Allan and the Holy Flower, H. Rider Haggard [best romance books of all time .TXT] 📗

“That is very wise,” I replied, “as we don’t want news of our whereabouts to get to the Motombo.”

Next we went to the enclosure, where Mrs. Eversley with a native knife cut a string of palm fibres that was sealed with clay on to the door and one of its uprights in such a fashion that none could enter without breaking the string. The impression was made with a rude seal that she wore round her neck as a badge of office. It was a very curious object fashioned of gold and having deeply cut upon its face a rough image of an ape holding a flower in its right paw. As it was also ancient, this seemed to show that the monkey god and the orchid had been from the beginning jointly worshipped by the Pongo.

When she had opened the door, there appeared, growing in the centre of the enclosure, the most lovely plant, I should imagine, that man ever saw. It measured some eight feet across, and the leaves were dark green, long and narrow. From its various crowns rose the scapes of bloom. And oh! those blooms, of which there were about twelve, expanded now in the flowering season. The measurements made from the dried specimen I have given already, so I need not repeat them. I may say here, however, that the Pongo augured the fertility or otherwise of each succeeding year from the number of the blooms on the Holy Flower. If these were many the season would prove very fruitful; if few, less so; while if, as sometimes happened, the plant failed to flower, drought and famine were always said to follow. Truly those were glorious blossoms, standing as high as a man, with their back sheaths of vivid white barred with black, their great pouches of burnished gold and their wide wings also of gold. Then in the centre of each pouch appeared the ink-mark that did indeed exactly resemble the head of a monkey. But if this orchid astonished me, its effect upon Stephen, with whom this class of flower was a mania, may be imagined. Really he went almost mad. For a long while he glared at the plant, and finally flung himself upon his knees, causing Miss Hope to exclaim:

“What, O Stephen Somers! do you also make sacrifice to the Holy Flower?”

“Rather,” he answered; “I’d—I’d—die for it!”

“You are likely to before all is done,” I remarked with energy, for I hate to see a grown man make a fool of himself. There’s only one thing in the world which justifies that, and it isn’t a flower.

Mavovo and Hans had followed us into the enclosure, and I overheard a conversation between them which amused me. The gist of it was that Hans explained to Mavovo that the white people admired this weed—he called it a weed—because it was like gold, which was the god they really worshipped, although that god was known among them by many names. Mavovo, who was not at all interested in the affair, replied with a shrug that it might be so, though for his part he believed the true reason to be that the plant produced some medicine which gave courage or strength. Zulus, I may say, do not care for flowers unless they bear a fruit that is good to eat.

When I had satisfied myself with the splendour of these magnificent blooms, I asked Mrs. Eversley what certain little mounds might be that were dotted about the enclosure, beyond the circle of cultivated peaty soil which surrounded the orchid’s roots.

“They are the graves of the Mothers of the Holy Flower,” she answered. “There are twelve of them, and here is the spot chosen for the thirteenth, which was to have been mine.”

To change the subject I asked another question, namely: If there were more such orchids growing in the country?

“No,” she replied, “or at least I never heard of any. Indeed, I have always been told that this one was brought from far away generations ago. Also, under an ancient law, it is never allowed to increase. Any shoots it sends up beyond this ring must be cut off by me and destroyed with certain ceremonies. You see that seed-pod which has been left to grow on the stalk of one of last year’s blooms. It is now ripe, and on the night of the next new moon, when the Kalubi comes to visit me, I must with much ritual burn it in his presence, unless it has burst before he arrives, in which case I must burn any seedlings that may spring up with almost the same ritual.”

“I don’t think the Kalubi will come any more; at least, not while you are here. Indeed, I am sure of it,” I said.

As we were leaving the place, acting on my general principle of making sure of anything of value when I get the chance, I broke off that ripe seed-pod, which was of the size of an orange. No one was looking at the time, and as it went straight into my pocket, no one missed it.

Then, leaving Stephen and the young lady to admire this Cypripedium—or each other—in the enclosure, we three elders returned to the house to discuss matters.

“John and Mrs. Eversley,” I said, “by Heaven’s mercy you are reunited after a terrible separation of over twenty years. But what is to be done now? The god, it is true, is dead, and therefore the passage of the forest will be easy. But beyond it is the water which we have no means of crossing and beyond the water that old wizard, the Motombo, sits in the mouth of his cave watching like a spider in its web. And beyond the Motombo and his cave are Komba, the new Kalubi and his tribe of cannibals——”

“Cannibals!” interrupted Mrs. Eversley, “I never knew that they were cannibals. Indeed, I know little about the Pongo, whom I scarcely ever see.”

“Then, madam, you must take my word for it that they are; also, as I believe, that they have every expectation of eating us. Now, as I presume that you do not wish to spend the rest of your lives, which would probably be short, upon this island, I want to ask how you propose to escape safely out of the Pongo country?”

They shook their heads, which were evidently empty of ideas. Only John stroked his white beard, and inquired mildly:

“What have you arranged, Allan? My dear wife and I are quite willing to leave the matter to you, who are so resourceful.”

“Arranged!” I stuttered. “Really, John, under any other circumstances——” Then after a moment’s reflection I called to Hans and Mavovo, who came and squatted down upon the verandah.

“Now,” I said, after I had put the case to them, “what have you arranged?” Being devoid of any feasible suggestions, I wished to pass on that intolerable responsibility.

“My father makes a mock of us,” said Mavovo solemnly. “Can a rat in a pit arrange how it is to get out with the dog that is waiting at the top? So far we have come in safety, as the rat does into the pit. Now I see nothing but death.”

“That’s cheerful,” I said. “Your turn, Hans.”

“Oh! Baas,” replied the Hottentot, “for a while I grew clever again when I thought of putting the gun Intombi into the bamboo. But now my head