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Volume 7486c

Chapter 10
A Commentary By
Woodrow Edgar Nichols, Jr.
Pinnacle 1958 UK edition
            I would like to give this chapter a subtitle for reasons that will become obvious: the Lolita of Opar. And I don’t know about you, but I sure would not like to fall into the hands of an angry deposed Queen of Opar, especially if I tried to have my way with her. But Ibn Dammuk appears to be a fool in love so lets peek in on his current thoughts.

Chapter Ten: The Love of a Priestess
            Ibn Dammuk had bided his time and now, in the camp by the swollen river at the edge of the Galla country, he at last found the opportunity he had so long awaited. The surveillance over the two prisoners had somewhat relaxed, due largely to the belief entertained by Abu Batn that the women would not dare to invite the perils of the jungle by attempting to escape from captors who were, at the same time, their protectors from even greater dangers. He had, however, reckoned without a just estimation of the courage and resourcefulness of his two captives, who, had he but known it, were constantly awaiting the first opportunity for escape. It was this fact, as well that played into the hands of Ibn Dammuk.

            With great cunning he enlisted the services of one of the blacks who had been forced to accompany them from the base camp and who was virtually a prisoner. By promising him his liberty Ibn Dammuk had easily gained the man’s acquiescence in the plan that he had evolved.

            A separate tent had been pitched for the two women, and before it sat a single sentry, whose presence Abu Batn considered more than sufficient for this purpose, which was, perhaps, even more to protect the women from his own followers than to prevent a very remotely possible attempt at escape.

            This night, which Ibn Dammuk had chosen for his villainy, was one for which he had been waiting, since it found upon duty before the tent of the captives one of his own men, a member of his own tribe, who was bound by laws of hereditary loyalty to serve and obey him. In the forest, just beyond the camp, waited Ibn Dammuk, with two more of his own tribesmen, four slaves that they had brought from the desert and the black porter who was to win his liberty by this night’s work.

            The interior of the tent that had been pitched for Zora and La was illuminated by a paper lantern, in which a candle burned dimly; and in the subdued light the two sat talking in La’s newly acquired English, which was at best most fragmentary and broken. However, it was far better than no means of communication and gave the two girls the only pleasure that they enjoyed. Perhaps it was not remarkable coincidence that this night they were speaking of escape and planning to cut a hole in the back of their tent through which they might sneak away into the jungle after the camp had settled down for the night and their sentry should be dozing at his post. And while they conversed, the sentry before their tent rose and strolled away, and a moment later they heard a scratching upon the back of their tent. Their conversation ceased, and they sat with eyes riveted upon the point where the fabric of the tent moved to the pressure of the scratching without.

            Presently a voice spoke in a low whisper. “Memsahib Drinov!”

            “Who is it? What do you want?” asked Zora in a low voice.

            “I have found a way to escape. I can help you if you wish.”

            “Who are you?” demanded Zora.

            “I am Bukula,” and Zora at once recognized the name as that of one of the blacks that Abu Batn had forced to accompany him from the base camp.

            “Put out your lantern,” whispered Bukula. “The sentry has gone away. I will come in and tell you my plans.”

            Zora arose and blew out the candle, and a moment later the two captives saw Bukula crawling into the interior of the tent. “Listen, Memsahib,” he said, “the boys that Abu Batn stole from Bwana Zveri are running away tonight. We are going back to the safari. We will take you two with us, if you want to come.”

            “Yes,” said Zora, “we will come.”

            “Good!” said Bukula. “Now listen well to what I tell you. The sentry will not come back, but we cannot all go out at once. First I will take this other Memsahib with me out into the jungle where the boys are waiting, then I will return for you. You can make talk to her. Tell her to follow me and to make no noise.”

            Zoro turned to La. “Follow Bukula,” she said. “We are going tonight. I will come after you.”

            “I understand,” replied La.

            “It is all right, Bukula,” said Zora. “She understands.”

            Bukula stepped to the entrance to the tent and looked quickly about the camp. “Come!” he said, and, followed by La, disappeared quickly from Zora’s view.

