of the tem­ple. There Fe­lix, with­out one mo­ment's hes­ita­tion, with a firm and res­olute tread, stepped over the white coral line that marked the taboo of the great god's precincts. That was a dec­la­ra­tion of open war; he had crossed the Ru­bi­con of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's em­pire. Toko stood trem­bling on the far side; none might pass that mys­tic line un­bid­den and live, save the Ko­rong alone who could suc­ceed in break­ing off the bough “with yel­low leaves, re­sem­bling a mistle­toe,” of which Methuse­lah, the par­rot, had told Fe­lix and Muriel, and so earn the right to fight for his life with the re­doubt­ed and re­doubtable Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

As he stepped over the taboo-​line, Fe­lix was aware of many na­tive eyes fixed stoni­ly up­on him from the sur­round­ing precinct. Clear­ly they were await­ing him. Yet not a soul gave the alarm; that in it­self would have been to break taboo. Ev­ery man or wom­an among the tem­ple at­ten­dants with­in that charmed cir­cle stood on gaze cu­ri­ous­ly. Close by, Ula, the fa­vorite wife of the man-​god, crouched low by the hut, with one fin­ger on her treach­er­ous lips, bend­ing ea­ger­ly for­ward, in silent ex­pec­ta­tion of what next might hap­pen. Once, and once on­ly, she glanced at Toko with a mute sign of tri­umph; then she fixed her big eyes on Fe­lix in tremu­lous anx­iety; for to her as to him, life and death now hung ab­so­lute­ly on the is­sue of his en­ter­prise. A lit­tle far­ther back the King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter, in full sac­ri­fi­cial robes, stood smil­ing sar­don­ical­ly. For them it was mere­ly a ques­tion of one mas­ter more or less, one Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la in place of an­oth­er. They had no spe­cial in­ter­est in the up­shot of the con­test, save in so far as they al­ways hat­ed most the man who for the mo­ment held by his own strong arm the su­pe­ri­or god­ship over them. Around, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's Eyes kept watch and ward in sin­is­ter si­lence. Taboo was stronger than even the com­mands of the high god him­self. When once a Ko­rong had crossed that fa­tal line, un­bid­den and un­wel­comed by Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, he came as Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's foe and would-​be suc­ces­sor; the du­ty of ev­ery guardian of the tem­ple was then to see fair play be­tween the god that was and the god that might be--the Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la of the hour and the Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la who might pos­si­bly sup­plant him.

“Let the great spir­it it­self choose which body it will in­hab­it,” the King of Fire mur­mured in a soft, low voice, glanc­ing to­ward a dark spot at the foot of the big tree. The moon­light fell dim through the branch­es on the place where he looked. The glib­ber­ing bones of dead vic­tims rat­tled light­ly in the wind. Fe­lix's eyes fol­lowed the King of Fire's, and saw, ly­ing asleep up­on the ground, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la him­self, with his spear and tom­ahawk.

He lay there, hud­dled up by the very roots of the tree, breath­ing deep and reg­ular­ly. Right over his head pro­ject­ed the branch, in one part of whose boughs grew the fate­ful par­asite. By the dim light of the moon, strag­gling through the dense fo­liage, Fe­lix could see its yel­low leaves dis­tinct­ly. Be­neath it hung a skele­ton, sus­pend­ed by in­vis­ible cords, head down­ward from the branch­es. It was the skele­ton of a pre­vi­ous Ko­rong who had tried in vain to reach the bough, and per­ished. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la had made high feast on the vic­tim's flesh; his bones, now col­lect­ed to­geth­er and cun­ning­ly fas­tened with na­tive rope, served at once as a warn­ing and as a trap or pit­fall for all who might rash­ly ven­ture to fol­low him.

