The Red Fetish

                      By Frank Belknap Long, Jr.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Weird Tales January 1930.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


[Illustration: "They writhed in the sun like wounded snakes."]


Bill Cullen shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the empty
skyline. His arms, as he stood in the glittering light, showed scraggy
and emaciated and his features were pinched and black. There had been
strong winds blowing and enormous seas thundering on the beach, and the
ferocity of the elements had accentuated his helplessness. He turned to
his companion with a gesture of despair.

"Look here," he said, "you know as well as I do that it is physically
impossible for us to hang on without water. What do you say to a swim?"

Bill's companion groaned and shook his head. He was a frightened,
nervous little man with pointed fox-like ears, and people who knew him
were prone to brand him a coward. His name, Wellington Van Wyck, did
not raise him in the estimation of his friends.

Bill studied regretfully the thing that Van Wyck had become. It was not
the lack of water that gave him discomfort. His sorrow lay in the fact
that Van Wyck did not possess a capacity for blind enthusiasm.

"It's only six miles," he urged.

"There are cannibals on that island," replied Van Wyck. "It's down on
the chart."

Van Wyck was a little wild and he imagined that cannibals tore
themselves to pieces over their ceremonies. Bill knew that cannibals
were decent and clean and orderly; but there was no explaining that to
Van Wyck. He dealt with him in another fashion.

"You're as weak and flabby and spineless as a jelly-fish with
rheumatism," said Bill. "You're so unsavory that the cannibals
wouldn't eat you. Why don't you kill yourself now, and be done with it?
'Twould be a good way to economize on food!"

Van Wyck scowled and sat down upon the beach. His eyes narrowed. "We
are safer here," he said. His lips were swollen and cracked and he
spoke in a thin, small voice. He assured Bill that he could survive
without luxuries. He said that two men could go three days on one pint
of water, and that in three or four days anything might happen.

Nothing did happen. The three days went by like great white birds at
sea, and the merciless glare of the sun made life a perfect misery.
Bill looked grim. He squatted on the sands and watched the pale blue
water foaming and bubbling in the lagoon, and his eyes glittered. Once
he turned to Van Wyck and laughed. "It has green eyes," he said. "I saw
it watching us on the beach. It plays with the moon and its tentacles
are long and gelatinous!"

Sea water affects some men like hashish. That morning Bill had crawled
to the lagoon on his hands and knees and swallowed more salt than was
good for him. Van Wyck had warned him that it wasn't done, but Bill was
of the disbelieving sort.

Bill's clothes were in tatters, and he found no satisfaction in
contemplating the leanness of his wrists and ankles. Whenever he held
up his wrists for inspection they shook so violently that he let
himself be guided by sentiment and wept. His ankles were no wider than
broomsticks, and when he tried to walk he could hear them crack. He
didn't want to turn them, so he sat down and talked to Van Wyck. He
made an effort to be agreeable.

"I'll concede that the cannibals may eat us," he said. "There is always
that risk. But I don't see why they should; and it's only a six-mile
swim. If we stay here I can't trust myself."

Van Wyck recoiled and his under lip trembled. Bill laid a merciful
hand upon his emaciated shoulder. "There isn't anything that I want to
keep from you," he said. "I'll tell you the truth. For three days I've
been planning to kill you. I lay awake last night and watched you. I
thought: 'This thirst--this dreadful thirst'--_he_ would put an end to
it!"

Van Wyck shivered, and tears ran down his face and dampened his brittle
red beard. His small blue eyes dilated with horror. Hot shame flushed
red over his throat and ears. "But you wouldn't really eat me?" he
moaned.

"I don't know," replied Bill. "That's why I suggest the swim. It's six
miles and we're atrociously weak; but anything to keep from thinking of
_that_!"

Bill knew that Van Wyck understood and sympathized. Van Wyck had a
knife, which he kept hidden, but in his sleep he frequently took it out
and felt the edge of it. Bill had been very much horrified, and he had
not pretended to misunderstand the expression on Van Wyck's face. There
was something brazen in Van Wyck's affrightment when he discovered that
two could play the same sinister game.

