“Island of the Cannibal God” Chapter 4: The Idol

I was staring up into a cruel, savage face, the face of one of the island natives, who had managed to remain hidden as they watched me, carefully, from the bushes. Soon, I was surrounded by a circle of them, all jabbering and pointing with their sharpened sticks as I lay upon the dirt, my exhausted brain reeling. I had no idea what they might do with me, and I felt tremendous fear as they quickly laid rough hands upon my shoulders and hoisted me, shakily, to my feet.

They were curious specimens. They wore colorful skirts, woven together from grass, and their faces were covered in crude paint and mud. Their arms were adorned with heavy wooden bracelets and bands, and their noses were pierced by rings that seemed, for all the world, as if they might have been made of gold. Around their necks they wore long hempen necklaces from which depended curious stones.

They jabbered in their tribal tongue,a nd I wished badly that I could understand a single word that they said. For all the world, I could only make out one word, and this because they seemed to be flinging it at me. That word was “Mzungu”, which I later found out meant “white god.”

I was quickly lead, at point of spear, down the side of the hill and away from the surious stone heads that had so arrested my attention,a nd down along a pathway to God only knew where. So, I considered, I was now a prisoner to these primitive men. The thought sickened me,a nd I wondered with a nauseous shudder if these men were not the fabled native cannibals that I had heard the sailors aboard my ship speak of in whispered tones. What would I do, how were I to escape, if they decided they wanted to eat me? These thoughts tormented me as I was lead through the bush by my captors.

After what seemed an interminable period of walking (but what was probably only a few hours at beast) we came upon a squat circle of mud and grass huts, in the center of which was the charred remains of a bonfire. Flies swarmed around the place, chickens clucked behind bamboo fences, and a stray goat or two seemed to wander unmolested. The smell was almost intolerable.

I was thrust into the darkness of one of the huts, and a native came in, most likely to keep a wary eye on me. In time, a woman, bare breasted and quite old, came in carrying a gourd filled with some sort of juice, which I drank greedily. Next, a younger woman, also bare breasted, came in with a wooden bowl, in which some scraps of meat and what I took to be rice were mixed. I nearly grabbed it from her in my zeal, and wolfed it down, making sure to get every grain of rice sticking to the side of the bowl. Then, I was left alone, and despite my fear and terror, I soon felt the heavy pull of slumber, and closed my eyes.

I was awakened at nightfall by several men, one of which was wearing a tall, feathered headdress which made him look a little like a peacock. I took this to be the tribal chieftain, or witchdoctor, or some person of general authority, and I made sure to stand in his presence. My heart was racing, and I was suddenly wide awake.

The man looked at me for what seemed a long time before speaking, in halting broken English, “You…welcome…Mzungu. With…you…share…all we have.”

I was dumbfounded, but soon found my tongue, and said, very slowly, “I thank you for your hospitality. May I ask who it is I am speaking to?”

I soon learned that his name was Alisi, and that he was the medicine man of the Yoyombi, which was the small tribe I now found myself in the midst of. It seemed that there were not many of them left, as many had taken their canoes to seek a better life on the mainland.

Although our communication was slow and difficult, I learned many interesting facts about the island and about Yoyombi belief during that long, strange night. I learned, for instance, that there were legends of a strange being, like a mythological monster or dragon, lurking in the bushes. I also learned, with a soaring heart, that other white men had been here before, in great ships, and had sold the tribe a quantity of what I presumed to be whiskey, in exchange for some of their valuable gold jewelry. Hardly a fair trade, I thought, with an inward smile, but I had no intention whatever of telling the chief that.

We sat before the crackling fire, in the center of the ring of huts, and Alisi told me the legends of his people; how, long ago, they had come up from the ground, and how the ancient sky gods had taught them the secrets of fire, of hunting animals for food, and the arcane mysteries of Juju, or magic.

While he droned on, going back and forth between English and his own strange language, a gourd of rich wine, made from fruit, was passed to me, and I automatically drank the stuff. In time, his voice seemed to fade out, while, around me, I fancied I could hear the ceremonial beat of many drums, and chanting, and high, strange, warbling singing that seemed to come from a woman. My eyelids grew heavy, and my eyes stung from the smoke, and suddenly I fancied I could see strange, shooting colors coming from the fire. I sat bolt upright, suddenly every single sense awake, and heightened, and the strange fireworks dispay continued, turning the large fire into a Roman candle of multicolored sparks.

I didn’t understand what was happening, but Alisi suddenly broke into a great laugh, which echoed through the night as if it came from a giant. I got up shakily from my seat, suddenly aware of a queer mist, and the face of my native companions suddenly looked sinister and evil to me.

And then I saw great visions, as of a writhing serpent making his way through the stars, and the pinpoints of light were joined by intersecting lines, and I understood, in a dim way albeit, that these were trade routes of some sort. I looked down at my hands.

The flesh looked as if it were about to boil off of my bones. It bubbled and dripped, and I screamed suddenly, and raced off from the circle of light into the darkness of the surrounding trees. I dove into the shadows.

Suddenly, I saw it!

