Argosy, Vol. 111, No. 1 — page 118: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

108 _ McKay laughed and threw up his hands long before Sime had ceased spluttering his indignant protest. He couldn’t see where there was likely to be much chance of things going against them so long as his experiment succeeded and he continued to retain its secret. It was only after he and Ponda got on confidential terms and they had the run of the village that McKay figured they could become really active in the rescue of the two prisoners. Still, some- thing might break, and Sime’s shooting would undoubtedly be a big factor. | At six bells they left the schooner, shot the reef, and landed dry. An upset would have been apt to spoil things, for the tin box that carried ‘‘ McKay’s mixture ” was not waterproof. The palm fronds were still proclaiming the bush-path open. There was not much work done by any one in a native settlement after a feast, except when well- informed enemies took unfair advantage of \the general somnolence and started a head- acquiring expedition. McKay emptied the contents of the tin box into his two prepared pockets, and they made their way leisurely toward Motonui, through the sing-sing grounds, to the village proper. As they neared the latter under the hot sun, breathing the stifling atmosphere with lungs that seemed seared, the absolute silence struck McKay as suggestive of something more than mere sleep. He held up a warning finger, and they went ahead at the alert. Suddenly the shrilling of a native Pan’s pipes shrieked out in a weird staccato, pene- trating the silent bush. McKay had reached the end of the trail now and peered through the leaves. The village:was deserted. Far across its general square or gathering- ground, he could see the red and black and white of the Motonui effigy under the banyan-tree. For a moment or two nothing else. Then something came prancing gro- tesquely from behind a cluster of grass huts, moving in time to the notes of the hidden Pan’s pipes. It ran and leaped, its wide shadow tucked under it as it left the ground, looking like some antediluvian bird. It was the same fataivututu figure that had appeared on the sing-sing grounds THE ARGOSY. the night of thei arrival. By day it seemed more ludicrous than impressive, palpably artificial with the conical mask and crudely painted features, the flapping ears and ridiculous beak above the long straw cloak that ended in two very human feet. Yet, as the creature hopped and sprang, there was a decided suggestion of the orig- inal source of the design, the giant, wingless birds of Australasia. ‘““T’m glad I’m not Ponda,” thought Mc- Kay, for he was sure it was the priest under the masquerade. No one else would dare to play the rdle. As the thing came nearer to them it left little puddles of moisture that showed how effective a Turkish bath it must be prov- ing. The life of a wizard was not all joy, though such antics undoubtedly helped to keep Ponda in trim. The meaning of the performance was very plain. Under penalty. of swift and horrible death the village was being ordered to remain within doors, not to even peep at anything that might be going on. To venture out while the matemoa—the bird of death—was abroad, or until the ban was officially lifted, meant literally that the in- quisitive villager had lost his or her head. Ponda was not going to have the rabble see him taught magic by the white man. The job was over. The Pan’s pipes ceased, and the death-bird, much less ener- getically, cavorted away toward Ponda’s cave. McKay looked at the narrow shadows of the houses. Noon, to Motonui, would be marked as the time when any shadow was least. It was close to that now, and he emerged from the path, followed by Kekko and three more rifie-armed boys, with Sime bringing up the rear. Slowly they advanced toward the banyan- tree, and once more Sime puckered up his lips as they passed the tambu-house, -its mats still closely drawn, the zabu-skull still aswing from the peak of the roof. This time he whistled “‘ Dixie,” not very loudly, but with a lilt and a thrill to it that must have cheered the heart of the girl inside— if she was inside. Through the pillared root-stems of the banyan, as if they were South Sea hama- dryads coming from the heart of the great Gomicboo SS (CO