An Island Called Moreau (2 page)

The island was still distant. A current was carrying me toward it, and I was content for a while to lie back in exhaustion and be borne onward. Again my mind wandered, half deliriously; I became involved in complex situations with people I did not know but thought I recognized.

When I shook myself from my lethargy, the sun was low in the west and magnificent layers of cloud were drawing about it to celebrate its descent. The island was considerably nearer; I could make out gray walls of cliff. The installation was lost in late afternoon light.

My drinking water was entirely gone. Exhausted though I was, I seized on the paddle and tried to guide my frail craft toward the island. For a dread filled me that ocean currents might carry me past this refuge in the hours of darkness, and that by morning it would lie far astern. Then I should surely die. My chance was now—or never again.

I was still paddling as night came down. It was glorious and terrible to witness the world's swift change from day to night; even in my drained condition, I was moved by it, and offered a prayer to God.

The breeze which had earlier carried me westward was reversed with evening. My boat was almost at a standstill. I battled in the darkness as long as I could, collapsing at last in the bottom of my craft, where I slept fitfully, half in a delirium.

I woke before dawn, chilled all through, convinced I was dying. I lay like a broken bundle, cradling my paddle, with my jaw hanging open and my mouth parched, as once more the processes of Earth brought this part of the world into light.

I opened my eyes and lifted my head. Great cliffs loomed close, lit by early sun. They rose steeply from the waves without a shore. High above the waterline bushes grew, crowning the cliffs. Birds wheeled above them. I stared at the birds in wonder. My canopy was moving slowly westward again, no more than three hundred meters from the cliffs.

One detail was especially remarkable. Carved into the cliff at a place which appeared totally inaccessible was a gigantic letter.

The letter dominated me. I stared at it, trying to make sense out of it, but to my dazed imagining it seemed to be independent of meaning, to exist only for itself. Its very shape suggested a sturdy bipedal independence. It was a huge letter
M
.

The cliffs dazzled with reflected light but the
M
was black. Whoever had sculpted it from the rock had made certain that it was visible from afar by filling its recesses with tar or some black pitchy substance.

Thoughts of vaguely religious nature filled my mind. I heard my voice from my cracked lips say, “In the beginning was the letter.” I laughed feebly. Then I slumped back into the boat.

When I brought myself to look again, the
M
stood some way behind, a double black pillar. The nearer cliffs were less steep and in shadow. Trees were more in evidence. I even imagined I might have seen a building among the trees, as my head drooped once more. But the insistence that I should do something rose within me, and again I dragged myself up. I splashed head and neck with seawater, although the brine made my lips smart.

The boat was drifting past a southwest-facing cliff wall which lay no more than two hundred meters away. Ordinarily, I would have thought nothing of swimming ashore; now, all I could do was cup my hands and call for help; but there was the noise of surf against rocks to compete with, and my throat was choked by drought.

I could see that in less than an hour we should reach the end of the island, to be carried into the open ocean again. The cliffs were becoming less massive. It would be possible to scramble ashore at the westernmost point. When it came level, then I would have to fling myself into the water, trusting to God and the remainder of my strength to get me ashore.

As I was preparing for this ordeal, I discovered that I was being observed. Three or four natives stood under tall trees among bushes, watching me. At this distance, I could get no clear view, yet something about them—whether in their faces or their stances—gave an impression of singular bestiality. They stood almost immobile and stared across the waves at me; then they were gone; the bushes moved for a moment and were still.

I turned my attention to the end of the island, which could now be seen to sprout an islet just beyond its shores, leaving a narrow channel between shore and islet. The question seemed to be, whether the current which carried me would sweep me clear away from the island or closely round its tip, between island and islet; if the latter was the case, it should not be impossible to get ashore.

As I considered this question, a heavy craft with thundering engine swerved out from behind the island. Spreading a wake of white water behind it, it curved out and headed toward me.