            The European girl fully realized the risk that they ran in going into the jungle alone with these half-savage blacks, yet she trusted them far more implicitly than she did the Aarabs and, treachery upon the part of any of the Negroes, the majority of whom she knew would be loyal and faithful. Waiting in the silence and loneliness of the sheltered tent, it seemed to Zora that it took Bukula an unnecessary long time to return for her; but when minute after minute dragged slowly past until she felt that she had waited for hours and there was no sign either of the black or the sentry, her fears were aroused in earnest. Presently she determined not to wait any longer for Bukula, but to go out into the jungle in search of the escaping party. She thought that perhaps Bukula had been unable to return without risking detection and that they were all waiting just beyond the camp for a favorable opportunity to return to her. As she arose to put her decision into action, she heard footsteps approaching the tent, and thinking that they were Bukula’s, she waited; but instead she saw the flapping robe and the long-barreled musket of an Aarab silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the exterior as the man stuck his head inside the tent. “Where is Hajellan?” he demanded, giving the name of the departed sentry.

            “How should we know?” retorted Zora in a sleepy voice. “Why do you awaken us thus in the middle of the night? Are we the keepers of your fellows?”

            The fellow grumbled something in reply and then, turning, called aloud across the camp, announcing to all who might hear that Hajellan was missing and inquiring if any had seen him. Other warriors strolled over then, and there was a great deal of speculation as to what had become of Hajellan. The name of the missing man was called aloud many times, but there was no response, and finally the sheykh came and questioned everyone. “The women are in the tent yet?” he demanded of the new sentry.

            “Yes,” replied the man. “I have talked to them.”

            “It is strange,” said Abu Batn, and then, “Ibn Dammuk!” he cried. “Where art thou, Ibn? Hajellan was one of my men.” There was no answer. “Where is Ibn Dammuk?”

            “He is not here,” said a man standing near the sheykh.

            “Nor are Fodil and Dareyem,” said another.

            “Search the camp and see who is missing,” commanded Abu Batn; and when the search had been made they found that Ibn Dammuk, Hajellan, Fodil, and Dareyem were missing and five of the blacks.

            “Ibn Dammuk has deserted us,” said Abu Batn. “Well, let it go. There will be fewer with whom to share the reward we shall reap when we are paid for the two women,” and thus reconciling himself to the loss of four good fighting men, Abu Batn repaired to his tent and resumed his interrupted slumber.

            Weighted down by apprehension as to the fate of La and disappointment occasioned by her own failure to escape, Zora spent an almost sleepless night, yet fortunate for her peace of mind was it that she did know the truth.

            Bukula moved silently into the jungle, followed by La; and when they had gone a short distance from the camp, the girl saw the dark forms of men standing in a little group ahead of them. The Arabs, in their tell-tale thobs, were hidden in the underbrush, but their slaves had removed their own white robes and, with Bukula, were standing naked but for G strings, thus carrying conviction in the mind of the girl that only black prisoners of Abu Batn awaited her. When she came among them, however, she learned her mistake; but too late to save herself, for she was quickly seized by many hands and effectually gagged before she could give the alarm. Then Ibn Dammuk and his Aarab companions appeared, and silently the party moved on down the river through the dark forest, though not before they had subdued the enraged high priestess of the Flaming God, secured her wrists behind her back, and placed a rope about her neck.

             You know, there is an awful lot of sado-masochistic bondage in this story – have you noticed? Well, to each their own. And just when is old Ibn going to make his move?

            All night they fled, for Ibn Dammuk well guessed what the wrath of Abu Baten would be when, in the morning, he discovered the trick that had been played upon him; and when morning dawned they were far away from camp, but still Ibn Dammuk pushed on, after a brief halt for a hurried breakfast.

            Long since had the gag been removed from La’s mouth, and now Ibn Dammuk walked beside her, gloating upon his prize. He spoke to her, but La could not understand him and only strode on in haughty disdain, biding her time against the moment when she might be revenged and inwardly sorrowing over her separation from Zora, for whom a strange affection had been aroused in her savage breast.