The sun was setting and a few gray wisps of clouds were fleeing like
flakes of snow across the blue sky. A single gull careened and dipped
far out in the tumbling black immensity of ocean. A great silence had
fallen upon the atoll, and the stubborn struggle between the two men
drew to an issue before the first wild rush of stars. Van Wyck felt
unsafe in the presence of Bill Cullen, and he made no effort to conceal
his fear.

"Let's get away from here as quickly as possible," he pleaded. "You
were right. Six or seven miles isn't a long swim. If we strip, we can
make it."

Bill extended his hand. It was like a dead thing, but Van Wyck seized
it and wrung it warmly. His voice quivered. "It isn't a long swim, old
fellow," he repeated.

Bill made a grimace. "It might rain," he said.

"It won't rain," responded Van Wyck.

That settled it. They spent the evening getting ready. They hid their
anguish in a bustle of preparation. Bill scurried about and secured
three clams. The unfortunate bi-valves were devoured with immoderate
ferocity. Even their stiff, rubber-like necks afforded grist for the
mill of Van Wyck's teeth. It grieved Bill to see the shells go to
waste. They sat down and congratulated themselves for the first time
in a week. The clams seemed to make their situation less hopeless, but
they did not on that account decide to remain on the island. Their
thirst was abnormal and monstrous. It was not a thing to be talked
about.

       *       *       *       *       *

They managed to get some sleep; but they awoke with their throats on
fire. The game that they had played was over. But they avoided the
thought of their new plan as much as possible, since they did not want
the possibility of fatal consequences to look them in the face.

A chill in the atmosphere generally preceded the customary heat of the
day; and the coldness now seemed unusually severe. They got together a
few sticks and built a fire. The sun had not yet risen, but the island
was immersed in the ghostly gray light of early dawning. They saw
everything vividly. The boulders on the beach seemed alive. A light
wind furred the steel-gray sea with tiny ripples.

"We mustn't waste time," said Van Wyck. It was obvious that his dread
of Bill had grown in the night. Bill's threat had taken complete
possession of his shriveled, selfish little brain. His teeth chattered
over the fire and he planned a thousand assaults on the man beside him.
His fingers clutched frantically at the knife which he kept hidden;
but he lacked the stomach for malicious manslaughter. He feared that
his cowardice might betray him into a false or dangerous move, and he
endeavored to conquer his hysteria with loud boasts.

"It was all poppycock, our worrying about the cannibals," he announced.
"The thing for us to do is to put on a bold front. They'll make gods of
us!"

In the present condition of his mind these words produced a curious
effect on Bill. He waved his arms wildly, and swore at the sky. "Yes,"
he shouted, "they'll do that. But sometimes they're not satisfied
with a living man. They're head-hunters, you know. They have a way of
removing the skull from a man's head, and drying it up, and worshiping
it. They have a predilection for red hair and beards. When they find
both on one head they go wild."

Bill looked directly at Van Wyck. The latter could scarcely stand. He
was swaying hysterically back and forth and running his fingers through
his bristling red beard. "Perhaps I could shave it off before we
start," he wailed.

"With what?" demanded Bill.

"With the clam shells," cried Van Wyck, dejectedly seeking to grasp
some straw that would save his head.

"I refuse to permit it," said Bill. "It's time we started. It wouldn't
be pleasant to swim in the full glare of the sun."

They stripped and rolled their clothes into neat, round balls. Somehow
it did not seem right to abandon them helter-skelter on the beach. They
had a vague idea that they might return for them. They deposited them
gingerly beneath the one coco palm, and walking solemnly to the water's
edge they scowled into the clouded mirror of sea before them.

