The Fool Fetish
By Hugh B. Cave
Originally published in the March, 1932 issue of Popular Fiction Magazine

A story of Borneo and Weird Magic

CHAPTER ONE

"YOU'RE a heathen, sir," the fat, red faced man said to Joe Meede. "A downright heathen. If I were not restrained by my gospel, I should thrash you at once for your insolence!"
Joe stood wide legged on the rotting hotel veranda, hands on his hips, and looked the fellow up and down with a dry, critical smirk. He had just told Charles Brereton Meager, without emotion and without any particular interest, that he didn't take missionaries into the jungle. They were a damned nuisance, frankly speaking. They made too much trouble and they were too dumb to live with. Evidently Meager didn't relish the free compliments.
Joe inspected the man carefully. He decided that the face was three shades too red, the eyes were too small and colorless, the lips were much too thin, and the whole effect, while being big enough in general, was altogether too fat.
"I don't like you, mister," Joe shrugged. "Nope. Not one bit I don't. Fact, if I had to look at that face too often. I'd go bury my head. I would that. You must have a torment shaving yourself every morning regular with that mug staring at you out of the mirror."
The red-faced man stiffened. He didn't do it gradually, but with a sudden spontaneous jerk, as if all muscles and nerves were outraged at once
"You-you common beachcomber!" he belched. "You dare to talk to me like that! I'll have you run out of Bandjermasin. I'll have you flogged!"
"You," Joe said thoughtfully, sidling toward the steps, "are the kind of guy who has things done, hey?  Don't like to do 'em yourself. Nope, I don't want your job, mister. Wouldn't walk down the street with you, let alone take you and your bandy-legged buddy into the jungle. Farewell, feller, farewell."
He ambled to the stoop. The three other men on the veranda were gazing at him curiously and smiling a little. The voice of Charles Brereton Meager fetched him up with an abrupt jolt.
"You half-breed-you-filthy gutter-snipe!"
Joe walked back again deliberately, and reached out his left hand to take hold of the man's thick neck.
"I don't like to be called that, mister," he said coldly. "You should've known better."
His upright fist swung back and came up again. But he stopped it before it made contact with the cringing red face. No, he couldn't smash that bloated map; it was too fat and sweaty; it might break all to pieces and get messy.
"Aw hell," Joe grumbled, shoving away from him. "Go fly a kite."
Then he shuffled down the veranda steps and walked away, while the red-faced missionary picked himself up and leaned back against the wall, mumbling and fuming to himself in furious humiliation. The other men on the veranda glanced knowingly at one another, smiled slightly, and said nothing. They knew Joe Meede very well.

JOE STROLLED down the street toward the nearby waterfront. He wanted a drink, but he'd be damned if he'd drink the stinking rice-brandy they threw up to a man in the native pubs. Later on he'd look up some of his friends in the European quarter and have a mug of real American rye. Just now, after a three months trading march on the Mahakam, the old town looked pretty good to him.
So he was a half-caste gutter-snipe, hey? His eyes tightened at that; he didn't like it. There wasn't-he turned casually to make sure that the slinking figure behind him was really trailing him, and then shuffled on again unconcerned-there wasn't a better trader in Borneo. Nope, and there wasn't another man who knew as much about the interior, or even professed to. The wise men came to Joe for information before going inland, and were mighty glad to pay fancy prices for his assistance.
But this red-faced missionary-hell, even his name was enough to scare a good man away from him. Wanted to go to Kampong Laonda on the Upper Merasi, eh? Well, you couldn't tell him anything; he knew all there was to know. Sure! Only a sap would undertake to guide for him on the march.
Joe glanced behind him again and scowled. This time there was no doubt of it; the man behind him was deliberately following him. Quickening his pace a little, Joe stooped to pick a slab of wood out of the gutter, then continued to stroll along with apparent carelessness down the dock front.
He browsed along for five minutes or so, letting the fellow come closer; then he turned into a deserted street and slowed almost to a shuffle.
The fellow closed up immediately. Came a sudden scuff of naked feet and a sharp suck of breath. Joe lunged around. The flat end of the stick crashed into the mans head, reeling him backwards. Joe dropped it and drove in with both fists flailing.
He buried the fellow against the wall and crumpled him there with a piledriver slam. It was methodical, expedient work. Joe did everything that way. He stepped back and let the man slide down, then looked him over caustically.
Joe's face expanded with surprise. His assailant was a Malay; one of the Malays, moreover, who habitually hung around the Greyley House, on whose veranda Joe had recently conflicted with Charles Brereton Meager! The coincidence put a thought into Joe's head.
