}0nf78 {e THE ROPE-MAN OF ISUINGU {m Another in the series of Mystery Stories {f By Metal / Destiny {f [Ed: apologies for the lack of colour - I did colour this article, but when I ran it through the article-tester and read it the colours gave me a headache so I took them out!] This mystery story has been copied from the book 'Unsolved Mysteries' by Valentine Dyall, who in turn seems to have got certain stories from 'Everybodys' Magazine'. The book is ancient and the magazine must be even older, so I have retyped them because they are quite interesting and you 'ain't gonna find them in a bookstore no more. And here is the TRUE story... Benjamin Oku's ebony face registered sublime relief as he watched great tongues of flame shooting up through the roof of the old resthouse. When the last beam had crashed down, and the gleeful chanting of the tribesmen subsided, he crossed the clearing to the clump of oil palms where the young Englishman stood. In the clipped, formal English of the mission-school, Benjamin strove to express his gratitude. "It is the right thing that you have done, Master.... My people are filled with happiness, for they know that now there will be peace in this place. We are grateful, and we will build you a new resthouse very quickly." Administrative Officer Frank Hives only nodded: his tired eyes remained fixed on the blazing wreckage and the pall of smoke that wound its way up through the still, crystalline air, rearing overhead like an enormous black snake. In the full heat of the African day he found himself shivering... "Yes, it is the right thing," Benjamin repeated. "For what use is a resthouse in which there can be no rest...?" Hives turned and regarded him sternly. "You're a Christian aren't you?" "Oh yes, Master" "And yet you believe in magic?" Benjamin hesitated, his dark eyes reproachful. "Master, why do you ask me this? You have seen for yourself - you must know it is true..." Hives made no answer, and after a moment the African pointed to the groups of near-naked Isuorgu tribesmen watching the blaze from the fringes of the clearing. "My tribe is poor and ignorant," he said, "yet they know things your people have forgotten! They have old secrets - older than the forests - which the white man has lost. One of these...", his voice fell away to a whisper, "...is the secret of ju-ju." Hives started to say something, but changed his mind. Yesterday he would have been grieved and angry to find this intelligent, educated African clinging to barbaric superstitions. But now he could not find it in his heart to rebuke him. How could he, when only a few hours ago, in the dolorous depths of the tropic night, he had himself witnessed an event too strange and terrifying to be explained in natural terms... a phenomenon which, he was convinced, had been produced by forces of unknown to the science of the civilised world ? Abruptly he turned and yelled for his porters. Then with a curt farewell to Benjamin and the tribesmen, he led his small safari from the clearing. Not once did he look back at the "sacred circle" and the smouldering remains of "the haunted resthouse". The amazing story that Hives brought back to civilisation provided a final chapter to one of the greatest mysteries in the history of "the Dark Continent". Each astonishing detail was verified by his African servants, who were closely questioned by Government officers. In the intervening years various explorers and scientists have studied the riddle, but a satisfactory explanation has yet to be found. In 1930 Hives published a gripping account of his ordeal in 'Ju-Ju and Justice in Nigeria' a book which he wrote in collaboration with Gascoigne Lumley. It is from this, and from Nigerian Government records, that the present-day researcher draws his facts in reconstructing what is undoubtedly the Colony's best-authenticated instance of ju-juism. Four or five years before Hives' visit the European owner of a remote plantation in the northern Bende District reported growing restlessness among the natives. Tribes hitherto peaceful were reverting to savage feuds, and he believed there had been a revival of secret societies which indulged in mystical customs and rites, "supervised by ju-ju priests and including human sacrifice..." The planter - unfortunately the records do not give his real name - did not ask for Government aid. Confident that he could handle the situation, he was setting out with a large and well-armed party of trusty native boys to tour the "troublesome" villages. He would report on his return. Anxious officials waited as weeks dragged by and no word came. An expedition was organised to go in search of the foolhardy settler, but scant hours before its departure a message arrived from him announcing "complete success and situation now in hand". A few days later a letter followed, giving a full report of the one-man punitive action. Not many miles from the village of Isuingi, on a sandy plain, the planter and his party had come upon a large, circular hollow masked by three crescent-shaped