Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
“Look, Baas. Is it Jana glowing like hot iron who stands yonder?”
“Don’t be a fool,” I answered. “How can Jana be here and, if he were
here, how could we see him in the night?” But as I said the words I
remembered Harût had told us that Jana had been met with on the Holy
Mount “in the spirit or in the flesh.” However this may be, next
instant he was gone and we beheld him or his shadow no more. Also we
thought that from time to time we heard voices speaking all around us,
now here, now there and now in the tree tops above our heads, though
what they said we could not catch or understand.
Thus the long night wore away. Our progress was very slow, but guided
by occasional glimpses at the compass we never stopped but twice, once
when we found ourselves apparently surrounded by tree boles and fallen
boughs, and once when we got into swampy ground. Then we took the risk
of lighting the lantern, and by its aid picked our way through these
difficult places. By degrees the trees grew fewer so that we could see
the stars between their tops. This was a help to us as I knew that one
of them, which I had carefully noted, shone at this season of the year
directly over the cone of the mountain, and we were enabled to steer
thereby.
It must have been not more than half an hour before the dawn that Hans,
who was leading—we were pushing our way through thick bushes at the
time—halted hurriedly, saying:
“Stop, Baas, we are on the edge of a cliff. When I thrust my stick
forward it stands on nothing.”
Needless to say we pulled up dead and so remained without stirring an
inch, for who could say what might be beyond us? Ragnall wished to
examine the ground with the lantern. I was about to consent, though
doubtfully, when suddenly I heard voices murmuring and through the
screen of bushes saw lights moving at a little distance, forty feet or
more below us. Then we gave up all idea of making further use of the
lantern and crouched still as mice in our bushes, waiting for the dawn.
It came at last. In the east appeared a faint pearly flush that by
degrees spread itself over the whole arch of the sky and was welcomed
by the barking of monkeys and the call of birds in the depths of the
dew-steeped forest. Next a ray from the unrisen sun, a single spear of
light shot suddenly across the sky, and as it appeared, from the
darkness below us arose a sound of chanting, very low and sweet to
hear. It died away and for a little while there was silence broken only
by a rustling sound like to that of people taking their seats in a dark
theatre. Then a woman began to sing in a beautiful, contralto voice,
but in what language I do not know, for I could not catch the words, if
these were words and not only musical notes.
I felt Ragnall trembling beside me and in a whisper asked him what was
the matter. He answered, also in a whisper:
“I believe that is my wife’s voice.”
“If so, I beg you to control yourself,” I replied.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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