Satanic Rites 3/Satanic Rites - Issue 3 (1992-11-24)(Destiny).adf/Ropeman/Ropeman

Text File | 1990-01-05 | 22KB | 416 lines

}0nf78
   {e                       THE ROPE-MAN OF ISUINGU


{m                  Another in the series of Mystery Stories
  {f                           By Metal / Destiny

{f [Ed:  apologies for the lack of colour - I did colour this article, but when I
 ran  it  through the article-tester and read it the colours gave me a headache
 so I took them out!]


 This  mystery  story  has  been  copied  from the book 'Unsolved Mysteries' by
 Valentine  Dyall,  who  in  turn  seems  to  have  got  certain  stories  from
 'Everybodys'  Magazine'.   The  book  is ancient and the magazine must be even
 older,  so  I  have  retyped  them  because they are quite interesting and you
 'ain't gonna find them in a bookstore no more.

 And here is the TRUE story...

 Benjamin  Oku's  ebony  face  registered  sublime  relief  as he watched great
 tongues  of flame shooting up through the roof of the old resthouse.  When the
 last  beam  had  crashed  down,  and  the  gleeful  chanting  of the tribesmen
 subsided,  he  crossed  the clearing to the clump of oil palms where the young
 Englishman stood.

 In  the  clipped,  formal  English  of  the mission-school, Benjamin strove to
 express his gratitude.

 "It  is  the  right thing that you have done, Master....  My people are filled
 with  happiness, for they know that now there will be peace in this place.  We
 are grateful, and we will build you a new resthouse very quickly."

 Administrative Officer Frank Hives only nodded:  his tired eyes remained fixed
 on  the  blazing  wreckage and the pall of smoke that wound its way up through
 the still, crystalline air, rearing overhead like an enormous black snake.  In
 the full heat of the African day he found himself shivering...

 "Yes, it is the right thing," Benjamin repeated.  "For what use is a resthouse
 in which there can be no rest...?"

 Hives turned and regarded him sternly.  "You're a Christian aren't you?"

 "Oh yes, Master"

 "And yet you believe in magic?"

 Benjamin hesitated, his dark eyes reproachful.

 "Master,  why  do you ask me this?  You have seen for yourself - you must know
 it is true..."

 Hives  made no answer, and after a moment the African pointed to the groups of
 near-naked  Isuorgu  tribesmen  watching  the  blaze  from  the fringes of the
 clearing.

 "My  tribe  is  poor and ignorant," he said, "yet they know things your people
 have  forgotten!   They  have old secrets - older than the forests - which the
 white  man  has  lost.   One  of  these...", his voice fell away to a whisper,
 "...is the secret of ju-ju."

 Hives started to say something, but changed his mind.  Yesterday he would have
 been  grieved and angry to find this intelligent, educated African clinging to
 barbaric  superstitions.   But now he could not find it in his heart to rebuke
 him.

 How  could he, when only a few hours ago, in the dolorous depths of the tropic
 night,  he  had  himself  witnessed  an event too strange and terrifying to be
 explained  in natural terms...  a phenomenon which, he was convinced, had been
 produced by forces of unknown to the science of the civilised world ?

 Abruptly  he  turned and yelled for his porters.  Then with a curt farewell to
 Benjamin  and  the  tribesmen, he led his small safari from the clearing.  Not
 once  did  he  look back at the "sacred circle" and the smouldering remains of
 "the haunted resthouse".

 The  amazing  story  that  Hives brought back to civilisation provided a final
 chapter  to  one  of  the  greatest  mysteries  in  the  history  of "the Dark
 Continent".  Each astonishing detail was verified by his African servants, who
 were closely questioned by Government officers.

 In  the  intervening  years  various explorers and scientists have studied the
 riddle, but a satisfactory explanation has yet to be found.

 In 1930 Hives published a gripping account of his ordeal in 'Ju-Ju and Justice
 in  Nigeria' a book which he wrote in collaboration with Gascoigne Lumley.  It
 is  from  this,  and  from  Nigerian  Government records, that the present-day
 researcher  draws his facts in reconstructing what is undoubtedly the Colony's
 best-authenticated instance of ju-juism.