Two men were in the craft. I could get clear glimpses only of the man at the wheel. His face was black and again, as with the watchers on the cliff, I received an impression of brutishness.

The craft he steered was painted a muddy brown. As it bore toward me and swung clumsily abeam, the wash from it swamped my canopy. I found myself struggling in the water. Half drowned, I heard the curses of the men in the boat; then my wrists were grasped, and my shoulders, and I was heaved unceremoniously into the landing craft, as it was referred to.

As soon as they had me on deck, the boat was in motion again, swerving violently about. I was left to roll on the deck like a freshly landed tunny, coughing and spewing the seawater out of me.

When I had recovered slightly, I heaved myself into a sitting position. I was confronted by as frightful a countenance as I have ever seen in my life. At close quarters, its brutishness was overwhelming, so that I half believed I was delirious.

Under a floppy leather hat was no brow, simply a great swelling face covered with stubble. The jaw was prognathous with no chin. A mighty mouth swept back, its corners almost vanishing into the absurd hat, its fleshy lips hardly fleshy enough to conceal large incisors in the lower jaw. Above this formidable mouth was a snout-like nose, wrinkled in a sneer like a hyena's, and two almost lidless eyes. These eyes regarded me now—fixed themselves on me with a dull red glare. I pulled myself back from them in shock. But still I had to stare into them.

The monster regarded me with the strangest expression, at once aggressive and shrinking, as though it was on the point of either throwing itself upon me or leaping out of my way.

Only for a moment did we stare at each other so closely. Only for a moment was that strange ambiguity of gaze between us. Then the black man was struck on the back by his companion, who roared, “Get to the helm, George! None of your tricks!”

Black George leaped back to his station with a frantic scuffle, quite devoid of dignity. He was a big burly fellow, with tremendous shoulders on him, but short in the shank. He was encased in an all-enveloping pair of gray work overalls.

When I turned my attention to the other man, my first impressions were scarcely more favorable. A fine place I had come to! I thought. This specimen was recognizably Caucasian, and with no visible deformities, but he was also a great hulking brute. His face was fat and pasty; it bore a besotted, sullen expression. His eyes seemed to be the same pasty color as his skin; they looked directly into mine once, for an instant, then away, in such a furtive manner that I was as disconcerted as by George's savage stare. He always avoided a direct gaze.

Although everything about him appeared totally unfavorable—apart from the cardinal fact that he had rescued me from the sea—I gained an impression that he was an intelligent, even sensitive, man who was trying to bury some dreadful knowledge within him: and that the effort had brutalized him.

His hair was tawny and uncared for and he had a straggling yellowy-brown beard. He carried a military carbine slung over one shoulder and clutched a bottle in his left hand.

When he saw me regarding him, he held out the bottle before him, not looking straight at me, and said mockingly, “You look as if you could have use for a drink, hero!”

I said, “I need water.”

My voice was a croak. His was thick and had a curious accent. It took a while before I realized English was not his native language.

“Palm wine for the morning. Fresh vintage. Do you plenty good!”

“I need water.”

“Suit yourself. You must wait till we are on the shore.”

George was now swinging the craft in between island and terminal islet, hunched with a kind of careful ferocity over the wheel. I could see a strip of beach beyond. The blond man yelled to George to go more steadily.

“What is this place?” I asked.

He looked me over again, half between pity and contempt, his eyes sliding round me.

“Welcome to Moreau Island, hero,” he said. He took another swig at his bottle.

2

Some Company Ashore

The landing craft ran into a narrow channel with rock on the left and island on the right. Open sea ahead indicated that although the island was several kilometers long, it was considerably less in width, at least at this western end. The beach was a slender strip of sand, bracketed in rocks and stones and encroached by scrub. George brought us swinging broadside on to this strip, hunching himself by the wheel and awaiting further instructions while he eyed me with distrust.

“Are you fit enough to walk?” the blond man asked me.

“I can try,” I said.

