Death On A String

Short Story:

By V. J. Hearnes

HE stamped to the door and shouted, “Mali, you come.”

“Yus, Masta,” a husky voice answered, and a stocky Sepik hurried from the shade beside the cook-house.

“tv/toU yon call’im all boy make line aln-no- han.” the planter ordered, with a "oroipcc gesture towards the grassv patch that did duty for a lawn in front of the house.

“Yus, Masta.” The native sped away to where, in the shelter of a wide-spread ing, buttressed fig-tree, the labourers of Amanu Plantation munched their noon time meal.

“Whv. John. 1 thought you were going into Karlshaven this afternoon.” the woman said, sudden fear rising in her worried eyes.

“Well, you thought wrong again,” he leered.

“■R’it. John. ”

“Shut up, will vou! I’m stopping home tip TTwara gets back.”

“Till Kwara gets back!” Her face lost evpp the little colour it had managed to retain inspite of the horror and the d ocrro q t,i on of the past six months.

“Isn’t Kwara working with the rest of the boys?”

TTote-fiHed, iealous eves, narrowed to blazing slits, glared into his wife’s face, noting with sadistic gratification the sudden pallor, the trembling lips.

“Kwara hasn’t been seen since the line

went down into the west corner first thing this morning. He didn’t sneak off any where with a letter by any chance, did he?”

“A letter? I don’t know what you mean, John.”

“I think you know, right enough. A letter to that snivelling yellow-beUy at Talio River. That got under your skin, didn’t it!” His thin hands clenched upon the woman’s knee.

“Don’t be foolish, John. I don’t know what you are talking about.” She re peated her protest weakly.

“You don’t know how much I know,” he snapped back. “But I’m telling you this I’m keeping all the boys in fbp ir houses this afternoon, and when Kwara gets back, I’m going to grab the brute and search him. And if he has a note for you from Mac Hail, then you’re going to get what’s coming to you, you treacherous ”

The woman’s face flushed, and then paled again beneath his malevolent scrutiny. Rising from the table, she moved towards the bedroom, arrested at the door by his rasping voice.

“See you don’t leave this house until I give the word. I’m going to sit in the the store, where I can watch the boys’ houses as well as the house, and if you attempt to leave the place I’ll have mv answer, without waiting for Kwara with any blasted love-letters.”

SCOOPING the pile of mail from be side his plate, he slammed his hat on his head and strode out to where the plantation and house boys had aligned themselves in a restless, chatter ing “line” before the house.

“Rouse-im talk.” he bellowed, and the natives fell silent.

“Mali.” he called, after a brief, scorn ful scrutiny.

“Yus, Masta.” the native said, his eyes rolling in sudden fear.

“Kwara, he stop where?”

“Oh, Masta, me no savee.” The black toes wriggled uneasily in the scraggy grass. “Masta, me go lookim ”

“Shut up. you black scum. You’re boss-boy here, and if a coon is missing that’s your business, isn’t it?”

Anew wave of chatter arose, subsiding instantly under a vicious glare from the white man’s bloodshot eyes.

“All boy belong Amanu, listen good.

Clear off to your houses, and no one leave until I say. Mali you savvy?” ‘Me savvy, Masta.” The sullen native, smarting under the rebuke administered in front of the labourers, led the silent boys to the large hut across the path from the store.

UNLOCKING the door of the planta tion store, he seated himself on a box placed where he could see both the house and the barracks. He bel lowed for Mali to bring him whiskv and a glass and when it appeared, he poured himself a stiff drink and downed it at a gulp. Then, with frequent glances to wards the house and the native hut he fumbled through the mail. Dropping the newsnspers and letters on the floor be side him. he opened the large official en velope and scanned its contents.

“Damnation! Do they think a man’s got nothing else to do but line his bovs up after everv mail and recite a new string of regulations? Wages! Working hours' New food scales! And now ‘Parachute Bombs’. Well, I’ll be damned!

Do they think I’m going to put in half

a day trying to teach a bunch of kan akas not to touch anything they might see hanging from trees, because it might be a parachute bomb left over from the war, and it might blow them to their own particular hell? Let them find out for themselves! One or two good bangs and the rest will learn soon enough.”

A sudden movement among the coconut palms caught his suspicious eyes. Watch ing closely, he saw the short, slim figure of Kwara slipping from palm-tree to palm-tree, working round to the back of the house.

Waiting till the house-garden obscured the view, he strode quickly to the house, through the rear door, and reached the top of the back steps in time to see Kwara opening the garden gate.

“Kwara,” he roared, and the native froze to a sudden stop.

“Kwara! You come.”

The native paused, then fingered the woven hag that he carried native-wise under his upper arm, the thin strap over pis shoulder. Recovering quickly from his fright, some secret unknown to his master giving him unwonted courage, he eved the threatening figure warily, his black face set tensely, “Kwara. you come here or I’ll kill you.”

A slow grin creased the native’s 'face and betel-stained teeth flashed redly!

“Masta. you no can kill’im me. Mast* Mac Hail he tell’im me, behind you go along calaboose—along before you killim one fella boy belong Amanu.”

“Damn your blasted hide!” the swaying man roared, stumbling down the steps and raging towards the gate The native, with ouick, long steps, fled towards the coconuts.

Anger spurring his unsteady limbs, drunken bully raced in pursuit. With frequent glances over his shoulder, the lithe native, filled with war-taught cun ning, kept a safe distance in front, while allowing the pursuing figure to gain slowly upon him.

Dodging through the palms, he gained the stretch of waving kunai grass bevond crossed the tiny stream that skirted the plantation area, then raced along a “coon track” that cleft the tangled, gloomv barrier of jungle. Pausing a moment to listen, a heavy splashing and an uncouth roar told him that his master was not far behind.

With a sudden spurt he gained on his pursuer. Reaching a bend in the uneven winding track he glanced up into the heavy, twisted branches of an enormous fig-tree around whose giant trunk the “coon-track” turned sharply at the right.

A quick, searching look confirmed a dis covery made a few days before.

Dropping his woven bag squarely in the middle of the track, the Bouang climbed swiftly to an overhanging branch many feet above the ground. Reaching a chosen spot upon a branch, he waited, still as death, until the raving master of Amanu swerved around the trunk of of the fig and halted suddenly at the sight of the fallen bag. The corner of a snow-white envelope peeped out like a provocative eye from the mouth of the bag.

AS the unsteady, gasping figure bent to seize the letter, the native’s left hand silently parted a tangle of weather-stained silk cord that lay across the branch. Then a swift stroke of his jungle knife severed a thread which dangled stiffly down to where a rusting metal cylinder hung unmoving in the still jungle air. The native crouched closely upon the sheltering vastness of the giant branch. A shriek of terror from his lips passed unheard as all hell broke loose far down below his moss covered perch, and a bully’s soul went screeching down the by-ways of the damned.