 Four  or  five  years  before  Hives'  visit  the  European  owner of a remote
 plantation  in the northern Bende District reported growing restlessness among
 the  natives.  Tribes hitherto peaceful were reverting to savage feuds, and he
 believed  there  had  been  a  revival  of  secret societies which indulged in
 mystical  customs  and rites, "supervised by ju-ju priests and including human
 sacrifice..."

 The  planter  -  unfortunately the records do not give his real name - did not
 ask  for Government aid.  Confident that he could handle the situation, he was
 setting  out  with  a large and well-armed party of trusty native boys to tour
 the "troublesome" villages.  He would report on his return.

 Anxious  officials waited as weeks dragged by and no word came.  An expedition
 was organised to go in search of the foolhardy settler, but scant hours before
 its  departure  a  message  arrived  from him announcing "complete success and
 situation  now  in  hand".   A few days later a letter followed, giving a full
 report of the one-man punitive action.

 Not  many miles from the village of Isuingi, on a sandy plain, the planter and
 his   party   had   come  upon  a  large,  circular  hollow  masked  by  three
 crescent-shaped  clumps of oil palms.  Sacrificial stones, grotesque idols and
 sun-bleached human bones told a gruesome story - this was a "ju-ju temple".

 Tracks  from  the  hollow led across the semi-desert to Isuingu:  waiting till
 darkness  fell,  they  surrounded  the  huts and closed in.  Not the slightest
 resistance was encountered.  The villagers, routed from their homes and herded
 into  the central square, made no effort to deny that they had been practising
 ju-ju  and  making  human  sacrifices.  But the ju-ju priest who had ruled the
 secret society and was clearly responsible for this revival of barbarism could
 not  be  found  - somehow he had slipped through the net and vanished into the
 night.

 Trackers  went after him, but returned in eight hours empty-handed:  the trail
 petered  out  on  the  banks  of  a stream and they could not pick it up again
 though they had scoured many miles along either side.

 The  planter  organised  "cleansing" ceremonies which freed the villagers from
 the  vows of the secret society, then marched all the young men to the hollow.
 The  idols  and  sacrificial  stones  were  overthrown  and  broken up, but he
 realised  something  more  would  have  to be done to "neutralise" the "sacred
 circle" and make it impossible for the Isuorgu to restore the pagan temple.

 It  was then that he remembered the growing need for a resthouse in this area.
 The  Bende  District  was  being  opened  up  rapidly:   every year more white
 settlers,  traders and hunters were coming up-country.  In this wild terrain a
 night camped in the open was uncomfortable and often dangerous.

 Why  not  build  the resthouse here and now?  True, there were better sites in
 the vicinity, closer to the main routes - but a double purpose would be served
 if the hollow were chosen.

 The  villagers  were  neither  skilful nor enthusiastic builders, and the task
 took  almost  three  weeks.   But the completed structure was solid enough and
 quite  weatherproof.   Before  he set of for home the planter explained to the
 villagers that from now on they would be responsible for keeping the resthouse
 clean and in good repair.

 In  the  months  that  followed all was quiet in the Isuingu area, and gradual
 peace  returned to the rest of the Bende District.  Feuding died out and there
 was  no  more  talk of ju-ju ceremonies.  It seemed that the lone European had
 found the trouble centre and smashed the cult's power decisively.

 Then  the rumours began - vague, disturbing tales about the new resthouse.  At
 first  these circulated only among the native guides, porters and gun bearers,
 but  soon  there  were seasoned European hunters and even Government officials
 frankly admitting that they had sensed "something very odd" about the place.

 For  one thing, they declared, there was "a horrible, putrid smell" that could
 not  be  accounted  for.   Then  again  - the rooms were abnormally cold after
 sundown.  Some hinted of more sinister happenings, but at this stage there was
 never a definite report...

