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The Terror in the Sanctuary.
A CHRISTMAS STORY FROM NATAL.
BY MRS. K. COMPTON.
A lady’s account of the fearful ordeal she underwent as a young girl on an estate in Natal--locked up in a tiny church, whither she had gone to practise a Christmas voluntary, with a huge python!
It was Christmas Eve, and one of the hottest days I remember during my sojourn in Natal. The recollection of that day, spite of the many years that have since passed, is so vividly imprinted on my mind that I can still see the heated atmosphere as it danced and shimmered over the cotton bushes and the rows of beans down the hillside.
The last stroke of the twelve o’clock gong summoning the gangs of Kaffirs to their midday repast and siesta had died away, and never a sound broke the stifling noontide stillness save the booming of the surf on the lonely sea-shore, three miles distant from my father’s plantation--the Beaumont Estate, as it is now called. The eye ached as it travelled over the glaring, sun-dried landscape that lay stretched before me, and sought grateful relief in the shady depth of the dark orange grove and spreading loquat trees that sheltered the veranda on which I lounged on my luxurious cane couch.
My father was a retired Anglo-Indian officer, who, having won distinction during the Indian Mutiny, had taken up a “military grant” of about two thousand acres of land in the Colony of Natal. He judged this to be an excellent opening for my brother Malcolm, who, although showing a strong desire to follow in his father’s military footsteps, lacked the capability and application requisite to pass the competitive examinations for the Army.
We had been, by this time, about three years in the Colony, and had half the estate under cultivation. Whether father was satisfied with the results I do not know. But, drowsily reviewing the situation on this particular afternoon, I came to the conclusion that a man who has spent the best years of his life in the Army cannot metamorphose himself immediately into an agricultural success.
I was aroused from my cogitations by Malcolm’s voice exclaiming: “Why, Jessie, I do believe you were asleep!”
“I was, very nearly,” I confessed. “This heat makes the physical exertion of unclosing my eyelids a task to which I do not feel equal.”
“When are you going down to the church?” he asked, as he tapped his cane against the leg of his long riding-boot.
“Now,” I declared, sleepily, “if you will come with me. Sam says he has got enough flowers and greenstuff to fill two churches.” Sam, I should explain, was the Kaffir boy whose duty it was to ring the bell for service, hand the collection-bag round, and gather the flowers for the church decorations. St. John-in-the-Wilderness, as it was called, stood on my father’s land, a shining beacon of corrugated iron and wood.
Struggling to my feet, I reached for my hat and green-lined umbrella, and stood ready, waiting to accompany my brother.
“Don’t take Nellie,” I protested, as the fat old bulldog gambolled about, panting and snorting in spite of the heat, in anticipation of a walk. But Nellie proved obdurate alike to threats and entreaties, and presently scampered off down the hill, leaving us to follow.
Half-way across the Flat we came to one of those exquisite little streams that are so frequently met with on the coast of Natal. Crossing this on stepping-stones, we reached the opposite bank, whence it was but a few paces through the narrow bush path to the clearing in the jungle where stood St. John-in-the-Wilderness.
“Look, Jessie, the door is open!” exclaimed Malcolm. “I suppose that duffer Sam didn’t lock it properly this morning when he put the flowers in.”
“Probably,” I returned, gaining his side on the vestry steps. “The lock has got so stiff that I cannot turn the key myself, so I am not surprised.”
The dim, subdued light inside the church caused us to pause a moment or so before observing the extravagant profusion of flowers, palms, and ferns that Sam had gathered--truly more than enough for the decoration of two churches the size of ours.
“How glorious!” I cried, kneeling by the side of this floral wealth and picking up a bloom of the delicately-tinted waxen ginger. “What would they say to Christmas decorations like this in England?”
“I think,” announced my brother, ignoring my ecstasies, “that I will just run over and inspect a gang at work at the other end of the Flat, and then I’ll join you and we can work undisturbed.”
I willingly agreed to this arrangement, as I wanted to practise some hymns for the morrow. To astonish our scanty congregation I thought I would put my musical genius to the test and attempt a voluntary.
Picking up his sun helmet and cane, Malcolm prepared to go.
