The first thing they did was to put the local shaman in his place with a display of superior ‘magic.’ After that, the others usually fell over themselves to worship them.
Behind him, under his rain cape, Norman was preparing his trick.
“I love this bit,” said Cecil, the glee evident in his voice under his mask and cape. “Especially when Norman does his Great Stromboli bit. I wish he’d show me how it’s done.”
Reggie nudged him. “Ces, be quiet.”
“I feel sorry for the poor old fool that’s got to go up against us this time,” hissed Norman from underneath his mask. “This is going to be my best performance yet.”
“Well, I still feel dashed ridiculous.”
“Should be right at home then, Reggie.”
“Keep your bloody voices down and do it just as we’ve done before,” warned Frank.
Within the whispers and flutters of the torch flames Mathers heard the voice of Skarra. He cocked his head and listened. He halted the procession before the urman chief and his medicine man. Dranethwe glanced sidelong at his white-faced shaman, who sized up the masked commander, smacking his lips, unimpressed.
“Behold the Warrior Priests of Boojum,” said Mathers, indicating his crew. “We serve Skarra when he is in this world and we speak for him.”
The white clay smeared shaman stepped forward, proud and defiant.
We’re on his turf, thought Alfie, and he don’t like it one little bit. And I can’t say as I blame him, either.
“He looks like a slippery little bugger,” hissed Frank.
“Oh, aye, he looks proper carny, he does. We ought to keep an eye on this one,” said Wally.
Mathers thumped his staff end down on the ground, affronted. “You think you have the power to summon Skarra? Your magics are not strong enough for that. Skarra came because he wished it. As for us, you may question our power. But you may not like the answer.”
“Bloody hell, the sub’s piling it on a bit thick isn’t he, what’s he up to?” muttered Cecil. Alfie kicked him, warning him to be quiet.
The shaman approached Mathers and performed a series of practised moves of some magical significance, flicking his tongue in and out. Was this some sort of ceremonial greeting, or was the wily old codger sizing up the opposition? Perhaps it was more of a challenge. I’ll show you my juju, you show me yours. Mathers had seen the same thing in the Officer’s mess, when the new blood, cocksure of themselves, goaded the old guard, feeling threatened and having something to prove. This man’s ability had been called into question and they had appeared to challenge it. Best sort this now. Let this shower know who was in charge.
The shaman prised open a small leather bag hung from his waist, reached in and dug out a handful of white ashes. He began to dance around them, chanting, before throwing the ashes into the air above them. He sank down on his haunches and, with great intent, watched the ashes caught like swirling motes above them, drifting down over the crew in the shafts of sunlight, as if their motions divined some truth or intent.
“What on earth’s the geezer doing now?”
“Not Dulgur,” Jarak said finally.
“Is that the best he’s got? We’re well in here.”
Mathers thumped his staff on the ground twice and the file of tank crew behind him opened out into a well-drilled rank, sticking the torches into the ground either side of the Ivanhoe’s track horns.
The tank squatted like a great iron idol for him, its track horns open and welcoming like beneficent arms, lit by the torches planted either side. Alfie did have to admit it looked damned impressive.
Norman slipped something into his mouth under the chainmail that draped down over the lower half of his face. He stepped forwards and smoke and sparks began to billow through the chainmail curtain in front of his mouth.
The few simple conjuring tricks from his time on the boards had served him well at concert parties or for charming French peasant girls in the estaminets. Now, he made objects disappear and reappear and the urmen shuffled back uneasily with groans of fear. He tore up a large leaf, burnt it by breathing fire on it and brought it back, whole, to life again. To end the performance on a spectacular note, Jack fired the flare pistol from a pistol port and a bright white light arced into the vaulted forest space above.
“TRULY, YOUR MAGIC is great,” declared Dranethwe for all the assembled clan to hear. He glanced at Jarak, who glared back. Defeated, the shaman slunk away to lick his wounds, which were deep. He had lost face in front of his chief and his clan. The rest of the enclave fell to their knees, lowering their foreheads to the ground before Skarra.
“Up, up,” boomed Mathers. “Skarra accepts your genuflection and while Skarra may not feel the trials of life, his acolytes do. Bring food and water. Bring tribute for Skarra and his benevolence. Hurry. Do not anger him.”
The clan scrambled to their feet. Dranethwe clapped his hands and the throng burst into activity, mothers snatched children into large bark dwellings, afraid the god of the underworld would take their children before their time.
Dranethwe clapped his hands again and villagers brought forth platters of fruit and meats and laid them before the masked crew. Sat between the track horns of the Ivanhoe, the crew fell on the food, tearing at sticky wet pulps, spitting pips and stones and ripping greasy meat from carcasses.
“Oi, manners!” said Reggie.
Frank belched loudly, provoking raucous laughter from the crew.
“At least have the decency to say Grace. We are British. We are not savages. Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”
“Sorry, Mother,” Frank said, with mock contrition.
One by one they put their food down and clasped their hands half-heartedly as Reggie said Grace, the sound of ‘Amen’ starting a race for the food again.
Reggie sighed. “Savages.”
Mathers, still wearing his splash mask, sat with them but ate little, watching his men with a sense of beneficence.
“Sir?” said Clegg, offering a platter of meats to Mathers. “Aren’t you eating?”
“Hmm? Shh. I’m listening to Skarra.”
“Skarra, sir? You mean Ivanhoe?”
“Hmm. Yes, I suppose I do. Don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what, sir? The engine is off.”
“You don’t hear it? No. No, of course you don’t. I’m blessed, aren’t I?” Mathers said, fingering his jacket collar through the neck hole of his rain cape.
Clegg looked at the two lieutenant pips winking in the firelight. “Yes, sir. I guess you are.”
Sated, they sat back, picked their teeth, and wiped their mouths on their sleeves. Round the fire before Ivanhoe, the crew spoke in low voices.
“This isn’t right,” muttered Alfie.
“It’s an offering. It’s their way. If we didn’t take it, they would be offended and what’s more, they’d know we wasn’t big juju men. Besides,” Frank added with a grin, “the women will come along later. They always do.”
“We used to be a tight-knit crew. What happened?” asked Alfie.
Frank glared at him. “We are. What happened to you, Alfie?”
“Got himself a long-haired chum is what happened.”
“Leave Nellie out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it. Can’t you see? What we’re doing, it’s wrong.”