 Four  years  after  its  erection,  the Isuingu resthouse had acquired such an
 unpleasant  reputation that few travellers cared to use it.  Rather than sleep
 under  its  roof, men put up with the hardships of a night under canvas on the
 open  plain  -  pestered  by  insects  and  marauding animals, being caught in
 sandstorms or - in the rainy season - swamped by tropical deluges.

 But  Frank  Hives  knew nothing of this when he set out from Egugu to trek 100
 miles  to  Isuingu  on a routine visit.  Most of the Bende District was to him
 unexplored  territory:   the  resthouse was marked on his map and he naturally
 decided to stay there.

 As he approached Isuingu he heard that the building was dirty and dilapidated.
 Knowing  that the local tribesmen were responsible for its upkeep, he sent one
 of his boys ahead with directions for it to be prepared for him.

 Late the next day, crossing the plain towards the isolated clumps of oil palms
 which  marked  the hollow where the resthouse stood, he met a group of Isuorgu
 returning  from  their  cleaning  duties.   Their  expressions were sullen and
 unfriendly, and some bold youngsters waved their brooms threateningly.

 Hives  tried  to  talk  with  them, but they veered away from him, shouting in
 their  tongue  -  a  dialect  of  Ibo.   Immediately  his porters and personal
 servants  showed  signs of uneasiness - yet when he questioned them none would
 admit that anything was wrong.

 In  the hollow a number of local chiefs he had asked to meet him where nowhere
 to be seen.  The breach of etiquette perplexed and angered him.

 The  house seemed clean and comfortable.  He toured the rooms, then emerged to
 find  that his porters had dumped their burdens on the veranda and fled!  Only
 his cook and gun-bearer remained - hovering uncertainly in front of the house,
 wide eyed and sweating with fear...

 His  patience  was  beginning  to  fray.  Sternly he demanded to know what was
 troubling them - and where the porters had gone.

 "Naa  m  ukwu - (my big father) - this place is evil!" the cook wailed.  "Many
 devils  live here - the men say it is better to camp on the plains.  They will
 wait for you there..."

 They  would say no more than that.  Hives shrugged and went back to the house,
 leaving  the pair to make camp under the palms.  It was all very exasperating,
 but  he  knew  that  superstitious  fears  could not be dispelled by shouts or
 threats.  Let them do as they please - he would spend the night in ease.

 The  cook  summed  up  courage  to  prepare a meal and serve it - then ran off
 without  clearing  the  table.   As  the sun began to set, Hives sat in a deck
 chair on the verandah and smoked a last pipe.

 Slowly, almost as though in step with the onward march of night, a strange and
 sickly  odour  filled  the air.  He strode across the clearing and ordered the
 cook and gun-bearer to find out what was causing it.  They searched the hollow
 conscientiously enough, but nothing would induce them to enter the house.

 Hives  gave  up  and  searched  the rooms himself - without result.  About ten
 o'clock  he  went  to bed, but the stench became so strong that he had to soak
 his  canvas  pillow  with  raw  disinfectant.   He managed to sleep - but only
 because he was bone-weary after many days on the march.

 It must have been almost midnight when he wakened with a start.  Something was
 pulling at the mosquito net...

 he  snatched  the  flimsy  curtain  aside - and found himself staring into the
 contorted  face  of  the  cook.   The  man  was  literally crazed with terror.
 Falling  on  his  knees  he began to babble incoherently, reverting to his own
 tongue.  At first Hives could not make out a word - then he discovered that it
 was some kind of warning...

 Hives  was deeply touched.  Despite his terrible fear the cook had returned to
 the house to beg his master to leave at once - "because great danger comes!"

 "What danger?"

 The  cook  could not specify - but he was utterly convinced that if his master
 remained  in  the resthouse he would be dead by morning!  He must come away at
 once...!

 Hives  thanked  him  for  the  warning, but declined the invitation.  The cook
 regarded him for several minutes in despair, then turned and bolted.

 After  that  it was difficult to get back to sleep - the disinfectant had lost
 its  effect  and  the  unpleasant  odour was overpowering.  Lying there in the
 darkness  he tried to identify it:  with a sudden shock he realised it was the
 smell of decaying flesh...