            Toward noon the party withdrew from the game trail which they had been following and made camp near the river. It was here that Ibn Dammuk made a fatal blunder. Goaded to passion by close proximity to the beautiful women for whom he had conceived a mad infatuation, the Aarab gave way to his desire to be alone with her; and leading her along a little trail that paralleled the river, he took her away out of sight of his companions; and when they had gone perhaps a hundred yards from camp, he seized her in his arms and sought to kiss her lips.

            With equal safety might Ibn Dammuk have embraced a lion. In the heat of passion he forgot many things, among them the dagger that hung always at his side. But La of Opar did not forget. With the coming of daylight she had noticed that dagger, and ever since she had coveted it; and now as the man pressed her close, her hand sought and found its hilt. For an instant she seemed to surrender. She let her body go limp in his arms, while her own, firm and beautifully rounded, crept about him, one to his right shoulder, the other beneath his left arm. But as yet she did not give him her lips, and then as he struggled to possess them the hand upon his shoulder seized him suddenly by the throat. The long, tapered fingers that seemed so soft and white were suddenly claws of steel that closed upon his windpipe, and simultaneously the hand that had crept so softly beneath his left arm drove his own long dagger into his heart from beneath his shoulder blade.

            The single cry that he might have given was choked in his throat. For an instant the tall form of Ibn Dammuk stood rigidly erect; then it slumped forward, and the girl let it slip to the earth. She spurned it once with her foot, then removed from it the girdle and sheath for the dagger, wiped the bloody blade upon the man’s thob and hurried on up the little river trail until she found an opening in the underbrush that led away from the stream. On and on she went until exhaustion overtook her; and then, with her remaining strength, she climbed into a tree in search of much needed rest.

            R.I.P Iben Dammuk; the damn fool commie traitor should have never unbound La. What a blunder. And what about that strange affection Zora had aroused in La? Hmmmn, lipstick lesbians, anyone? Let’s see now: how many men has La killed in the past two days? I count two blacks and one Arab, how about you?
            Wayne Colt watched the shadowy figure approach the mouth of the corridor where his cell lay. He wondered if this was a messenger of death, coming to lead him to sacrifice. Nearer and nearer it came and presently it stopped before the bars of his cell door; and then a soft voice spoke to him in a low whisper and in a tongue which he could not understand, and he knew that his visitor was a woman.

            Prompted by curiosity, he came close to the bars. A soft hand reached in and touched him, almost caressingly. A full moon rising above the high walls that ring the sacrificial court suddenly flooded the mouth of the corridor and the entrance to Colt’s cell in silver light, and in it the American saw the figure of a young girl pressed against the cold iron of the grating. She handed him food, and when he took it she caressed his hand and drawing it to the bars pressed her lips against it.

            Wayne Colt was nonplussed. He could not know that Nao, the little priestess, had been the victim of love at first sight, that to her mind and eyes, accustomed to the sight of males only in the form of the hairy, grotesque priests of Opar, this stranger appeared a god indeed.

            A slight noise attracted Nao’s attention toward the court and, as she turned, the moonlight flooded her face, and the American saw that she was very lovely. Then she turned back toward him, her dark eyes wells of adoration, her full, sensitive lips trembling with emotion as, still clinging to his hand, she spoke rapidly in low liquid tones.

            She was trying to tell Colt that at noon of the second day he was to be offered in sacrifice to the Flaming God, that she did not wish him to die and if it were possible she would help him, but she did not know how that would be possible.

            Colt shook his head. “I cannot understand you, little one,” he said, and Nao, though she could not interpret his words, sensed the futility of her own. Then, raising one of her hands from his, she made a great circle in a vertical plane from east to west with a slender index finger, indicating the path of the sun across the heavens; and then she started a second circle, which she stopped at zenith, indicating high noon of the second day. For an instant her raised hand poised dramatically aloft; and then, the fingers closing as though around the hilt of an imaginary sacrificial knife, she plunged the invisible point deep into her bosom.

            “Thus will Oah destroy you,” she said, reaching through the bars and touching Colt over the heart.

            The American thought that he understood the meaning of her pantomime, which he then repeated, plunging the imaginary blade into his own breast and looking questioningly at Nao.

            In reply she nodded sadly, and the tears welled to her eyes.

