Tide Marks by H.M. Tomlinson — Read

But for the durian, the spell of Ternate might not have been broken. I should have lost count of days and nights. I might have imagined that I had been cast upon a place beyond time and storms and was living on another plane. There is much to be said for the lotus. It is a benign gift. What happens when we neglect it is seen in the anxious and haggard aspect of morally superior communities. But the durian is different. I did not know that, however, when I mentioned it to my companion, the padre, as a famous Malay fruit I had not experienced. Nor did his answer forewarn me. He became alert and eager at once. He confessed he was greedy when he saw a durian. He said grandly that it was the king of fruits. Other men, I remembered, have been as extravagant over the durian. What is it Russel Wallace told us? "Its consistence and flavor are indescribable. A rich butter-like custard highly flavored with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but intermingled with it come wafts of flavor that call to mind cream-cheese, onion sauce, brown sherry, and other incongruities... rich... glutinous... perfect... a new sensation, worth a voyage to the East to experience."

What a fruit! The padre assured me most earnestly that he would get me a durian. I must eat one, and my soul would be made gracious. However, he must have forgotten it. No durian came. Then late one afternoon I returned from an attempt upon the mountain, and was light-hearted after losing myself in a forest above the clouds which refused to let me pass. I had seen crimson lories flying in solitude like pigeons. A great bird-winged butterfly, one of the gold-and-emerald _ornithoptera_ which till that day had never been more than a colored flash in the distance, that afternoon paused overhead, planed down to a flower which was near my face, and pulsed its vivid body so near that I could see the quivering of its antenne. We may call mind the aim of life, if that flatters us, but the tense life which vibrated that superb creature evidently was obeying a command which we have never heard. No sooner had it gone than a swallow-tail even larger, a very folio butterfly in black, crimson, and primrose, alighted on the same white trumpet, weighted down the pendulous and swinging flower, and danced to its movements. Overhead an eagle was poised, surveying the mountain seaward. He knew I was watching him. His bright eye kept meeting mine severely. The sea was even more remote below us than some of the clouds. I got back to the veranda of the rest-house, tired but pleased, and was going to my door, but stopped.... What was that? I forgot the crimson lories. My memory had gone straight back to an old German dugout with its decaying horrors. I thought I must have been mistaken, but advanced cautiously. Nothing could be there, I told myself, that was like the trenches of the Flers line. Confidence returned; the suggestion had gone. Then the ghost passed me again, invisible, dreadful, and I clutched the table, looking round. At first I could determine nothing, but presently on a wall bracket I saw resting a green and spinous object as large as a football, and tiptoed to smell it.