The Urn

by G. Wells Taylor

  I used my tinderbox to start the fire, and from there would light thin wooden tapers I’d made from kindling to set flame to candle or lamp—all sources of illumination that I consumed sparingly, with a mind toward conservation similar to that which I directed at the matches remaining to me. Since all depended upon substances that were not natural to those environs, once they were exhausted they would be irreplaceable.

  It seemed that for me, the greatest challenge would be to avoid becoming a meal myself.

  For the first days of my exile, and for the weeks that followed, I became more and more aware of my savage neighbors. A sighting was often foretold when the noisy jungle fell silent.

  On such occasions I might see the spotted coat of a great yellow cat, flitting through high branches or stationary, a black-furred beast watching me with burning eyes from the bough of a distant tree. My angry curses did nothing more than draw a deathly silence or at most a throaty growl.

  Each and every night from my handmade bed, I heard movement outside my home. Sleek and powerful bodies slid through the long grasses and broad-leafed undergrowth. Soft and cautious footfalls padded close, and once I had to make a great noise to scare something large and heavy from off of my roof.

  The creatures of the jungle had swiftly lost their fear of me, and now I feared they were developing an appetite.

  Perhaps the curious smells and foreign textures of my yurt would keep them unsettled, even skittish for now—as they must have while I was building the structure, but I could not doubt that time would draw them closer still, as even now some must have wished to explore my scent further or to set their teeth in my flesh.

  I would take comfort in my bladed weapons and loaded pistol at such times, knowing that they gave me some small margin to hope. So long as I kept a wary eye, I would have an answer for the beasts.

  But there were other times that left me searching for a response. Alarming times, like when I saw evidence that my master’s grave had been disturbed. I found marks in the black soil at the base of the tree like something had been digging at his final resting place, but had been frightened off before plundering its contents.

  At night I had no response to give, for all beasts ruled the jungle after dark, so they’d have their way, but in the daytime? No! One afternoon with axe in hand I chased a monstrous dog-like beast away. It took everything in me to overcome my terror of it, for the ugly thing was shaped like a spotted demon from the pit.

  It skulked off quickly as I approached, hideous head held low on its swinging neck, with its flashing forelegs twice the length of those in back—and all the while it screamed at me like a man beset with madness.

  I was glad it had kept on running.

  One of those devil-dogs finally dug deep enough to scratch the surface of the urn, and I pledged to be more vigilant in the future—day or night—as I heaped earth and stones over the desecrated grave.

  I kept a wary eye for the devil-dogs—and the big cats too, they always came to my mind with fear; but they did not disturb me as profoundly as the wild men did when they appeared.

  At first, I smelled these strange creatures, before I saw them. A funky scent of sweat and dirt crept out of the surrounding jungle—almost human, it was, but so thick was the surrounding brush, that I only got a glimpse of them—half-realized, gigantic and fur-covered shapes that sank quietly into the greenery.

  I did not know what to think.

  I finally saw these creatures on the fifth week, though I had smelled them in the days before this. They never did come closer than the edge of the wood that grew around to the north, east and south—so again, this was only a glimpse; but they were covered with dark hair, these wild men and were of enormous muscular proportions.

  They lurked about the foliage watching me; their eyes gleaming in demonic faces.

  At first, I imagined they were otherworldly; the things from Szgany tales. Brothers to the Ördög himself, these monsters were black enough, though the high grasses and plants obscured their lower extremities, so I did not know if they had hooves and pointed tails as the legends said—or if they slithered about on their bellies like snakes.

  Certainly, their thick and bony brows looked strong enough to bear the large, sharp horns of the demon myth.

  But worst of all, I could not stand their hideous countenances, nor the sinister scrutiny they directed at me through their red-rimmed, piggish eyes. It so disturbed me that I took to firing at them with my pistol at any sighting.

  The thunderclap of noise was enough at first to send them running, but in time they grew bolder, even as I became accustomed to the range and caused fur to fly when my pistol flashed.

  Finally, I came to think of them less as men than beasts, for in their efforts to escape my smoking pistol they displayed their full measure and strength.

  Man-like they were but so grotesque in shape and multiplied many times in size and weight, to suggest they were a mockery of the human form. Many hundreds of pounds each of them were, though the males were as larger by three times than the square-bodied females.

  Again like a parody of the human form, the awkward brutes carried their mass on long, thick arms, leaning forward on closed fists, swinging and ambling with their short hind legs flying. Despite their grotesque bodies they moved quickly through the thick plant life, and almost flew when they took to the tree branches, and swept themselves from hand to hand into the distance.

  At a distance, these great beasts howled their hate at me in a garble of strangled noises, now like the hideous approximation of the human voice. They shook the trees that overhung and edged the clearing, snapping stout branches in their rage; but it seemed they quickly came to understand the lethal danger that my pistol represented, and only those foolish or fearsome enough dared to come within its range.

  There were many in this group of wild men, and it was strange to me that such large creatures could move so quickly and quietly—a skill that ever kept my nerves on edge. They came and went at their leisure, sometimes snacking on the berries that grew at the jungle’s edge.

  After their first visit, I knew I would only be happy when their wandering took them elsewhere.

  As time went on, my aim and accuracy became much more dangerous since using a pistol with limited caps, shot and powder called for nothing less. So, while I did most of my hunting with snares, I would if I sighted such a thing hunt for creatures that would provide variety or bounty for my table.