It seemed to be an image eight or ten feet tall, a great black shadow. I froze in terror, not knowing if this was simply another phantasm conjured by the narcotic effects of the strange brew I had drunk.

I heard a low growl. Then, I heard feet tramping through the grass, and the staccato rhythm of the native voices, and felt hands dragging me back into the midst of the village. I looked up, but the huge figure with the glowing eyes had disappeared.

Alisi was still laughing, his voice echoing out in the stillness.

***
It was later, when I was recovering in the midst of a darkened hut, that a woman stole in through the doorway, and lay down beside me.

She was a dark, beautiful young maiden, with large eyes that seemed to glow in the murk. Alas, she spoke no English, but it was easy enough to determine why she had been sent in to me.

Her name, I learned was Ele’ele.

I could only communicate with her through hand signals, but taught her my name by saying it and pointing to myself. Whatever the case, I had no intention of making love to her whatsoever, but contented myself by holding her close to me, while the moon sailed behind clouds outside, painting the face of the island black with the shadow.
***

I had many queer dreams that night, but awoke refreshed. Ele’ele brought me a plate of food, which was little more than banana and some roots, but I was glad to have it just the same. She also brought me a gourd of water, which I drank eagerly. A few hours passed thus pleasantly, while I sat and appreciated the dark, mysterious beauty of Ele’ele, and wondered for the first time what it might be like to take a native wife. In time, Alisi came into my hut, followed by two warriors, and sat down, as if to converse.

I was eager to ask him about the strange potion that had given me such disturbing visions, visions not unlike those of a reveler upon opium, but first he began to tell me, in his halting, broken way, about a legendary monster or creature that he said haunted the island.

I was given to understand that this creature was called Fetu, and that the Yoyombi were on guard against him constantly, lest he carry off some of their animals…or even people.

“You see Fetu. No good. No good. Man no see Fetu and live. Many moons ago, Fetu come. The stars wept for Yoyombi, Mzungu.”

He began to speak in his own language again, and I was uncertain, for a time, whether or not “fetu” was a word for a monstrous being, or simply a large lizard that lived in the bush. Alisi seemed to grow tired after awhile, and the men stood. Suddenly, I felt their hands grab me, and I was lifted up, rather roughly, and found myself surprised to be thrust out of the mouth of the hut, and into the middle of what seemed like a large procession headed down the slope of a hill. I looked about worriedly. The attitude of the Yoyombi toward me seemed to have undergone a drastic change suddenly. The points of their spears were aimed squarely at my back.

I trudged wearily down the beaten path, with the tribe surrounding me on every side, and finally, in time, we came to a clearing. I had to squint in the bright sunshine to make out the large structure that rested in the center of the clearing.

It was an enormous stone monument, in the same general style as the huge heads I had discovered on the nearby hilltop, but much larger and more terrifying than anything I had ever seen. It resembled another great stone head, atop a massive chest that seemed to be covered by an ornate breastplate, and the whole thing squatting on little feet. Emerging from the head, two great arms came down and rested like great stone cylinders on the ground. The entire thing evoked a sense of mystery and awe I find it hard to convey in simple words.

The Yoyombi began to chant, and torches were soon lighted, as a bonfire was made in front of the mouth of the idol, and the natives soon began to dance.

At first their movements were slow, almost comic, but soon, as the fire began to grow greater and greater, the dancers swhipped themselves into a frenzy, and produced masks that looked as if they were the faces of strange animals, and then I could hear drumming in the crowd. The resultant music was really quite phenomenal, and I suppose I would have been quite taken with it, had I not been so afraid.

Suddenly, Alisi appeared, brandishing a sword. I felt the blood in my veins freeze, as he first killed a chicken, and caught its blood in a gourd, and drank it. He then passed it around to the dancers, who did likewise. I felt my stomach churn.

I then heard a scream.

A man was dragged before Alisi, who stood almost directly in front of the mouth of the great idol. The man seemed to be terrified, and was in fact weeping profusely. Alisi raised his knife, and spoke in his own language.

He was answered by the multitude of worshipers.

He spoke again.

Again they answered, and I badly wished I knew what they were saying.

Suddenly, something happened which made me think I was till under the effect of the strange potion from the night before.

I would never have believed it possible, but, incredibly, the man was dragged by two hideously masked warriors toward the mouth of the stone idol. Miraculously, that mouth began to open!

I felt my mouth drop open.

I could hear the scraping and grinding of the stone jaws. The eyes of the great idol began to glow as if the entire thing was lit within by fire, and the mouth slowly opened to reveal a row of rocky teeth. Inside, a sort of cavity disappeared into darkness. I wondered how in the world any of this was possible.

The man was thrust, screaming and crying, into the mouth of the idol, and the stone mouth slowly closed upon him. I wondered if he was to be kept prisoner inside the thing, before I was soon disabused of that notion.

His screams could still be heard; faintly, but they were torturous. I was sickened when torrents of blood began to ooze from the sides of the idol’s mouth. I then fancied I could hear another sound, a sound that was almost familiar, but I had no time to think of it.

The arms of the idol began to move up and down, throwing dust from the ground upward in choking clouds. Then, I felt hands upon me again, spears at my back, and the two natives in the hideous animal masks suddenly stepped into the crowd and laid hands–on me!