 There  was  no  mistaking  that  foul  sweetness!   He  began  to feel ill and
 strangely  cold.  His nerves grew taught, and after a while he rose and made a
 second fruitless search of the house.

 He  went  out  onto  the  verandah.   The  night  was  calm, metallic:  bright
 moonlight  made  the  wooden  handrails  and  posts  gleam  like chromium, and
 silhouetted  the  motionless  fronds of the palms as black and clear-etched as
 wrought ironwork.

 No wind, no sound.  No movement save the feeble flicker of a dying campfire on
 the  fringe of the clearing, where the cook and his companions waited.  He had
 never known anything so eerie:  an unreasonable fear was seeping into him...

 He strove to be rational - no good getting jumpy just because of a nasty smell
 and a full moon!  There must be a good reason for his sudden restlessness.

 And   then   he  remembered  the  sullen  groups  of  Isuorgu...   the  absent
 chieftains...   his  servants'  reluctance to describe the danger they were so
 sure  existed...   Could  it be that the Isuorgu were planning rebellion?  Did
 they  mean  to  attack  the resthouse?  Then again, perhaps a band of renegade
 natives  were raiding in the area...  or a desperate criminal was at large - a
 maniac maybe...

 With  these  tangible  evidences  in  mind he went in, loaded his revolver and
 placed  it  under his pillow.  Then he scattered a fine layer of sand all over
 the verandah:  no one could walk there without leaving some trace.

 More  disinfectant on the pillow enabled him to get back to sleep - only to be
 yanked  to wakefulness again by a series of loud thumps and crashes that shook
 the building.  Grabbing his revolver he raced outside.

 The  deck-chair at the far end of the verandah was lying against the wall, ten
 feet  from the spot he had left it set up for use.  The dinning table, low-set
 but made of solid wood, had been overturned and the dishes smashed.  Yet there
 were no footmarks in the sand...

 He  ran  down  the  steps and searched all round the house without finding the
 slightest trace of an intruder.  In the brilliant moonlight he did not see how
 anyone  could  have  got  out  of  the clearing without being spotted - he had
 bounded   out  of  bed  and  reached  the  verandah  mere  seconds  after  the
 disturbance.  The thing was impossible!

 The  "corpsey" smell seemed to be getting worse.  He went back and lay down on
 the  bed.   His  body  ached  with  fatigue, but sleep was out of the question
 now...

 After   perhaps  fifteen  minutes  a  weird,  slithering  sound  reached  him.
 Something was moving outside on the verandah.

 He  cocked  the  revolver  and crept through to the main door.  Edging out, he
 spotted  a  dark  shape crawling along the verandah, about twenty feet away in
 the shadows close to the frontal wall.

 Levelling  the  revolver,  he aimed at the middle of the shape and waited.  It
 came  on  steadily.  his finger tightened on the trigger - and the thing moved
 out of the shadows into the moonlight...

 Hives  dropped the gun and reeled back against the doorpost - shock pounded on
 his  breastbone,  every  muscle  rigid.  Horror held him powerless, like a man
 encased in a block of ice.  He could only stand there and watch the thing draw
 nearer - the crawling naked body of a very old man...

 Reading  his  own  description  of that hideous visitor we can understand this
 paralysis:

 "The  face  was  mottled with pockmarks and the nose had been eaten away.  The
 head  was  bald,  the  top  of  it being a dirty white, shrivelled and grey in
 patches...   The  horrible  lipless  mouth was half open, the jaw sagging like
 that of a dead person."

 He found himself staring into "dead eyes that did not move..."

 As  it  crawled  across  the  sanded  floor he saw that the thing was dragging
 behind it a long piece of rope - plaited in the native fashion.  At the centre
 of the verandah it paused, reached up with bony hands and gripped the rail.

 Not  more  than five feet from him, slowly it dragged itself upright and began
 to climb one of the posts supporting the roof.

 Hives  was jerked out of his trance by a distant cry - from the camp under the
 oil palms.  The cook had wakened and spotted the climbing figure.

