The

Treasure in the Forest

H. G. Wells
The canoe was now approaching the land. The bay opened out, and a gap in the white surf
of the reef marked where the little river ran out to the sea; the thicker and deeper green of
the virgin forest showed its course down the distant hill slope. The forest here came close
to the beach. Far beyond, dim and almost cloudlike in texture, rose the mountains, like
suddenly frozen waves. The sea was still save for an almost imperceptible swell. The sky
blazed.
The man with the carved paddle stopped. “It should be somewhere here,” he said. He
shipped the paddle and held his arms out straight before him.
The other man had been in the fore part of the canoe, closely scrutinising the land. He
had a sheet of yellow paper on his knee.
“Come and look at this, Evans,” he said.
Both men spoke in low tones, and their lips were hard and dry.
The man called Evans came swaying along the canoe until he could look over his
companion’s shoulder.
The paper had the appearance of a rough map. By much folding it was creased and
worn to the pitch of separation, and the second man held the discoloured fragments
together where they had parted. On it one could dimly make out, in almost obliterated
pencil, the outline of the bay.
“Here,” said Evans, “is the reef, and here is the gap.” He ran his thumb-nail over the
chart.
“This curved and twisting line is the river—I could do with a drink now!—and this star
is the place.”
“You see this dotted line,” said the man with the map; “it is a straight line, and runs
from the opening of the reef to a clump of palm-trees. The star comes just where it cuts the
river. We must mark the place as we go into the lagoon.”
“It’s queer,” said Evans, after a pause, “what these little marks down here are for. It
looks like the plan of a house or something; but what all these little dashes, pointing this
way and that, may mean I can’t get a notion. And what’s the writing?”
“Chinese,” said the man with the map.
“Of course! He was a Chinee,” said Evans.
“They all were,” said the man with the map.
They both sat for some minutes staring at the land, while the canoe drifted slowly. Then
Evans looked towards the paddle.
“Your turn with the paddle now, Hooker,” said he.
And his companion quietly folded up his map, put it in his pocket, passed Evans
carefully, and began to paddle. His movements were languid, like those of a man whose
strength was nearly exhausted.
Evans sat with his eyes half closed, watching the frothy breakwater of the coral creep
nearer and nearer. The sky was like a furnace, for the sun was near the zenith. Though
they were so near the Treasure he did not feel the exaltation he had anticipated. The
intense excitement of the struggle for the plan, and the long night voyage from the
mainland in the unprovisioned canoe had, to use his own expression, “taken it out of him.”
He tried to arouse himself by directing his mind to the ingots the Chinamen had spoken of,
but it would not rest there; it came back headlong to the thought of sweet water rippling in
the river, and to the almost unendurable dryness of his lips and throat. The rhythmic wash
of the sea upon the reef was becoming audible now, and it had a pleasant sound in his ears;
the water washed along the side of the canoe, and the paddle dripped between each stroke.
Presently he began to doze.
He was still dimly conscious of the island, but a queer dream texture interwove with his
sensations. Once again it was the night when he and Hooker had hit upon the Chinamen’s
secret; he saw the moonlit trees, the little fire burning, and the black figures of the three
Chinamen—silvered on one side by moonlight, and on the other glowing from the firelight
—and heard them talking together in pigeon-English—for they came from different
provinces. Hooker had caught the drift of their talk first, and had motioned to him to
listen. Fragments of the conversation were inaudible, and fragments incomprehensible. A
Spanish galleon from the Philippines hopelessly aground, and its treasure buried against
the day of return, lay in the background of the story; a shipwrecked crew thinned by
disease, a quarrel or so, and the needs of discipline, and at last taking to their boats never
to be heard of again. Then Chang-hi, only a year since, wandering ashore, had happened
upon the ingots hidden for two hundred years, had deserted his junk, and reburied them
with infinite toil, single-handed but very safe. He laid great stress on the safety—it was a
secret of his. Now he wanted help to return and exhume them. Presently the little map
fluttered and the voices sank. A fine story for two, stranded British wastrels to hear!
Evans’ dream shifted to the moment when he had Chang-hi’s pigtail in his hand. The life
of a Chinaman is scarcely sacred like a European’s. The cunning little face of Chang-hi,
first keen and furious like a startled snake, and then fearful, treacherous, and pitiful,
became overwhelmingly prominent in the dream. At the end Chang-hi had grinned, a most
incomprehensible and startling grin. Abruptly things became very unpleasant, as they will
do at times in dreams. Chang-hi gibbered and threatened him. He saw in his dream heaps
and heaps of gold, and Chang-hi intervening and struggling to hold him back from it. He
took Chang-hi by the pig-tail—how big the yellow brute was, and how he struggled and
grinned! He kept growing bigger, too. Then the bright heaps of gold turned to a roaring
furnace, and a vast devil, surprisingly like Chang-hi, but with a huge black tail, began to
feed him with coals. They burnt his mouth horribly. Another devil was shouting his name:
“Evans, Evans, you sleepy fool!”—or was it Hooker?
