Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (20 page)

THEY slept most of the night. It was not easy. But the gentle waves of the lagoon lulled them to sleep. So they slumbered, with Chicahua standing silent watch on deck. He stood like a statue carved out of mahogany in the stern, which faced the island.

Obsidian eyes conned the surroundings.

There was a moon, a waxing quarter moon that was often covered by racing cloud scud. The ocean winds were brisk. The
Orion
heeled and rocked pleasantly. They had muffled the ship’s bell, lest it ring disconsolately with the stronger breezes. The sails had been struck, of course. Otherwise they would have drawn curious natives from their village to investigate. It was assumed that the villagers had canoes, but none had ventured out into the lagoon since their arrival.

Chicahua was thinking of his brother, missing him deeply, when the first
bangkongs
came ghosting around the headland. They approached silently, propelled by oarsmen skilled in the art of stealth. The moon was behind a cloudbank resembling a rag thrown athwart the stars, so they arrived cloaked by darkness.

The hunched rowers made good progress. When moonlight returned, they dipped their oars in a smooth breaking action, and the ships—there were only three of them—came to a slow, definite halt. The warriors ducked under the thatched awning of their split-bamboo deckhouse, feathered headdresses quivering as if in anticipation.

For a time, they were indistinguishable from the breakers that studded the dark lagoon.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Then the moon was consumed by another racing cloudbank. With an eerie silence, the Dyaks began sculling toward the anchored schooner.

They were like ghosts crewing ferries over the River Styx. Approaching the
Orion,
a Dyak positioned in the bow stood up and balanced a long spear atop one bare shoulder. He let fly.

The projectile shot true, plunking into the water on the windward side of the vessel.

Hearing it, Chicahua rushed to the rail, peered into the darkling waters.

He saw nothing. The night was too dark, the surrounding waters were more easily heard than perceived.

And while the Mayan was studying the impenetrable darkness, the three noiseless
bangkongs
separated and began to silently surround the helpless schooner.

Chicahua finally gave up on determining the cause of the strange sound in the water. It might have been a fish leaping upward for a tasty minnow. Turning, he cast his dark gaze over the surrounding lagoon.

As it happened, a shaft of lunar light shot down from a rift in the moon-smothering cloud, disclosing one boat laying not twenty yards from the lee side of the
Orion.

Before the Mayan could react, a second spear shot through the night.

It landed beside him,
thunking
into the deck planking with deadly intent.

From every Dyak throat, wild yells of challenge issued. War cries!

Chapter XXV

CHICAHUA FACED TWO necessities.

The first was to preserve his life against imminent peril. The second was to ring the ship’s bell and thereby alert his captain.

Dropping to the deck, the Mayan found the shelter of the gunwale. He began crawling along the polished pine deck, on his belly like an anaconda. He uprooted the still-quivering spear, dragging it along with him.

He expected more spears to drive their sharp points into the deck, but none came. His ears, alert to the deadly whisper of arriving poisoned darts, heard only the lapping of waves against the schooner’s hull.

Reaching the mainmast where the bell hung on its gimbals, Chicahua rolled over onto his back, employed the tip of the spear to poke at the cotton batting that had been stuffed into the brass bell to prevent it from ringing as the boat rocked, dislodging it.

Next, Chicahua removed his blowpipe from his belt, inserted into the cane tube a clay pellet normally used to stun small game, and placed one end to his grim lips. His cheeks puffed in, then out.

The pellet struck the bell, causing it to
dong
once, disconsolately. Inserting another, he made the bell ring again, louder this time.

Commotion sounded below. The whisking of bare feet in motion.

“What is wrong?” came the stern voice of Captain Savage from the half-open deckhouse door.

Chicahua rattled back rapid words in K’iche.

Crawling to the deckhouse, Chicahua pried open the door. He scrambled down the companion steps, lost his footing, landing hard at the bottom.

Captain Savage helped him to his feet.

They exchanged quick words in the Mayan tongue.

Doc Savage hovered nearby. He asked of his father, “What is happening?”