"Say!" He gripped the native's shoulders and shook them. "Did that old blizzard send you after me?"
The Malay looked up goggle-eyed and shook his head in all directions at once.
"Did he?" Joe insisted. "Did he pay you to mob me?"
The Malay nodded woozily.
"Well the bleary-eyed son-of-a-gun!" Joe pouted. "I'm properly damned. I didn't think he had the nerve!"
He jerked the native up and looked him over for injuries. The slab of wood had left a pretty bruise all over the left side of the fellow's face. The fists, too, had added a few beautifying momentoes. Altogether, taking in account the fellow's original contributions to homeliness, the result wasn't particularly inspiring; but it would mend in time.
Joe pushed him away roughly and said with a grin:
"Clear out of here. Bump! Skidoo!"
Then he picked up the stick and fondled it lovingly while the Malay scuttled.
"The old hornbill," Joe mused. "I got to look into this."
He turned and retraced his steps to the Greyley House. It took him the better part of half an hour, and when he reached the drab, frame-shack hotel only two men were sitting on the porch. One was Meager; the other was Meager's missionary companion, the lean, raw-skinned, pock-blotched Henry Colloran.
They eyed Joe intently as he climbed the steps and approached them. Meager stood up bristling. Colloran extended his thin head and blinked with open irritation.
Joe sat down on the railing and grinned good-humoredly.
"Changed my mind," he said blandly. "I'll tag along."
When he said that, Meager's red face went three times as red and began to puff out.
"You insolent-" he started to rasp; but Joe cut him off with a shrug.
"Now, now," Joe said, folding his hands together nicely, "you'll be seeing me lots in the next few weeks. There'll be plenty of time to think up names. Good ones, too. Do I get the job?"
It was Henry Colloran who answered. Meager was too volcanic.
"Certainly not! We require a gentleman."
"That's me, " Joe grinned. "Blue blood and all. Eton and Oxford and finishing school. You'd be surprised, mister. I'll just mosey along and make the necessary arrangements. Maybe I can get the government launch to take us as far as-"
"We'll have nothing to do with you, sir!"
"No?" Joe slouched off the railing and shoved both his hands in his pockets with mock dejection. "That go for you too, Mr. Meager?"
Meager's garbled reply contained only half a dozen intelligible words, most of them epithets.
"Suits me," Joe smiled. "If you change your mind, you'll find me up at the garrison. Yep! You can't get anyone else, you know. Isn't a soul in Bandjermasin who knows the Upper Merasi enough to chance it. Look me up, gentlemen. At your leisure."
He pulled his topi down a little harder and trudged off. Meager and Colloran gaped after him in genuine bewilderment. Joe's face was one big grin.

MEAGER'S messenger arrived at the garrison about eleven-thirty the next morning, while Joe was playing double solitaire with the controleur and moaning about the noon-day heat.
Joe took the message, glanced at it skeptically, and grinned wide. He smoothed it out on the table in front of him, read it through again for sheer enjoyment, and then passed it to the controleur, and the Dutchman read it too.
"Ain't it hell?" Joe complained. "I got to go jungling."
"Hmm. Wants to see you right away, eh?" the controleur frowned, noting the last line of the note. "Says it's urgent."
"Yep. Those guys are always in a hurry. Tell him," Joe ordered, turning to the Malay who had brought it, "I'll be right over soon as I finish this game."
Two hours later, at his leisure, Joe went down to the hotel to make arrangements. The two missionaries were justly indignant. They accused him of sluggishness. They accused him of a lot of things.
"You are a last resort," Meager scowled unpleasantly. "We could find no one else in town qualified to take us where we wish to go."
"No? That's too bad," Joe sympathized. "That sure is too bad, mister."
Less than an hour after that, with supplies on board sufficient for a month's march, the borrowed government launch took the three men upstream, to begin their strenuous journey by prahus up the Barito.
That night the missionaries and Joe Meede camped on the outskirts of the Kampong Menihen. The government launch returned to Bandjermasin. The mosquitoes raised hell and a pair of brain-fever birds, concealed in a clump of lantana bushes outside the tent, turned Meager and Colloran three shades whiter with their yapping crescendo. In the morning Joe arranged with the kapala of the kampong to supply ten Long-Glit carry-men and four prahus for the rest of the journey.
During the ensuing days Joe learned a lot about his two companions. In the first place, he made a point of traveling in the same dugout with them as often as possible. He discovered that Meager, being fat, sweated a lot and turned livid red in the sun, like a boiled crab. He learned that Colloran possessed a nasty temper but was most of the time morose and reserved. Neither knew how to use a revolver. Neither was enjoying the trip the least bit.
