I made,as near as I could,for the place where I had seen Case come out;for if it was true he had some kind of establishment in the bush I reckoned I should find a path.The beginning of the desert was marked off by a wall,to call it so,for it was more of a long mound of stones.They say it reaches right across the island,but how they know it is another question,for I doubt if anyone has made the journey in a hundred years,the natives sticking chiefly to the sea and their little colonies along the coast,and that part being mortal high and steep and full of cliffs.Up to the west side of the wall,the ground has been cleared,and there are cocoa palms and mummy-apples and guavas,and lots of sensitive plants.Just across,the bush begins outright;high bush at that,trees going up like the masts of ships,and ropes of liana hanging down like a ship's rigging,and nasty orchids growing in the forks like funguses.The ground where there was no underwood looked to be a heap of boulders.I saw many green pigeons which I might have shot,only I was there with a different idea.A number of butterflies flopped up and down along the ground like dead leaves;sometimes I would hear a bird calling,sometimes the wind overhead,and always the sea along the coast.
But the queerness of the place it's more difficult to tell of,unless to one who has been alone in the high bush himself.The brightest kind of a day it is always dim down there.A man can see to the end of nothing;whichever way he looks the wood shuts up,one bough folding with another like the fingers of your hand;and whenever he listens he hears always something new -men talking,children laughing,the strokes of an axe a far way ahead of him,and sometimes a sort of a quick,stealthy scurry near at hand that makes him jump and look to his weapons.It's all very well for him to tell himself that he's alone,bar trees and birds;he can't make out to believe it;whichever way he turns the whole place seems to be alive and looking on.Don't think it was Uma's yarns that put me out;I don't value native talk a fourpenny-piece;it's a thing that's natural in the bush,and that's the end of it.
As I got near the top of the hill,for the ground of the wood goes up in this place steep as a ladder,the wind began to sound straight on,and the leaves to toss and switch open and let in the sun.This suited me better;it was the same noise all the time,and nothing to startle.Well,I had got to a place where there was an underwood of what they wild cocoanut -mighty pretty with its scarlet fruit -when there came a sound of singing in the wind that I thought I had never heard the like of.It was all very fine to tell myself it was the branches;I knew better.It was all very fine to tell myself it was a bird;I knew never a bird that sang like that.It rose and swelled,and died away and swelled again;and now I thought it was like someone weeping,only prettier;and now I thought it was like harps;and there was one thing I made sure of,it was a sight too sweet to be wholesome in a place like that.You may laugh if you like;but I declare I called to mind the six young ladies that came,with their scarlet necklaces,out of the cave at Fanga-anaana,and wondered if they sang like that.
We laugh at the natives and their superstitions;but see how many traders take them up,splendidly educated white men,that have been book-keepers (some of them)and clerks in the old country.It's my belief a superstition grows up in a place like the different kind of weeds;and as I stood there and listened to that wailing Itwittered in my shoes.
You may call me a coward to be frightened;I thought myself brave enough to go on ahead.But I went mighty carefully,with my gun cocked,spying all about me like a hunter,fully expecting to see a handsome young woman sitting somewhere in the bush,and fully determined (if I did)to try her with a charge of duck-shot.And sure enough,I had not gone far when I met with a queer thing.The wind came on the top of the wood in a strong puff,the leaves in front of me burst open,and I saw for a second something hanging in a tree.It was gone in a wink,the puff blowing by and the leaves closing.I tell you the truth:I had made up my mind to see an AITU;and if the thing had looked like a pig or a woman,it wouldn't have given me the same turn.The trouble was that it seemed kind of square,and the idea of a square thing that was alive and sang knocked me sick and silly.I must have stood quite a while;and I made pretty certain it was right out of the same tree that the singing came.Then I began to come to myself a bit.
"Well,"says I,"if this is really so,if this is a place where there are square things that sing,I'm gone up anyway.Let's have my fun for my money."But I thought I might as well take the off chance of a prayer being any good;so I plumped on my knees and prayed out loud;and all the time I was praying the strange sounds came out of the tree,and went up and down,and changed,for all the world like music,only you could see it wasn't human -there was nothing there that you could whistle.
As soon as I had made an end in proper style,I laid down my gun,stuck my knife between my teeth,walked right up to that tree,and began to climb.I tell you my heart was like ice.But presently,as I went up,I caught another glimpse of the thing,and that relieved me,for I thought it seemed like a box;and when I had got right up to it I near fell out of the tree with laughing.
A box it was,sure enough,and a candle-box at that,with the brand upon the side of it;and it had banjo strings stretched so as to sound when the wind blew.I believe they call the thing a Tyrolean (3)harp,whatever that may mean.
"Well,Mr.Case,"said I,"you've frightened me once,but I defy you to frighten me again,"I says,and slipped down the tree,and set out again to find my enemy's head office,which I guessed would not be far away.