“Island of the Cannibal God” Chapter 3: The Island

When I next came to consciousness, it was within sight of a distant shore which, the vision of which, all things considered, seemed as miraculous to me as it probably was. I opened my exhausted, unbelieving eyes upon a sea that was now no longer upset, upon what seemed to be the rocky coast of a verdant little outcrop, a place that, as I still clung with bone-white fingers to the piece of drift, I seemed to be drifting toward in a slow, gradual way. Many men have told me since that it was only the Will of God that kept me alive until I reached the island, but, considering the events that transpired later, I am not sure exactly what supernatural entity I would credit with my escape. It is, I have been told, one of the strangest miracles that has ever occurred.

I thrashed lamely at the water, but when my feet found purchase upon the crusty bottom of the water, I began to limp, like a beggar in the desert, forward, toward the beach, falling upon my knees, dragging myself forward, finally succumbing to exhaustion and fainting dead away, the murmur of the tide rippling about my ears.

When I awoke, I realized that I was still alive. I got up slowly, my muscles a searing web of pain, and stumbled from the rocky, barren beach, to a nearby circle of stones. I supported myself against these great boulders, feeling as if I might faint again, and then turned, and sat down heavily on a low shelf of rock. I sat that way for a seemingly interminable period of time, trying to gather my last reserves of strength, and considering what I must do, in the next crucial hours, to try and survive. Curiously, now that I had, as it were, a fighting chance, I felt nearly too exhausted to commence the effort to capitalize upon it. But move I did, and the first thought on my mind was the need for water.

Little did I know that, as I made my way into the nearby bush, and through vines and tendrils and over craggy hills that had, or so my benumbed brain reasoned at the time, probably never seen the footprint of man, that curious, dark eyes were watching me from the verdant green.

I trudged along blindly for some hours, hot and miserable but joyous at just being alive. The insects were ferocious, and annoyed me greatly, but I knew that, first and foremost, I had to find some water or perish in the heat. At last, I spied something that heartened me greatly.

A tree, and beneath it, spread about in a carpet, were some half-rotten fruits. Insensible with thirst and hunger, I picked one of them up and put it to my lips. I did not stop to reason then that it might be poisonous. Luckily for me, it gave a rank and bitter juice that greatly restored me, and I was able to proceed, up the side of what seemed a very tall hill, to what I hoped would be the most likely place to find a fresh source of water.

I feared nothing just then. No jungle cat or python seemed as sufficiently dangerous to me as my exhaustion and thirst. Of course, had I known what lay in store for me, I might very well have become prostrate with terror just then. But that is purely a matter of conjecture. I did not know, and did not care, for anything in the world, just then, except finding a stream.

There was a clearing in the bush, a place where I climbed out onto a low shelf of rock, and could look down into a dark ravine below. I could hear, ah yes! My heart soared, I could hear the rush of fa flowing stream! I looked exultantly at heaven, thanking whatever angel had charge over me for this life-saving discovery. I began to proceed down the slope of the ravine, noting that my nose (which had always been sensitive) smelled what seemed to be water below, when, suddenly, my attention was arrested by something black on the skyline above. It was a curious conglomeration of huge black humps, spaced evenly apart from one another, and standing like sentinels at the crest of the hill, looking off into the infinite. I stopped for only a brief moment, perplexed by these apparitions, before continuing down the slope and letting my senses guide me finally to a beautiful pool that seemed to me as entrancing, at that moment, as any woman in the world.

I lay on my belly and drank deeply. I don’t think I realized then that the water was filthy, that animals drank there, and, had I realized it, I most likely would not have cared. What else was I to do? I had found what seemed to be a sort of natural oasis, and I was damned sorry I didn’t have a bottle or skin with which to collect some of the water. As it was, I felt suddenly ill, and retched for a few moments copiously. I lay back in the tall grasses then, gasping for air, and, though I knew I must make some sort of shelter against the coming night, I was too tired to do much else at that point, and was soon asleep.

I awoke in the blackness of night, terrified. Around me, I could hear the rustle of stealthy feet in the bushes, and suddenly a low growl. My heart jumped into my throat, and I wasted little time in getting to my feet.

I could feel the blood course through my veins as I looked wildly about in the darkness, too frightened to breathe, and suddenly saw what seemed to be a pair of bright, burning coals reflected in the moonlight. Then, I heard the low growl again, and the tramp of paws, and the rustle of bushes, and I knew I was in the presence of a hungry animal.

I turned, striking blindly for cover, and realized that the stalking, shadowy thing could probably sniff me out wherever I went. My mind raced for some means to get to safety. I fell over, crawling through the bush on my hands and knees.

Behind me, I fancied I could hear the thing moving, slowly, through the brush, and my heart froze in horror to realize that I might have survived death at sea to simply be mutilated and eaten by some savage beast. I finally found my footing again, and began to run, blindly, vines and tendrils whipping my face. I could then hear the growl of the fast-approaching beast that was hunting me, and the hideous sound of its footfalls in the night.