clumps of oil palms. Sacrificial stones, grotesque idols and sun-bleached human bones told a gruesome story - this was a "ju-ju temple". Tracks from the hollow led across the semi-desert to Isuingu: waiting till darkness fell, they surrounded the huts and closed in. Not the slightest resistance was encountered. The villagers, routed from their homes and herded into the central square, made no effort to deny that they had been practising ju-ju and making human sacrifices. But the ju-ju priest who had ruled the secret society and was clearly responsible for this revival of barbarism could not be found - somehow he had slipped through the net and vanished into the night. Trackers went after him, but returned in eight hours empty-handed: the trail petered out on the banks of a stream and they could not pick it up again though they had scoured many miles along either side. The planter organised "cleansing" ceremonies which freed the villagers from the vows of the secret society, then marched all the young men to the hollow. The idols and sacrificial stones were overthrown and broken up, but he realised something more would have to be done to "neutralise" the "sacred circle" and make it impossible for the Isuorgu to restore the pagan temple. It was then that he remembered the growing need for a resthouse in this area. The Bende District was being opened up rapidly: every year more white settlers, traders and hunters were coming up-country. In this wild terrain a night camped in the open was uncomfortable and often dangerous. Why not build the resthouse here and now? True, there were better sites in the vicinity, closer to the main routes - but a double purpose would be served if the hollow were chosen. The villagers were neither skilful nor enthusiastic builders, and the task took almost three weeks. But the completed structure was solid enough and quite weatherproof. Before he set of for home the planter explained to the villagers that from now on they would be responsible for keeping the resthouse clean and in good repair. In the months that followed all was quiet in the Isuingu area, and gradual peace returned to the rest of the Bende District. Feuding died out and there was no more talk of ju-ju ceremonies. It seemed that the lone European had found the trouble centre and smashed the cult's power decisively. Then the rumours began - vague, disturbing tales about the new resthouse. At first these circulated only among the native guides, porters and gun bearers, but soon there were seasoned European hunters and even Government officials frankly admitting that they had sensed "something very odd" about the place. For one thing, they declared, there was "a horrible, putrid smell" that could not be accounted for. Then again - the rooms were abnormally cold after sundown. Some hinted of more sinister happenings, but at this stage there was never a definite report... Four years after its erection, the Isuingu resthouse had acquired such an unpleasant reputation that few travellers cared to use it. Rather than sleep under its roof, men put up with the hardships of a night under canvas on the open plain - pestered by insects and marauding animals, being caught in sandstorms or - in the rainy season - swamped by tropical deluges. But Frank Hives knew nothing of this when he set out from Egugu to trek 100 miles to Isuingu on a routine visit. Most of the Bende District was to him unexplored territory: the resthouse was marked on his map and he naturally decided to stay there. As he approached Isuingu he heard that the building was dirty and dilapidated. Knowing that the local tribesmen were responsible for its upkeep, he sent one of his boys ahead with directions for it to be prepared for him. Late the next day, crossing the plain towards the isolated clumps of oil palms which marked the hollow where the resthouse stood, he met a group of Isuorgu returning from their cleaning duties. Their expressions were sullen and unfriendly, and some bold youngsters waved their brooms threateningly. Hives tried to talk with them, but they veered away from him, shouting in their tongue - a dialect of Ibo. Immediately his porters and personal servants showed signs of uneasiness - yet when he questioned them none would admit that anything was wrong. In the hollow a number of local chiefs he had asked to meet him where nowhere to be seen. The breach of etiquette perplexed and angered him. The house seemed clean and comfortable. He toured the rooms, then emerged to find that his porters had dumped their burdens on the veranda and fled! Only his cook and gun-bearer remained - hovering uncertainly in front of the house, wide eyed and sweating with fear... His patience was beginning to fray. Sternly he demanded to know what was troubling them - and where the porters had gone. "Naa m ukwu - (my big father) - this place is evil!" the cook wailed. "Many devils live here - the men say it is better to camp on the plains. They will wait for you there..." They would say no more than that. Hives shrugged and went back to