“Sea Dyaks. Three
bangkongs
stole up on us. That means nearly two hundred Dyak warriors. We are surrounded.”

“Not as long as I have this,” said Doc, patting the receiver of his Annihilator submachine gun confidently.

“You place a great deal of store in that clumsy weapon,” returned Captain Savage. “If you stole up on deck, they would cut you down in a hail of spears and poison darts before you could unleash very much lead effectively.”

“I can try,” whispered Doc stubbornly.

“We must find another way. They have not boarded us as yet. Perhaps they want to parley.”

He noticed the Dyak spear that had fallen from Chicahua’s hand. Picking it up, he scrutinized the pennant of red hair hanging from the haft.

“No doubt this is hair torn from the scalp of a war trophy,” murmured Captain Savage.

Doc fingered it, shook his head firmly. “Orangutan hair. They are common in Borneo.”

Captain Savage said, “Unless I am very much mistaken, this is the sign of a desired truce.”

Climbing to the door, Captain Savage pushed it ajar and cupped his hands over his mouth. He began calling out to the raiders in their own tongue.

“Bercakap fikiran anda.”
Speak your piece.

A volley of words came from beyond the railing. Captain Savage listened, then translated for Doc’s benefit.

“He is saying that his name is Monyet, son of Ramba, a mighty chief among the Sea Dyaks of Sakkaran, which they call Skrang,” Captain Savage told Doc. “Monyet means ‘Monkey’ in their language. No self-respecting Dyak
penghulu
would name his son Monkey, but we will humor him for the moment.”

Switching to the Dyak tongue, the senior Savage demanded,
“Apa yang anda mahu?”
What do you want?

The return reply was not understandable. In frustration, the Dyak switched to speaking Malay.
“Gencatan senjata.”
Truce.

Captain Savage nodded. “As I suspected, he wishes to parley under a flag of truce. I will give him permission to come on board.”

More words went back and forth, and one of the
bangkongs
approached under sculling oars. Soon, it was scraping the starboard side of the
Orion.

Captain Savage and his tiny crew stepped out into the open, ready to repel boarders if treachery was in the offing. Doc left the Annihilator in the deckhouse, but had placed it just inside the open door, where he could flash to it if need be.

By this time, the Dyak prince had climbed onto the thatched awning of his vessel. Chicahua obediently draped the pilot ladder over the port side, and Monyet climbed up nimbly. He wore only a loincloth and a red headband crowned by upright hornbill feathers. On his hairless brown chest shone a protective necklace of beaten-gold breastplates.

The Mayan’s dark eyes drilled into the Dyak’s own. Flinty sparks seemed to pass between them, but Chicahua only made hard fists with his fingers. He had stepped out on deck unarmed, as commanded.

Monyet stood alone on the deck, resplendent in his barbaric finery, his posture that of a man unafraid. The Dyak warriors crammed in the waiting
bangkongs
bristled with spears and short blades and long blowpipes. These were the source of his bravado.

Doc Savage saw that this was the same man who had hailed them from a dugout canoe back in the Java Sea—the taunting one who said that they had very fine heads. They had thought him to be a scout for marauding pirates then. In reality, he was the leader of a war party.

The Dyak looked them over with insolent eyes. Words rippled from his lips. He made a very long speech. At the end of it, he spoke two words over and over, gesturing to help convey the meaning.

“Antu pata,”
he repeated, frustration tingeing his tone.

Captain Savage frowned.
“Antu pata. Antu pata.
I believe that means ‘head trophies.’”

Switching to Malay, he called out,
“Trofi kepala?”

“Ya!”

“They want that ape’s head back,” whispered Doc. “But why?”

“I will ask him.” More words volleyed back and forth, growing hot and accusatory.

“Monyet says that the head we have was harvested by his father, Ramba, who is now dead. He has brought it back as an object of power, so that the spirit of his father will protect him as he hunts the mighty Kong.”

Doc undertoned, “Father, if we can’t fend them off, it makes sense to surrender the head. We can always recover it later.”

The elder Savage shook his head. “It is not that simple. He says that he demands satisfaction for the killings of his men aboard the
Orion
when they had mastery of it.”