I ran against an outcrop of rock, and tried to go over it, when I found this to be quite impossible. Then, an idea occurred to me. I began to feel around the surface until I found what seemed to be a hollow depression between two boulders. Yes, I thought, if I could hide in there, and perhaps somehow bar the entrance, the beast could not get at me, and might, eventually lose interest.

I bent low and dove into the dark space, becoming aware, suddenly, that I had happened upon some sort of cave. Not stopping to make too fine a point of it, I began to roll some stones from the mouth of the cave toward the opening. I managed to bar the entrance satisfactorily to block out the feeble moonlight, and I listened intently at the crack between the stones, the only sound I could hear the heavy breath in my lungs.

I heard no predator.

I waited many long moments, breathing raggedly in terror, certain that the thing, whatever it was, must be creeping around outside, waiting for me to exit my little shelter so as to pounce upon me and do me in. But I heard only stillness without, and in time I felt my shaking limbs begin to ease, and I sat down in the cave.

I saw a strange thing, then. The interior of the cave seemed to grow brighter, as if the stone itself was phosphorescent. My eyes adjusted to this new environment, and I found that I could dimly see. And the wonders that I saw.

The opening that I had stumbled upon had heard the footfalls of man before. There was no doubt of it, as there were obvious inscriptions on the walls.

I crept closer and began to study them. They were crude things, weird etchings of hunters with spears, chasing large animlas that looked like elk or bison. They were accompanied by other etchings that looked like hieroglyphics, and still others that seemed to depict a race of giants or gods. These latter were depicted with haloes or helmets, and I found myself perplexed at the curious, animal-like features they had. I ran my fingers across the etchings, and wondered at the strange, glowing rock of the cave. I fancied myself the first white man that had ever seen them, and I promised myself, when I returned to civilization, that I would capitalize, somehow, on the discovery of these “moon stones.” Then, coming back to myself, I wondered if it would be wise for me to venture outside. I was torn between my fear and my desire to find some more fruit to eat.

Finally, fear won in the end, and I decided to ignore the pangs in my stomach so as to remain safe, cowering in the darkness.

It was only as a few straggling rays of sunlight began to penetrate the cracks between the rocks that the blue phosphorescence began to subside. I had, despite my fear and discomfort managed to fall to troubled sleep, and was aroused only by the cawing of some bird.

I rolled over and got to my feet stiffly. I allowed myself a few moments to clear my head before going to the entrance of the cave and cautiously (and with some exertion) rolling the stone back. I crawled, slowly and stiffly from the mouth of the place, yet I was now almost certain that the strange animal that had stalked me was now gone. I blinked several times and began to look around. In time, I was climbing the hills and trudging through the strange dips, beating back the brush with my arms, aware that, had I but had a useable blade, I should have a much easier go of it.

I retraced my panicked steps of the night before, and noted the broken branches, crushed grass, and weird paw prints that were the tell-tale sign that, indeed, something had been chasing me last night. These latter I bent down to examine closely, noting the peculiarity of them. Although I must confess that I was no expert on tracks, these seemed to belong to a creature with long, talon-like feet…and I further noted, with some mounting distress, that they seemed to be the tracks of a two-legged beast.

This last, dawning realization filled me with bewildering fear, and I hastily beat a retreat back to the area of my cave, my head filling with vague, uneasy terror at the thought of some unknown animal.

It was then that my attention was arrested, once again, by the curious stone heads at the top of the hill, and I finally decided that I should climb so as to get a better look at them. Before doing this however, I spent several hours in the bush, collecting the odd fruits that I had found previously, and filling my pockets with them. I was already feeling much refreshed, and vowed that I would put up some sort of makeshift shelter before nightfall.

I trudged up the increasingly stony surface of the hill, sometimes stopping to catch my breath, other times stooping to grasp a handful of roots or to pluck a rare, mysterious flower and stuff it away, so as to examine it later. The massive stone heads grew gradually larger, standing out in stark contrast to the blue sky, and I could feel the first uneasy stirrings of baffled wonder grip my reeling brain. Finally, with much exertion, and with my heart and lungs pounding, I stood in the midst of them.

They were ringed in a semi-circle, and in the midst of them was another ring of stones, smaller, but nonetheless just as impressive as the great carved heads. The heads were truly a sight, and, could I have got them aboard a ship and sailed them back to America, would certainly have fetched me a high price from any collector of rare and odd antiquities. But, who could lift such massive monument?

I was certain that mere man, in particular primitive natives of long ago, could not have managed to quarry these great stones, get them up the hill, and carve them to such exacting specifications. It buggered belief that even modern men could do it, as the individual blocks (which were twice as tall as myself, and massive) must weigh hundreds of tons. They were squat, sinister things, with strange, inhuman faces, large eyes that wrapped around the head, strange snout-lie mouths, and heads that seemed to be adorned in ceremonial helmets. They must have represented the “gods” to the primitive people that inhabited this island long ago. I fancied that no one was alive who could still read the strange history of these stone heads.

I crept closer, noting the bizarre hieroglyphics that adorned the sides of the statues, and running my hand across the rough surface of the rock. I felt a sudden strange feeling rivet me to the spot, as if I was touching an electric dynamo, and I was suddenly flung bodily backward.