“Don’t be long, there’s a dear,” I said. “And I think you had better lock the door and take the key, because the door won’t keep shut unless it is locked, and I do not care to have it open.”
“What are you afraid of?” laughed Malcolm, as he went out once more into the sunshine.
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure, but when I am alone I prefer to have the door shut.” Still laughing, he turned the key in the lock and went off.
Left by myself in the silent little church, I drew off my gloves and prepared to open the harmonium.
It occupied a position under a window in the chancel, on the first of the three wide steps leading to the sanctuary, on the right-hand side of the church. Immediately opposite was the vestry door by which we had entered, and between the harmonium and the vestry lay the pile of flowers and greenstuff for the decorations, so that I, seated at the organ, had my back towards the flowers. Two rush-bottomed chairs stood near, one bearing a basket of extra choice white flowers I intended for the altar vases; the other was on the right side by the harmonium, supporting the small repertoire of music that I needed for the service.
I took my seat leisurely, thinking over my voluntary for the morrow.
I turned over first one piece of music, then another, finally opening a tattered sheet of an old copy of “The Blacksmith of Cologne.” I settled on that; it looked so nice and easy. Played slowly, with a proper amount of expression and a plentiful addition of the tremolo stop, I thought it would make a very telling and appropriate beginning to the Christmas service.
I had barely played a dozen bars of the music when I thought I heard a rustle of leaves behind me, but attributed the sound to some slight current of air from an open window. I was too much engrossed to pay the occurrence much attention, and continued my performance right through to the end, repeating a passage here and there which I thought required a different rendering. Then once again I seemed to hear stirring leaves, and, glancing over my shoulder at the lovely pile of flowers, I noticed the sound could only have been caused by the spray of wild ginger that I had carelessly tossed on the top of the other blooms, and which had apparently rolled down and now lay a few inches apart from the rest.
Rather amused that such a trifle should cause me to interrupt my practising, I again turned to the instrument, intent upon perfecting my piece.
Suddenly I was overtaken by a feeling of unaccountable apprehension, and, at the same time, became aware of a slow, continuous, rustling sound. Turning my head sharply over my shoulder, to my horror and intense surprise I saw the whole mass of leaves and flowers undulating!
Scarcely daring to breathe or move my fingers from the notes, I mechanically continued my playing. The fact that I was a prisoner behind a locked door forced itself on my mind and held me in my place, helpless. For a moment now and then as I watched the mass of verdure was quiet, only to begin upheaving again. What could it be? The suspense was becoming more than I could bear, and I was on the point of shrieking hysterically when my tongue refused utterance, and I felt as if life and strength were oozing out of my fingers.
On the farther side of the beautiful, fragrant pile of ferns and flowers appeared the head of an enormous snake. Slowly, quietly, with a gentle dipping movement up and down, it raised itself, and I saw that it was a python.
Then the Kaffirs’ legend was indeed true! They had told us a story which we had regarded in the light of a fable. In spite of our ridicule, they had maintained that a serpent of gigantic dimensions had its haunt in the neighbourhood of our little church. They said that it would suddenly appear from out the bush when the organ was played and lie in the sun as if listening to the music. We had naturally received the story as a Kaffir superstition, and gave it no credence.
But--Heaven help me!--it was no idle tale, but a horrible fact, for there was the immense snake before me.
A tempest of fear seized me. My heart seemed to beat all over me at once, and a singing noise in my head drove me nearly distraught. After a while, however, it appeared to turn into a voice calling upon me to continue playing. “It is your only chance, your only hope,” it seemed to say.
With a supreme effort of will I controlled myself sufficiently to continue my performance. I compelled my hands and feet to move and perform their duty. Never once, however, did I move my eyes from the python, which was gradually drawing the vast length of its body into view.
A faint hope sprang within me that I might lull its savage proclivities with the music, and I forced myself to continue a monotonous droning on the little instrument. Calling to mind the snake-charmers of India, and imitating to my uttermost the mournful wail they produce on their reed whistles, I kept this going until the incessant thud, thud of the bellows seemed to pound on the nerves of my brain and be the only sound I extracted from the little organ.
Presently, with a fresh horror, I observed that the creature was rearing itself up, as if endeavouring to locate the direction whence the music came. Having done so, it gradually made its way round the heap of flowers and palms towards me.
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