The Lost Island Page 19

  In a few minutes, the queerest feeling began to creep over him—a dreamy sense of peace and well-being, a glow that encircled and surrounded him, growing stronger little by little, until he felt swaddled and cocooned, as if a babe in his mother’s arms again. He had never felt such peace, such acceptance. And then a strange thing happened. While he normally didn’t dwell on his troubles—his horrible childhood, his father’s murder, his loneliness, his terminal disease—he did nevertheless carry the burden of them always, unseen. But now, as the drug took hold, that burden was lifted. He forgot—or rather, ceased caring—about those things that blighted his life. With this burden lifted, he felt free, at peace, at home with himself in a way he never had before. It all dropped away, everything—his childhood, his long-gone father and mother, his cabin in the mountains of New Mexico, everything disappeared in a lambent sea of forgetfulness, and time seemed to cease altogether…

  45

  THE CHANTING SEEMED to come and go, like the waves of a sea. Gideon lay back in the sand. He felt absolutely wonderful and fully alive. The firelight flickered warmly on the cave walls, burnishing them into gold riven with dancing shadows. The sand was soft and luxurious as he smoothed it with his hand, idly clutching it and feeling the tickling sensation as it ran through his fingers. There was a rich smell of stone and sand, overlaid with the perfume of wood smoke. The crackling and popping of the fire filled him with an overwhelming sense of warmth and reassurance. Most lovely of all, the glow of heat soaked into his skin and seemed to warm his very bones: a warmth more than mere heat; a warmth of spirit and of life itself.

  As he lay there, he saw that the men around him had risen, unsteadily, smiling blissfully like him. But they seemed to have some kind of purpose, these wonderful friends of his. They came over to him and he felt himself being lifted up, carried, their strong, muscled arms bearing him along—deeper into the cave.

  The warmth of the fire began to fade, as did the firelight, but Gideon didn’t care: it was all good, whatever they were doing. A clammy, wet sensation wafted over his limbs as they proceeded, their progress lit by a single brand, but the wonderful thing about it was that Gideon still knew that wherever they were going, all was good. The dark mystery of the cave thrilled him, and he knew he would be taken care of by these good, kind people.

  The men began to chant, a low, soft, mournful chant that touched him in his very soul with its primordial beauty.

  The cave tunnel broadened into a somewhat larger chamber. Gideon wondered if it was real or a dream. Maybe the whole thing was a dream. But no: it was far too powerful to be a dream, far too deep an experience to be in his mind. Despite the sluggishness of his limbs, the delicious sense of somnolence, he nevertheless felt a clarity of mind and a curiosity about what would happen next.

  The men laid him down on a raised stone slab, almost like a bed. The mournful chanting increased. Another fire was built, which chased away the clammy damp and threw a welcome warmth about the cavern. The high priest appeared above him with a clay jar, which he dipped his hand into, perfumed oil dribbling down his fingers—and then Gideon was anointed with it. The other men gathered around and Gideon felt the deep honor of their attention, felt their concern and kindness toward him, thankful and gratified by their consideration.

  He looked around at the chanting men, now slowly revolving in a sort of slow dance, their hands moving strangely, winding around the cavern and into a dark recess. Then from that dark recess was borne a wooden pallet, carried by eight men on two thick timbers, and on the pallet rested something large and white: a skull. A strange skull, massive like a gorilla, only bigger—with a single, dark, vacant eyehole under a thick ridge of bone.

  Gideon stared. Was this some kind of sculpture? But no, this was a real skull—very old, worn, cracked, and almost human. Except for that mysterious, single eye socket. It was the same creature as the pictograph, a one-eyed giant. How interesting…How fascinating…This creature had once existed…The lotus had taken over his being, and he had gladly yielded…He stared at the skull, mesmerized.

  Lotus. Lotus Eaters. Odysseus. And then, even in his drugged state, the connection came to him like a bolt of lightning. He thought back to what happened to Odysseus right after he left the land of the Lotus Eaters. On the next island, he came to the land of the Cyclops.

