The Red One | Page 6

human sacrifices, but the neighbour gods
themselves were sacrificed and tormented before him. He was the god of a dozen allied
villages similar to this one, which was the central and commanding village of the
federation. By virtue of the Red One many alien villages had been devastated and even
wiped out, the prisoners sacrificed to the Red One. This was true to-day, and it extended
back into old history carried down by word of mouth through the generations. When he,
Ngurn, had been a young man, the tribes beyond the grass lands had made a war raid. In
the counter raid, Ngurn and his fighting folk had made many prisoners. Of children alone
over five score living had been bled white before the Red One, and many, many more
men and women.
The Thunderer was another of Ngurn's names for the mysterious deity. Also at times was
he called The Loud Shouter, The God- Voiced, The Bird-Throated, The One with the
Throat Sweet as the Throat of the Honey-Bird, The Sun Singer, and The Star-Born.
Why The Star-Born? In vain Bassett interrogated Ngurn. According to that old
devil-devil doctor, the Red One had always been, just where he was at present, for ever
singing and thundering his will over men. But Ngurn's father, wrapped in decaying
grass-matting and hanging even then over their heads among the smoky rafters of the
devil-devil house, had held otherwise. That departed wise one had believed that the Red
One came from out of the starry night, else why--so his argument had run--had the old
and forgotten ones passed his name down as the Star-Born? Bassett could not but
recognize something cogent in such argument. But Ngurn affirmed the long years of his
long life, wherein he had gazed upon many starry nights, yet never had he found a star on
grass land or in jungle depth--and he had looked for them. True, he had beheld shooting
stars (this in reply to Bassett's contention); but likewise had he beheld the
phosphorescence of fungoid growths and rotten meat and fireflies on dark nights, and the
flames of wood- fires and of blazing candle-nuts; yet what were flame and blaze and

glow when they had flamed and blazed and glowed? Answer: memories, memories only,
of things which had ceased to be, like memories of matings accomplished, of feasts
forgotten, of desires that were the ghosts of desires, flaring, flaming, burning, yet
unrealized in achievement of easement and satisfaction. Where was the appetite of
yesterday? the roasted flesh of the wild pig the hunter's arrow failed to slay? the maid,
unwed and dead ere the young man knew her?
A memory was not a star, was Ngurn's contention. How could a memory be a star?
Further, after all his long life he still observed the starry night-sky unaltered. Never had
he noted the absence of a single star from its accustomed place. Besides, stars were fire,
and the Red One was not fire--which last involuntary betrayal told Bassett nothing.
"Will the Red One speak to-morrow?" he queried.
Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say.
"And the day after?--and the day after that?" Bassett persisted.
"I would like to have the curing of your head," Ngurn changed the subject. "It is different
from any other head. No devil-devil has a head like it. Besides, I would cure it well. I
would take months and months. The moons would come and the moons would go, and
the smoke would be very slow, and I should myself gather the materials for the curing
smoke. The skin would not wrinkle. It would be as smooth as your skin now."
He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking of countless heads,
where day was no more than a gloom, took down a matting-wrapped parcel and began to
open it.
"It is a head like yours," he said, "but it is poorly cured."
Bassett had pricked up his ears at the suggestion that it was a white man's head; for he
had long since come to accept that these jungle-dwellers, in the midmost centre of the
great island, had never had intercourse with white men. Certainly he had found them
without the almost universal beche-de-mer English of the west South Pacific. Nor had
they knowledge of tobacco, nor of gunpowder. Their few precious knives, made from
lengths of hoop-iron, and their few and more precious tomahawks from cheap trade
hatchets, he had surmised they had captured in war from the bushmen of the jungle
beyond the grass lands, and that they, in turn, had similarly gained them from the
salt-water men who fringed the coral beaches of the shore and had contact with the
occasional white men.
"The folk in the out beyond do not know how to cure