"What the devil," Joe said one day, as the prahu labored through a network of red mangrove roots, "do you expect to do in Laonda?"
"We shall investigate," Meager said curtly.
"Yeah?" 'vestigate what?"
"You have heard of Thomas Williams?"
"Uh-huh," Joe nodded. "I've met him. He's doing a good job up there on the Merasi, Williams is. Got the Saputans eating out of his hand."
"There are rumors," Meager frowned, "that Thomas Williams has forgotten the purpose of his being there."
"Yeah?" Joe cocked his head to listen to the rumble of rapids far upstream. "He's a missionary, isn't he?"
"Supposedly. There are tales that he has forgotten the meaning of the word. He is no more than a savage."
"Well, some guys get that way after a while," Joe shrugged. "The jungle does it, and the heat. But this Williams feller isn't that sort. Nope; he's clean. He's a father to them. Knows more about the inlanders than I do, and that's saying some."
"He is there to advance the good word," Meager snapped. "Not to make himself one of them."
Joe let it go at that, but he did a lot of wondering. He know Thomas Williams pretty well. The Saputans called him "Makiki." Not particularly complimentary when taken literally,
because a makiki was a funny-looking bespectacled member of the lemur family; but the makiki was a creature of good omen, signifying all that was good. Sure enough, the up-river Dyaks liked Williams; and it was a positive fact that Makiki knew more about Dyak philosophy and human nature than any other white man in the district.
Joe didn't argue though. He kept his peace and took Meager and Colloran where they wanted to go. Before long the procession of prahus navigated the long series of rapids and reached the deep interior. The Upper Barito was left behind and the dugouts wormed into the thick, hot jungle of the Merasi.
Three days later the expedition reached Laonda.

CHAPTER TWO

KAMPONG LAONDA wasn't much to look at. The river narrowed at that point, and the village was spread out, helter-skelter, on the right bank. The place comprised about twenty 'doors'-twenty nipa-thatched houses stuck up on stilts and not at all fussy about their dignity. A hundred savages more or less-all of them straight-blooded Saputans-inhabited the place. And there at the edge of the jungle, a little distance from the other huts, stood a small, dignified cottage propped on piles and possessing actual steps leading down from the veranda. Joe guessed that it belonged to Williams.
The entire gang lined the shore to greet the visitors, Williams at the fore. Joe was the first to shake the white man's firm hand and glance into that solid, browned face underneath the broad rimmed topi. Then Joe stood aside while Meager and Colloran came forward to offer their slightly reserved salutations.
The three missionaries went straight to the white house. Joe wiped the sweat off his face and set about the business of erecting a camp. It was an hour past noon then. In a little while Williams came across the kampong alone, glanced approvingly at Joe's work, and said quietly:
"I'm going to show my guests around the place, Joe. Want to come along?"
"It's pretty damned hot," Joe said.
"I know it. But I may need you to explain things, old boy. I've an idea these fellows are going to be shocked. They're expecting to find a Bible in every shack and a cathedral and-well, you know them."
"Yep, I know them," Joe grinned. "I'll browse along."
He discovered, in the first half hour of the survey, that Williams' guess was correct. The two men from Bandjermasin didn't say much, but their reaction was written all over their faces in frowning capitals. They stopped in front of the first native hut and looked askance at the notched tree-trunk entrance ladder. They climbed the prop timidly and stared doubly askance at the unkempt condition of the interior.
"Thought you'd find wall-paper and religious calendars, hey?" Joe proffered. "If these chaps ever saw wallpaper they'd make dresses out of it and go on parade."
In the second hut the inspection committee received a rude shock. Directly above the doorframe something leered down at them, and it wasn't pretty. Even Joe wouldn't have called it pretty. However, it was dead and had been that way for a long time. It was a dried, smoked human head, wrinkled and decidedly homely.
"You-you permit this?" Meager said in amazement.
"It was here when I came," Williams smiled. "One doesn't touch such things, Meager; they are strictly tapu. Head-hunting isn't practiced in this region any more. Only the Ibans from Sarawak go in for it. These are merely family heirlooms."
"It is incredible," Colloran muttered. "Impossible!"
"What would you say," Joe shrugged, "if some outsider came to you and said, 'See here, mister, you got to throw away that little gold cross you're wearing. It's out, see? Definitely out. It don't jibe with the credo of the great god Mungus-Mungus. Junk it!' You'd break the guy's neck if you could, hey? Well, it's the same system here."
Colloran stared at him, started to say something, and shut up. The committee proceeded again.
