tortured brain, were satellites of the big devil, Mazpa. They were his attendants, lesser beings of the same world, lesser emissaries of his own enraged and avenging gods.
There were monkeys on the ship, too—friendly, chattering little beasts, who held out small hairy hands to Yen Sing, and smiled at him mockingly with their bright, canny eyes. He would stand before their cage whenever He could snatch a moment from his work, jabbering at them in language which the other sailors said was either their own or a kindred tongue, laying his yellow cheeks against the bars, giving them his pigtail to play with.
The monkeys he didn’t fear, nor the one lion, the two tigers, and the other large beasts of the jungle. He even liked the screaming, disapproving, gaudy tropical birds that flew excitedly from side to side of their barred home when he approached them. But Mazpa and his snakes—there was a different story.
* * * *
One other devil there was on board the ship, in league with Mazpa, perhaps, but certainly sent to the ship for the same purpose—to run down the Chinaman soul and body, and deliver him to the grasp of his pursuing gods. That was the devil with the thin, wailing voice, who lived in a long black reed, and talked to Sally, the red-headed sailor, whenever that blue-eyed, freckled-faced booze-loving son of the sea put his lips to the reed, and whispered to its inmates. Flute, they called this devil, and whenever he heard the sweet, shrill notes, Yen Sing cowered and hid his face in his hands. He would seek the farthermost corner of the ship, and there remain in fierce and brooding terror until the notes were stilled, and the devil had retired. Then and then only, would he return to his work.
Sally, however, Yen Sing admired nightly. He was fond of this husky sailor in his own queer, Oriental way. He often longed to tell Sally that he was not the priest of a god, as he undoubtedly must think himself, but instead the guardian of a devil, relentless, persecuting, vicious, who would turn upon his own votary when once his way was gained, and rend him limb from limb. But he never could make Sally understand, so he finally gave up trying, and wore himself to a shadow longing for the day of release from the daily nightmare of Mazpa’s baleful eyes and the Flute’s shrill, pursuing voice.
Up in the sky, clinging to the mast, while the boat rocked gently to and fro in the arms of the water, Yen Sing forgot everything except the busy city spread out before his slanting eyes. He watched the smoke-wreathing itself from countless chimneys to spread its dark haze over the horizon; he marveled at the bustle about the waterfront.
The myriad noises of the city came to him as a subdued roar, like the, sound of distant thunder in the hills in summertime. Especially he admired the white shaft of the Customs House tower, rising from the lesser buildings surrounding it like a maiden above her worshipers. Tall and slim and white it stood, serene in the midst of turmoil.
What was that dark streak coiled about its slenderness? Yen Sing shut his eyes in terror, for he seemed to discern a flat head, two yawning jaws, and the steady gleam of narrow, jetty eyes, Mazpa writhed and swayed on the tower’s body. With a shudder, Yen Sing turned away.
Now Mazpa had ideas of his own concerning this jungle-ship. He detested his barred and bolted cage; he hated the motion of the ship. Back in his native jungles, the earth had remained steady, motionless. In this jail of his, this narrow, cramping space, in which he was permitted to exist, there were no tall trees, smooth of trunk, or covered with thick green verdure, whence he might rear his mighty head to survey his domain—the jungle. He loathed with a murderous hatred the white men who held him captive. He longed to enfold them within his gigantic coils, and crush their bones and flesh into one mass. Most of all he detested the wrinkled little yellow man who stole on tiptoe past his cage, shrinking from the infuriated glare of his eyes.
* * * *
Today, as a sailor came to his cage to feed him, Mazpa reared his ugly head with a threatening hiss, his fangs darting wickedly from his open jaws, his eyes fiendish. The sailor, overcome with sudden terror, rushed from the cage, leaving it open. Mazpa rolled forth in stately coils, rolled sedately to his freedom—rolled in quest of a tree.
Yen Sing bent his head, and the pigtail flopped over his shoulder and hung down; Yen Sing blinked. Fascinated, trembling, he looked the length of the mast to the deck below.
There, rearing upward, quite at his ease, as though he were scaling a tree in his native jungles, was Mazpa. Everywhere, it appeared, was Mazpa. Yen Sing closed his eyes; opened them. The vision remained. Came the paralyzing realization that the snake was no hallucination, but a reality.
In a cold sweat of terror, Yen Sing understood. The devil of his gods was ready to carry out their will. Who but a god or a devil would have released the heavy bars and bolts of Mazpa’s cage?
The huge flat head reared itself up the mast, diamond hard eyes fixed brilliantly on his. Behind the flattened head lay coil on coil of scales, shining in the sunlight, twisted about the smooth mast like a bracelet on a virgin’s arm.
Yen Sing opened his lips to call for help. No sounds issued from them. He gagged with terror. A tremendous fascination drew his eyes to those of the serpent.
Slowly, silently, the snake made his persistent, relentless advance, his forked tongue darting from his scarlet fangs. The Chinaman’s body shook, then stiffened. He began to regard his enemy with a stare as glassy as its own. His body, his limbs, his vocal organs were completely paralyzed, it seemed. An age of inertia, and then, very slowly but very surely, he began to move down the mast. Inch by inch he edged nearer, inch by inch Mazpa crept up.
Below, on the deck, the crew were searching for Mazpa, searching with a silent speed that proved how unwelcome a guest Mazpa was, unfettered. The sun still shone, and the waters still danced, but there was a chill in the sunshine, and a threat, a mocking, in the dancing. Sally, his red hair rumpled by the fingers of the breeze, remembered that nature was man’s age-old enemy. His lips were tight over his uneven teeth. Through his brain seethed strange thoughts. He thought of Mazpa’s mighty coils crushing out the life of a man as easily as he could break a soda-water straw; he wondered what had become of the little yellow Chink. Then he coupled the two thoughts and shuddered.
Below was the blue water, above was the blue sky, with white gulls speeding through its color. His eyes followed their flight mechanically as he straightened a moment to wipe the perspiration from his freckled face. The birds disappeared behind the mast. Sally’s mouth fell open, his head jerked back; his eyes widened, his face became a mask of horror.
Up the mast undulated the giant snake; down the mast, a man in another world, edged Yen Sing. While one might have counted ten, the sailor stood like a man in a trance, his gaze riveted on the gently swaying mast.
Then he leaped to action. He summoned the rest of the crew. But what could they do? What could any of them do? Powerless to move, they stood, silent, head upturned, watching, watching. Finally Sally, his body shaking, in a sweat, managed to rouse himself somehow from the coma of terror. He shouted.
The little Englishman appeared from below the deck, a gun under one arm. He followed the mesmerized gaze of the sailors upward. Years in the jungle had taught him self-reliance, self-control He brought his gun slowly to his shoulder, aimed it. But he didn’t fire.
A shout from Sally halted his finger on the trigger. A whispered conclave, and Sally disappeared below decks; the Englishman, his hand on his gun, took up a position behind the sailors. His face was troubled, but he was alert, eager—for what? Still the serpent rolled his sickening coils up; still Yen Sing, his pigtail jerking on his shoulder as the boat dipped to the waves, crept slowly downward.
Of the turmoil on the deck, Yen Sing knew nothing. His consciousness was limited to one vivid sensation against a background of unfathomable black—two fiery bits of light, now pin-pricks, now balls of menacing flame, dissolving again into the black of nothingness. He had forgotten that Mazpa was a devil, forgotten his loves, his hatreds, his fears. His whole world lay in those two compelling beacons.
Through the blankness, coming from another planet, pierced a sound, a shrill, thin, wailing sound.
This was the second devil, Flute. Mazpa could not do the trick alone, he needed help. For one brief second,