  Cyclops.

  He was staring at a Cyclops skull. The Cyclops of the Odyssey had once actually existed. And here was the proof of it, right here in front of him—in this skull that the natives treasured, preserved, and worshipped.

  The ancient skull of a Cyclops.

  Gideon stared, transfixed. How beautiful, how fascinating, was this huge skull, with its immense jaw, long interlocking canines, and massive bony crest. And what a tremendous discovery this was for science. Gideon lay back. Science? It didn’t seem important now. He didn’t care.

  And now the skull was taken down from the pallet and placed on a stone plinth, and the chanting morphed into a kind of spoken song, like wind moaning about a forest. The old priest approached and, from a wooden trencher, plucked up an armful of pods—dried lotus pods—which he scattered about and on top of Gideon, followed by drops of shaken oil. And now the priest was kneeling close, and a long, beautifully flaked obsidian blade had appeared in his hand and was hovering over Gideon’s face, coruscating in the firelight.

  Gideon tried to make sense of it, tried to find his voice, but could not. Never mind: it was all good, whatever it was they were doing, his lovely friends. More wood was thrown on the fire and it leapt up, sparks ascending into the darkness, the crackling of the wood echoing in the chamber.

  The blade descended, touched his neck where it met the base of one ear.

  A small, very small part of Gideon’s brain seemed to be sounding a distant alarm. Strange that he felt no pain, even as the blade began to bite, even as he felt the warm trickle of blood…

  46

  SUDDENLY AN EXPLOSION went off in the cave, impossibly loud. A voice screamed out: “Get away from him!”

  The knife froze in place. The voice was distantly familiar. A woman. Who was it, and why was she interrupting this fine ceremony?

  Another thunderous explosion. The singing had stopped. The knife remained poised. And then a figure came bursting in, ramming the high priest aside, his obsidian knife flying. A recognizable face came into Gideon’s field of view: short black wild hair, flashing eyes. He knew this woman.

  She seized him roughly. “Get up!”

  When he tried to pull away, she slapped him viciously across the face, first once, then again. Why was she being so mean? The men, his dear friends, had backed away and were raising their hands in the air, angry, yelling.

  He feebly tried to fend her off, to return to the peace that he craved, but now her arm was around his neck and she hauled him to his feet. A gun was clutched in her other hand.

  “Stay back!” she cried, the gun bucking with another loud explosion. “Gideon, for God’s sake, wake up and help me!”

  He stood, confused and unsteady. He still couldn’t speak and was surprised he had the ability to stand.

  “Move your goddamn feet!”

  Gripping his arm, she backed up out of the cave, pulling him along with her. She seized a burning brand from its rude sconce and continued on. He tried to mumble a protest but she ignored him. Now they had turned a corner in the stone tunnel and she dropped behind, shoving him ahead. “Run, damn it!”

  He tried to run, stumbled. She caught him, grabbed him by the hair, and hauled him up, giving him another slap across the face.

  “Move!”

  He ran, slowly, his mind full of regret, terrible regret and loss, a longing to return to that beautiful place. “Did you see—?” he began.

  “Faster!” This was accompanied by another hard shove.

  A moment later he could smell fresh air, hear the ocean, and they came out on the broad ledge. It was night; the sea rumbled below. The fresh air revived him somewhat, began
to clear his head. But his vision was abruptly arrested by the starry night sky. “My God, how beautiful…”

  Another hard shove reminded him that the angry woman was still there. He had a recollection, a distant memory, of this woman. What was her name? “But look at the stars…”

  “Forget the stars. Keep going!”

  He stumbled forward and came to the edge of the trail, which started down through a cleft. He swayed, looking at the white edge of surf below, the dark ocean, the cliffs hanging with vegetation. Now he recalled the trail, their ascent. He had to go back the way he had come. How unfortunate.

  “Pay attention! Face out, go slow.”

