The Thing That Walked In The Rain (3 page)

“The royal race of Incas, it is said, more nearly resembled Aryans than Mongols, while many of the Aztecs had a strongly Semitic cast of countenance. It’s a pity that the destructive fanaticism of the conquering Spaniards made it impossible for us to learn more than a very small part of the religions and traditions of these peoples. According to our recent tricky visitor, as well as our own observations, there must have existed here at one time a cult worshipping Nayana, or Nayana Idra, a many-headed serpent.”

“Which brings us,” I replied, “to the consideration of what we saw in the lake during the shower this afternoon. I’m positive that I saw several green, snake-like things of immense size, waving above the water. You saw it, too, as did Anita.”

“The whole thing,” said the professor, “smacks of the magic of India. Standing in the midst of a crowd, a Hindu fakir throws a rope up in the air. To every member of that crowd it appears to stand stiffly erect while he climbs to its top. But to the eye of a camera, it is lying stretched out on the ground while the fakir creeps its length on all fours. Mass hypnotism. The same thing is true of the trick of growing a rose from a seed in a few minutes, while playing a hautboy. The rose simply does not exist, except in the minds of the audience. And neither, I am convinced, does the monster we saw this afternoon have any existence, except, perhaps in the minds of the credulous natives who have been taught to believe in it. We have been hoaxed, and I, for one, don’t propose to give any credit to the reality of the thing.”

“It certainly looked real enough to me,” I said, “and there wasn’t any fakir in sight to hypnotize us.”

“He wouldn’t need be in sight,” replied the professor. “Our minds were all prepared for the thing before it happened—our imaginations keyed to the highest pitch. A fertile field for the mass hypnotist.”

AT
this moment, Anita, who had been standing in the doorway for some time listening to our discussion, came out on the porch.

“I’ve just found something,” she said, “which proves that my father believed in the reality of the Nayana Idra.”

“What is it?” asked the professor.

“A short time ago I went into the bedroom for a handkerchief. Dad’s khaki jacket was hanging there, and I noticed a book protruding from the pocket. It was his notebook, done in pencil, and very sketchy and incomplete. But I'm sure that if we can guess some of the things that are implied by these notes we can find the key to the mystery, which Bahna stole when he took the diary. Evidently the notations in the diary were mostly elaborations of these notes, written in ink in order that a complete and permanent record might be preserved.”

“And you say he believed in the existence of the monster?”

“Without a doubt. Listen to this:

“ ‘-Another native stolen from village last night during rain. Went to see tracks. Like those of enormous serpents—many of them.’

“And here’s a note made some days later:

“ ‘Saw it for first time today, during shower. Great green arms writhing above water. Heard sound. Turned and strange Indian was standing behind me. Seemed to materialize from nowhere. Must be secret entrance in rock. Dressed like ancient high priest. Name Bahna, Called thing “Nayana Idra.” Warned me away. I laughed. Went on fishing my specimens from the reservoir to take back for observation. When I looked again he had disappeared.’ ”

“Which goes to prove my hypnotic theory," said the professor. “Bahna was standing behind him, influencing his imagination with his subtle art when he thought he saw the monster.”

“Here’s a note made a week later,” said Anita.

“ ‘Some trouble to decipher characters. Mystic symbols to be read only by adepts of inner circle. Will figure out formula yet. Tried the ipecacuanha. Hydras all dead. Must have been too strong. Ancient high priests clever biologists and chemists. Created and destroyed own gods at will. Must try weaker solution. May have been modified by something else.’ ”

“What do you make of that, professor:” I asked.

“It seems that my friend, the doctor, was on the wrong track,” said the professor. “He thought the things real instead of phantasies. He should have called the ancient priests clever psychologists instead of biologists.”

“But what of the ancient formula? And what was he doing to the hydras with the ipecacuanha?” I asked.

“The formula was probably a lot of mummery he replied, “like burning incense in a temple, or like the magic philters which still persist in our time and are efficient only to the extent that they inspire faith or wield the power of suggestion. The fact that they used ipecacuanha in this formula it not significant, as I see it. It contains emetine, a powerful emetic or an active poison, according to the dosage. I can understand that the hydras would be killed by a strong solution, as it is known to be particularly destructive to amoeboid life.”