I fell to the ground just as a strange shadow crossed the face of the sun. I looked up.

A few inches from my face was the point of a sharpened stick.

I heard some strange jabbering, and footsteps padded out across the dirt.

I suddenly knew I was not alone.

“Island of the Cannibal God” Chapter 2: Shipwreck!

One night, during the “dogwatch”, I went above to find a number of men standing at the bow, looking off into the distance. Soon, I noticed the captain among them, and I crept closer to see what the matter was.

One man was pointing with his finger. The captain soon produced a long glass, and putting his eye to it, pointed it into the distance. He needn’t have bothered with the glass, though, as the amazing phenomenon was plainly visible with the naked eye.

How do I describe what I saw that night. Think of a spinning top, pr a great wheel driven by a turbine, and glowing and shooting off sparks, as, in the distance, it raised into the sky. The colors seemed to encompass the entire spectrum, and the captain soon lowered the glass, and with a pale, shaken face, said, “It’s an omen, my lads. That’s what it is. Mark me. An omen. We may soon find ourselves between the devil and the deep blue…”

He said no more, obviously not wishing to lower the morale of the already shaken, superstitious crew, but continued to stare at the prodigy, as if transfixed. Indeed, the effect of the spinning, lighted wheels emerging from the sea can be described as nothing less than hypnotic. What’s more, they seemed to be growing closer.

The fiery objects grew nearer and nearer, until it was feared that they might, very well, set the sails on fire with their strange sparks. Suddenly there was a roar and tumult, and panic ensued. Men began to run about with pails of water, and one or two dropped to his knees, as if in prayer. I was too astounded to pray, and, thankfully, no one took notice of me or commanded that I do this or that, so my view of the entire thing was uninterrupted…and glorious.

I had never before seen anything so spectacular, and I found myself standing dumbfounded. The entire ship could have caught fire and burned while I stood there, my mouth agape.

After a time, the wheels vanished, seeming to fade as surely as some mirage, but the whole incident left the crew badly shaken, and there were, indeed, now mutinous mutterings going on. The captain seemed to be a doomed man.
***
His idea about omens was oddly prescient.

It was not many days before The Vixen sailed into the most incredible storm I have ever seen. The ship was tossed to and from upon the churning maelstrom, and men lashed themselves to the mast to keep from being thrown overboard. I, the galley slave, was useless to work the rigging, and so I cowered below deck. Until, of course, the water reached my knees.

The ship was sinking. This soon became an undeniable fact. It was soon every man for himself. I went and lashed myself to the mast.

How can I describe the maelstrom of horror and death that followed? The storm buffeted the ship wildly, tossing her back and forth as if she were mere toy. Men fought furiously against the wind and howling rain to lower the sails, and were rewarded by being swept overboard to their watery dooms. Captain Roberts stood like a stonewall of defiance against the churning hell, barking orders into the howling wind, orders that no one could hear. He would soon be swept over board, as well.

There are not words to adequately convey the dire pandemonium of those accursed moments, save that I found myself, finally, in a wildly buffeting lifeboat, fighting furiously with the storm, as behind us, The Vixen went down to her watery grave. It must have been the hand of the Most High God that saved me from joining her.

And my companion aboard this small lifeboat turned out to be none other than my old friend Taylor, whom I did not recognize just then.

For days we drifted upon the still, lifeless face of the water; hungry, thirsty, cowering under the weight of our hopeless fear and exhaustion. At first Taylor held up well, even stoically, reassuring me with promises that we would soon, surely be rescued. But, it was not long before the utter hopelessness of our position began to weigh upon us, and sheer thirst began to drive us, slowly, to the brink of madness. Hunger, too, was a boon companion, but I was keenly aware that lack of fresh water would kill us first.

Above us, the sun beat down mercilessly upon our heads, as we could do little to shield ourselves from its penetrating rays. We lay back in the boat, and, with what presence of mind we still possessed, tried to forget our troubles by sharing little anecdotes and stories from our former lives.

This did not, could not, occupy us long however, and we found it advisable to not even speak, as our lips were parched and our throats now burning for want of water.

The first night I spent meditating upon the vast beauty of the silent heavens, arrayed before us in the jeweled panoply of a million glittering celestial orbs. I had no knowledge of astronomy, but, somehow, those brilliant heavenly bodies seemed to beckon to me, to uplift my soul. I fell asleep, lying upon the floor of the boat, my eyes scanning the stars for some sign of reason or life.

I awoke the next day, thirstier and hungrier by far than I had ever been before in my entire life. Taylor seemed particularly listless, but said, “Very soon, mate. Soon. We’ll put upon some little island. Some little place with fresh water, and trees, and native women with brown bodies baked by the sun. We just have to hold on awhile. It’s bound to happen. I’m not meant to die like this, hyou know.”

But, looking around at the still, calm expanse of ocean, I found it hard to credit how his prediction could ever come true. All I could see, as far as I could see, was more rippling water, more endless sky, and not a sign of land, anywhere. Of course, he said, “These things happen quickly. We could wake up tomorrow and be within sight of the place.”