Fe­lix stood for one mo­ment, alone and awe-​struck, a soli­tary civ­ilized man, among those hideous sur­round­ings. Above, the cold moon; all about, the grim, stol­id, half-​hos­tile na­tives; close by, that strange, ser­pen­tine, sav­age wife, guard­ing, cat-​like, the sleep of her can­ni­bal hus­band; be­hind, the watch­ful Eyes of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, wait­ing ev­er in the back­ground, ready to raise a loud shout of alarm and warn­ing the mo­ment the fa­tal branch was ac­tu­al­ly bro­ken, but mute, by their vows, till that mo­ment was ac­com­plished. Then a sud­den wild im­pulse urged him on to the at­tempt. The banyan had dropped down root­ing off­sets to the ground, af­ter the fash­ion of its kind, from its main branch­es. Fe­lix seized one of these and swung him­self light­ly up, till he reached the very limb on which the sa­cred par­asite it­self was grow­ing.

To get to the par­asite, how­ev­er, he must pass di­rect­ly above Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's head, and over the point where that ghast­ly grin­ning skele­ton was sus­pend­ed, as by an un­seen hair, from the fork that bore it.

He walked along, bal­anc­ing him­self, and clutch­ing, as he went, at the neigh­bor­ing boughs, while Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, over­come with the ka­va, slept stolid­ly and heav­ily on be­neath him. At last he was al­most with­in grasp of the par­asite. Could he lunge out and clutch it? One try--one ef­fort! No, no; he al­most lost foot­ing and fell over in the at­tempt. He couldn't keep his bal­ance so. He must try far­ther on. Come what might, he must go past the skele­ton.

The gris­ly mass swung again, clank­ing its bones as it swung, and groaned in the wind omi­nous­ly. The breeze whis­tled au­di­bly through its hol­low skull and va­cant eye-​sock­ets. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la turned un­easi­ly in his sleep be­low. Fe­lix saw there was not one in­stant of time to be lost now. He passed on bold­ly; and as he passed, a dozen thin cords of pa­per mul­ber­ry, stretched ev­ery way in an in­vis­ible net­work among the boughs, too small to be seen in the dim moon­light, caught him with their toils and al­most over­threw him. They broke with his weight, and Fe­lix him­self, tum­bling blind­ly, fell for­ward. At the cost of a sprained wrist and a great jerk on his bruised fin­gers, he caught at a bough by his side, but wrenched it away sud­den­ly. It was touch and go. At the very same mo­ment, the skele­ton fell heav­ily, and rat­tled on the ground be­side Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

Be­fore Fe­lix could dis­cov­er what had ac­tu­al­ly hap­pened, a very great shout went up all round be­low, and made him stag­ger with ex­cite­ment. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was awake, and had start­ed up, all in­tent, mad with wrath and ka­va. Glar­ing about him wild­ly, and bran­dish­ing his great spear in his stal­wart hands, he screamed aloud, in a per­fect fren­zy of pas­sion and de­spair: “Where is he, the Ko­rong? Bring him on, my meat! Let me de­vour his heart! Let me tear him to pieces. Let me drink of his blood! Let me kill him and eat him!”

Sick and des­per­ate at the ac­ci­dent, Fe­lix, in turn, cling­ing hard to his bough with one hand, gazed wild­ly about him to look for the par­asite. But it had gone as if by mag­ic. He glanced around in de­spair, vague­ly con­scious that noth­ing was left for it now but to drop to the ground and let him­self be killed at leisure by that fran­tic sav­age. Yet even as he did so, he was aware of that great cry--a cry as of tri­umph--still rend­ing the air. Fire and Wa­ter had rushed for­ward, and were hold­ing back Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, now black in the face from rage, with all their might. Ula was smil­ing a ma­li­cious joy. The Eyes were all agog with in­ter­est and ex­cite­ment. And from one and all that wild scream rose unan­imous to the star­tled sky: “He has it! He has it! The Soul of the Tree! The Spir­it of the World! The great god's abode. Hold off your hands, Lavi­ta, son of Sa­mi! Your tri­al has come. He has it! He has it!”

Fe­lix looked about him with a whirling brain. His eye fell sud­den­ly. There, in his own hand, lay the fate­ful bough. In his ef­forts to steady him­self, he had clutched at it by pure ac­ci­dent, and bro­ken it off un­awares with the force of his clutch­ing. As for­tune would have it, he grasped it still. His sens­es reeled. He was al­most dead with ex­cite­ment, sus­pense, and un­cer­tain­ty, min­gled with pain of his wrenched wrist. But for Muriel's sake he pulled him­self to­geth­er. Gaz­ing down and try­ing hard to take it all in--that strange sav­age scene--he saw that Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was mak­ing fran­tic at­tempts to lunge at him with the spear, while the King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter, stern and re­lent­less, were hold­ing him off by main force, and striv­ing their best to ap­pease and qui­et him.

