# The Tree of Life (Beadle)/Chapter 5
### V

THE man with the beard laughed, a rusty throaty sound, and stroked his nose delicately.
"I beg your pardon," said he. "I'm a little ratty. I mean I've been so long—er—here that—I forget that everybody doesn't know—well, who I am and that sort of thing."
"Quite so, quite so. Very usual phenomenon."
"Of course," continued the explorer, gaining more rationality in the tone of his speech and leaning forward in his chair; "you probably think I'm as mad as a hatter." The doctor looked away. "Not quite—yet." He stared at the fire meditatively. "By the way, what did you say you were here for, sir?"
"I'm on a commission; economic and social investigation, y'know."
"Social, eh? That's good!" Again he emitted a throaty chuckle. "We're frightfully keen on sociology here. Oh ——, yes! Er—but didn't you say you were a medical man?"
"Yes."
"H'm. Perhaps you'll understand a little better. Although I don't see why you should. I mean you won't be so inclined to think I'm quite insane."
"Not at all. Not at all."
"But you do! Oh yes. Quite natural. I should myself. By the way, you're not in a hurry, are you?"
"Oh no, not at all."
The teeth gleamed through the beard in a smile at the fire. Dukely shifted restlessly and looked up again.
"That whisky of yours, Doctor, has bucked me up a lot—pulled me together. I ran out six months ago. You know I'm not insane."
"No, no," assented the doctor, still wondering. "But have another."
"Thanks, old man!"
The skinny white hand again just refrained from grabbing the screw-cap.
"By the Lord, that's good!" he gasped as he handed back the flask. "Queer how the bally stuff stings after so long. Er. H'm."
"Have a cigar?" added the doctor.
"Good Lord!" Heartiness was creeping in to the voice. "That's awfully good of you! No, don't bother for a match." He bent forward, picked a firebrand with delicate fingers and sighed at the first puff. He sat back seemingly absorbed in the joy of the inhalation. The doctor began to note details: that the shirt was soft and yellow, frayed; the parched skin drawn tightly over an aquiline nose, and the care bestowed on the hands; even the beard had been trimmed.
"Yes," began Warren-Dukely reflectively. "I'm the King of the Wood." Again the doctor was conscious of the thrill imparted by insanity. "No, I'm not insane, Doc. I—am exactly what I say. Let me see. Confound it, there is something the matter with my mind. Difficult of—er—grasping what I want to say. You ought to understand that, eh?"
"Perhaps you haven't spoken English for a long time. Do you think in English?"'
"No, that's it, by God! Good Lord, I never realized it until now. Never realized that I was so far gone. H'm. Now I will get started! Are you listening, Doc?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"Well, I was—or am, I suppose—am Warren-Dukely—I told you that, didn't I? Yes. All right. Now I'm the King of the Wood. —— it! Do you hear that drum?"
The doctor listened and was aware of the faintest possible vibration.
"Yes. It's the drum in the village, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, the drum all right. Only—" He sighed and suddenly placed one hand over his eyes as if shutting out a vision. "I beg your pardon, I'll try to get on—and tell you what a mess you're in."
"I am?"
"Oh, I'll tell you. Er—about three years ago—or was it four? What's the date, old man?"
"Date? Oh—er—about the fourteenth of February, I think."
"God, yes, my stick's right. That's the drum."
"What drum?"
"My drum. But never mind. Er—well—oh yes. —— it, I wish you'd give me something. But, of course, you can't—here. I mean I boggle so. Don't you notice it?"
"A little. Take your time, old man."
"Malaria, I suppose. And my quinine ran out some time ago."
"Oh, I shall be glad to let you have some."
"Let me have some?" The eyes stared at the little doctor. "That's good—all right. I'll go on. By the way, did you say you were Jesus?"
"No; Magdalen."
Warren-Dukely smiled at the fire and puffed at his cigar, seeming to have forgotten his guest. The pulse of the drum was so faint that it appeared like the strokes of an invisible baton conducting the nocturnal anthem. A cricket shrilled piercingly and ceased. A distant prolonged yowl was just audible. The doctor was watching Warren-Dukely with professionally keen eyes; he observed certain spasmodic twitches of the bare toes and a persistent scratching at the chair arm with one polished finger-nail.
"I guess I must have been before your time, anyway," he said conversationally.
"Eh?" The start was convulsive. He stared at the doctor; then the eyes smiled. "Oh, I beg your pardon. One gets to dreaming—more or less. Er—what the mischief was I gassing about?"
