CHAPTER XXIV.
A DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.
In the hope of keeping on good terms with the bete or priest, Box-of-Tricks, I called upon that sagacious individual, taking with me a suitable present—a necklace made of pieces of whales’ teeth, which were very valuable in Fiji, and equivalent to diamonds with us.
The Temple to which I directed my steps lay in the deep shadow of upas trees, from which the priests obtain a kind of poison for the sorcerer’s work. At the base of a huge vesi was the great sacrificial stone, indented with blows, which told of the many victims who had been there offered to the gods, and notches in the trunk of the tree accurately attested their number. The dark foliage of the upas trees shed a funereal gloom around, which well suited this weird spot. The grass seemed to have withered where the priest’s shadow fell.
I found the old man seated inside the Temple, his long white beard flowing over a table made of human bones. His glittering, snake-like eyes, rested upon fearful decorations which were the remnants of slain bodies; and one of his long bony hands clutched a skull used for drinking yangona. Strips of tapa trailing from the roof to the floor, forming veil-like curtains, were the steps down which the gods came when invoked by their powerful servant. It was impossible to enter this place of baleful emanations, with its sombre surroundings and sinister tenant, without an involuntary shudder. The occasional glimmer of the ocean, momentarily seen through the open door and thick leaves, was the only thing that recalled the mind from the supernatural to the natural.
I desired to discourse with the priest on the subject of our recent bereavement. I extolled the virtues and wisdom of the departed.
“Aye,” answered the ecclesiastic, “he was indeed a master of words and the salt of language. Capsized is the land we live in; capsized is our stricken country.”
At the same time his evil heart gave the lie to his words, for he was secretly pledged to the retrogressive policy of Bolatha, the banishment of white men, and the restoration of all the old heathen customs, some of which the dead chief had allowed to fall into desuetude.
“The noble Hot-Water,” continued Box-of-Tricks, “is in the land of shadows, now to dwell forever with immortals, for have I not seen him pass successfully through all the portals of Hades?”
Fixing his eyes straight before him, they assumed a strange dull glare, and the priest had evidently passed into the world of visions. He proceeded, speaking like one in a trance: