For the first time in my life I knew the meaning of
fear; I knew that black horror lurked in that sullen cabin under the
moss-bearded cypresses--a horror against which every primitive instinct
that was my heritage cried out in panic. And that insistent half-memory woke suddenly. It was the memory of a
story of how voodoo men leave their huts guarded in their absence by
a powerful ju-ju spirit to deal madness and death to the intruder. White men ascribed such deaths to superstitious fright and hypnotic
suggestion. But in that instant I understood my sense of lurking peril;
I comprehended the horror that breathed like an invisible mist from
that accursed hut. I sensed the reality of the ju-ju, of which the
grotesque wooden images which voodoo men place in their huts are only a
symbol. Saul Stark was gone; but he had left a Presence to guard his hut. I backed away, sweat beading the backs of my hands. Not for a bag of
gold would I have peered into the shuttered windows or touched that
unbolted door. My pistol hung in my hand, useless I knew against the
_Thing_ in that cabin. What it was I could not know, but I knew it was
some brutish, soulless entity drawn from the black swamps by the spells
of voodoo. Man and the natural animals are not the only sentient beings
that haunt this planet. There are invisible _Things_--black spirits of
the deep swamps and the slimes of the river beds--the negroes know of
them....

       *       *       *       *       *

My horse was trembling like a leaf and he shouldered close to me as if
seeking security in bodily contact. I mounted and reined away, fighting
a panicky urge to strike in the spurs and bolt madly down the trail. I breathed an involuntary sigh of relief as the somber clearing fell
away behind me and was lost from sight. I did not, as soon as I was out
of sight of the cabin, revile myself for a silly fool. My experience
was too vivid in my mind. It was not cowardice that prompted my retreat
from that empty hut; it was the natural instinct of self-preservation,
such as keeps a squirrel from entering the lair of a rattlesnake. My horse snorted and shied violently. A gun was in my hand before I saw
what had startled me. Again a rich musical laugh taunted me. She was leaning against a bent tree-trunk, her hands clasped behind
her sleek head, insolently posing her sensuous figure. The barbaric
fascination of her was not dispelled by daylight; if anything, the glow
of the low-hanging sun enhanced it. "Why did you not go into the ju-ju cabin, Kirby Buckner?" she mocked,
lowering her arms and moving insolently out from the tree. She was clad as I had never seen a swamp woman, or any other woman,
dressed. Snakeskin sandals were on her feet, sewn with tiny sea-shells
that were never gathered on this continent. A short silken skirt
of flaming crimson molded her full hips, and was upheld by a broad
bead-worked girdle. Barbaric anklets and armlets clashed as she moved,
heavy ornaments of crudely hammered gold that were as African as her
loftily piled coiffure. Nothing else she wore, and on her bosom,
between her arching breasts, I glimpsed the faint lines of tattooing on
her brown skin. She posed derisively before me, not in allure, but in mockery. Triumphant malice blazed in her dark eyes; her red lips curled with
cruel mirth. Looking at her then I found it easy to believe all the
tales I had heard of torture and mutilations inflicted by the women of
savage races on wounded enemies. She was alien, even in this primitive
setting; she needed a grimmer, more bestial background, a background
of steaming jungle, reeking black swamps, flaring fires and cannibal
feasts, and the bloody altars of abysmal tribal gods. "Kirby Buckner!" She seemed to caress the syllables with her red
tongue, yet the very intonation was an obscene insult. "Why did you
not enter Saul Stark's cabin? It was not locked! Did you fear what you
might see there? Did you fear you might come out with your hair white
like an old man's, and the drooling lips of an imbecile?" "What's in that hut?" I demanded. She laughed in my face, and snapped her fingers with a peculiar gesture. "One of the ones which come oozing like black mist out of the night
when Saul Stark beats the ju-ju drum and shrieks the black incantation
to the gods that crawl on their bellies in the swamp." "What is he doing here? The black-folk were quiet until he came." Her red lips curled disdainfully. "Those black dogs? They are his
slaves. If they disobey he kills them, _or puts them in the swamp_. For long we have looked for a place to begin our rule. We have chosen
Canaan. You whites must go. And since we know that white people can
never be driven away from their land, we must kill you all." It was my turn to laugh, grimly. "They tried that, back in '45." "They did not have Saul Stark to lead them, then," she answered calmly. "Well, suppose they won? Do you think that would be the end of it? Other white men would come into Canaan and kill them all." "They would have to cross water," she answered. "We can defend the
rivers and creeks. Saul Stark will have many _servants in the swamps_
to do his bidding. He will be king of black Canaan. No one can cross
the waters to come against him. He will rule his tribe, as his fathers
ruled their tribes in the Ancient Land." "Mad as a loon!" I muttered. Then curiosity impelled me to ask: "Who is
this fool? What are you to him?" "He is the son of a Kongo witch-finder, and he is the greatest voodoo
priest out of the Ancient Land," she answered, laughing at me again. "I? You shall learn who _I_ am, tonight in the swamp, in the House of
Damballah." "Yes?" I grunted. "What's to prevent me from taking you into
Grimesville with me? You know the answers to questions I'd like to ask." Her laughter was like the slash of a velvet whip. "_You_ drag me to the village of the whites? Not all death and hell
could keep me from the Dance of the Skull, tonight in the House of
Damballah. You are _my_ captive, already." She laughed derisively as
I started and glared into the shadows about me. "No one is hiding
there. I am alone, and you are the strongest man in Canaan. Even Saul
Stark fears you, for he sent me with three men to kill you before you
could reach the village. Yet you are my captive. I have but to beckon,
so"--she crooked a contemptuous finger--"and you will follow to the
fires of Damballah and the knives of the torturers." I laughed at her, but my mirth rang hollow. I could not deny the
incredible magnetism of this brown enchantress; it fascinated and
impelled, drawing me toward her, beating at my will-power. I could not
fail to recognize it any more than I could fail to recognize the peril
in the ju-ju hut. *       *       *       *       *

My agitation was apparent to her, for her eyes flashed with unholy
triumph. "Black men are fools, all but Saul Stark," she laughed. "White men are
fools, too.