He would then trail off, his lips dry and cracked, and his eyes would wander sickly across the gebtle waves, and I would be reminded of that line of poetry: water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

I suppose some rather mad, frightening thoughts crept into my head at this time. Thoughts born from the desperate nature of the situation I found myself in. I began to wonder what I would do if Taylor (who, curiously, looked sicker than I felt) was to suddenly die.

Well, I thought, I would push him into the drink, surely.

But, then, what about me?

How would I survive?

How long could I survive without food and drink?

Could blood sustain me, if needs be, for a little while?

Could I drink blood?

Could I, if hungry enough, perhaps consume raw human flesh?

The thoughts began to torment me, and I pushed them from my mind, telling myself that, whatever else may be the case, I was no vampire. Yet, still, drastic as the situation was, I feared I might lose all sense of my sanity, and actually stoop to such a barbaric recourse. Madness, creeping madness, had polluted my mind, and lay curled, like a sleeping python, at the base of my skull.

In a few days the python would awaken.
***
Onward we floated, across a sea as calm as listless as a painting on glass, and Taylor began to grow insensible. He lay on the bottom of the boat, mouthing gibberish through cracked lips, crying and moaning, wailing for his mother, for someone named Barbara, and finally, during one period of lucidity, he beckoned me toward him, and I crawled over on trembling knees and stooped low.

“You can’t leave me alone out here, Taylor. I won’t make it without you.”

“Aye. A fine mess we’ve gotten you into, isn’t my little lad? And old Taylor, it seems, never will see them foreign lands, nor hear them strange songs, nor rest on the brown bosom of a native wench. This is the end of me, lad. I-I’m going…”

This was suddenly broken up by a savage, wrenching cough. He suddenly pulled something from the folds of his tattered shirt, and held it up. It was a silver necklace, with a little locket. He said, “I want you to take this, here, it’s all I got in the world to remember her by. Barb. She was as good a lass as ever man could hope to marry. But I was a wretched scoundrel who heard the call of the sea. And now it is in the watery bosom of the sea where I’ll make my final resting place…” he trailed off, and I took the thing from him. I opened the locket and was astounded to see a portrait of a most beautiful woman inside. So this was Barb, his “fat wife.”

“You once asked me if I had any regrets.”

I didn’t recall ever asking him any such thing, but I said, “Yes. Do you have any, Taylor?”

He lay back his head, his eyes wide and glassy and full of death, and he exhaled once. Then he seemed as if he was going to speak.

Instead he grasped my hand tightly. I could feel the crunch of the bones in my palm as he suddenly let loose with the tell-tale rattle.

Then he died.

I sat beside him, the boat rocking gently back and forth, until darkness claimed the face of the deep.
***
I had a terrible battle within myself, whether or not to simply throw the body over the side of the boat, or to let it lie, in the hpes that it might attract flying scavengers that I could then capture and eat. I even conceived a mad idea whereby I would use the body as bait to attract fish, the thought of which filled my mind with longing for their succulent meat. Of course, I gave up this idea rather quickly when I realized I had no rope, and that, altogether, it was an absurd notion to begin with.

Then I thought about drinking his blood. Would it quench my maddening thirst? How much of it would there be? How much of it could I quaff before becoming violently ill? Perhaps I thought, descending into the blackest pit of my imaginings, I could chew on his flesh, chew through the skin, and receive a measure of moisture that way. And nourishment also. I could live. I could survive another day, roiling in my lifeboat on the damnable, until, surely, God would see fit to deliver me by some means, whether that be rescue or termination. I wished violently for a knife, and thought I might be able to use the edge of the locket.

I then cast the thoughts aside.

I began to violently shudder, and, mercifully just then, the clouds gathered above, and I heard the first rumble of thunder, and it began to rain, and I tried, with all my might, to cup a handful of the stuff and bring it to my lips. I felt, as I collapsed in exhaustion upon the wooden boards, that it was a sign from God.
***
I spent the next, nerve-shattering hours of my perilous adventure hanging on for dear life, as the boat was tossed and turned, and thrown about, and seemed on the verge of capsizing many times. I thought most assuredly that this was the end of me, and sure enough, the boat was finally deluged by a wall of water, and I found myself thrashing madly in the drink, as above the thunder rumbled and the lightening flashed, and the sea churned, like the waters of some black hell, about me.

I began to fight to stay afloat, to thrust against the waves and grab on to what were now merely floating splinters of wood. Something inside of me resisted the idea of death, and it was this fighting spirit that must have sustained me as I stood, perilously, upon the precipice. I began to swim, blindly, with all my might, my mind shrieking defiance of death even as she called me to her cold, sepulchral bosom.

Soon, I grasped a piece of large driftwood, a piece of my former boat, and held on blindly. I was tossed and turned and could see no way to survive.

Curiously though, I did survive.

‘Island of the Cannibal God’ Chapter 1: Kidnapped!

I was kidnapped in San Francisco, while celebrating my gambling wins at a waterfront dive called The Black Teat. I never was an accomplished drunk, but when I cam to consciousness (after falling from the stool with the room spinning) I knew I was in for trouble.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely breathe the stifling air. I was being carried between two Chinamen, down a dimly-lit passage that must have been underground. So, these were the fabled smuggling caverns, eh? There seemed to be a number of cells, lighted by guttering candles, set in odd recesses. Of course, it was down here that they smuggled the opium in. Probably this was where certain paying customers lounged while they smoked the stuff.