“But where do these strange hydras fit in:” “Accessories to the mummery, somehow,” lie replied, “Possibly living miniature replicas of the fabulous monster, to assist in establishing belief in the creature, Giving color and mystery to the thing, like the doves of Isis, or the white dove that supposedly whispered heavenly secrets in the ear of Mohammed, while extracting a pea therefrom.”

“Here is a later note about the hydras,” said Anita. “ ‘Weaker solution killed all but one. Put this under glass. Gonads seem to have atrophied. Died shortly after return to solution. Something wrong.' ”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that the doctor was convinced there was some connection between the hydras and this mystery, and that he was experimenting to find out what it was. Evidently he had some ancient documentary evidence of the mystical nature to go on.”

“And being mystical in nature,” retorted Mabrey, “it was probably as unreliable as it was unscientific.”

At this moment our discussion was broken into by a loud shriek of fear and agony from the direction of the hut. Peering out through the screen, I made out, by the almost constantly recurring flashes of lightning, two figures running as if the very devil were after them. One plunged into the jungle and the other came dashing toward the cottage.

Then I heard a final, despairing shriek, which seemed to come from high in the air. Looking upward I beheld, silhouetted against the background of lightning-illuminated clouds, an enormous thing taller than a tree, with hundreds of branches, or legs. It appeared like some gigantic tumble-weed walking on its branches through the jungle with terrific, Brobdingnagian strides. And waving helplessly above the tree-tops in the grip of one of these branches was the limp and helpless figure of one of our Misskitos.

Meanwhile, the man who had been running toward the cottage arrived—bolted up the steps and through the door. It was Pedro.

“Maria Madre
save us all!” he panted, his eyes rolling with terror. “Eet’s come! Eet took Jose! Reached through the door and jerked heem out of his hammock! Hide! Hide queeck, or eet weel get you all!” Without stopping to think I dashed out of the house, unholstering my colt forty-five. Then I emptied its six chambers at the great trunk, swaying there above the tree-tops. Whether or not I hit it I do not know. There was no apparent effect. But an enormous tentacle came slithering down toward me, then another and another, blindly searching the clearing like exploring earthworms.

“Come in here, you fool!” shouted Mabrey. “Come in, I tell you!”

As if in a daze, I stood there, unheeding, watching the mostrosity that towered above me. Then a great, green, snaky thing struck me, knocked me down. Stinging, numbing pains shot through me. I was up in an instant, but it found me again—wrapped around my body, pinioning one arm—a band of stinging, burning agony. I pounded it ineffectually with my empty gun.

Mabrey leaped out a
machete*
gleaming in his hand. I was swung swiftly upward. The
machete
flashed, and I was dropped flat on my back in the mud. Big as I am, Mabrey caught me up and half carried half dragged me into the house, that severed, stinging, snakey thing still wrapped around me. He flung me savagely on the floor of the living room, and hurriedly closed all the doors and windows. The snakey arm relaxed, and I got up, still in excruciating agony from that stinging, nettle-like embrace.

*A large sword-like knife used to cut wood, clear paths in the jungle and do other things.

Immense slimy tentacles were sliding over the roof, exploring the walls, pressing on the window panes. The arm that held me was writhing on the floor, a viscous green fluid oozing from the severed stump. It filled the room with a musty, unclean smell—a sickening charnel odor, as if an ancient tomb had been desecrated.

“Your
machetes”
shouted Mabrey. “Watch the window ! It may break the glass!”

Scarcely had he spoken ere a window pane shattered —fell in a tinkling shower. A writhing green arm shot through the opening, touched Anita, and wrapped around her slender waist.

As she screamed in deadly terror and pain I sprang to her assistance. But she was jerked toward the window with incredible swiftness.

I SWUNG my
machete
at the writhing thing that was dragging Anita toward the window. It moved downward as I struck, and consequently was only cut half through—green liquid oozing from the wound. Goaded to a frenzy by the cries of the tortured girl, I slashed again and again at the great green arm, not realizing that my second blow had bitten clear through, and that I was merely cutting the severed end to pieces.