       *       *       *       *       *

The water was like ice, and Bill shivered and stood on one foot. "Walk
right in," said Van Wyck. "The cannibals expect us!" His smile was
ghastly and indescribable. The blue veins stood out on his scrawny
neck, and his forehead was covered with globules of perspiration.

Bill was the first to go into deep water. Van Wyck stood with the icy
current swirling about his ankles, and watched him wade out until he
stood waist-deep. Bill turned and looked back reproachfully. "You're
coming, aren't you?" Bill's disdain and distrust of Van Wyck were
forgotten in a momentary need for companionship.

As Van Wyck stood with the cold water numbing his toes he had an
irrational desire to turn back and run wildly up the beach, and to
stay on the island until thirst finished him off. The risk of the
swim seemed suddenly displeasing to him. A mist passed rapidly before
his eyes; he ran his fingers through his hair and gulped. But when he
saw the pitiful, hurt expression on Bill's face he put aside unworthy
thoughts. "I'm coming, Bill," he said.

He walked forward until the water eddied and swirled about his chin.
His face was hideously drawn and his eyes bulged, but a forlorn ray
of sunlight filtered through the clouds and played about his head,
bringing out its latent manliness.

"It's deep, out there," said Bill.

They both lurched forward. The sudden loss of footing accentuated
Bill's weakness, and he went under. He felt that his arms and legs were
incapable of sustaining him, and he wondered if Van Wyck would try to
save him.

He came up and struck out, his mouth full of water. The salt burned his
throat and he swallowed. The water went into his stomach. He shivered.
The sun beat mercilessly down upon his naked body.

He swam boldly, with a brief sense of triumph. He had conquered his
physical weakness. He knew that his strength might not last, but
the thought that he had not depended upon Van Wyck gave him secret
satisfaction.

He could see Van Wyck's red head on the water several yards ahead of
him. The little wretch had evidently made good use of his legs and
arms. "Slow up, Van Wyck!" he shouted.

"I don't dare to!" Van Wyck called back. "If I stop I might sink. And
think how deep it is!"

Bill resented Van Wyck's reminder. "If you don't ease up," he shouted,
"you'll surely go down. This isn't an athletic contest!"

"It is," cried Van Wyck. "It's the greatest ever--even if there are
head-hunters at the goal. I advise you to talk to me. It keeps me from
thinking. If I think I shall go down."

But Bill did not feel like talking. The water was cold and he had no
stomach for repartee. He felt the chill of the depths beneath in his
nude limbs. He swallowed great quantities of sea water. He knew that
he might suffer eventually, but he did not care. He wanted to reach
the island. He had never shared Van Wyck's dread of cannibals, and the
thought of the island, with its crystal-clear springs and refreshing
fruits, was a precious balm to him.

He wondered if Van Wyck would survive him. The latter was swimming with
frightful rapidity, leaving him definitely in the lurch. Bill envied
and pitied his little companion. Van Wyck might survive to view the
island, with its green, welcome frondage--but would he ever reach it?

Bill had an uncomfortable suspicion that he might sink. His initial
courage threatened to give out. A mounting hysteria surged through his
brain. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. There was nothing
before him but a limitless stretch of malachite sea. He was fascinated
and horrified by his isolation. A cold, brilliant sun blinded his eyes
and dried up the sap of life in him. The water seemed to thicken, and
he had great difficulty in moving his arms and legs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bill never knew how he reached the island. For a starving, emaciated
man to swim seven miles is tremendous, and deserves some reward. Like
most valiant men, Bill was conscious of his own worth. When he sighted
the island he said nothing, but he thought: "This is only just. I have
paid the price, and I deserve this."

He had also caught up with Van Wyck. The awful glare in the despairing
eyes that Van Wyck turned upon him told of a fatigue immeasurable and a
desire for water that had passed the bounds of sanity. Van Wyck's eyes
were living pools of liquid fire. His voice was hoarse and rasping, and
he turned over and over in the water; and twice his head went under.

