to impress upon these susceptible people that there were things of which he understood more than they. And they had long since accepted him at his own valuation; admitted him as one of themselves, and let him alone, though he was always “Jakara the Strange.”
He entered the house, latched the door close, and took down a staff of seasoned ironwood from behind the festoons of bright yellow tobacco-leaf along the walls. Inside, the bamboo pole fastened to the windmill came through the roof and whizzed round. Attached to it by a simple wooden device was a stone killing-club, which whirled round at striking angles at the height of a man’s head. Jakara stood before it and struck, and the house rang with wood smacking stone as he warded off the swift blows. With spurts of the breeze outside the club revolved at erratic speed, and, to protect himself, Jakara became a machine of sinew and energy and unerring sight.
For years he had thus practised against the club, though occasionally it had sprawled him senseless on the floor. But practice and fear for his head had set him running the mill faster and faster, until he had long since developed a quickness of eye and foot, body and sword, and above all the lasting of his wind, which had earned him among enemy peoples the title of “Jakara the Unkillable.” Leaping back from the vicious club, he took from the wall a small shield which fitted snugly over his left forearm. It was of hardwood, thickly studded with iron bolts hammered from floating spars, and weeks of thought and labour and fear had gone to the making of that buckler. But in several hot fights it had saved him from a cracked skull. Now, setting the mill to its limit, Jakara rushed the whizzing club, while the villagers hushed to listen to ringing blows of stone and wood and iron. Sparks were slow in comparison to the quickness of Jakara’s eye.
Though self-defence was one object of this unceasing practice, the chief motive was the fear that at some time he must face the possibility of being forced to perform the Dance of Death. If he could only die fighting, so that they could not possibly stun him! For if they killed him outright he could never Dance!
The practice over, from the wall he took down a long rapier, pulled the shining blade from the scabbard, and balanced the thing, his eyes sparkling with unholy love. This blade was “Lightning,” so named by fighting warriors who had seen its gleaming swiftness in action. If he might only fight out the last act in the midst of a ravening crowd with his one earthly love in his hand! But, O Lord above, they were such experts at the stunning stroke. Though he killed and killed, they would strive and strive to stun, and stun only. Sighing, he bent the rapier like a bow, then whirled it around his body until the weapon hummed. Again he examined the steel, tenderly feeling its point and edge, and again, as at many times past, wondered at its history, for it was a Spanish blade. He had seen ear-rings of Spain adorning a girl of Las, and odd men of Mer wore rings heavy with the gold and workmanship of Castille. The Las villagers also used quite a number of Spanish words. What was the story of these relics? Without the slightest doubt, the wreck of a Spanish adventurer in the long ago.
Jakara knew that from the sixteenth century Dutch and Spanish ships had ventured into these treacherous seas, jealously keeping their discoveries secret until the great Cook had sailed through the Strait and claimed Australia for Britain. Jakara knew from the diving natives that the bones of many vessels, mostly unknown, lie among the reefs. What romances of the white man’s history C’Zarcke must know! C’Zarcke had given him the blade as a reward for the planning of a highly successful raid.
With the point piercing the floor, he leaned thoughtfully on the hilt. C’Zarcke, always C'Zarcke! Presently he jerked himself straight, with the old terrible feeling at the base of his neck – a feeling such as a man might have when half awake if a spirit breathed upon the back of his neck. He knew C’Zarcke was thinking of him. Hurriedly he replaced the weapon and, leaning over the coral hearth, blew the coco-husks into flame.
Within the Zogo-house C’Zarcke sat brooding with the night. Care creased his brow, thought clouded his eyes, his heavy lips drooped with a childlike despondency. C’Zarcke was not worrying about himself – he was dreading the future of his nation. For as a nation the Island people classed themselves.
C’Zarcke feared not the Lamars, but their numbers, the incomprehensible things that were theirs, and above all, their understanding. So far, these strange people had not troubled the Eastern Group and but little of the West, but he knew that at the Central Group of islands, and along the coast of the Great South Land and its islands off shore, wherever the Lamars wished to land, they landed; that whatever the Lamars wanted, they took.
For centuries past the mere existence of the Lamars had been acknowledged as a peril by the Zogo-le of the Strait. Those strange beings had come from they knew not where; they had come like a hurricane, done their damage, and vanished like the storm.
Throughout the centuries they had come in this manner, and the Zogo-le of the day had left on record that the arrows of the Islanders had splintered against the bodies of these beings, their toughest spears had crumpled up, even their stone clubs had bounced shattered from the heads of the Lamars.
After each visitation the people had become more and more convinced that the Lamars were invulnerable, that it was hopeless to fight against them.
The Zogo-le have their legends of our first known navigator of the Strait, Luiz Vaez de Torres, in the Spanish frigate San Pedro in 1606. C’Zarcke did not know him by that name, but their legends definitely told C’Zarcke how the Lamars by unbeatable force had taken twenty Islanders, who had vanished from their sight for ever. The Spanish captain had taken these natives to show to His Majesty the King of Spain. Portuguese navigators had done the same. The Lamars, except when caught in distress, had always been invincible. There was but one case in which the Lamars, actually in fighting-ships too, had fled before the Islanders. But C’Zarcke understood full well that this was probably because their ships were in a perilous position due to the sea. Very vividly the legends of the Zogo-le pictured the sack of Eroob by the Lamars. In June 1793 Bampton and Alt in the Hormuzeer and Chesterfield sent a whale-boat ashore for water. The Erubians attacked the boat, killing five men, and great was the joy to find that at last the Lamars had become vulnerable to spear and club. But next day the crews of both vessels landed, drove off the Islanders with slaughter, burned six villages, destroyed a hundred and seventy huge war-canoes, cut down the gardens, and played general havoc.
There were other instances, all ending in the same result, which the Island history told to the Zogo-le. The Lamars, with their mysterious and unexplainable weapons, were invincible! For centuries past they had but come and gone, leaving to the people only the remembrance of a nightmare.
But now they were coming in great numbers, and staying! C’Zarcke was full of fears; upon him lay the entire responsibility for the Island peoples.
To the Zogo-le on Mer were constantly brought news of the doings of the Lamars over hundreds of miles of waterways. C’Zarcke knew the increasing numbers of these strange beings; he knew that so far they had proved invincible to attack by coloured men. What were their real numbers? What did they want? Would they ultimately overrun all the Islands? Could they not be stopped? Must the Island people eventually perish?
C’Zarcke thought and worried far into the night, but this great question was as insoluble as that of the stars, as indefinite as the Lamars themselves. He did not know what the Lamars were, these strange people who had suddenly invaded the Island world – from the very skies, the Islanders believed.
C’Zarcke did not now believe that Lamars were the spirits of men come to earth again for a season. As he thought of Jakara, he grimly resolved to prove the matter. This Lamar had passions very similar to those of Island men. C’Zarcke would bring Eyes of the Sea, the woman Lamar, to Mer. The priest smiled cynically. He was positive of the result. But he sighed again, thinking deeply on matters more important.
He had dreamed of learning so much from Jakara, as the boy Lamar grew up. He had thought to find out everything that the Lamars really were. But C’Zarcke could not realize the difference of mentality between coloured and white. Also, one was a frightened captive of a totally unknown race of human beings; the other was a great chief hedged round by superstition and savage power. The very environment of the two, not to take into account utterly different racial customs and ideals and the tense distrust between them