# The Tree of Life (Beadle)/Chapter 9
### IX

IN A field of malachite within a cañon of the basalt forest before the domed majesty of the Tree of Life was spread a quivering fan of ebony, whose writhing squirming figures were sheened in the blue flood of the moon. In the center upon a carven stool was draped the girth of the chief, Basayaguru; upon his left squatted his son, Basafingu, and upon his right, a bearded face of ivory and jet, squatted the little doctor beside the immobile carving in turquoise of Ali Mohammed.
Before them pranced Yamala, smeared in clay, a frenzied skeleton of chalcedony from whose high-crested head streamed a pennant of red parrot feathers, dancing in the humid air as if in wild pursuit of the glittering snake which was the sacred spear, to the screeching chant and the throb of the drums. Beyond him, beneath the great bough in the blue womb of the tree, was the glimmer of a white body crouching.
Around a wriggling group of the six doomed and holy maidens leaped the men and shuffled the women, grunting and squealing to the impulse of the drums. On every side like giant mushrooms stood the great calabashes of the beer from which he who willed could drink his fill.
"God," muttered the doctor, nervously plucking at his beard, "when is this confounded stuff going to work? I don't even know what reactions to look for! Ali! How far do you reckon that moonlight is from Mr. Dukely now?"
"Undoubtedly within one foot, Doctor."
The doctor glanced at the clear-cut features which were as cold as rock, and he swore resentfully.
"Dukely," shouted the doctor above the racket, "are you all right?"
"Yes," came the reply in a steady voice. "They'll get me in a minute or two."
Continuously the blue-sheened limbs pranced on; untiringly yelled hysteric voices; remorselessly the blue tide of the moon rose nearer the bole of the Tree of Life, the Mother of All, where crouched the unwilling bridegroom.
After an anxious stare about him the doctor fidgeted restlessly and gazed fascinatedly at the line of creeping moonlight.
"Is that stuff ever going to work? Ali," sharply, "d'you think we've made a mistake? Perhaps it's merely harmless—just citric acid of the baobab? Ali!"
"Allah only knows," responded Ali tonelessly.
The doctor swore and began again to pluck at his beard.
"God, this tension's—look!" he whispered and clutched at Ali's robe.
The enormous bulk of the chief, Basayaguru, beside him was heaving convulsively; the head was thrown back until the headdress was almost perpendicular, and the mouth was wide open, the jelly face creased in a thousand wrinkles; the eyes were dilated, flashing the blue whites; the blobby hands clutched at the flabby mass of the strained throat.
"He is drunk, Doctor," said Ali gravely, "He wishes to laugh—exquisitely."
"Laugh! Good God, what at?" exclaimed the doctor.
As he spoke, the ghostly figure of Yamala, the witch-doctor, doubled up in front of him, holding his sides as his open mouth gasped in a paroxysm of laughter. As suddenly as if indeed a magic wand had been waved above them, the drums ceased—the screeches died away. Five leaping warriors turned in amazement and stared. A yell was turned into a gasping sob.
Astonished the doctor stood up. Every savage except the six holy maidens was lolling about in the grass, holding his sides and gasping with laughter. The chief beside his son was kicking his fat legs like a baby hippopotamus. Into the moonlight stepped the ivory figure of the bridegroom. Several figures ceased to struggle. They lay quietly in the grass.
"For God's sake," began Dukely. "What on earth——"
"Come!" yelled the doctor. "Run for it, Dukely, for your life! Ali!" And without explanation the doctor sprang over the squirming figure of the chief, followed by Dukely and the sedate Ali. Not until they had reached the tree where the doctor's gun was hidden did he have breath to explain.
"That smell! 'Course I knew it!" he gasped as they trotted through the forest to the canoes. "Dentist!"
"Dentist! What on earth—" panted the ghostly form of Warren-Dukelv.
"Yes, yes, nitrogen monoxid—probably form—pentoxid—Laughing Gas, y'know! Asphyxiate 'em for hours—if doesn't—kill 'em! There's the canoes!"