They were horribly near when they sighted the cannibals. Van Wyck saw
them first. He was puffing and wailing, and he had been swimming on his
back, and when he turned over and sighted them his face took on the
aspect of an open wound. His mouth became an awful gash in a grotesque,
streaked horror of countenance.

"Bill," he called hoarsely. "It's worse than we thought. There are
hundreds of 'em!"

Fixing his frightened and horrified eyes on the shore, Bill trod water,
and became suddenly very angry. The scene before him burned itself on
his brain, and robbed him of his victory. He felt that the fates had
taken an indecent advantage of him. His anger mounted, and flushed his
neck and throat. "Damn their black hides!" he muttered.

A clamor and a stench arose from the rocks. The cannibals seemed to be
recovering from a drinking-bout. They writhed in the sun like wounded
snakes. Bill counted sixty or seventy. Their bodies were hideously
tattooed, and they wore monstrous shell rings through their ears and
noses. The women joined with the men in dancing and spitting venom. The
hubbub was deafening. Ages of savagery and blood had shaped them into
capering devils. They were all the more terrible because they had seen
other white men. Bill did not expect much from them. He confessed a
frank horror at the situation.

"If we only had something to give 'em," he groaned.

Van Wyck had somehow expected Bill to rally and come to his support.
He needed a moral prop and he noted with horror that Bill had lost his
solid, comforting manner. Van Wyck's lips were so dry that he could
scarcely get his tongue to shape words of rebuff.

"I don't like it," he finally blurted out. "They certainly mean
business. You might swim in and test 'em!"

"Don't be an ass!" roared Bill.

"All right, then. But if one of us doesn't swim in, both of us are
goners. And since I've never talked with savages I'm hardly the man.
You have a way with you. You could pacify a Java ape-man! Get 'em
laughing--tell 'em a funny story!"

Bill protested venomously. "Those cannibals aren't children," he
groaned. "You can't spoof 'em. This is serious business, Van Wyck."

Van Wyck refused to be convinced and he would have gone on urging Bill
to commit suicide to save his own precious skin if something had
not made all conversation ridiculous. They both saw it at the same
time. They looked at each other and said nothing. Then Van Wyck began
frantically swimming toward the rocks.

The fin divided the water into two glassy walls. As it passed along it
turned the dark surface to shining quicksilver. Bill had barely grasped
the meaning of it when something touched his ankles and he knew that
the water was infested. He gave a sudden, defiant shriek.

But the sharks did not molest him. They made straight for Van Wyck.
They approached in vicious circles, and Bill saw the whites of their
stomachs through the dark green water. The mouth of the largest opened
and closed; and then there followed a clashing of teeth that sounded
like the clanging to of iron-clad portcullises.

Once the horrible gray back of the fish showed above the surface, and
glittered lethally in the sun, and Bill knew that Van Wyck was done
for. Van Wyck was almost near enough to the rocks to climb them, and he
might reasonably have pushed the shark off with his foot, but Bill knew
that he wouldn't. Bill knew that Van Wyck was as good as eaten, and he
thought: "That shark will hardly be content with Van Wyck alone!"

A dozen fins intersected on the surface and occasionally one of the
ravenous monsters would jump clear of the water in its eagerness to
taste satisfying human flesh.

The sight got in under Bill's skin and hurt. He closed his eyes, and
endeavored to think of the grinning, leering savages on the rocks. The
sharks made frantic dashes at Van Wyck and came away with something in
their mouths. They would rush forward, their great jaws would snap--and
there would be less and less of Van Wyck.

Bill was unable to keep his eyes shut. He tried to cover them with
his hands, but then he would go under and get an extra mouthful of
salt water. He came up gasping, and saw that the sea was streaked with
crimson.

As the sharks darted away from Van Wyck they left dark red trails
behind them. Bill heard Van Wyck's screams distinctly, although the
latter had reached a point where screams seemed futile. They became
less and less coherent. Perhaps Van Wyck realized the absurdity of
protest. Perhaps he realized that all things eventually work together
for the best. Certainly the cannibals would have treated him worse. It
is not pleasant to be boiled in oil or hacked to pieces with little
knives.

