CHAPTER XVI.
BEYOND HUMAN IMAGINATION.
As the crater was left behind, the water became more turbid, and flowed faster, carrying along with it the boat and its three adventurous occupants.
“Max!”
The voice sounded almost sepulchral in the darkness.
“Yes, Ibrahim.”
“Isn’t this horrible?”
“It is, but we are gaining knowledge.”
“I know enough of the fearful——”
“And yet—perhaps what we don’t know is far more horrible.”
“Don’t talk like that, or I shall go mad.”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
The laugh was from Selim.
“I’ve got it. It is here. Great prophet, isn’t it beautiful?”
“What are you talking about, Selim?”
“This—look at it.”
“Look at what? Isn’t it so dark that you could cut the very atmosphere?”
“He has gone mad,” whispered Ibrahim.
“I am afraid it is so.”
No wonder! The strain was something frightful.
It would require nerves of steel to withstand such a terrible tension.
“Jewilikins! what’s that?”
Some strange, slimy water monster had crawled into the boat and onto Max’s back.
It was impossible to see what it was, and all that Ibrahim could do was to knock it off; but he almost fainted as he touched it.
On went the boat, drifting just where the current liked to take it.
There was no means of guiding or steering it.
They were victims of their curiosity, without a chance of saving themselves.
Again there was a glimmer of light, and the explorers rejoiced.
But their pleasure was but for a moment.
The darkness was preferable.
It hid from them the horrors of the river they had to traverse.
Monster lizards crawled up and down the slimy walls which confined the river to its bed.
Fish, with wings, would fly from the water and strike the occupants of the boat as they passed by.
Great crabs, the like of which have never been seen before, struggled on every little ledge of rock or piece of sandy ground.
One big fellow had got into the boat, and was slowly devouring pieces of Selim’s leg.
The poor Arab was unconscious, and it could only be a question of minutes before his soul would leave the mortal tenement.
As Max and Ibrahim realized it they were almost frantic with fear.
“Five when we started,” said Max, “but only three now, and a few moments more there will be but two.”
Ibrahim’s face was as white as death.
His pulses were beating so slowly that it was almost a miracle he lived.
Suddenly his mood changed.
His heart began throbbing and pumping out blood at terrific speed.
The color of his face was almost purple, and as he tried to stand up in the little boat his head fell back, and Max only saved him by a hair’s breadth.
Max was now alone.
Ibrahim lived, but was not only helpless, but in his delirium, dangerous to himself and his companion.
Selim was dead.
It grieved Max to have to throw the body overboard, but that was the only course which could be adopted.
Unstrapping the packages of food from the man’s back, he exerted all his strength and pushed the man overboard.
It was horrible.
Max was sickened at the sight, and yet he felt that he dare not take his eyes away.
Horrible water monsters sought the body, and almost instantly crabs and lizards, fish with ugly fins, and water newts, were covering the remains of the poor Arab and rapidly devouring all that was left of him.
Ibrahim was raving.
He imagined he saw all sorts of frightful shapes, wanting to tear him to pieces.
“I shall go mad,” exclaimed Max, and he felt that it was only a question of a few minutes.
The boat drifted along slowly, and Max wondered whether they would ever again stand on land.
Once he thought he heard human voices, but it must have been imagination.
At the very moment when the delicate cords of his brain seemed ready to snap asunder, a thought saved him.
He wondered how the water had made the tunnels.
That set him thinking, and he fancied that the underground channels had been made by the sheer force of the water, and its petrifying action—that perhaps at some time the sand had drifted to the water and become by its action solid rock.
If so, the tunnels were under the desert, and maybe the open cuttings were through oases.
How long had they been on the river?
They had no means of keeping record of the time, but their food was nearly gone.
Had he slept?
He could not recall whether he had done so, and yet nature could not have endured the strain so long without sleep.
These thoughts saved him from the delirium which afflicted his friend.
He felt easier and more contented.
A strange drowsiness came over him, and he settled himself as comfortably as he could in the bottom of the boat and fell asleep.