There was an aw­ful pause. Then a voice broke the still­ness from be­yond the taboo-​line:

“The Shad­ow of the King of the Rain speaks,” it said, in very solemn, con­ven­tion­al ac­cents. “Ko­rong! Ko­rong! The Great Taboo is bro­ken. Fire and Wa­ter, hold him in whom dwells the god till my mas­ter comes. He has the Soul of all the spir­its of the wood in his hands. He will fight for his right. Taboo! Taboo! I, Toko, have said it.”

He clapped his hands thrice.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la made a wild ef­fort to break away once more. But the King of Fire, stand­ing op­po­site him, spoke still loud­er and clear­er. “If you touch the Ko­rong be­fore the line is drawn,” he said, with a voice of au­thor­ity, “you are no Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, but an out­cast and a crim­inal. All the peo­ple will hold you with forked sticks, while the Ko­rong burns you alive slow­ly, limb by limb, with me, who am Fire, the fierce, the con­sum­ing. I will scorch you and bake you till you are as a bam­boo in the flame. Taboo! Taboo! Taboo! I, Fire, have said it.”

The King of Wa­ter, with three at­ten­dants, forced Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la on one side for a mo­ment. Ula stood by and smiled pleased com­pli­ance. A tem­ple slave, trem­bling all over at this con­flict of the gods, brought out a cal­abash full of white coral-​sand. The King of Wa­ter spat on it and blessed it. By this time a dozen na­tives, at least, had as­sem­bled out­side the taboo-​line, and stood ea­ger­ly watch­ing the re­sult of the com­bat. The tem­ple slave made a long white mark with the coral-​sand on one side of the cleared area. Then he hand­ed the cal­abash solemn­ly to Toko. Toko crossed the sa­cred precinct with a few in­audi­ble words of mut­tered charm, to save the Taboo, as pre­scribed in the mys­ter­ies. Then he drew a sim­ilar line on the ground on his side, some twen­ty yards off. “De­scend, O my lord!” he cried to Fe­lix; and Fe­lix, still hold­ing the bough tight in his hand, swung him­self blind­ly from the tree, and took his place by Toko.

“Toe the line!” Toko cried, and Fe­lix toed it.

“Bring up your god!” the Shad­ow called out aloud to the King of Wa­ter. And the King of Wa­ter, us­ing no spe­cial cer­emo­ny with so great a du­ty, dragged Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la help­less­ly along with him to the far­ther taboo-​line.

The King of Wa­ter brought a spear and tom­ahawk. He hand­ed them to Fe­lix. “With these weapons,” he said, “fight, and mer­it heav­en. I hold the bough mean­while--the vic­tor takes it.”

The King of Fire stood out be­tween the lists. “Ko­rongs and gods,” he said, “the King of the Rain has plucked the sa­cred bough, ac­cord­ing to our fa­thers' rites, and claims tri­al which of you two shall hence­forth hold the sa­cred soul of the world, the great Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la. Wa­ger of Bat­tle de­cides the day. Keep toe to line. At the end of my words, forth, for­ward, and fight for it. The great god knows his own, and will choose his abode. Taboo, Taboo, Taboo! I, Fire, have spo­ken it.”

Scarce­ly were the words well out of his mouth, when, with a wild whoop of rage, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, who had the ad­van­tage of know­ing the rules of the game, so to speak, dashed mad­ly for­ward, drunk with pas­sion and ka­va, and gave one lunge with his spear full tilt at the breast of the star­tled and un­pre­pared white man. His aim, though fran­tic, was not at fault. The spear struck Fe­lix high up on the left side. He felt a dull thud of pain; a faint gur­gle of blood. Even in the pale moon­light his eye told him at once a red stream was trick­ling--out over his flan­nel shirt. He was pricked, at least. The great god had wound­ed him.