Bill saw the last of Van Wyck disappear in the maw of an enormous
shark. The water turned a deeper red, and for a moment the sky and sea
and even the naked, gesticulating savages seemed bathed in a crimson
aura. It may have been an optical illusion, since Bill's eyes had
ceased to function with clarity. Bill knew that the sharks would look
about a bit after finishing Van Wyck, and the thought gave him no
satisfaction. "You're next on the list," he told himself.

But somehow the sharks seemed satisfied with poor Van Wyck. Perhaps
they found Van Wyck so unsavory that they did not care to risk tackling
another of the same breed. They circled about for a few minutes after
the last of Van Wyck had disappeared, and then they passed solemnly
eastward, their fins glistening in the brilliant sunlight.

Meanwhile Bill trod water and shuddered when he thought of Van Wyck.
But he didn't let himself think of Van Wyck much after that. Van Wyck,
he argued, was no longer in need of sympathy. "It is the living who
have to suffer," he thought. It was patent that he could enjoy no
security in waters infested with man-eating sharks.

He shouted with delight when he discovered that the cannibals had
disappeared from the rocks. He was forcefully tempted to swim in and
take advantage of his amazing good fortune. But he thought better of
that when he calmly considered the nature of cannibals. They were
probably waiting behind the rocks for him to swim in, and he didn't
care to be boiled in oil when there were sharks to make a quicker,
cleaner job of it.

He decided to attempt to round the island. His ability to keep afloat
amazed and frightened him. He had evidently drawn upon some reserve
strength that nature had hitherto wilfully concealed. Destiny had
played him a new hand. He secretly congratulated himself, although he
continued to curse fate for the cannibals.

       *       *       *       *       *

He got around the island somehow. The current set to at the northern
end and he had some difficulty in surmounting the backwash of black
tidal water; but he finally reached a beach so clean and white and
refreshing that he shouted with boyish eagerness and gratification. He
swam in without reckoning consequences, for in his exultation he had
forgotten or overlooked the cannibals.

He would build a fire and warm himself, and he would eat nothing but
fruit. It needed but a momentary inspection to convince him that the
island contained an excess of fruit. And there was water! A tiny
streamlet came out from the woods, between the boles of fabulously
ancient trees, and ran down the smooth white beach.

Bill swam in and clambered up the beach. He sat down under a hotoo
tree, an absurd horror of bones and wet, clinging sand. He was a living
scarecrow come out of the sea with the wisdom and weariness of ancient
ocean upon him. He could scarcely open and close his thick, black
lips. His sun-baked skin was drawn painfully taut over his protruding
ribs.

A steady surf was crashing on the beach, and he paused while he
listened to the roar of the breakers. He reposed for a time; then he
got up, and a peal of wild laughter came from between his swollen lips.
He had won out! He had hoodwinked the cannibals and sharks! In that
blazing crystal world of sunlight and water he came to life again.

The sun dried him. He gulped up gallons of water from the tiny
streamlet. It was fresh and clear. He was genuinely elated. The wind
swept in from the sea in great, steady gusts, and the flaffing breeze
whistled through his hair and under his armpits. He shouted and danced
in sheer joy. The cannibals, he assured himself, were on the other side
of the island. It was a large island, and he could hide. The chances
against him, he thought, were negligible.

He decided to look about for a hiding-place. He knew that in the vast
forest of tangled vegetation he would have no difficulty in achieving
utter concealment. He could hoard up fruits and coconuts and live
unmolested for days.

But when he turned he saw something peering from between the boles of
the distorted, antique trees that made him change his mind. He stood
still in the center of the beach, and stared, and presently he saw
black, hideous figures come forward into the clearing. Others appeared
crawling toward him on their hands and knees. He realized then the
absurdity of attempting any sort of concealment.