  Gideon began heading down the trail, placing one foot gingerly in front of the other. After a few steps, he halted. “Let’s go back…”

  This was answered with another whack across the top of the head. “Down!”

  It seemed easier to obey than to argue, and he continued. He stopped to enjoy the cool, fresh night air flowing up from the sea, and was struck again on the top of the head, so he continued climbing down. Finally, the trail reached the black beach and Gideon fell to his knees, running his hands through the sand. Even this small pleasure was rudely interrupted by the woman, who grasped his hair again and pulled him up.

  “To the canoe.”

  He stumbled down the beach. She grabbed their drysacks from the beach and threw them in.

  “Help me pull it into the water.”

  Reluctantly, he grasped the rope and helped drag the long wooden canoe into the shallow water.

  “In.”

  He got in and felt a paddle thrust into his hands.

  “Paddle.”

  He stood up, laying the paddle down. “Go back for just a little while…” He tried to stand up to get out.

  The woman pressed him back down onto the rough wooden bench of the canoe. He watched as she lashed him to the bench with some loose rope. She pushed the canoe out and hopped in.

  “Paddle, damn it!”

  He put his paddle in the water, pulled, and repeated. Sitting behind him, the woman was paddling like mad. He tried it a few more times, slowly, until she told him to pull harder.

  He couldn’t understand why she was so angry, why she had tied him to the seat, but he obeyed. The canoe moved sluggishly toward the roaring break about a hundred yards offshore.

  “Harder!”

  He pulled strongly. The combers came in, striking the prow and breaking over them. He paddled harder as they came into the heavier surf, the waves curling toward them. The prow burst through the first wave and the canoe was thrown upward. The second wave hit them, spinning the canoe sideways, and a third wave swamped them. Gideon felt the water pushing them down, but the canoe seemed to survive it, half filled with water, and then they were beyond the breaking surf.

  And now, for the first time, he felt a twinge of fear.

  “Bail! Use your hands!”

  Gideon began splashing water out of the canoe, and the woman did the same. But even as they bailed, water kept slopping in over the sides as the canoe rose and fell on the rough ocean.

  The soaking, the wind and water, began to clear his head. The woman who was ordering him about—her name was Amy. That’s right: Amy. He put his hand to his throat and felt the shallow cut, the sting of salt water on it. Those men back in the cave…they were going to kill him. They were going to cut his throat. And he was just going to let them. And then there was the ancient skull of a Cyclops…But that was obviously a hallucination, a side effect of the drug. He shook his head. Strange how the mind played tricks.

  He bailed with redoubled effort, splashing the water out of the half-swamped canoe with both hands. He felt a headache coming on.

  “Good! Keep it up!”

  They were caught in the grip of a massive current, which was carrying them past the island and out to sea. As the canoe swept alongside the island, the smaller, more distant island came into view behind it.

  “They’re coming after us,” Amy said.

  Gideon turned. There were bobbing lights on the water—men holding torches in the other canoe as others paddled furiously.

  What had happened to him was slowly starting to emerge from the fog of forgetfulness. They’d given him a drug and they’d been about to sacrifice him on an altar to their god. A ceremony of thankfulness…and sacrifice.

  “Amy, you saved my life.”

  “You can thank me later. Just keep bailing!”

  He bailed like mad. In the grip of the current, their canoe was carried toward the outer island, about a mile away. He could see its black silhouette against the starry sky. It was even more rugged, surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides rising from the water to a broad, flat top, covered with dense jungle.

  They were finally making progress with the bailing, even as Gideon could see the lights of the other canoe, catching up fast.

  “Good work. Now paddle.”

  Gideon obeyed, paddling hard now. The canoe shot forward.

  “We’ve got to land on that island,” Amy said. “It’s our only hope. We’ll never outrun them otherwise.”

  “Okay, I get it…But where? There’s no beach.”

  “When we get closer, maybe we’ll see a place.”

  The island approached, a great black form blocking out the stars. As they neared, Gideon could hear a roar of surf, and then, emerging from the darkness, the whiteness of violent seas crashing directly into the base of the cliffs.