“You're going to have to try, hero. This is where you get out! No ambulances here. I've got the fishing nets to see to, and that's trouble enough to do. George here will take you along to HQ. Get that?”

Involuntarily, I looked at George with suspicion.

“He won't hurt you,” the blond man said. “If you drifted through the minefields okay, then you will be safe by George.”

“What sort of a place am I getting to? Are there other—white men here? I don't even know your name.”

The blond man looked down at the deck and rubbed his soiled deck shoes against each other.

“You aren't welcome here, hero, you ought better to face that fact. Moreau Island is not geared exactly to cater to the tourist trade. But we can maybe find a use for you.”

“My work is elsewhere,” I said sharply. “A lot of people will be looking for me right now. The ASASC shuttle I was in crashed in the Pacific some way from here. My name is Calvert Roberts, and I hold down an important governmental post. What's your name? You still haven't told me.”

“It's not any damned business of yours, is it? My name is Hans Maastricht and I'm not ashamed of it. Now, get on shore. I have work to do or I will be into trouble.”

He turned to George, slapping the carbine over his shoulder to emphasize his words. “You take this man straight to HQ, get that? You go with him to Master. You no stop on the way, you no cause any trouble. Okay? You no let other People cause any trouble, savvy?”

George looked at him, then at me, then back to the other man, swinging his head in a confused way.

“Does he speak English?” I asked.

“This is what he savvies best,” Maastricht said, slapping the carbine again. “Hurry it up, George. Help this man to HQ. I'll be back when I've checked the fishing nets.”

“Savvy,” said George. “Hurry it up. Help this man HQ, come back when I check the nets.”

“You just get him safe to HQ,” Maastricht said, clouting him across the shoulders.

The hulking fellow jumped down into shallow water and put out a hand to help me. I say “hand”—it was a black leathery deformed thing he extended to me. There was nothing to do but take it. I had to jump down and fell practically into his arms, leaning for a moment against his barrel chest. Again I felt in him the same revulsion as struggled in myself. He moved back one pace in one hop, catching me off balance, so that I fell on my hands and knees in the shallow waters.

“Sort yourselves out!” Maastricht shouted, with a laugh. Swinging the carbine round on its sling, he fired one shot in the air, presumably as a warning, then headed the landing craft toward where the channel widened.

George watched him go, then turned to me almost timorously. His gaze probed mine; being almost neckless, he hunched his shoulders to do so, as if he were shortsighted. At the same time, he extended that maimed hand to me. I was still on my knees in the water. There was something poignant in the fellow's gesture. I took his arm and drew myself up.

“Thank you, George.”

“Me George. You no call George?”

“My name is Calvert Roberts. I'm glad of your help.”

“You got Four Limbs Long. You glad of your help.” He put his paw to his head as if trying to cope with concepts beyond his ability. “You glad me help. You glad George help.”

“Yes. I'm feeling kind of shaky.”

He gestured toward the open water. “You—find in water, yes?”

It was as if he were striving to visualize something that had happened long ago.

“Which way to your HQ, George?”

“HQ, yes, we go, no trouble. No stop on way, no cause any trouble.” His voice held a curious clotted quality. We stood on the stony beach, with a fringe of palm trees and scrub to landward, while a comedy of misdirected intentions developed—or it might have been a comedy if I had had the strength to find the situation funny. George did not know whether he should walk before me or behind me or beside me. His shuffling movements suggested that he was reluctant to adopt any of the alternatives.

The surface amiability of our conversation (if it can be dignified by that word) in no way calmed my fear of George. He was monstrous, and his close physical presence remained abhorrent. Something in his posture inspired distrust. That jackal sneer on his face seemed at war all the time with a boarish element in his composition, so that I was in permanent doubt as to whether he was going to turn round and run away or to charge at me; and a certain nervous shuffle in his step kept that doubt uppermost in my mind.

“You lead, I'll follow, George.”