But it was the same story all around. Every second hut boasted its grisly memento. Some of them had a whole reception committee of dead heads. Meager's rage increased accordingly and bubbled over.
"Just what have you done here, Williams?" he snapped on the way back to the cottage. "Three years you've been in this district-"
"I'll tell you what he's done," Joe growled, thrusting out his neck. "Before he came here the Saputans were savages, see? They were unhealthy as hell. Most of 'em had skin diseases. Up along this river you find beri-beri, and yaws, and even leprosy. Now they're clean. They live decent."
"You are here to teach religion, Williams; not mere health!"
"Yeah?" Joe sputtered. "Well, the Dyaks used to have a lot of silly superstitions, see? If they went on the march and saw a tree fall in their path, they'd go in hiding for a week. If they saw a centipede they'd go plumb goofy with fright. Are they that way now? No!"
Meager ignored him deliberately. He lowered himself into a rattan chair on the veranda and leaned forward.
"What have you to say, Williams?" he demanded.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Have you-" Meager's tone was an accusation in itself-"taught these heathens Christianity? Have you shown them the word of God?"
Williams sat very still, saying nothing. The red-faced man didn't heed the warning signs; he went right on.
"Three years you've had, and done nothing! Nothing! Instead of teaching these savages your language, you've learned theirs. You've sunk to their level-"
"It's a sight easier," Joe threw in, "for one guy to learn something new than for a whole lot of guys who don't even think alike."
"I was no talking to you!" Meager snapped. He was thoroughly warmed up now. "What excuse do you offer, Williams?"

WILLIAMS stood up, holding his temper with effort. He spread his legs apart and stood stiff, towering over the others. "What do you know about the jungle, Meager?" he said quietly.
"I know enough to-"
"Your first trip inland, eh? Then let me tell you something; I've been among these Dyaks for the past eight years. I am converting them to a good way of living-in my own manner. They are becoming Christians by natural methods. If you expect them to go about shouting "Hosanna!" I regret your disappointment."
Meager choked back his retort. Coloran's eyes were fixed in fascination upon the slow movement of William's mouth.
"These Saputans do not know the name of Jesus Christ," Williams said evenly. "I have never mentioned that name to them. I have never told them of a God other than their own. It would confuse them. But I have talked with them and worked with them. Their Tupa, their Brua Besar-call Him what you will, for they have a hundred and one names for their deity-was formerly an unapproachable creature of indefinite form. They dared not speak the name for fear of annihilation. Now they know Him as we know Christ, though they still call him by their Dyak names."
"It is sacrilege," Colloran snorted.
"It is common sense. None but a fool would attempt to undo their legends and beliefs. In fact, most of those legends are too beautiful to be thoughtlessly cast aside. They still have their childish methods of showing allegiance, but they are Christians in spirit."
Meager glowered. His companion rubbed lean hands together and scowled bitterly. Joe Meede, squatted on the railing, said dryly:
"Aw hell, it's too hot to scrap. How about a drink, Williams?"
"Sure." Joe glanced knowingly at the two men from Bandjermasin and winked. "Water for the hornbills here and a mug of tuak for me."
Williams laughed softly and went inside. He reappeared presently with four glasses and a gutshi of tuak-and he was smiling with appreciation.
"You-drink?" Colloran was gaping at him, gulping foolishly.
"Native rum," Joe told him, "is the best insurance against heat fever that there is, mister. It won't hurt you none."
He and Williams drank, sipping the stuff slowly. The other two refused with much muttering.
"Now that the religion is settled," Joe suggested, "we'll be getting back to the coast, hey?"
"Certainly."
"You really should wait a day or two," Williams shrugged. "The entire kampong  is turning out tomorrow for tuba fishing. Something you don't see very often these days. Be interesting."
"Tuba fishing?" Meager frowned.
"They collect tuba root," Joe explained, "and beat it to a pulp. When they throw it in the river, the water turns white. Fish get stupefied and come to the surface. Course they have to build a dam first and-"
"We cannot stay," Meager said curtly. A report of conditions up here must be put through at once."
"Well, you'll have to wait," Joe grinned. "You couldn't get your carry-men to go down river for love nor money-not until the big feast is over. Right, Williams?"
"Quite right, " Williams agreed. "But I insist-"
"Go ahead. Blow on your trumpets and stomp your feet, mister. See what good it does you!"
Joe drained his glass, emptied one of the full ones, and walked away.
"Hell," he mumbled as he trudged across the kampong, "those guys are plumb ignorant. I was a fool to chip in with them."