the house, leaving the pair to make camp under the palms. It was all very exasperating, but he knew that superstitious fears could not be dispelled by shouts or threats. Let them do as they please - he would spend the night in ease. The cook summed up courage to prepare a meal and serve it - then ran off without clearing the table. As the sun began to set, Hives sat in a deck chair on the verandah and smoked a last pipe. Slowly, almost as though in step with the onward march of night, a strange and sickly odour filled the air. He strode across the clearing and ordered the cook and gun-bearer to find out what was causing it. They searched the hollow conscientiously enough, but nothing would induce them to enter the house. Hives gave up and searched the rooms himself - without result. About ten o'clock he went to bed, but the stench became so strong that he had to soak his canvas pillow with raw disinfectant. He managed to sleep - but only because he was bone-weary after many days on the march. It must have been almost midnight when he wakened with a start. Something was pulling at the mosquito net... he snatched the flimsy curtain aside - and found himself staring into the contorted face of the cook. The man was literally crazed with terror. Falling on his knees he began to babble incoherently, reverting to his own tongue. At first Hives could not make out a word - then he discovered that it was some kind of warning... Hives was deeply touched. Despite his terrible fear the cook had returned to the house to beg his master to leave at once - "because great danger comes!" "What danger?" The cook could not specify - but he was utterly convinced that if his master remained in the resthouse he would be dead by morning! He must come away at once...! Hives thanked him for the warning, but declined the invitation. The cook regarded him for several minutes in despair, then turned and bolted. After that it was difficult to get back to sleep - the disinfectant had lost its effect and the unpleasant odour was overpowering. Lying there in the darkness he tried to identify it: with a sudden shock he realised it was the smell of decaying flesh... There was no mistaking that foul sweetness! He began to feel ill and strangely cold. His nerves grew taught, and after a while he rose and made a second fruitless search of the house. He went out onto the verandah. The night was calm, metallic: bright moonlight made the wooden handrails and posts gleam like chromium, and silhouetted the motionless fronds of the palms as black and clear-etched as wrought ironwork. No wind, no sound. No movement save the feeble flicker of a dying campfire on the fringe of the clearing, where the cook and his companions waited. He had never known anything so eerie: an unreasonable fear was seeping into him... He strove to be rational - no good getting jumpy just because of a nasty smell and a full moon! There must be a good reason for his sudden restlessness. And then he remembered the sullen groups of Isuorgu... the absent chieftains... his servants' reluctance to describe the danger they were so sure existed... Could it be that the Isuorgu were planning rebellion? Did they mean to attack the resthouse? Then again, perhaps a band of renegade natives were raiding in the area... or a desperate criminal was at large - a maniac maybe... With these tangible evidences in mind he went in, loaded his revolver and placed it under his pillow. Then he scattered a fine layer of sand all over the verandah: no one could walk there without leaving some trace. More disinfectant on the pillow enabled him to get back to sleep - only to be yanked to wakefulness again by a series of loud thumps and crashes that shook the building. Grabbing his revolver he raced outside. The deck-chair at the far end of the verandah was lying against the wall, ten feet from the spot he had left it set up for use. The dinning table, low-set but made of solid wood, had been overturned and the dishes smashed. Yet there were no footmarks in the sand... He ran down the steps and searched all round the house without finding the slightest trace of an intruder. In the brilliant moonlight he did not see how anyone could have got out of the clearing without being spotted - he had bounded out of bed and reached the verandah mere seconds after the disturbance. The thing was impossible! The "corpsey" smell seemed to be getting worse. He went back and lay down on the bed. His body ached with fatigue, but sleep was out of the question now... After perhaps fifteen minutes a weird, slithering sound reached him. Something was moving outside on the verandah. He cocked the revolver and crept through to the main door. Edging out, he spotted a dark shape crawling along the verandah, about twenty feet away in the shadows close to the frontal wall. Levelling the revolver, he aimed at the middle of the shape and waited. It came on steadily. his finger tightened on the trigger - and the thing moved out of the shadows into the moonlight... Hives dropped the gun and reeled back against