He woke up. They were in the mouth of the lagoon.
“There are the three palm-trees. It must be in a line with that clump of bushes,” said his
companion. “Mark that. If we, go to those bushes and then strike into the bush in a straight
line from here, we shall come to it when we come to the stream.”
They could see now where the mouth of the stream opened out. At the sight of it Evans
revived. “Hurry up, man,” he said, “or by heaven I shall have to drink sea water!” He
gnawed his hand and stared at the gleam of silver among the rocks and green tangle.
 Presently he turned almost fiercely upon Hooker. “Give me the paddle,” he said.
So they reached the river mouth. A little way up Hooker took some water in the hollow
of his hand, tasted it, and spat it out. A little further he tried again. “This will do,” he said,
and they began drinking eagerly.
“Curse this!” said Evans suddenly. “It’s too slow.” And, leaning dangerously over the
fore part of the canoe, he began to suck up the water with his lips.
Presently they made an end of drinking, and, running the canoe into a little creek, were
about to land among the thick growth that overhung the water.
“We shall have to scramble through this to the beach to find our bushes and get the line
to the place,” said Evans.
“We had better paddle round,” said Hooker.
So they pushed out again into the river and paddled back down it to the sea, and along
the shore to the place where the clump of bushes grew. Here they landed, pulled the light
canoe far up the beach, and then went up towards the edge of the jungle until they could
see the opening of the reef and the bushes in a straight line. Evans had taken a native
implement out of the canoe. It was L-shaped, and the transverse piece was armed with
polished stone. Hooker carried the paddle. “It is straight now in this direction,” said he;
“we must push through this till we strike the stream. Then we must prospect.”
They pushed through a close tangle of reeds, broad fronds, and young trees, and at first
it was toilsome going, but very speedily the trees became larger and the ground beneath
them opened out. The blaze of the sunlight was replaced by insensible degrees by cool
shadow. The trees became at last vast pillars that rose up to a canopy of greenery far
overhead. Dim white flowers hung from their stems, and ropy creepers swung from tree to
tree. The shadow deepened. On the ground, blotched fungi and a red-brown incrustation
became frequent.
Evans shivered. “It seems almost cold here after the blaze outside.”
“I hope we are keeping to the straight,” said Hooker.
Presently they saw, far ahead, a gap in the sombre darkness where white shafts of hot
sunlight smote into the forest. There also was brilliant green undergrowth and coloured
flowers. Then they heard the rush of water.
“Here is the river. We should be close to it now,” said Hooker.
The vegetation was thick by the river bank. Great plants, as yet unnamed, grew among
the roots of the big trees, and spread rosettes of huge green fans towards the strip of sky.
Many flowers and a creeper with shiny foliage clung to the exposed stems. On the water
of the broad, quiet pool which the treasure-seekers now overlooked there floated big oval
leaves and a waxen, pinkish-white flower not unlike a water-lily. Further, as the river bent
away from them, the water suddenly frothed and became noisy in a rapid.
“Well?” said Evans.
“We have swerved a little from the straight,” said Hooker. “That was to be expected.”
He turned and looked into the dim cool shadows of the silent forest behind them. “If we
beat a little way up and down the stream we should come to something.”
“You said—” began Evans.
“He said there was a heap of stones,” said Hooker.
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Let us try a little down-stream first,” said Evans.
They advanced slowly, looking curiously about them. Suddenly Evans stopped. “What
the devil’s that?” he said.
Hooker followed his finger. “Something blue,” he said. It had come into view as they
topped a gentle swell of the ground. Then he began to distinguish what it was.
He advanced suddenly with hasty steps, until the body that belonged to the limp hand
and arm had become visible. His grip tightened on the implement he carried. The thing
was the figure of a Chinaman lying on his face. The abandon of the pose was
unmistakable.
The two men drew closer together, and stood staring silently at this ominous dead body.
It lay in a clear space among the trees. Near by was a spade after the Chinese pattern, and
further off lay a scattered heap of stones, close to a freshly dug hole.
“Somebody has been here before,” said Hooker, clearing his throat.
Then suddenly Evans began to swear and rave, and stamp upon the ground.
Hooker turned white but said nothing. He advanced towards the prostrate body. He saw
the neck was puffed and purple, and the hands and ankles swollen. “Pah!” he said, and
suddenly turned away and went towards the excavation. He gave a cry of surprise. He
shouted to Evans, who was following him slowly.
“You fool! It’s all right. It’s here still.” Then he turned again and looked at the dead
Chinaman, and then again at the hole.