No matter. It was where I was going to be held captive until…

I started to come to, to see dimly outlined shapes moving in the darkness. I struggled against my captors, but they only held on tighter, until, coming to a certain barred cell, they thrust me inside, locking the door behind them, and laughing evilly. I lay upon the floor, moaning. My head felt as if it might have exploded.

“Water!” I begged. “Please, just one drink of water!”

But the cruel Chinamen did not respond, and quickly slipped back into the shadow. I began to claw the dirt floor of my cell, wondering what was to become of me, and already picking my brain as to how to get out of my predicament. Soon, despite the shame of it, I found myself weeping in terror, as the guttering flame that lit the cell burned down to total darkness, and I fell to uneasy sleep.

It was not long after that I heard a voice echoing in the darkness. I crawled to the bars of my stone cell, and pulled myself upward, barely able to stand on my own two feet.

“Who’s there?” I inquired anxiously, not sure about what I would get in the way of an answer.

Suddenly, a weird, croaking voice answered back out of the darkness, saying, “Slipped a cat in the darkness, hanged the dry bacon up, while hog butchers seamen milk pink paradise clouds of rapture. My God.”

It was all gibberish and nonsense, but I thought I might not have heard correctly, so I said, “What’s that you are saying? I-I don’t think I heard you properly.”

My question was followed by an indescribably burst of filthy language from the shambling figure in the next cell, followed by a fit of coughing. I realized with dismay that, undoubtedly, this was one of the opium smokers who, like the fabled lotus eaters of The Odyssey, was kept a prisoner of time by his strange addiction. And, possibly, he was a prisoner in a literal sense, too. I did not know, and still don’t, but he kept up a steady stream of insane chatter through the night, until, hours later, the Chinamen came for him. Blessedly, mercifully, the Chinaman brought me a pail of water, which I took greedily while sitting on my knees, the cool water flowing across my parched lips and tounge, and flowing, like a soothing balm, down my throat.

I started to thank my captor, but thought better of it. He didn’t seem to want thanks. I lay back on the dirt floor, and tried to clear my mind, but hunger was gnawing at mu gullet maddeningly, and all I could think of was food.

Unfortunately, the rats that infested the place could think of nothing else, too, and I was quite disgusted and unnerved to see them gather in shambling, shadow clumps on the floor, crawl over my legs, and nibble at my clothing. Their squeak sent my nerves quite on edge, and I feared rat bites greatly. I did the best I could to kick the beasts away from me, and to a degree this acted as a deterrent, but they were a tenacious and beastly menace during those hours, and finally I felt myself succumb to their menacing presence. I began, for the first time, to scream loudly.

This was for a long time ignored, but then, suddenly, a wedge of light appeared in the darkness, and one of the Chinese came through the door, yelling in his own strange language, and opened the bars of my cell. I looked up at him entreatingly, and I saw that there was something in his hand.

It was a blackjack, I realized.

Stars exploded behind my eyes, and the lights went out.

***

When I next awoke, I found myself lying on a table, with a fat, scruffy face peering into my own. It was undoubtedly the face of a physician, but not a kind one; indeed, the eyes were small and glittering black, and very cruel.

He dropped smoke from his cigaretter into my mouth, as he turned to certain shadowy figures standing behind him and said, in a thick German accent, words to the effect that I would live, as long as I had food and medicine.

The food I never got.

The medicine was forthcoming in a weird syrup that was forced down my throat with a funnel. I found what little light I could see dissolving into a smoky mist, as I settled down into the world of phantasms and nightmares.

***

At first, I thought I must surely be dreaming.

I had been running down a labyrinth, like something out of the tales of the Minotaur, being chased by something that I could not see, which always seemed to be just a few paces behind me. Whatever it was was huge, menacing; a tall bogeyman from the realm of terrifying dreams and visions. Suddenly, I found myself knee deep in some puddle or fountain.

I looked down.

I could see something white floating by in the murk.

It was a human arm.

I was standing knee-deep in a fountain of blood.

I began to thrash about madly, as bloody arms thrust themselves to the surface of the pool of gore in which I was sinking, dragging me down to eternal death in the red waters. I screamed, and, suddenly, the scene dissolved into mist, as my consciousness began to restore itself, little by little, and I chased further phantoms (giant rats and man-eating insects) away into the lifting fog of my narcotic-benumbed brain. I turned over in agony, moaning, and suddenly realized I was lying on a hammock, as I quite literally fell out of it.

The walls creaked and groaned, and, as I finally struggled to my feet, I realized that the floor was tilting back and forth at bizarre angles. Before me, a dank and dark room revealed all the accoutrements of a sailing vessel. It did not take me long to realize that I was on a ship.

***

I did not know anything about ships, and this one was crewed by criminals and half-castes of the lowest and most vulgar sort. The captain, whose name was Roberts, was an evil bulldog of a man who seemed hardly to take any notice of me, unless it was to berate me for some perceived personal shortcoming.