 Diving  for  his gun, Hives yelled:  "Guzo!  Guzo!" (Ibo for "Stop").  But the
 thing  kept  on climbing.  He stepped forward and at point-blank range emptied
 the revolver into that loathsome, wrinkled body.

 Still  it  kept  on  climbing.   No  blood fell.  Hives threw away the gun and
 stretched  out  his hands to grab the legs - but he could not bring himself to
 lay hands on that dried up flesh...  It clambered up onto the rafters and then
 the long rope was swiftly hauled up after it.  A moment later...  it vanished.

 Hives  ran  down  the  steps  and  headed  for  the  palms.   The cook and the
 gun-bearer stared, obviously astounded to see him alive.

 "Oh, my Master - I warned you!" the cook said ushering him to the camp fire.

 "We  knew  this  would  happen,"  the  gun-bearer  moaned.   "We knew it would
 come...!"

 Hives  said  nothing.  He sat with them, silently huddled over the fire, until
 the dawn came and dispelled the smell of death from the hollow.

 As  they  ate  their  breakfast the porters came slinking back.  They snatched
 their  loads  from  the  verandah and hurried away to wait at a safe distance.
 Then,  when it was fully light, a large party of Isuorgu approached, headed by
 a portly, middle-aged individual in knee length khaki shorts - Benjamin Oku.

 It  was  from Benjamin - an alert, talkative native educated by missionaries -
 that Hives finally got the full story.

 The resthouse, he said, had been built exactly on the spot where the principal
 ju-ju icon had stood.  When the European who supervised the work had gone, the
 ju-ju priest returned and tried to incite his former supporters to destroy the
 building, but they refused and banished him from Isuingu.

 In  a  terrible  rage  the priest placed a ju-ju curse on the resthouse.  On a
 night  of  the  full  moon  he  was seen by Isuorgu herdsmen dancing round the
 hollow,  weaving  his evil spell.  The next day he was found dead - inside the
 building, hanging from the rafters...

 The villagers, Benjamin added, were too frightened of the body to cut it down.
 No white men were in the area, so they just let it fall to pieces.  Eventually
 the remains were devoured by scavenger pigs.

 Hives  asked  Benjamin  for  a  description  of  the ju-ju priest:  It tallied
 exactly with the uncanny being he had seen on the verandah!

 Together  they  walked  across  the clearing to the house.  On the post by the
 steps  they  inspected  fresh  bullet-holes.   The  sand  on  the verandah was
 undisturbed  except  by Hives' own tracks, and there was not so much as a spot
 of blood to be seen.

 Hives  went  outside  and  collected  the last of his gear.  On his way out he
 stopped  and  looked  up at the rafters for a long time.  Then he hurried down
 the steps and faced Benjamin.

 "Tell  them  they can burn it down if they'll build a new one out there on the
 plain," he said quietly.

 Minutes  later  whooping, chanting tribesmen were hurling blazing torches into
 the "haunted resthouse".

 "It is the right thing that you have done, master," Benjamin said.  "Now there
 will be peace in this place..."

 And  Benjamin  was  right.   In  his  later years Hives returned many times to
 Isuingu and slept at the new resthouse - three miles from the "sacred circle".
 He  was  not  disturbed,  and neither were the scores of other travellers that
 stayed there.

 In  time the desert weeds and bushes crept in and covered the old site, but to
 this  day the Isuorgu will not go near it at night.  They fear that a creature
 that can survive hanging and bullets may also be able to survive fire...

 Europeans,  too,  give  the  place a wide berth.  They do not believe in ju-ju
 spells  -  but neither did Frank Hives until he stepped out into the moonlight
 and  saw  that hideous crawling thing...  Moreover, they know that though many
 have tried, no one has yet
  been able to suggest a natural explanation for the riddle of "the rope-man of
 Isuingu"...

                                     ---

 Now  read  "Rope-Man,  Solution?"  (or  whatever  Tantalus  has called it this
 time!),  in  it  the  author  gives  what he believes to be a solution to this
 mystery...


-Finish-