Evans hurried to the hole. Already half exposed by the ill-fated wretch beside them lay
a number of dull yellow bars. He bent down in the hole, and, clearing off the soil with his
bare hands, hastily pulled one of the heavy masses out. As he did so a little thorn pricked
his hand. He pulled the delicate spike out with his fingers and lifted the ingot.
“Only gold or lead could weigh like this,” he said exultantly.
Hooker was still looking at the dead Chinaman. He was puzzled.
“He stole a march on his friends,” he said at last. “He came here alone, and some
poisonous snake has killed him… I wonder how he found the place.”
Evans stood with the ingot in his hands. What did a dead Chinaman signify? “We shall
have to take this stuff to the mainland piecemeal, and bury it there for a while. How shall
we get it to the canoe?”
He took his jacket off and spread it on the ground, and flung two or three ingots into it.
Presently he found that another little thorn had punctured his skin.
“This is as much as we can carry,” said he. Then suddenly, with a queer rush of
irritation, “What are you staring at?”
Hooker turned to him. “I can’t stand him … ” He nodded towards the corpse. “It’s so
like——”
“Rubbish!” said Evans. “All Chinamen are alike.”
Hooker looked into his face. “I’m going to bury that, anyhow, before I lend a hand with
this stuff.”
“Don’t be a fool, Hooker,” said Evans, “Let that mass of corruption bide.”
Hooker hesitated, and then his eye went carefully over the brown soil about them. “It
scares me somehow,” he said.
“The thing is,” said Evans, “what to do with these ingots. Shall we re-bury them over
here, or take them across the strait in the canoe?”
Hooker thought. His puzzled gaze wandered among the tall tree-trunks, and up into the
remote sunlit greenery overhead. He shivered again as his eye rested upon the blue figure
of the Chinaman. He stared searchingly among the grey depths between the trees.
“What’s come to you, Hooker?” said Evans. “Have you lost your wits?”
“Let’s get the gold out of this place, anyhow,” said Hooker.
He took the ends of the collar of the coat in his hands, and Evans took the opposite
corners, and they lifted the mass. “Which way?” said Evans. “To the canoe?”
“It’s queer,” said Evans, when they had advanced only a few steps, “but my arms ache
still with that paddling.”
“Curse it!” he said. “But they ache! I must rest.”
They let the coat down, Evans’ face was white, and little drops of sweat stood out upon
his forehead. “It’s stuffy, somehow, in this forest.”
Then with an abrupt transition to unreasonable anger: “What is the good of waiting here
all the day? Lend a hand, I say! You have done nothing but moon since we saw the dead
Chinaman.”
Hooker was looking steadfastly at his companion’s face. He helped raise the coat
bearing the ingots, and they went forward perhaps a hundred yards in silence. Evans began
to breathe heavily. “Can’t you speak?” he said.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Hooker.
Evans stumbled, and then with a sudden curse flung the coat from him. He stood for a
moment staring at Hooker, and then with a groan clutched at his own throat.
“Don’t come near me,” he said, and went and leant against a tree. Then in a steadier
voice, “I’ll be better in a minute.”
Presently his grip upon the trunk loosened, and he slipped slowly down the stem of the
tree until he was a crumpled heap at its foot. His hands were clenched convulsively. His
face became distorted with pain. Hooker approached him.
 “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” said Evans in a stifled voice. “Put the gold back on
the coat.”
“Can’t I do anything for you?” said Hooker.
“Put the gold back on the coat.”
As Hooker handled the ingots he felt a little prick on the ball of his thumb. He looked at
his hand and saw a slender thorn, perhaps two inches in length.
Evans gave an inarticulate cry and rolled over.
Hooker’s jaw dropped. He stared at the thorn for a moment with dilated eyes. Then he
looked at Evans, who was now crumpled together on the ground, his back bending and
straightening spasmodically. Then he looked through the pillars of the trees and net-work
of creeper stems, to where in the dim grey shadow the blue-clad body of the Chinaman
was still indistinctly visible. He thought of the little dashes in the corner of the plan, and in
a moment he understood.
“God help me!” he said. For the thorns were similar to those the Dyaks poison and use
in their blowing-tubes. He understood now what Chang-hi’s assurance of the safety of his
treasure meant. He understood that grin now.
“Evans!” he cried.
But Evans was silent and motionless, save for a horrible spasmodic twitching of his
limbs. A profound silence brooded over the forest.
Then Hooker began to suck furiously at the little pink spot on the ball of his thumb—
sucking for dear life. Presently he felt a strange aching pain in his arms and shoulders, and
his fingers seemed difficult to bend. Then he knew that sucking was no good.
Abruptly he stopped, and sitting down by the pile of ingots, and resting his chin upon
his hands and his elbows upon his knees, stared at the distorted but still quivering body of
his companion. Chang-hi’s grin came into his mind again. The dull pain spread towards
his throat and grew slowly in intensity. Far above him a faint breeze stirred the greenery,
and the white petals of some unknown flower came floating down through the gloom.