            As plainly as though he had understood her words, Colt realized that here was a friend who would help him if she could, and reaching through the bars, he drew the girl gently toward him and pressed his lips against her forehead. With a low sob Nao encircled his neck with her arms and pressed her face to his. Then, as suddenly, she released him and, turning, hurried away on silent feet, to disappear in the gloomy shadows of an archway at one side of the court of sacrifice.

            Colt ate the food she had brought him and for a long time lay pondering the inexplicable forces which govern the acts of men. What train of circumstances leading down out of a mysterious past had produced this single human being in a city of enemies in whom, all unsuspecting, there must always have existed a germ of potential friendship for him, a stranger and alien, of whose very existence she could not possibly have dreamed before this day. He tried to convince himself that the girl had been prompted to her act by pity for his plight, but he knew in his heart that a more powerful motive impelled her.

            Colt had been attracted to many women, but he had never loved; and he wondered if that was the way that love came and if some day it would seize him as it had seized this girl; and he wondered also if, had conditions been different, he might have been as strongly attracted to her. If not, then there seemed to be something wrong in the scheme of things; and still puzzling over this riddle of the ages, he fell asleep upon the hard floor of his cell.

            With morning a hairy priest came and gave him food and water, and during the day others came and watched him, as though he were a wild beast in a menagerie. And so the long day dragged on, and once again night came – his last night.

            He tried to picture what the final ceremony would be like. It seemed almost incredible that in the twentieth century he was to be offered as a human sacrifice to some heathen deity, but yet the pantomime of the girl and the concrete evidence of the bloody altar and the grinning skulls assured him that such must be the very fate awaiting him upon the morrow. He thought of his family and his friends at home; they would never know what had become of him. He weighed his sacrifice against the mission that he had undertaken and he had no regret, for he knew that it had not been in vain. Far away, already near the Coast, was the message he had dispatched by the runner. That would insure that he had not failed in his part for the sake of the great principle for which, if necessary, he was glad to lay down his life. He was glad that he had acted promptly and sent the message when he had, for now, upon the morrow, he could go to his death without vain regrets.

            He did not want to die, and he made many plans during the day to seize upon the slightest opportunity that might be presented to him to escape.

            He wondered what had become of the girl and if she would come again now that it was dark. He wished that she would, for he craved the companionship of a friend during his last hours, but as the night wore on, he gave up the hope and sought to forget the morrow in sleep.

            As Wayne Colt moved restlessly upon his hard couch, Firg, a lesser priest of Opar, snored upon his pallet of straw in the small, dark recess that was his bed chamber. Firg was the keeper of the keys, and so impressed was he with the importance of his duties that he never would permit anyone even to touch the sacred emblems of his trust, and probably because it was well known that Firg would die in defense of them they were entrusted to him. Not with justice could Firg have laid any claim to intellectuality, if he had known that such a thing existed. He was only an abysmal brute of a man and, like many men, far beneath the so-called brutes in many of the activities of mind. When he slept, all his faculties were asleep, which is not true of wild beasts when they sleep.

            Firg’s cell was in one of the upper stories of the ruins that still remained intact. It was upon a corridor that encircled the main temple court – a corridor that was now in dense shadow, since the moon, touching it early in the night, had now passed on; so that the figure creeping stealthily toward the entrance to Firg’s chamber would have been noticable only to one who happened to be quite close. It moved silently, but without hesitation, until it came to the entrance beyond which Firg lay. There it paused, listening, and when it heard Firg’s noisy snoring, it entered quickly. Straight to the side of the sleeping man it moved, and there it knelt, searching with one hand lightly over his body, while the other grasped a long, sharp knife that hovered constantly above the hairy chest of the priest.

            Presently it found what it wanted – a great ring, upon which were strung several enormous keys. A leather thong fastened the ring to Firg’s girdle, and with the keen blade of the dagger the nocturnal visitor sought to sever the thong. Firg stirred, and instantly the creature at his side froze to immobility. Then the priest moved restlessly and commenced to snore again, and once more the dagger sawed at the leather thong. It passed through the strand unexpectedly and touched the metal of the ring lightly, but just enough to make the keys jangle ever so slightly.

            Instantly Firg was awake, but he did not rise. He was never to rise again.

            Silently, swiftly, before the stupid creature could realize his danger, the keen blade of the dagger had pierced his heart.

