CHAPTER XVIIAMID WRITHING SERPENTS
Thesight that met Bomba’s eyes was horrible beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined.
At the extreme end of the island, in mud that oozed about her ankles, an old withered crone was performing a weird dance, singing to herself as she did so in a language that was strange to Bomba.
But that was not the part of the performance that held Bomba spellbound, horror-stricken.
It was the snakes, the ropes of slimy, hideous reptiles that the old woman wound about her arms, her waist, her neck, even her face, as she danced faster and ever faster to the strains of her weird, high-pitched song.
It was then that fear entered into Bomba, a fear such as had never been felt by him when he battled with the wild beasts of the jungle. Then he had fought with things of flesh and blood, with something he could understand. But what he saw now seemed to be tinctured by the supernatural.His flesh crawled. The scene was revolting and horrible beyond description.
This must be Sobrinini, this hag that played with and fondled and petted these hissing reptiles that wound their coils about her body. She must be a witch, as the native had claimed. How otherwise could she do a thing like this and remain unharmed?
And if she was a witch—and to Bomba’s primitive, half-taught mind this did not seem at all impossible—she might have it within her power to lay a spell upon him, if she wished. Perhaps she might turn him into one of those very snakes that hissed and writhed about her.
At the thought, Bomba was tempted to flee from the spot. But something in him, stronger even than his fear, drew him resistlessly toward that weird figure on the river bank.
He worked the canoe in as far toward the island as he dared and wedged it tightly among the rushes, trusting that they would hold it for him until he returned.
He found that the water was shallow, and silently slipped into it and waded toward the bank. Dread of the piranhas, a dangerous, sharp-toothed fish, such as infest all the waters of the jungle, hurried Bomba’s steps so that he was not as cautious in his approach to Sobrinini as he would otherwise have been.
Although he made for the shore at some distance from the old woman, so that he might choose his own time for drawing near her after she had finished with the demon-like dance, he slipped, when he tried for a footing in the slimy ooze of the river bank, and came down with a heavy splash.
The sound startled Sobrinini. The weird song died on her withered lips and she stood staring. The tropic night had fallen now, but a full moon had risen, and by the light of it Bomba could be seen as he got to his feet and gained the bank.
At sight of him, a shrill yell pealed from the lips of the old woman, which brought dark figures running to her from all directions. Bomba saw one rise up in front of him as though conjured from the earth by magic. He turned to avoid the outstretched arms of this apparition, did not see the hole that yawned at his feet, and fell into a nest of writhing snakes.
He was so paralyzed with horror that he could not move. Perhaps it was to that that he owed his life. For as the snakes, most of which had been dozing in the slimy ooze at the bottom of the pit, recovered from their surprise and coiled to attack, Sobrinini pushed through the crowd at the edge of the hole and began to sing.
It was a lilting, rhythmic tune, and at the firstnotes of it the hideous reptiles surrounding Bomba began to sway to the sound and one after another slipped over the edge of the pit and slithered away into the darkness.
Bomba climbed out, with the gray mud plastered over him. Still shaken at the narrowness of his escape from a terrible death, the lad drew himself up beside Sobrinini.
The ring of natives, male and female, closed in upon Bomba and the old witch woman as the sound died on the lips of Sobrinini. Several of the group carried flaring torches, and by this flickering light the scene seemed as unreal and fantastic as a dream.
As Sobrinini saw Bomba before her, she turned upon him with a look so fierce and malignant that the lad involuntarily drew away from her.
“You scared my snakes!” she cried accusingly. “For that you should be burned by fire and flung into the river for the alligators to feast on your flesh. It was for their sakes, not yours, that I saved your life, wicked one. My snakes must not be frightened, my little pets—ha, ha, ha!” and she went off into such a fit of horrible merriment that Bomba’s heart froze within him.
If at that moment he could have reached his canoe by any means and left that fearful place behind him forever, he might have yielded to the temptation.
But it was too late now. The ring of natives surrounded him, and even if he succeeded by a bold dash in forcing his way through them, there was little chance of escape. They would reach him and drag him back before he could get the canoe clear of the bushes and head for the open stream.
The impulse to flee lasted but a moment. The next, Bomba pulled himself together and was his cool, courageous self once more.
Sobrinini had worked herself into a frenzy of fury. She danced about Bomba in a hideous way, shaking her shriveled fists in the air and mouthing horribly.
Now she came close to the lad and pushed her wrinkled face in his. She raised an arm above her head as though to strike him. Bomba stood unflinching.
She paused suddenly, arrested apparently by something she saw in his face.
“Ah!” she cried. “Bring the torches nearer.”
The command rang out in a strikingly clear voice and instantly there was a stir among the natives. Evidently she was accustomed to being obeyed without question.
