Dennis Wheatley: The White Witch of the South Seas

For a time the drumming contended with the noise and laughter coming from the crowded benches. Then, suddenly, there fell a hush and the tempo of the drums became faster. An elderly Negro walked a little unsteadily out into the middle of the open space. He wore dirty white cotton trousers, bagging at the knees, a sagging jacket and, at a rakish angle on his head, an old cloth cap. His grey hair was wavy and he had a beard. He was smoking a pipe and carried a walking stick with a crook handle. After grinning round at the congregation he began gradually revolving in a very slow shuffle.

His supporting cast then appeared. It consisted of about twenty women, mostly black, but including a few near whites. All of them were dressed in white, with high necked bodices and long, full skirts that swept the ground as they moved. Forming a line, with their backs to the female congregation, they swayed, rather than danced, slowly backwards and forwards, gradually forming a circle.

The old `Godfather' continued to puff at his pipe of marijuana while shuffling round and round, occasionally waving his stick and, in a quiet voice, calling out a few words. As he grinned after each utterance, Gregory thought it probable that he was making jokes, and he certainly had more the appearance of a clown than a witch doctor.

Without any alteration, except for a slight acceleration in the pace of the shuffling and swaying, this went on for a good twenty minutes. Becoming bored, Gregory moved restlessly in his seat. Hugo, who was sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered

`Pity we couldn't have come in later; but they wouldn't have that. I gathered that they don't really get going until about two o'clock in the morning, so we'll have to be patient.'

Gregory nodded, and lit one of his fat, four inch long Sullivan cigarettes.

With little variation, the sombre dance continued for a further quarter of an hour. Then there came a spattering on the leaves of the trees that surrounded the enclosure. It had begun to rain.

Hugo swore under his breath. `Let's hope this is only a shower. If it's one of our big tropical storms, we've had it.'

`With so much thunder about, I'll bet you it's a downpour,' Gregory replied. And after a few minutes it was clear that he was right. From large, scattered splashes, the rain rapidly increased until it was sheeting down. In tropical countries Negroes go about lightly clad, but they nearly always carry umbrellas. A solid mass of them shot up, obliterating the congregation, but the torrents of rain descending were such that the umbrellas offered little protection.

Thunder boomed like a broadside of heavy guns, temporarily drowning the sound of the drums. The strings of fairy lights above the altar suddenly went out, but great jagged streaks of forked lightning continued from minute to minute to light the scene. By their light, through the curtain of rain, it could be vaguely seen that the ceremony was still proceeding. The old Negro continued to stumble round, but was now waving his stick above his head and yelling at the sky. Captain Sousa leaned forward and shouted, "E is telling rain to go away, but I think 'e don't 'ave much luck.'

Within a matter of minutes everyone was soaked to the skin. As the rain was lukewarm, the discomfort it inflicted was minimised; but the storm showed no sign of abating and the congregation rapidly began to break up.

`No good staying on,' said Hugo abruptly. `We must find the girls and get them to the cars.'

Leaving their seats, they began to struggle through the seething mass of people. Captain Sousa blew his whistle. There came a shrill reply from some distance off and, knowing that it came from the police woman, they headed in that direction. Five minutes later, to their great relief, they found Patricia and the others. Taking the arms of the women, they strove to get them through the crowd to the head of the long flight of steps. At length they succeeded, but only to find that rain from the plateau was cascading down the primitive staircase like a waterfall.

Gregory was leading, with. Manon de Bois Tracy. In one swift movement he picked her up and plunged knee deep into the torrent. Some of the boards supporting the steps had already given way. The earth had turned to mud and was extremely slippery. Lurching from side to side and only just succeeding in keeping his balance, he got her down to the solid road and, gasping for breath, set her on her feet.

For several minutes they waited for the others. Stumbling, sliding, some on their backs, scores of the congregation were swept down the steep slope, but none of Hugo's party was among them.

With a frown, Gregory said, `They must have decided that the steps have become too dangerous, and mean to wait up there until the storm is over. We had better try to find one of the cars.'

Like two drowned rats, their clothes clinging to them„ while the rain still sheeted down, they set off along the line of motors parked at the roadside. A few, the owners of which had got away early, were pulling out and setting off for Rio, but the majority were lightless and unoccupied. Angrily, Gregory realised that the drivers of the police cars must have left them to go up and see the ceremony and were now trapped among the milling mob above the torrent. It was too dark for there to be any chance of identifying the cars, so for a few moments he stood silently cursing while wondering what best to do.

There came a deafening clap of thunder. Lightning streaked down from almost immediately overhead, a great tree nearby was struck and one of the larger branches was peeled off, to crash across the roof of a car. Manon, screamed and threw her arms round Gregory.

`All right, all right,' he muttered. `Don't be afraid. As long as we stay clear of the trees we'll come to no harm. But we must find shelter somewhere.'

Swinging her round, he drew her back up the road. After covering a hundred yards he glimpsed through the trees the white walls of a bungalow. Taking the path that led to it, they went up the steps to the porch and he banged on the door. There was no reply, but the door swung open.

Staggering inside, they found the place deserted, but an oil lamp that had been turned low was burning in the main room. Turning up the wick, they looked about them. The room was better furnished than might have been expected. It even had shelves on one wall, carrying a hundred or more books, and a writing desk in front of one of the windows. Exhausted after their struggle against the elements, they sank down on the sofa.

The rain drummed with unceasing ferocity on the roof, thunder continued to roll and every few moments lightning made the window a blinding glare that lit up every detail of the room.

Gregory soon pulled himself together, stood up and went to explore the other rooms of the dwelling. After a short absence he returned carrying a bottle three quarters full of rum and two mugs. He had already taken a good swig himself and now he made Manon do likewise. As the fiery liquid went down her throat she gasped, but her sallow cheeks took on colour and she gave him a faint smile. Then she asked:

`What now? How will we ever get back?'

He grinned at her. `All the odds are that the owner of this place went to the party and is still stuck among the crowd. When he does return we'll ask him to get a car for us or, if he can't do that, fix us up here for the night.

Perhaps he won't be able to get back,' she hazarded.

Gregory's grin deepened. `I'm afraid that's too much to hope for. All the same, you ought to get those wet things off. There are some women's clothes in the second room on the right down the passage. In the circumstances, their owner is hardly likely to object to your making temporary use of them.'

As he spoke, his glance swept over her from top to toe. Her thin frock was so saturated that it clung to her skin, revealing every detail of her good figure. After a moment he added: