Chapter Thirty.
Concerning a Terror.
A dark, comparatively cool, and restful retreat—a blaze of outside sunshine glimpsed through the aperture of a low doorway. A sense of awaking to yet another phase of passage through the shades; of a weird kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria which represents a wholly or partially suspended consciousness of days or even weeks; of the stirred, uneasy rest of supposed death—such were the first gropings of the mind of him who lay there.
Where was he? A recollection of the battered hulk, heaving to the oily swell; of hunger and thirst—especially thirst; of a furious sun pouring its rays down upon him in molten streams; of a fierce, maddening desire for shade—almost equal to that for cool, liquid drink; for blessed shade, to shut out, if even for one moment, that awful blinding glare—these were the recollections that came upon his mind with the first glimmerings of returning consciousness.
Others followed—a sense of movement, of being borne helplessly onward, through mysterious tracts, to the accompaniment of strange, mysterious voices, and glimpses of weird, dark shapes. Then oblivion—again to be followed by fitful awakenings—but ever to sink again into the same lethargy, the same utter indifference to all things that ever had been, that ever would be—in short, to life itself. And now—and now—Where was he?
He stared upward. A large cockroach dropped from the palmetto ceiling, and scurried away, almost over his face; but he heeded it not. He stared around. The circular wall of the place was uneven and rough. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, or rather the gloom, he made out that it was the interior of a large hut constructed of grass and withes. Two poles supported the centre, and on these were hung sundry implements of fantastic make and appearance—such as he had seen in museums and private collections representing barbaric trophies of far-off lands. A hum of voices—utterly unintelligible—came from without; and there was that in the very tones which savoured of the scarcely human—at any rate to one whose lines had been cast hitherto exclusively within those of civilisation.
He tried to rise, tottered, and then fell back. He was very weak, far too weak to rise unaided. Things grew dizzy around him. Then the sun strip which cut the gloom was darkened. Somebody had entered; and then he became aware of the presence of two beings—black, and of ferocious aspect, with wool standing out from their heads in stiff, rolled-out spikes, and the white of their eyeballs glistened when the ray of light coming in through the low doorway fell upon it. They bent over him; and having peered into his face for a moment one of them raised his head with no gentle touch, while the other put a calabash to his lips and poured its contents into his mouth. This at any rate was not an unacceptable operation. The stuff was cool, and had a combination of sweet and acid taste. What it was he had no notion, but he drank gratefully.
“That’s good,” he ejaculated faintly.