BUT HE WAS right about the tuba fishing. When Meager called the boss of the Long-Glit carry-men into the tent that night and gave orders to prepare for an early departure in the morning, the fellow looked stupid for a moment and then began to howl his native jargon at the roof. He was so excited at such a preposterous thought that he even forgot to hitch the customary "Tuan" on the end of his harangue.
"What's he saying?" Meager growled impatiently.
"He says," Joe grinned, "it can't be done. If he and his men go away before the feast it will anger the fish and they won't come up to be caught. Nope. It's out of the question."
"Tell him I order it!"
Joe told him. They Long-Glit let out an unending stream of words without stopping for breath.
"He says," Joe grinned wider, "that it's tapu to go before the big time. In other words, mister, he's telling you to go to hell and melt. And he means it."
And that was that. Meager and Colloran did a lot of talking, both to themselves and to the natives, but it resulted in nothing. Night came while they were arguing, and Joe sought his cot without further ado.
He was tired, but he didn't go right to sleep. First of all there were mosquitoes in the tent, and they were vicious. They got under his mosquito bar and raised merry music. Then atok-tok bird began chugging on the river shore a hundred feet distant and varied its note just enough so that Joe lay awake waiting for the next skip. And an unseen beetle was making a noise like a ticking watch somewhere close to the tent wall.
In spite of that, Joe might have slept. He was used to such jungle mutter. But presently there was another sound. Meager and Colloran were whispering together just outside the flaps. Joe listened but heard nothing more than the subdued murmur of voices. It went on for a long time-half an hour at least.
Then the two men came into the tent and turned in, and Joe went to sleep.
In the morning, Meager was sick. Said he had a belly-ache. Joe examined him critically, even sat on the edge of his cot and talked to him.
It was hard to tell, Joe considered, just how sick Meager was. The fellow's face was so red anyhow that a fever might have passed unnoticed; and complaining was a habit of his most all the time, so a little additional yowling didn't mean much.
But Meager refused to get up. Even when the kampong awoke and came to life outside, he would not stir to join in the festivities. When Williams pushed through the tent flap a little while later, decked in clean whites and a tarrai hat, Meager was moaning for the twentieth time.
"Something wrong?" Williams frowned. "Says he's feeling tough," Joe shrugged. "You too, Colloran?"
"Me?" Colloran stood up straight and shook his head. "No, I'm quite all right."
"You're coming to see the fishing?"
"Yes, surely. That is-if you don't mind being left alone, Meager?"
"I'd rather be alone, " Meager groaned. "Clear out. Let me be."
Joe glanced at him suspiciously, but said nothing. Colloran trailed out of the tent behind Williams, and presently Joe followed.
The kampong was deserted. Every man, woman and child had gone down-river to the shallows a quarter mile below. When Joe and his two companions arrived, the crude dam was already half constructed - merely a hastily thrown-together lattice of bamboo sticks and debris. Many of the Saputans were even then in the jungle gathering the tuba root.
For the rest of the morning, Joe was an interested spectator, despite the fact that he'd seen the thing enacted half a dozen times before. Williams was the considerate host, explaining to Colloran each detail of the proceedings. The beating of the tuba shoots. The creamy water. The shouting and stamping of the Dyaks who plunged in with wild abandon and made a terrific din.
And then the feast. Joe didn't bother with that part of it, except to lie down under a convenient sago palm, puff on a pipe, and look on with a dry smile. He didn't care much for fish in the Dyak manner of serving. He liked his fodder cooked.
Late in the afternoon it was finished. Colloran, thoroughly saturated with atmosphere and entertainment, allowed himself to be led back to the kampong. The natives returned to their huts. Joe ambled into the tent, looked sidewise at the reclining Meager, and flung himself down on his own cot. It was too hot to be running around.
"Feel better?" he asked listlessly.
"A little," Meager grunted heavily. "Not much."
"Be cooler when it gets dark," Joe shrugged. "Better lie quiet."
Then he turned over with his head in the crook of his arm, and dozed off. He heard Colloran come into the tent. Then he slept.

CHAPTER THREE

A HEAVY, rasping voice awakened him. He sat up with a jerk, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. Thomas Williams was standing in the tent entrance. Every single thing about the man's attitude evidenced violence.
"Meager!" he thundered again.
Meager rolled over and raised his bleary face. Colloran was already erect, standing back on the defensive.
"What--" Meager began.
"You blind, empty-headed blunderer!" Williams said vividly. "Do you know what you've done?"
Joe sat up, gaping. The air was thick with tension. He sensed the savage anger behind William's thrust.
"What's he done?" Joe mumbled. "What-"
"Listen, " Williams said curtly.
Joe listened. The kampong outside seemed to be restless with muttering voices. A drum was beating somewhere. The entire village was alive with a continuous rumble that was half whisper, half whine.