He stood stark still while the cannibals advanced toward him across the
smooth, white sands. He began to envy Van Wyck. He knew too much about
savages. He had that and his imagination to blame for the little hell
that he endured. How could he guess that they did not want revenge? A
savage considers everything an insult. He knew that he should not have
landed upon their infernal island. He wanted to apologize to them, and
to make them understand. He had no desire to lord it over them, and he
admitted to himself that he had deliberately injured their sense of
dignity.

At first he thought that they intended to make short work of him. They
looked sinister. There were three dozen of them in the guard of honor
that advanced toward him across the beach and he did not like their
faces. Their faces were black and swollen and ugly and incredibly
tattooed, and their cheeks were smeared with green and blue paint. One
of them paraded a discarded panama hat. Bill could not imagine where
he had obtained the hat. The wretch had probably repaid the owner by
boiling him in oil. It was quite the thing twenty years ago to burn
traders and missionaries in oil, although the custom has been outgrown
among respectable savages. But the hat looked at least twenty years
old. And one of the devils smoked a corncob pipe! They were tall,
solemn-looking cusses, and Bill did not pretend to like them.

But when they got close to him they formed a circle, shutting him off
from the sea, and he felt then that everything was worse than he had
anticipated. When cannibals begin forming into rings it is customary
to give up hope. They were grinning hideously and Bill could count the
number of teeth in the rings which they wore about their necks.

Some of the leanest and tallest wore thirty or forty teeth. And Bill
knew that a savage never wears more than one tooth from a single head.
It is not considered decent. And each tooth means--but Bill never wept
over spilt milk. He felt that his own head was in imminent danger, and
the knowledge annoyed and frightened him. But he did not dare let
on that he feared them, and he stood up very stiff and straight, and
scowled into their narrow, blood-shot eyes.

They seemed to resent his hostility. It seemed to hurt them, and Bill
was amazed at the hint of reproach in their glances. A cannibal is
something of a gentleman, and he would not deliberately hurt a man's
feelings for the world. And Bill's resentment somehow seemed an insult
to their hospitality. Bill understood how they felt, and he realized
that he had behaved like a boor. But his teeth were knocking together
like billiard balls, and a stern front was necessary.

But he could not look his captors in the face. They came close to
him, and then one of them stepped forward and patted him on the back.
He spoke and Bill understood him. Bill knew nearly all of the Bantu
languages, and the savage spoke a corruption of several.

"We thank our brother for the very fine gift," he said. "We are indeed
grateful!"

Although Bill could understand what the black devil said a reply was
utterly beyond him. The grammatical construction of Bantu overwhelmed
him. Bill kept his mouth shut and stared, pretending not to understand.

The spokesman turned and beckoned. A tall, lean youth with protruding
yellow teeth came quickly forward. Save for a slight hint of pity
in his small eyes his face bore no expression. He held in his right
hand a large, round object which Bill did not immediately recognize.
The spokesman nodded and took the object by its hair. He stroked it
effusively, calling upon it to protect and succor him in war and in
peace. He begged that the object's pity and benevolence would extend
to the whole tribe. He praised the object in terms that would have
embarrassed any living man. Then he turned to Bill and made a very low
bow. "It came ashore before you," he said. "And we are most grateful!"

Bill opened his eyes wide with horror. He sought to express his agony
in words, but no sound came from between his black, swollen lips. A
sudden shriek would perhaps have saved him, and Bill tried hard to make
a sound in his throat. But his horror lay too heavily upon him. He made
a wild, horrid gesture with his right arm and collapsed in a heap upon
the sand.

Three months later Bill was taken off by a trading-sloop. He blabbered
idiotically about the right of a head to decent burial and made
uncomplimentary allusions to the wearing of teeth. He evidently sought
to stir up anger against the cannibals, but the traders ignored his
insinuations, since he was obviously mad and since the cannibals had
worshiped him and given him the run of the island. The memory of Van
Wyck's encrimsoned head had addled his wits.