“Point out that they slew most of our crew,” said Doc dryly.

“I have done exactly that. This is why he suggests a contest instead of battle.”

“What kind of contest?”

“Dyaks have a unique way of settling differences, Mister Savage. The two antagonists, with their seconds, retire to the beach and they immerse their heads in water until one of them can stand it no longer. The man who takes the first breath loses.”

“That does not sound like much of a contest.”

“The purpose of the second,” said Savage Senior, “is to hold his man’s head down so that he does
not
lose.”

“That makes it sound more interesting,” said Doc. “Tell him I accept the challenge.”

“I will do so.”

The Dyak listened to the sharp words coming from the lips of Captain Savage and something like a smile splashed his dark face, showing teeth that had been filed down.

Captain Savage turned to Doc. “It is done. We will meet on the beach at dawn.”

“What about the natives?”

“The Dyaks say that the natives are afraid of his men. They will leave us alone. Now if you please, Mister Savage, fetch up the gruesome head and show it to this man as proof that we have retained it.”

Doc pitched below, returning with the head in a swatch of burlap.

Fixing Monyet with his own flake-gold eyes, Doc Savage approached, the severed and dried ape head cupped in both muscular hands.

When it was presented to the man, Monyet’s eyes lit up. For the first time, the Dyak prince truly smiled, and it could be seen that his filed-down teeth were nearly black from chewing betel nut. His grin was a dark caricature of a smile, evil in its hideous reverse hue. From his expression, he might have been offered the greatest emerald ever mined.

“This trophy,” said Doc, “evidently means much to the man.”

“Trophy heads are to the Dyak warrior what ‘counting coup’ is to the Sioux,” explained Clark Savage, Senior. “We are to bring it to the beach. The winner of the contest may claim this grisly trophy as his property.”

Doc nodded. “Ask him about Kong.”

Captain Savage rattled off some quick words.

The answer came flying back.

“He said Kong is the monarch of this island.”

“Ask him to describe Kong.”

The Dyak employed a lot of gestures, most of them vertical.

Captain Savage translated. “He is saying that Kong is an ape greater than any found in Borneo or Siam. The earth shakes when he walks. The great demon-lizards flee from his path. His roar causes the full moon to fall from the sky. He is saying that Kong dwells on Skull Mountain, but they have denied Kong his refuge with their bonfires. Now they hunt Kong. Hunt him for his head.”

“Whose head is it that they have now?”

“A younger ape. Captured years ago. It was a great prize taken by this man’s father almost a generation ago. Now that his father has died, he seeks one of his own, the greatest head trophy imagined—the head of Kong, the
binatang tuhan.
That means beast-god.”

Doc considered this answer.

“Tell him we will meet him on the beach at daybreak.”

This was conveyed, and the Dyak suddenly leaped for the starboard rail. He favored them with his evil grin one last time. Then he hooked one tattooed leg and then the other over the rail, scrambling down the pilot ladder, managing to make his way to the rocking dugout canoe.

Oars were employed to kedge off from the schooner
Orion.
The rowers took their places under the thatched awning, and with near-military efficiency, the three
bangkongs
joined up in the lagoon and paddled away, making only gurgling sounds that were almost indistinguishable from the action of tides upon the black breakers.

Captain Savage turned to his son, his metallic eyes grave.

“We have only an hour to prepare you for the contest of your life.”

Chapter XXVI

CAPTAIN SAVAGE WAS saying, “The rules of the contest are very simple. The man who keeps his head below the waterline longest wins, therefore the man who is forced to come up for air first is declared the loser.”

“What happens to the loser after that?” asked Doc.

“According to Dyak custom, he has been shamed. And if the matter is legal, held responsible for restitution. In this contest, your opponent is seeking to save face for his war losses, and reclaim his trophy head. He may also secretly hope that you drown, which is a very real possibility for either party, given the solemn responsibilities of the second.”

“I won’t need a second.”

“You cannot violate the rules, Mister Savage. This is their game. Chicahua will be your second.”