"While we were away," Williams snapped, "this fat idiot went the rounds of the native huts. You understand? He took down the native's prized heads and did away with them. Every one of them!"
"My God," Joe whispered. "My good God. There sure will be hell to pay!"
Meager got to his feet with a jerk. Evidently he was frightened, but his fear revealed itself in assumed anger.
"It was your duty to remove those horrible things long ago, " he said blackly. "I was merely doing your duty. You are no better than the Dyaks themselves."
Williams stiffened, controlling himself with an obvious strain. Then he stepped forward and gripped the other man's arm with unmerciful pressure.
"What did you do with the heads?" he demanded. "They've got to go back."
"They'll not go back!"
"Where are they?"
"Beyond your reach. I put them in the river."
"You-" the words choked in Williams' mouth-"you fool!"
"So that's why you were sick, hey?" Joe spit out. "Playing dead, was it? What are the natives doing, Williams?"
"Talking. Fuming." 
"And threatening, eh?"
"They still believe in me," Williams said wearily. "The kapala came to my house to talk. I promised to get the heads back. Now what can I say?"
"Nothing," Joe shrugged. "They'll say it for you. You might just as well have cut their eyes out, Meager. Yep, you'll pay for it. Next time you play dead it'll be the real thing- and it'll be damned soon."
Meager's face lost its redness and went chalk-hued. He licked his lips and sat down heavily. His eyes rolled from one man to another and back again. He found no consolation in the faces surrounding him. Colloran's was as frightened as his own. Williams' was stiff and bitter. Joe's was just indifferent.
"What-what will they do?" he whispered. "Hear the drums?" Joe replied.
Meager listened tensely. There was more than one drum now. At least three of them. Beating with a significant monotony.
"What do they mean?" Meager said weakly.
"Sabali," Joe nodded. "Witch drums. That means they've called in the blian, the devil-doctor. You better go see what's up, Williams."
Williams turned abruptly and pushed through the flaps. Joe glanced at the other two with an ill-concealed sneer, then got up and followed. Williams was striding across the village toward the white cottage, where a little knot of Dyaks waited beside the veranda. In a dozen steps Joe caught up with him and paced beside him.
"Bad business, Joe," Williams said dryly.
"Yep. Talk won't do any good."
When they  reached the veranda Williams said something to one of the  natives- the kapala, evidently- and climbed the steps. The Dyak followed with set face. Joe mounted the stoop last and leaned on the rail.
"I can't return your possessions, Laonda," Williams said quietly. "The white man has thrown them into the river."
There was complete silence for a moment. The kapala's fingers knotted and opened again. His lips split open and curled over betel-stained teeth. Then, with a sudden step forward, he exclaimed:
"It is tapu, Makiki!"
"I know. The white man thought he was doing good. He is a fool. He does not know."
"Aiii! Can I tell my people that?"
"I am sorry, Laonda. Very sorry. I could not help it."
The Dyak spread his hands out in a gesture of bewilderment.
"What can I tell my people, Tuan?" he pleaded. "They are very angry. I have never seen them so angry before! They want to kill all the white men but you."
"Want to kill me?" Joe said quickly.
"You brought the evil men here, Tuan."
"Mmm. Reckon I did," Joe admitted ruefully. "Damn fool me."
Williams leaned forward and touched the kapala's arm gently.
"Go and tell your people that I am sorry," he suggested. "Tell them the white man is sorry also. Say that he will go away at once and never return. Then come back and tell me what they say."
"Is that all, O Makiki?"
"I guess it is," Williams said heavily. "Not much good, is it?"
"I will try, Tuan, " the kapala promised. "But I am fearful."
He went down the steps slowly. Williams turned, stood up, and said to Joe:
"Come inside. It's up to us, Joe. "

INSIDE the house, he lowered himself into a cane chair and stared for a long time at the reed mat on the floor. When he looked up, Joe was waiting.
"What's to be done, old man?" Williams said resignedly. "I'm not a god to these fellows, you know. They'll obey me only just so far."
"In a case as bad as this," Joe mumbled, "even a god couldn't appease them. Of all the damned thick-headed things to go and do-"
"It's done, Joe. "
"Yep, it's done. And a god couldn't undo it, let alone a couple of dumb whites like us."
Williams was silent. Joe stared at him and felt sorry for him. It was a rotten mess. Everything Williams had done with these natives in three years was smashed completely-busted up by a single fat-headed act on the part of a know-it-all missionary.