On the banks of a tributary of the Nile a tribe—darker in color than the Egyptians and yet less black than the Africans of the Soudan or Congo State—dwelt in comparative peace.
This tribe is peculiar.
Its members eat no animal food, neither do they hanker after fire water or tobacco.
They do not believe in fighting, and yet at times they are compelled to resist by force of brute strength the onslaughts and invasions of their neighbors.
Their dwellings are the perfection of cleanliness; the domicile of each family is surrounded with a hedge of the almost impenetrable euphorbia, and the interior of the inclosure is a yard neatly plastered with a cement of ashes, cow dung and sand.
On this cleanly swept surface are one or more huts surrounded by granaries of neat wickerwork, thatched and resting upon raised platforms.
The huts have projecting roofs in order to afford a shade, and the entrance is usually about two feet high.
The men are well grown and rather refined.
Their dress is very limited, usually only an apron of leather—either a piece of cowhide or goatskin.
Tattoo marks or lines across their forehead denote their rank.
The chief has his forehead lined closely together, his assistants or deputies have less in number, while the ordinary members of the tribe have only two lines.
The women are not handsome. Their heads are shaved, and around their bald pates they wear a band of beads or shells.
Living peaceably and not even fishing, they devote all their time to the cultivation of maize and other kinds of vegetable food.
They make excellent butter and drink great quantities of milk.
At the time we make their acquaintance they are greatly disturbed.
The chief has called together all the tribe, and a strange-looking gathering it is.
The men stood round the chief in a circle, the women taking positions outside.
The chief called for silence, and instantly every man shouted: “Mkrasi! mkrasi!” which being interpreted means: “We obey, we obey.”
The chief, looking very wrinkled with his innumerable tattoo marks, adopted the catechetical method of addressing his people.
“Where does the river come from?” he asked, and a deputy chief answered:
“From the innermost parts of the earth.”
“Good! And hath man ever been to the place where the gods make the springs of water to flow?”
“No; man could not live.”
“Why?”
“The water comes from the fire god, who burns all who approach.”
“Then what shall be done with those who have come from the fire?”
“They shall be exalted.”
“Mkrasi! mkrasi!” shouted all the members of the tribe.
The conversation, or rather public discussion, which we have recorded occupied considerable time, for the language of this tribe of Gondos was very diffuse, abounding in metaphor, and making the repeating of whole sentences necessary where emphasis was required.
The chief stepped down from the platform in front of his house, and calling on ten of his deputies headed the procession across the great square, round which the houses were placed.
While the chief was away, the utmost decorum was observed.
Not one spoke a word.
Even the women were silent.
Soon a great noise was heard.
Drums were beating and rude cymbals were being played. The drums were original in their make.
A piece of wood had been hollowed out, and over the top a sheepskin had been tightly stretched.
Into the square the procession moved.
First came ten young girls, playing very rudely constructed cymbals.
Following them were five older girls, keeping time by striking shells together. Then came the drummers, boys whose strength seemed almost too frail for the big, heavy drums they carried.
After them was a drummer who made a most ear-splitting noise by beating an old tin pan—which had been found in a deserted camp, and which the Gondos verily believed must have been the white man’s musical instrument.
What meant all this pageantry and display?
The chief emerged from his yard, and, with head bowed down, led the way to where the people were standing. Immediately behind him were the ten deputies, carrying a strange-looking log of wood shoulder high.
With measured tread these natives walked under their heavy burden.
When the center of the tribe’s gathering had been reached, the chief ordered the men to set down their load.
Instantly there was a cry of rapture from every man there assembled.
The women pressed forward, and really screamed with delight.
“From the gods!” exclaimed the chief, and these poor, benighted savages really believed it.
The log was in reality a dugout, and in the dugout two young men were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
They were our friends, Ibrahim and Max, rescued by the Gondos, and now the objects of their adoration.
The shouting of the men, the screeching of the women, caused Max to awake.
He sprang to his feet and looked round.
“Well, jewilikins! this caps the climax!” he exclaimed, while the people fell on their faces and wriggled about on the ground.