  “I don’t see anywhere to land,” said Amy.

  The canoe was being borne onward, the irresistible currents and waves pushing it straight toward the cruel cliffs rising vertically from the sea.

  “We’re going to be driven right into those cliffs,” she said.

  The black rocks loomed closer, the surf roaring louder. The other canoe was behind them and pursuing relentlessly, lights bobbing on the water.

  Amy tossed him one of the drysacks. “Put that on your back. I’ll take the other. Be ready to grab hold.”

  He slung it over his back by the shoulder straps and tightened them down. His head was now painfully clear, with a throbbing headache.

  They were now just beyond the breaking surf.

  “Listen,” said Gideon. “We’ll let the waves carry the canoe up to the cliff face, and at the last minute jump free and get a handhold. We have to time it just right.”

  “Right. Count of three.”

  A breaking wave caught the canoe and carried it in toward the rocks, like a surfboard.

  “One, two, three!”

  They both leapt. Gideon hit the rock face hard and was able to grasp a handhold on the craggy rock, scraping his hands and barking his shins. He held on, feet flailing in the air before finding their own holds. A wave dashed against the cliff and swept over Gideon, almost plucking him from the rock. He held on for dear life as a second wave smashed the canoe against the rocks just below him, the surge washing again over Gideon’s lower body, the shattered hull of the canoe just missing him.

  When the water subsided he looked about in a panic and was relieved to see Amy, dripping wet but clinging to the nearby rock, pale and strained.

  “Climb!” she cried.

  They climbed. It wasn’t quite vertical, but close enough to be terrifying. At least, he thought, there were plenty of handholds. Amy, an experienced climber, moved fast and soon got ahead, and then above him. “Follow me,” she called down. “Use the same hand- and footholds I’m using.”

  “Okay.”

  “Always keep three points on the rock. Don’t overgrip. Keep close to the wall.”

  Gideon could see, a few dozen feet below, the canoe filled with men approaching along the edge of the cliffs, the men paddling but staying well out of the break. They didn’t dare get in close. The canoe was moving fast, the men shouting unintelligibly. A single arrow clattered harmlessly off the rock below them, and then the canoe was swept past in the strong current.

  They climbed a few hundred feet, the dizzy
ing heights filling Gideon with dread.

  They reached a shallow cave, little more than a lava tube in the side of the cliff, with just enough space for the two of them. Gideon hauled himself up over the edge and collapsed on the floor of the cave, gripping the rock, relieved to be away from the terrifying drop. Amy slumped beside him.

  He glanced at her again, then started up. “Hey. What’s this?” A dark stain was spreading on her shirt, in her side. “Christ, you’re hurt!”

  “Yeah, I’m going to need a little help here.”

  Gideon unbuttoned the shirt, pulled it back. A nasty-looking wound was visible in her side.

  “Back in the cave,” she said, breathing hard. “A spear…”

  “Okay, I’ll dress it right now.” He opened one of the drysacks and took out the medical kit and a flashlight. He shone it on the wound. It looked messy, but at least wasn’t too deep, thank God.

  “I’m going to fix you up. You just take it easy.” He tore open a gauze pad and dabbed, cleaning around the edges of the wound, examining it. The ocean had largely rinsed it clean, but he sponged it out with fresh water from a canteen. It appeared to need stitches, but there were none in the kit. He sterilized the wound with Betadine, closed it as best he could with strips of surgical tape, and dressed it. Rummaging about, he removed a bottle of amoxicillin and gave her a tablet, along with a couple of ibuprofen.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Hurts. I feel a little light-headed. I think I lost some blood.”

  “I can’t believe how tough you are—everything you managed to do, and with that wound—!”

  She waved a hand. “Sleep. I need to sleep. Tomorrow, we’ve got a major climb ahead of us.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere with that wound. We’ll stay here until you’re better.”

  She lay back. “If we stay here, we’ll die. It’s as simple as that.”