Joe's thoughts went round in circles. He couldn't think of anything new. He could only remember Meager's bloated face and Colloran's sullen temper. And snatches of words that wouldn't leave him alone, "What-what will they do?" That was Meager, scared out of his wits. "Only a god could do anything-"
Joe sat up suddenly and let out an exclamation.
"Say! Do these devils think much about God?" he demanded.
"Do they-what?"
"They're superstitious as hell, aren't they?"
"Well, in a way-" Williams frowned. "What are you driving at?"
"I got an idea," Joe grinned. "Yep, a big one. In a little while the kapala's coming back here, see? He's going to say that it's no good; the Dyaks want the affair settled their own way. And what are you going to tell him?"
"I wish I knew, Joe."
"You just talk to him a while, see?" Joe sputtered. "Then you spill the idea that, since the Dyaks want vengeance, the great tupa will settle it in his own way. Get it?"
"I think I do," Williams said, shaking his head. "It won't work. You want me to interpret God's wishes to them and tell them to let the white man go, eh? They won't accept it, Joe."
"Nothing of the sort, mister," Joe denied. "You tell them to wait until it's dark, see? The tupa besar on\y comes at night. Have them build a fetish fire in the middle of the kampong. Tell them you'll lead the wicked white man to the fire and let God settle it, while they all look on. See?"
"Joe-"
"Good, eh?"
"You mean that you'll take-"
"I sure do, " Joe grinned. "And do I know how to do it? Say!"
He got up and took a cigarette from the table.
"I'll mosey along, " he said lightly. "You can talk to Laonda yourself."
He went out puffing happily on the cigarette. Stumping down the outer steps, he passed the kapala coming in.

THEY WERE an impatient lot, the Saputans of Kampong Laonda. Probably it required a lot of convincing talk on the kapala's part to assure them that Williams' plan was a good one. But it was undoubtedly more than that. It was the idea of the thing, the weird element of it, the fetish concerned, which took ahold of them. At any rate, they had the fire going almost before the village was dark.
And they were a curious bunch, gathered about the fire. Many of them wore white men's discarded rags. Others wore brilliant sarongs made of cheap cotton, procured on occasional trading trips to the garrison at Long Iram. Still others were rigged out in their natural dress-sirats or breech-clouts of animal skins, and baggy sarongs.
They were all there, too. Every native in the village was present. They chattered like a flock of macaques, gibbering and chirping among themselves. There were no drums, no chimes or gongs, not even a single gutshi of raki or tuak to drink. Curiosity did away with all that.
When it was really dark, and the muttering had become quite insistent and impatient, Williams appeared on the veranda of the cottage. A shout went up then. Williams walked to the fire, stood still for a moment while he peered into the rings of faces, and said easily:
"All here, Laonda?"
"Everyone, O Makiki," the chief answered eagerly.
"Then I will bring the white man."
Turning, Williams continued on to the tents. The Dyaks watched him in respectful silence. Presently he came out again, with Meager pacing beside him.
The Dyaks pressed forward then, but Williams motioned them back. Meager was a strange sight-strange enough to harmonize with the situation. A cowl of sambir, woven from thick, opaque palm-leaves, hung over his head like an upturned basket, draping all the way to his shoulders. His whites were wrinkled and dirty. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides, and he walked like a man already dead.
The Dyaks made way for him. They didn't touch him. They formed a ring around both men as Williams led his prisoner into the firelight.
The whispering was continuous then. Thick and eager. The Dyaks muttered and moved uneasily. They watched every movement.
Meager paced slowly to the rim of the fire and stood motionless. Evidently he'd been told to do that. At any rate, he offered no resistance. The natives watched him like cats.
Then Williams began to talk. "This man stole your possessions," he said quietly. They respected that voice of his. It was calm and easygoing, not the least bit dramatic. "He did not do it maliciously-" He was talking in their own tongue now. Only the kapala knew enough English to understand the other. "He was ignorant of the tapu, and very foolish. I don't know how to judge him; neither do you. So I called you here, all of you to let the great tupa besar make the decision. The great tupa knows what is right, no doubt. Isn't that so?"
"That is right, Makiki," the kapala nodded. "Do you wish to dance?"
"If we dance, Makiki, the great tupa besar will be sure to come."
Williams nodded. For reasons of his own he wanted them to dance, otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it.

THEY WERE willing enough. And they had a fixed routine for that sort of thing. The blian, crouching back in the shadows away from the fire, sent up a yell that came from the bottom of his feet. Other voices took up the song and made a living, vibrant thing of it. They Dyaks caught hold of their bellies and stood up. Presently they were all in motion, circling the fire in a long line.
