“The other day, with the evening-market in the square and the fancy-fair for the white people in the gardens.”
“Well, what about it?”
“The day wasn’t well-chosen, according to the portents. It was an unlucky day.... And with the new well....”
“What about the new well?”
“There was no sacrifice. So no one uses the new well. Every one fetches water from the old well.... The water’s not good either. For from the new well the woman rises with the bleeding hole in her breast.... And Miss Doddie....”
“What of her?”
“Miss Doddie has seen the white hadji going by! The white hadji is not a good hadji. He’s a ghost.... Miss Doddie saw him twice: at Patjaram and here.... Listen, mem-sahib!”
“What?”
“Don’t you hear? The children’s little souls are moaning in the top boughs. There’s no wind blowing at this moment. Listen, listen: that’s not wild cats. The wild cats go kriow, kriow, when they’re courting! These are the little souls!”
They all three listened. Léonie mechanically pressed closer to Theo. She looked deathly pale. The roomy back-verandah, with the table always laid, stretched away in the dim light of a single hanging lamp. The half-swamped back-garden gleamed wet out of the darkness of the banyan-trees, full of pattering drops but motionless in the impenetrable masses of their velvety foliage. And an inexplicable, almost imperceptible crooning, like a gentle mystery of little tormented souls, whimpered high above their heads, as though in the sky or in the topmost branches of the trees. Now it was a short cry, then a moan as of a sick child, then a soft sobbing as of little girls in misery.