“Avast! He’s a lubberly dog, he is! Looks like he’s took with the gripey humors! Hailing from the sucker dock! Why we take on these worthless, bandy-legged, chicken-boned bastards is something that, for the life of me, I’ll never understand.”

After ejaculating in such a manner he would then peer at me with his one good eye, puff furiously at his corncob pipe, and, while, standing so close to me I could smell his fetid, gin-soaked breath, tell me, in no uncertain terms, that if I failed to do anything and everything he ordered he would have me “nailed to the yard-arm, shot, beheaded, thrown overboard, and fed to the whales.” I was sure he wasn’t joking.

Justice was meted out cruelly among the crew, with lashings the preferred method of punishment, and “overboardings” (literally being thrown overboard) being reserved for more serious offenses. The man thus thrown would then be retrieved, often with great laughter and merriment. Curiously, many of these pirates did not seem to be able to swim.

I was soon considered useless as far as being a competent seaman, and was soon thrust, as punishment, into the chain locker. All this time, I was given only a thin bowl of gruel for my dinner, and an old potato. Here I sat in watery darkness for a long while, bemoaning my sorry fate, and wondering where, after this strange, terrible trip was finally over, I would end up. I was horrified at the thought that I might find myself stranded in Peking or Timbuktu.

After what seemed an interminable period of sitting in the darkness, listening to the creak and grown of the boards and a watery and maddening drip-drip-drip, The hatchway was opened and a rather comical face peered in at me.

It was a face somewhat like that of a satyr, with a pointed beard and twinkling eyes. A cruel face to be certain, but not without a modicum of humor mixed into it. It is very difficult, at this late date, to explain, but this man, who was named Taylor, was the closest thing I had to a friend during the whole of this long episode.

“Alright, Cap’n says you’ve had enough. C’mon. We need a man in the galley to peel these here potatoes.”

And so I was put to work peeling potatoes until my fingers felt as if they were made of lead, and blisters burst out all across my palms. At least, however, I was fed decently from then on, and received a small ration of tobacco which I was most greedy and appreciative of.

Taylor often came by to play little jokes on me, like hiding the knife I used for peeling, and always seemed to be possessed of a cruel, toothless grin. I soon found out that he had come to be aboard the ship (which was The Vixen, out of Liverpool) in much the same way as I.

“We’re bound for the Orient, mate. Strange and terrible land, full of oddities a man is liable never to see twice in his life. After that, there’s no going back. Life on the sea changes a man, makes him crawl deep inside himself, and look foir things he never knew existed within himself. You feel bitter now, but soon, you’ll get a look at that sunset over the water, and the rolling waves will rock your anger to sleep, and you’ll find yourself growing to love the sea.”

He was a filthy vagabond of a man, but he spoke with the grace of a poet, and his eyes, as I said before, had a certain luster I cannot explain.

“But aren’t you ever sick for home?” I asked, lamely, as I sat atop a mountain of potatoes with my hands folded between my legs.

He spat, cursed, raised a flask to his lips, looked around sneakily, and said, “Nay. All this that you see is my home now, mate. Before, I was a cobbler with a fat wife, a sickly son, and a house with a leaky roof. Out here, I am a free man, and master of my own destiny, and I set foot in places few white men ever have the privilege to see. Home? You couldn’t drag me back to it kicking and screaming, my friend.”

“But,” I protested, “surely you cannot mean that you are happy in this cruel and wretched place?”

He merely grinned and pulled from his flask again, before putting it back in his coat pocket, and bidding me follow him. I did, and we quickly went up to what they call the fok’sul, or forecastle. I wondered what on earth he could possibly want to show me. Then he said, “Look, look around you. Really look, and see.”

And, as the murmuring wind blew the gentle waves against the side of the ship, and as I saw the sun setting, for the first time in my life, above the water, and saw the deep expanse of blue above, and heard the roar of the gulls as they beat wings against the wind, and perched high in the rigging, I knew, in the creaks and groans of the ancient boards as they drove onward toward their destination, a moment of awe-inspiring, ineffable peace.

***

It was not to last, however.

The crew were a mindless, barbaric, and even sinister lot, given to much drinking, and the captain was little better. They were a lot often “three sheets to the wind” as they say, and so the normal business of sailing The Vixen was often made more difficult. Many fights I witnessed after the scabrous lot had decided to “splice the main brace”, and the captain often restored order by firing his flintlock into the air and threatening any man standing. The crew would then mutter glumly, at which point he would accuse them of being “mutinous and no better than a lot of damned Marines,” before storming off to his cabin.

I saw several men flogged. One humorous man protested, rather lamely, that he should be spared the whip because of the ornate image of Christ that was tattooed there. This did him little good, however, as the reluctant man holding the whip was soon thrust aside, and replaced with a Chinese, who, having a quite different god than the white man, felt no qualms about laying into the sniveling wretch.

The crew invariably gambled, drank, smoked, traded filthy jests and tall tales, and I felt myself stagnating, in an intellectual sense, and growing more and more isolated than one who has been shanghaied in an attempt to “learn him the ropes” and make a sailor of him. I was never going to grow accustomed to this life.

As it all turned out, I didn’t have to.