The sing-song that came from them wasn't exactly music. It was a prolonged discord. And the words-jargon to Meager, no doubt, but half understood by Williams-were ghosts out of the dim past. They revealed legends that had passed down from mouth to mouth for years on end. Saputan lingo for the most part, intermingled with bastard formations of Long-Glit and Murut talk-telling of murder and blood, of heroes and cowards, and of big tupa besar who would soon pass judgment on the mistaken white man who stood with head bowed near the fire.
They put all they had into it. The drone wailed louder, became a tense, high-pitched buzz. Arms were lifted in curious motions. Accusing faces glowered into Meager's sambir mask as they encircled him.
They watched him every minute, waiting for their supplications to have effect. Williams stood a little to one side, smiling dryly.
Eventually Meager began to move. Had he been a Dyak himself he could not have judged the hearts and emotions of Laonda's people any better, or picked a more advantageous moment.
His big body trembled violently, began to quiver as if the heat of the glowing fire had started the blood bubbling inside him. He kept it up for a moment, then slid to his knees moaning heavily, clutching his head with both hands and swaying from side to side. His top-knot, smothered in its funny-looking veil of palm leaves and spliced bamboo, lifted to the heavens in a gesture of supplication.
Then while the Dyaks stood very still watching him, he writhed to the ground.
They didn't do any singing or chanting after that. The clearing was quite hushed. Williams stood erect over the missionary's prone body, holding up one hand for silence.
The great tupa besar had certainly made his decision. There was no question about it. The man on the ground twisted about like a crushed beetle. Hideous groans came from beneath the head-covering, revealing his agony.
"He will be changed to dust!" Williams cried out suddenly. "Look!"
They were already looking; they didn't need to be told. Meager, twisting over on his belly, had reached out with both hands and was dragging himself feebly away from the fire, sobbing and moaning pitifully. Williams made way for him, clearing a path. The Dyaks in the outer circle fell back to let him wriggle through. Some of them would have followed. Half a dozen long-bladed parangs appeared in clenched fists. But Williams confronted them stolidly.
"The tupa besar has spoken," he said evenly. "Do not interfere. The wicked white man is crushed, broken, dying. It is not for you to hasten his finish and cut short his rightful suffering."
The vicious fellows stepped back again, convinced that he was right. Meager, unhindered, wormed like a broken snake across the unlighted kampong and vanished in the thick darkness near the tents.
Williams turned to the kapala and said lazily:
"It's all over Laonda. Go ahead with your celebration."
The Dyaks were eager enough. They'd have danced for the next ten years if he commanded it. But this time their dirge changed to a song of triumph, and the old women at the edge of the fire scuttled away to fetch tuak and raki. It was a good time to get plastered!
Williams, staying only a moment to watch them, finally stepped back into the dark and turned away abruptly.
He went straight to the tents.
There, sitting idly on one of the empty cots, with a big grin all over his face, Joe Meede was waiting for him. And Joe laughed a hearty, appreciative laugh as he took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it.
"Lord, that damned sambir was  hot, "  he choked. "I thought I'd stifle to death before I got it off me."
"Everything is finished?" Williams said quickly.
"Yep. Just like clockwork. The two damned fools are gone back to their roost-and I bet it'll be a heap long time before they go jungling again, mister!"
Williams sat down smiling. All the anxiety wasn't gone out of his face, but it was leaving rapidly.
"The Dyaks will come here presently," he suggested.
"And they won't find anybody but me," Joe smirked. "That was sure a good line you spilled about the big tupa besar changing the bad white man into dust. When they come in here to look for the body, I'll point to the floor here and say, 'Ladies and gentlemen, this little speck of grey stuff here is all that remains of Mr. Meager. Yep, that's all there is.' Funny part of it is, Williams, they'll believe me."
"I wish," Williams stood up slowly, listening to the throb of the drums outside. "I'd taken just one poke at Meager's face before he left. It would have atoned for everything."
"Yeah," said Joe. "Well, I fixed that, mister. You see, back in Bandjermasin the old baboon hired a Malay gutter-rat to beat me up for him. Well, an eye for an eye say I. So before you came for me tonight to lead me out there, I had a little talk with one of Meager's Long-Glit carriers. I picked out the biggest one in the bunch and gave him two packs of cigarettes. 'First time you get a chance,' I says to him, 'you just black one of Meager's eyes in good style. That's for me, see? And the next time you get a chance, you just black the other one. That's for Williams.'"
Joe blew out a curl of smoke and grinned from chin to forehead.
"And did he take those cigarettes, mister?" Joe gurgled. "Man, he just snatched 'em out of my hand and said to me, Tuan, it will be a pleasure!'"
THE END