The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton

“I thought he did not look like a Tarawa native,” I said, “and I saw that he is tattooed like a Samoan.”

“He has lived in Samoa for a great many years, and is very proud of that tattooing, I am sure. He is a native of Danger Island, a long way to the south-east of this group, and came here about a year ago with a girl named Niàbon.” She hesitated a little. “I suppose you have not heard of her?”

“No, I have not. Who is she?”

“They—that is, the natives generally, and some of the whites as well—call her ‘the Danger Island witch woman.’”

“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, “I have heard of the ‘witch woman,’ but that was when I was trading at Gallic Harbour on Admiralty Island. There was a poor fellow there, Hairy Willard, who was dying of poison given him by some chief, and I remember quite well his wife, who was a Tahitian, telling me that if the witch woman of Danger Island was near she would quickly render the poison innocuous.”

Mrs. Krause’s dark eyes lit up with undoubted pleasure—“I must tell her that—”

“Is she living on Tarawa, then?”

“Yes, in this village, and she is in the house at this moment. She would like to speak to you. Do you mind her coming in?” “Indeed, I shall be very pleased.” My hostess stood at the table for a few moments, with her face averted from me. Then she turned and spoke to me, and to my astonishment I saw that she was struggling hard to suppress her tears. I rose and led her to a seat.

“You are not well, Mrs. Krause,” I said. “Sit down, and let me call one of your servants.”

“No, please do not do that, Mr. Sherry. But I will sit down, and—and I should like to ask you a question.”

She was trembling as she spoke, but suddenly whipped out her handkerchief, dried her tears, and sat up erect.

“Mr. Sherry, you are an Englishman, or an American—I do not know which—but I am sure that you are a gentleman and will truthfully answer the question I ask. Will you not?”

“I will, indeed, if it is in my power to do so,” I replied earnestly.

She placed her hand on mine and looked at me steadily.

“Mr. Sherry, you and I have been talking on various matters for more than an hour. Have I, in your opinion, given you the impression that I am mentally deranged? Look at me. Tell me—for I am an unhappy, heartbroken woman, whose life for two years has been a daily torture and misery—what you do think. Sometimes I imagine that what my husband says may be true—and then I collapse and wish I were dead.”

“What does he say, Mrs. Krause?”

“He says that I am mad, and he says it so persistently that—oh, Mr. Sherry, I feel that before long I shall go mad in reality. It is only this woman Niàbon who sustains me. But for her I should have run out along the reef and drowned myself a year ago. Now, tell me, Mr. Sherry, do you think it possible that owing to the continuous strain upon me mentally and physically—for I am really very weak, and had a long illness two years ago when my baby was born—that my mind has become unhinged in any way?”

“I think, Mrs. Krause,” I said slowly and very emphatically, “that your husband himself must be mad.”

She wept silently, and then, again averting her face, looked away from me towards the wide expanse of the lagoon, gleaming hot and silvery under a blazing sun.

“I wish that what you say were true, Mr. Sherry,” she said presently, trying bravely to suppress her tears, “and that my husband were indeed mad.”

She rose, extended her hand to me, and tried to smile.

“You will think that I am a very silly woman, Mr. Sherry. But I am not at all strong, and you must forgive me. Now I must leave you.”

“But am I not to see the famous witch woman, Mrs. Krause?” I said half jestingly.

“Oh, yes. She shall come to you presently. And you will like her, Mr. Sherry, I am sure. To me she been been the kindest, kindest friend.” Then she paused awhile, but resumed in a nervous, hesitating manner, “Niaban is sometimes a little strange in her manner, so—so you most not mind all that she may say or do.”

I assured her that I should be most careful to avoid giving any offence to the woman. She thanked me earnestly, and then said she would find Niàbon and bring or send her to me.

Just as she went out I heard some one tapping at the latticed window near which I was sitting. Looking out, I saw the face of the man Tematau, who was standing outside.

“May I come in and speak with thee, gentleman?” he said in Samoan.

“Enter, and welcome.”

He stepped round to the front door, and as he entered I saw that he had stripped to the waist; his hair was dressed in the Samoan fashion, and in his hand he carried a small, finely-plaited mat. In an instant I recognised that he was paying me a visit of ceremony, according to Samoan custom, so instead of rising and shaking hands with him, I kept my seat and waited for him to approach.

Stepping slowly across the matted floor, with head and shoulders bent, he placed the mat (his offering) at my feet, and then withdrew to the other side of the room, and, seating himself cross-legged, he inquired after my health, etc., and paid me the usual compliments.

As he spoke in Samoan, I, of course, replied in the same language, thanked him for his call, and requested him to honour me at my own place by a visit.

Then, to my surprise, instead of retiring with the usual Samoan compliments, he bent forward, and, fixing his deep-set, gloomy eyes on mine, he said slowly—

“Master, I shall be a true man to thee when we are together upon the deep sea in thy boat.”

“Why dost thou call me ‘master’?” I said quickly, “and when and whither do thee and I travel together?” “I call thee ‘master’ because I am thy servant, but when and whither we go upon the far sea I know not.”

Then he rose, saluted me as if I were King Malietoa of Samoa himself, and retired without uttering another word.

“This is a curious sort of a household,” I thought. “The mistress, who is sane enough, is told by her husband that she is mad, and fears she will lose her reason; a native who tells me that I am to be his master and travel with him on the deep sea, and a witch woman, whom I have yet to see, on the premises. I wonder what sort of a crank she is?”

I was soon to know, for in a few moments she came in, and instead of coming up to me and shaking hands in the usual Line Island fashion, as I expected she would do, she did precisely as my first visitor had done—greeted me in Samoan, formally and politely, as if I were a great chief, and then sat silent, awaiting me to speak.

Addressing her in the same stilted, highly complimentary language that she had used to me, I inquired after her health, etc., and then asked her how long she had been on the island.

She answered me in a somewhat abrupt manner, “I came here with Tematau about the time that the white lady Lucia and her husband came. Tematau is of the same family as myself. And it is of the blood ties between us that we remain together, for we are the last of many.”

“It is good that it is so,” I said, for want of something better to say, for her curious eyes never left my face for an instant. “It would be hard indeed that when but two of the same blood are left they should separate or be separated.”

“We shall be together always,” she replied, “and death will come to us together.”

Then she rose, walked quickly to the open door, glanced outside to see if any one was about, and returned to me and placed her hand on mine.

“This man Krause is a devil. He seeks his wife’s death because of another woman in his own country. He hath tried to poison her, and the poison still rankles in her blood. That is why she is so white of face and frail of body. And now she will neither eat nor drink aught but that of which I first eat or drink myself.”

“How know you of this?”

“I know it well,” she answered impressively, “and the man would kill me if he could by poison, as he hath tried to kill his wife. But poison can do me no harm. And he hateth but yet is afraid of me, for he knoweth that I long since saw the murder in his heart.”

“These are strange things to say, Niâbon. Beware of an unjust accusation when it comes to the too ready tongue.”

She laughed scornfully. “No lie hath ever fouled mine. I tell thee again, this man is a devil, and has waited for a year past to see his wife die, for he married her according to the laws of England, and cannot put her away as he could do had he married her according to the native custom.”

“Who hath told thee of these marriage laws of England?” I asked.

“What does it matter who hath told me?” she asked sharply. “Is not what I say true?”

“It is true,” I said.