One great sullen fellow came forward and thrust his flaring torch almost in Bomba’s face.
Sobrinini peered closely at the lad for a moment, and then shrank back with a piercing scream.
“You!” she cried, again coming close and staringat him wildly. “How came you here? Are you a ghost, Bartow?”
Into Bomba’s heart came a swift feeling of amazement.
What was the meaning of this? Like an echo of the words came the memory of Jojasta’s cry as Bomba had bent above him when he was pinned beneath the fallen column. Jojasta had called him Bartow and thought he was a ghost.
He took a step toward Sobrinini, who was still staring at him fearfully.
“What mean you?” he cried.
Seeing the terror into which their priestess had been thrown, a strange wild singing rose from the native women as they wove in and out in fantastic mazes, evidently designed to ward off the evil portent.
The bony fingers of Sobrinini closed on Bomba’s arm. Her voice was shrill and urgent, as she said in his ear:
“Come with me, Bartow. Ghost or not, come with Sobrinini.”
As in a nightmare, his mind in a tumult of conflicting emotions, Bomba allowed himself to be led away.
They passed through dank, long grass that sprang from the marshy ground, and in some places grew as high as Bomba’s head. Once he felt the slimy body of a snake beneath his footand leaped aside, only to feel his foot brush another.
“Be not afraid of the snakes. They are my pets and will not harm anyone that is with Sobrinini,” crooned the old crone at his side.
She knew her way well, for she moved along the winding trail without ever looking down, keeping her fascinated gaze on Bomba’s face.
Twice Bomba started to ask her what she meant by calling him Bartow and a ghost, but twice he was halted by a bony, shriveled finger on his lips and a croaking cry:
“Hush! Speak not, Bartow, or you will break the spell and shatter it into a thousand tinkling fragments.”
She went on, muttering to herself, until at last they came to a large wooden building. A flickering light from its gaping windows threw grotesque shadows upon the ground.
Bomba felt a dread of entering the place. Like the wild things of the jungle, he felt safer in the open. But Sobrinini’s hand was upon his arm, and she dragged him through the doorway. Her manner grew ever more feverish and wild. She seemed possessed by a terrible excitement. Bomba did not venture to dispute her will.
He found himself in a strange place, the like of which he had never seen before. Tearing hisglance from the withered mask that was the face of Sobrinini, he looked about him.
Torches flickered and flared in crude receptacles fastened to the walls and lighted up the bare and desolate room.
Rows of crude chairs stood upon the uneven wooden floor, and above these, halfway to the patched and leaking roof, a tiny balcony had been constructed. At either end of this was a small compartment with rounded front, meant to represent an opera box, though this of course Bomba could not know.
At the extreme front of the big room was a raised platform, meant to serve as a stage of this dismal imitation of an opera house.
As Bomba gazed about him, surprised and bewildered, Sobrinini left his side, and with a horrid simulation of youth skipped to the platform.
Then she turned and made him a low bow, a hideous smirk cracking the wrinkles of her withered face.
“Come closer, Bartow. Come closer, dear Bartow! Do!” she urged, in a voice at first soft and coaxing, but that ended in a shrill cackle. “I will give you a good seat, Bartow—the best seat in the house—in the first row center. You can hear me better there than from a box. Come!” she cried, as he hesitated, her simpering giving place to a terrible frown. “Why do you standthere blinking at me like a fool? Do not rouse my wrath, Bartow! The wrath of Sobrinini is a terrible thing, as no one should know better than you.”
Bomba came forward quickly, alarmed by the swift change in the old crone’s manner. But she simpered and smirked again when he approached, and, skipping lightly from the platform, forced him with a playfulness that Bomba found scarcely less terrifying than her wrath into one of the crazy chairs close to the stage.
“Now I will sing to you!” she cried, and sprang up again upon the platform.
Bomba watched with a strange fascination while the old woman danced and sang in a strange language unknown to him. The lilting songs, even when sung by that cracked and ruined voice, struck a responsive chord in the boy and filled him with emotions that he could neither analyze nor understand.
He did not know that that voice, when in its prime, had thrilled great audiences that included emperors and kings and had given the singer a reputation as wide as the civilized world.
Suddenly Sobrinini paused, and fixing Bomba with a strange intent gaze, sang in a voice that had magically lost most of its raucous quality and for the moment had become the faint, sad echo of something that had been supremely beautiful—sanga tender, haunting melody that touched some almost forgotten memory in Bomba’s heart and filled him with an exquisite pain.
Somewhere, long since, he had heard that melody! But when and where?
Slowly the music drew him step by step toward that fantastic figure on the stage.
“Tell me!” he cried imploringly. “Tell me, Sobrinini, was that my mother’s song?”