            Soundlessly, Firg collapsed. His slayer hesitated a moment with poised dagger as though to make certain that the work had been well done. Then, wiping the tell-tale stains from the dagger’s blade with the victim’s loin cloth the figure arose and hurried from the chamber, in one hand the great keys upon their golden ring.

            Colt stirred uneasily in his sleep and then awakened with a start. In the waning moonlight he saw a figure beyond the grating of his cell. He heard a key turn in the massive lock. Could it be that they were coming for him? He rose to his feet, the urge of his last conscious thought strong upon him – escape. And when as the door swung open, a soft voice spoke, and he knew that the girl had returned.

            She entered the cell and threw her arms about Colt’s neck, drawing his lips down to hers. For a moment she clung to him, and then she released him and, taking one of his hands in hers, urged him to follow her; nor was the American loath to leave the depressing interior of the death cell.

            I know it is dangerous to even think about having a relationship with an underaged girl, Lolita being the classic case. I mean one can’t watch the movie without being a little aroused by Sue Lyon. There’s even a tribute to her on the “Sunshine Superman” video by Donovan which you can google any time, with those great Jeff Beck riffs on guitar. And who can forget Brook Shields’ underage cavorting in the Grand Canyon with Peter Fonda in Wanda Nevada? Moreover, the scene in Broken Flowers where Bill Murray waits for Sharon Stone to come home while her underage daughter, played by Alexis Dziena, comes into the living room bare naked and flirtatious; when Murray asked her earlier when she was clothed, what her name was, she said “Lolita.”
            On silent feet Nao led the way across the corner of the sacrificial court, through a dark archway into a gloomy corridor. Winding and twisting, keeping always in dark shadows, she led him along a circuitous route through the ruins, until, after what seemed an eternity to Colt, the girl opened a low, strong, wooden door and led him into the great entrance hall of the temple, through the mighty portal of which he could see the upper wall of the city.

            Here Nao halted, and coming close to the man looked up into his eyes. Again her arms stole about his neck, and again she pressed her lips to his. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and her voice broke with little sobs that she tried to stifle as she poured her love into the ears of the man who could not understand.

            She had brought him here to offer him his freedom, but she could not let him go yet. She clung to him, caressing him and crooning to him.

            For a quarter of an hour she held him there, and Colt had not the heart to tear himself away, but at last she released him and pointed toward the opening in the inner wall.

            “Go!” she said, “taking the heart of Nao with you. I shall never see you again, but at least I shall always have the memory of this hour to carry through life with me.”

            One wonders about this girl just coming into womanhood. Isn’t that about the average age of 13 or 14? One wonders what all that caressing and crooning involved. Colt sure didn’t resist, that’s for sure. I hope he had a happy ending.
            Wayne stooped and kissed her hand, the slender, savage little hand that had but just killed that her lover might live. Though of that, Wayne knew nothing.

            She pressed her dagger with its sheath upon him that he might not go out into the savage world unarmed, and then he turned away from her and moved slowly toward the inner wall. At the entrance of the opening he paused and turned about. Dimly, in the moonlight, he saw the figure of the little priestess standing very erect in the shadows of the ancient ruins. He raised his hand and waved a final, silent farewell.

            A great sadness depressed Colt as he passed through the inner wall and crossed the court to freedom, for he knew that he had left behind him a sad and hopeless heart, in that bosom of one who must have risked death, perhaps, to save him – a perfect friend of whom he could but carry a vague memory of a half-seen lovely face, a friend whose name he did not know, the only tokens of whom he had carried away with him were the memory of hot kisses and a slender dagger.

            And thus, as Wayne Colt walked across the moonlit plain of Opar, the joy of his escape was tempered by the sadness as he recalled the figure of the forlorn little priestess standing in the shadows of the ruins.

            With that heartbreaking scene the chapter comes to a close. Do you think that Colt will find love someday? He sure got a first hand glimpse of how crazy it can be, especially, as often is the case, when it is one sided. Well, there’s a lot more adventure ahead. See you in Chapter Eleven.
Tarzan and the Golden Lion: ERB C.H.A.S.E.R. Bibliography



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