CHIEF

by Henry Slesar

Henry Slesar, like several other new young writers, works at both mystery-suspense-psychological-thrillers and science-fantasy. In this vignette, he makes the jump from How Things Are to How They All Too Well May Be…

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Mboyna, chieftain of the Aolori tribe, showed no fear as the longboat approached the island. But it was more than the obligation of his rank which kept his face impassive; he alone of his tribesmen had seen white men before, when he was a child of the village half a century ago.

As the boat landed, one of the whites, a scholarly man with a short silver beard, came toward him, his hand raised in a gesture of friendship. His speech was halting, but he spoke in the tongue of Mboyna’s fathers. “We come in peace,” he said. “We have come a great distance to find you. I am Morgan, and these are my companions, Hendricks and Carew; we are men of science.”

“Then speak!” Mboyna said in a hostile growl, wishing to show no weakness before his tribe.

“There has been a great war,” Morgan said, looking uneasily at the warriors who crowded about their chief. “The white men beyond the waters have hurled great lightning at each other. They have poisoned the air, the sea and the flesh of men with their weapons. But it was our belief that there were outposts in the world which war had not touched with its deadly fingers. Your island is one of these, great chief, and we come to abide with you. But first, there is one thing we must do, and we beg your patience.”

From the store of supplies in their longboat, the white men removed strange metal boxes with tiny windows. They advanced hesitatingly toward the chief and his tribesmen, pointing the curious devices in their direction. Some of them cowered, others raised their spears in warning. “Do not fear,” Morgan said. “It is only a plaything of our science. See how they make no sound as their eyes scan you? But watch.” The white men pointed the boxes at themselves, and the devices began clicking frantically.

“Great magic,” the tribesmen whispered, their faces awed. “Great magic,” Mboyna repeated reverently, bowing before the white gods and the proof of their godhood, the clicking boxes. With deference, they guided the white men to their village, and after the appropriate ceremony, they were beheaded, cleaned and served at the evening meal.

For three days and nights, they celebrated their cleverness with dancing and bright fires; for now, they too were gods. The little boxes had begun to click magically for them, also.