"You were going to tell me how you became King of the Wood."
"King of the Wood? Did I say that—really? This cigar seems awful strong, by the way. Still, years since I smoked one."
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and, bending over the doctor's chair, touched his bare hand as he picked up the calabash. He stood with the water in his hand and smiled down at the visitor in a relieved manner.
"I wonder whether you could spare?" he insinuated.
"1 don't think you had better," observed the doctor quietly. "A little later perhaps. You're not accustomed to it, y'know."
"Quite right! Quite right! And you'll need it yourself. I'd forgotten that."
"I'll need it? Oh, you mean—it isn't that. I've a good supply with me."
"So had I, old boy; so had I," muttered Warren-Dukely as he turned away with the calabash of water in his hand. By the chair he stopped, glanced at it and threw it away irritably. "—— it, I continually do that. Carry things about. Still what does it matter?"
Sticking the cigar in his mouth, he began to pace up and down before the fire, staring at the ground. The doctor did not disturb him. Presently he began with a jerk:
"I'VE got it, by Jove. I know. I began yarning about that first expedition, didn't I? Well, after that Africa seemed to get in my blood. I broke off the engagement with Sybil. Had to, only decent thing to do. Can't expect a woman to wait—like a sergeant's wife? An' one can't drag her around here, eh? 'Sides, I'm not a marrying man. Never was. Poor old Sybby. I wonder whether she's still running the Cheshire?
"Oh well, on the second trip I had a mania to come through Tchad, pick up Boyd Alexander's trail—poor old boy—and zigzag down through the Albert Lakes and land eventually in Rhodesia. I circled Tchad and went off to the Dinka country. Told you all that though, didn't I? Well, never mind. I tacked back here an' barged into old Basayaguru as you did, eh? An' the —— old cutthroat made me King of the Wood!"
He stopped to raise his head and emit that throaty chuckle. The doctor, watching him keenly, began to revise his opinion of his sanity. He wheeled round, one hand stuck under the tails of his coat and the other holding the cigar.
"Bally idiot, ain't I?" he demanded. "You wait, ol' boy! Your inning's next for King of the Wood." He barked rather than laughed this time.
"Still, I've played the game, —— your eyes!" He appeared to be addressing somebody unseen, but he said, "No, I mean you, Doc." He began to pace again moodily. "Sorry, ol' chap," he said as abruptly. "You'll understand as soon as I can spit it out. I say, the old boy's very generous with his ivory an' stuff, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"H'm. Thought so. Invited you to witness the Marriage of the Sacred Tree, didn't he?"
"Y-yes," admitted the little doctor, wondering why he felt uneasy.
"Same hellish trick. Still, it would have been the same anyway. How many men have you, Doc?"
"Twenty-five. Three canoes."
"All armed?"
"Well—Sniders enough for all of 'em, but——"
"Oh pish!" he waved an impatient hand. "What bally rot I'm talking. Isn't a dog's chance. My dear old boy, I had fifty—all armed with Martinis."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Good God, of course you don't! I say, know anything about folklore?"
"A little."
"Talked about the Sacred Tree, didn't they?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's the bloody thing there!" He raised a hand to the giant tree above him. "Mother of all an' has to have a husband every year."
"So I understand. My head man, Ali Mohammed, told me that they have muddled some ancient Arab philosophy with their own superstitions. Very interesting ceremony, I should imagine."
"Interestin' ceremony! ——!"
Agitatedly the tall man began to pace up and down before the fire again, sucking fiercely at the stump of the cigar.
"I'm to be the —— thing's husband," he jerked out.
"Indeed," said the doctor interestedly, for he knew of many ceremonies prevalent in Europe as elsewhere of the symbolical marriage of a girl to a tree. Then suddenly, "Oh, you mean that they've kept you here a prisoner for this ceremony of theirs? But that's nonsense. I mean of course I'll help you to——"
Warren-Dukely wheeled upon him swiftly and, pointing his cigar at him, cried:
"But you —— fool. I've told you you're trapped for the next husband."
"Husband!" repeated the little doctor bewilderedly.
"Yes, yes."
"But what—what happens to you?"
"Me? I'm sacrificed to this confounded ju-ju. Are you blind? The night of the marriage orgy they carve me up, wipe out your camp and stick you here to make magic for twelve moons."
"My God!" ejaculated the little doctor, half rising to his feet.