The oozing stump was withdrawn through the broken window. Brought to a realization of what I was doing, I turned and found Anita swaying—about to fall. The relaxed tentacles had slipped from her, but I knew from experience the stinging wounds it had left. She was biting her lips—attempting to suppress her moans of agony. I caught her in my arms—spoke to her soothingly. And she sobbed hysterically, her head on my shoulder.

Suddenly I was aware of a change outside. The patter of the rain had ceased. The muttering of the thunder was dying in the distance. And the mighty tentacles no longer slithered and groped outside the cottage. Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a cloud, flooding the drenched mountainside with its soft light. A gigantic figure like a huge upturned, uprooted tree appeared on the rim of the crater, wobbled unsteadily for a moment, and then disappeared.

“It’s gone, Anita!” I said. “The thing has gone back to its lair ! We’re saved !”

“I’m so glad,” she whispered, “but I am hurt—terribly.”

The professor had gone into the laboratory. In a moment he returned with bottles, gauze and cotton. After washing our smarting, itching wounds with alcohol, he swabbed them with mercurochrome. Presently I felt some relief, and Anita, plucky little thing that she was, declared that her pains were gone.

Pedro made coffee, which he served piping hot to all of us. Nobody cared to sleep, so we sat and smoked, sipping our coffee and discussing our terrible visitor.

The professor, of course, said nothing more about his theory of mass hypnotism. Nor did I have the heart to twit him about it. He had saved my life. No doubt his presence of mind in closing the doors and windows had saved all of us.

He examined the two green things that had ceased to writhe on the floor, except when touched. Then they showed startling reactions.

“They are hollow,” he said, "with terminal orifices much like the mouths of anemones. The tubes are lined with cells that digest the creature’s food, taken in through the orifices. The ectoderm-the outer skin—is dotted with the stinging nettle cells which can be employed either for defense or aggression. Without a doubt the thing is an ambulatory hydra—a gigantic individual belonging to the strange species we saw in the reservoir. Throw the filthy things out, Pedro. The stench is nauseating.”

Impaling one of the green things on his
machete,
Pedro held it at arms’ length, dragged it to the screen door and flung it outside. He returned for the other and handled it in a like manner, then closed the door softly and tiptoed back into the room.

“Seex men come!” he said excitedly, “over the hut. They get here een a minute!”

The professor, Anita and I hurried to the window. Clearly visible in the moonlight were six figures, poking about the ruins of the native hut. One, taller than the others and wearing a large feather crown, was familiar to all of us.

“It’s Bahna,” said Mabrey, “with five of his followers. No doubt he means trouble, or he wouldn’t have brought all those men with him. See to your side arms, everybody. Don’t start anything, but he ready to finish anything they may start.”

I loaded my emptied forty-five. Pedro and the professor were similarly armed with forty-fives and heavy
machetes.
Anita carried a thirty-eight and a lighter
machete.
Our shotguns and rifles stood in a corner.

“You stand guard over those guns, Pedro,” ordered Mabrey. “We’ll use our side arms if attacked, and make a dash for the other weapons, but we don’t want to appear hostile unnecessarily. It may provoke an attack.”

We took seats and waited, tensely alert. The professor and I smoked our pipes. Pedro puffed at his inevitable cigarette.

The splashing of footsteps sounded on the rain-soaked ground outside. The screen door opened. There was the tramp of feet on the porch. Then Bahna stalked into the room, his features as expressionless and inscrutable as before. Behind him walked five Indians. Two took positions on each side of the door. The other remained standing in the doorway with arms folded.

The professor nodded pleasantly, as if such visits in the dead of night were of ordinary occurrence. He was an admirable actor.

“Evening, Bahna,” he said. “Beautiful night after the rain. Won’t you sit down and have some coffee?” Bahna stared straight at the professor, his face expressionless as a moulded death mask.

“I warned you,” he said, “of the wrath of Nayana Idra. You did not heed my warning. Had I not risked my own life to beseech him to leave, your lives would have been forfeit.”