XXIX

Norrie sank into his hammock, and remained, still and yellow, with his eyes shut, as though dead. The camp that evening suggested a depth in solitude which was more remote than Colet had ever known. The four Malays were apart, conferring together, unheard, almost merged in the wilderness. The Chinaman was nothing; his face always was expressionless and averted. And Norrie, in a sense, had left them. He was with Norrie, but Norrie was not with him. It was lucky he had got that dose of quinine into the poor old fellow before he became lightheaded.

What was he muttering about? Nothing more to be done for him. The natives didn’t seem to care; they only glanced casually at the lumpy hammock, and then forgot it. The day, the last of it, was in the treetops across the stream, and under that lane of upper gold was the unknown, and night already filling its hollows. The cicadas abruptly began their sunset ovation. They knew the signal; the signal was the light on the tree with a dead top. The gaunt antlers became flames, and the jungle instantly was a din, though it never stirred. There ought to be a movement, surely a leaf should shake, when pandemonium broke loose: buzzing of circular saws, hissing of steam, shrill whistling, the husky stridulating of dry membranes, the humming of wires, the verberating of notes inaudible; the exultant celebration of another life in a place not his. It was like triumph over mortal men.

Norrie called out, but when Colet went to him the sick man was moribund, with his eyes closed. The light died. The uproar in the woods instantly ceased. Night put out both day and the paean. The darkness and the silence were the same. Colet sat down on a packing box by the hammock, to wait. This was going to be a night of it. He touched Norrie’s face; it was indifferent; it was hot and dry. What happened to men with malaria?

The silence stretched out into illimitable leagues of nothing, to a depth where it could never be stirred. The air became cooler, and he packed up Norrie. The Chinaman stretched on the floor. He was only a loose rag on the beams. The Malays were in their own hut. The fire was alive. Only the fire was alive. The hammock had not moved for a long time. All right? Norrie was still hot, anyhow. Colet took his seat again, and waited.

It was queer to watch the feet of the trees. The firelight shaped them. They moved in and out of the forest. Sometimes they vanished. They had retreated into the woods. When a lump collapsed in the fire the flames started again, and the feet of the trees moved in and out of the skirts of the darkness in a noiseless but massive dance.⁠ ⁠…

What was that? He must have been dreaming. Perhaps Norrie had called out. No; the hammock hadn’t moved. Norrie was the same as before. The shadow of the Chink was still like a loose heap of rags. He had not stirred. There was only night, and a hush as though something were lying in wait. Queer. He grinned himself into confidence. This was a rum situation; like being a child at midnight lost in the Tower dungeons.

The fire had gone down since he saw it last. About time he made it up. Wanted some resolution to get up and do it, though. You had to move from where you were. What would happen if one moved? Would that set anything going? It felt as if some diabolical business was hanging about. Certainly he heard a sound. It was like the dominant prelude of a Handel march, the music Norrie had told him to listen for, one night. But it was a long way from the croak of a frog in the jungle to Handel. Good God!

Loud in the night he heard the blast of a trumpet. Just beyond the fire. That was no dream. The Chinaman was sitting up. Colet hesitated, rose, and went to peer aside from the hindering of the firelight. He would have felt better if he had known what was there. He could see only a shadow was out of its place beyond. He could make out two white marks like the branches of a tree. But a swamp was there. No tree there. Then he heard a whisper in Malay: “Gajah.”

So it was. The shadow was an elephant; what was plain was the gleam of the firelight on its tusks. A flame shifted in the fire, and the beast’s ears then spread out; its trunk was curled over its head. The flame incensed that huge front. It squealed, and advanced a little, squashing and lumbering.

No good trying to shoot dead such a bulk at night. It would have the flimsy show flattened in a rush. He went over to the sick man, helplessly, but Norrie was not interested in anything on earth, not even wild elephants. Colet stood by the hammock while the brute raged and trampled about. He would have to stand there. That beast was trying to make up his mind to come on. Better keep quiet, out of sight, and chance it. Trying to make up its mind, and evidently doing it. Colet snatched up a flaming brand in desperation, and flung it at the uproar. It backed, but worked itself into a worse passion. This couldn’t last.

The Chink had gone. There were no Malays. The burning sticks wouldn’t last long. The beast began to threaten with agile little rushes. Surprisingly quick and light, yet the place shook. What could you do with a man in a hammock? Colet’s eyes were on the huge and noisy shadow, and so he swore when the unseen Chinaman unexpectedly clutched his arm. The fellow was voluble, and had something in his hand. The Chink went to the fire, touched the object with a brand, and flung it at the invader. The spark leaped into a tangle of erratic explosions, and the elephant at once became a series of rapidly diminishing crashes in the forest. Colet began to laugh, but stopped. He recognised that his laughter was pitched in too high a key. A blessed cracker⁠—one of those the Chink used for keeping off devils. The Chinaman stood there with his head solemnly bent, listening to the sounds of an elephantine panic retreating out of hearing. Then he curled up again on the floor without a word.