the doorpost - shock pounded on his breastbone, every muscle rigid. Horror held him powerless, like a man encased in a block of ice. He could only stand there and watch the thing draw nearer - the crawling naked body of a very old man... Reading his own description of that hideous visitor we can understand this paralysis: "The face was mottled with pockmarks and the nose had been eaten away. The head was bald, the top of it being a dirty white, shrivelled and grey in patches... The horrible lipless mouth was half open, the jaw sagging like that of a dead person." He found himself staring into "dead eyes that did not move..." As it crawled across the sanded floor he saw that the thing was dragging behind it a long piece of rope - plaited in the native fashion. At the centre of the verandah it paused, reached up with bony hands and gripped the rail. Not more than five feet from him, slowly it dragged itself upright and began to climb one of the posts supporting the roof. Hives was jerked out of his trance by a distant cry - from the camp under the oil palms. The cook had wakened and spotted the climbing figure. Diving for his gun, Hives yelled: "Guzo! Guzo!" (Ibo for "Stop"). But the thing kept on climbing. He stepped forward and at point-blank range emptied the revolver into that loathsome, wrinkled body. Still it kept on climbing. No blood fell. Hives threw away the gun and stretched out his hands to grab the legs - but he could not bring himself to lay hands on that dried up flesh... It clambered up onto the rafters and then the long rope was swiftly hauled up after it. A moment later... it vanished. Hives ran down the steps and headed for the palms. The cook and the gun-bearer stared, obviously astounded to see him alive. "Oh, my Master - I warned you!" the cook said ushering him to the camp fire. "We knew this would happen," the gun-bearer moaned. "We knew it would come...!" Hives said nothing. He sat with them, silently huddled over the fire, until the dawn came and dispelled the smell of death from the hollow. As they ate their breakfast the porters came slinking back. They snatched their loads from the verandah and hurried away to wait at a safe distance. Then, when it was fully light, a large party of Isuorgu approached, headed by a portly, middle-aged individual in knee length khaki shorts - Benjamin Oku. It was from Benjamin - an alert, talkative native educated by missionaries - that Hives finally got the full story. The resthouse, he said, had been built exactly on the spot where the principal ju-ju icon had stood. When the European who supervised the work had gone, the ju-ju priest returned and tried to incite his former supporters to destroy the building, but they refused and banished him from Isuingu. In a terrible rage the priest placed a ju-ju curse on the resthouse. On a night of the full moon he was seen by Isuorgu herdsmen dancing round the hollow, weaving his evil spell. The next day he was found dead - inside the building, hanging from the rafters... The villagers, Benjamin added, were too frightened of the body to cut it down. No white men were in the area, so they just let it fall to pieces. Eventually the remains were devoured by scavenger pigs. Hives asked Benjamin for a description of the ju-ju priest: It tallied exactly with the uncanny being he had seen on the verandah! Together they walked across the clearing to the house. On the post by the steps they inspected fresh bullet-holes. The sand on the verandah was undisturbed except by Hives' own tracks, and there was not so much as a spot of blood to be seen. Hives went outside and collected the last of his gear. On his way out he stopped and looked up at the rafters for a long time. Then he hurried down the steps and faced Benjamin. "Tell them they can burn it down if they'll build a new one out there on the plain," he said quietly. Minutes later whooping, chanting tribesmen were hurling blazing torches into the "haunted resthouse". "It is the right thing that you have done, master," Benjamin said. "Now there will be peace in this place..." And Benjamin was right. In his later years Hives returned many times to Isuingu and slept at the new resthouse - three miles from the "sacred circle". He was not disturbed, and neither were the scores of other travellers that stayed there. In time the desert weeds and bushes crept in and covered the old site, but to this day the Isuorgu will not go near it at night. They fear that a creature that can survive hanging and bullets may also be able to survive fire... Europeans, too, give the place a wide berth. They do not believe in ju-ju spells - but neither did Frank Hives until he stepped out into the moonlight and saw that hideous crawling thing... Moreover, they know that though many have tried, no one has yet been able to suggest a natural explanation for the riddle of "the rope-man of Isuingu"... --- Now read "Rope-Man, Solution?" (or whatever Tantalus has called it this time!), in it the author gives what he believes to be a solution to this mystery... -Finish-