  So, the wall across from my fireplace was soon decorated with the horned skulls of forest antelopes. Their pelts made warm covers for my bed after I had scraped and dried them on the crude balcony before my door.

  The skulls of forest pigs, and monkey skins were also added to the wall, though never had I been able to add the skull or pelt of a big cat to my collection, so fast and sly were they.

  I kept my long knife in my belt on the hip opposite the pistol and never traveled about the clearing without my sword slung over my shoulder. But I was ever worried about the diminishing supply of ammunition for the gun, so did what I could to design weapons of my own making.

  I had fashioned a thrusting spear by sharpening a long, stout sapling trunk, and I was also working on a serviceable bow and arrow, though I knew that would take some doing since I had little knowledge of their true design.

  I had seen slingshots used by the other boys in the Gypsy camp, but I had not yet time to make one. They also did not seem suitable as defense against the creatures I had so far seen.

  Hunger and fear was a great tutor, however, so I knew I would work on them in the time to come.

  I was relieved to find that the wild men would leave for weeks on end, and supply me with a break from their terrible presence, during which I could focus on the big cats and devil-dogs that inhabited the jungle forest. Those were not as canny as the hairy men, and like most of the other animals could be scared off by my voice hurling curses. While that was an encouraging thing, I knew it would not last.

 
Those beasts, the cats especially, applied their teeth and fangs in pure surprise, and seeing one, might very well distract me from the one that lurked behind.

  I noticed also, in this time, that the tree by the master’s grave had changed, and at first I blamed the creatures that had molested the earth at its roots.

  The curious tree had dropped all its leaves, and its long seed pods had fallen like spears, their sharp points thrusting into the earth to form a palisade around the master’s headstone.

  The bark on the tree’s bulbous trunk had also changed. What once had been bright and green, was now dark and threaded through with black and purple lines.

  I briefly considered digging the urn up to move it but realized I would need greater cause than a disfigured tree to disturb such hallowed ground.

  2nd May, 1894

  My beard grew as the months passed and I struggled to remain mindful of it. I had tried to keep it bobbed close to my chin with quick slashes of my long knife but the chore slipped my mind with all my other work at hand, and so, I turned around at times to find its longest gray threads tangling in my teeth as I dined or wagging down near my belt as I paced the beach.

  I did what I could to maintain the semblance of civilization about myself, and tried to bathe each time I washed my clothing at the shore whenever it became too rank and oily for even me to bear. But, I had found a bar of soap amongst my sea-swept swag and I figured it would last a year or more at the rate I was using it.

  I had taken to wearing my old fur hat. I found its snug fit comforting, and worth the lines of sweat it sent running down my neck at midday. It kept the moisture out when it rained and stopped the clouds of insects from burrowing under my scalp whenever the vast swarms pestered the area.

  Perhaps my ability to consider such a thing marked my life progressing, though I found time moved strangely there, with even the African seasons difficult to tell one from the other.

  Beautiful orchids and fragrant flowers of every color and description bloomed at varied intervals, often overlapping, and too disparate to relate to any particular growing period, just as the abundant fruit ripened on its own schedule independent of other fruits or observable factors. I supposed that related directly to the climate in which I found myself.

  For the most part, it shifted between exceedingly hot day and night with lots of cloud cover, while slipping for days into an almost constant rain—and hence the adoption of my old hat.

  Regardless, the jungle sounds pervaded, only diminishing by some small degree at night, when the rain fell, or when a large carnivore was about.

  And it was like the changing of the guard as daytime insects, birds and animals exchanged their positions with the creatures that did their living in the dark.

  The variously vocal insects, birds and animals were both a blessing and a curse. Those I could eat were welcome, but there were dangerous beasts in the jungle vastness about me and so the harmless animals could be torture to my ears or distract me, even though some of those creatures provided warning calls about these possible threats.

  But making such distinctions would take much more exposure for me to recognize, and so if I wished to be out of my shelter for any length of time total focus was required and complete detachment from any intellectual pursuits that did not pertain to my immediate environment.

  In this way I found I was a better hunter, and only in this way was I able to survive. In time, this focus allowed me to sense the approach of many jungle beasts. My mind had sharpened along intuitive lines, and my instincts allowed me to smell some of them coming, even from far away.

  I soon learned to follow the cadence, pitch and roll of the general jungle sounds—and listen for any change. It was like a coded language that could be deciphered by anyone who understood the key.

  Even if the noise drove me mad at times.

  Then came one afternoon when the sky had become gray, and the jungle noises had fluctuated, growing more urgent before fading down to silence as the abundant life around me began to recognize the true character of the coming storm.

  When the clouds turned black, and the ocean waves were crashing toward the trees, I knew that a most terrible maelstrom was brewing.

  Ironically, such foul weather was safer for me, as few of the jungle beasts could abide the lightning strikes and thunder; so they sought out shelter in the forest depths, but errant dangers remained. Some creatures found no such safety and were driven mad in the open clearing where they crashed around my yurt, somehow aware of the inner refuge, and seeking some mode of entry.

  In the past a simple shout or pistol shot had scared away whatever wanted in, for with a wad of paper instead of a precious lead ball in place, the black powder still provided a deafening crash when it was ignited.

  But this day, as the extremity of weather grew worse, I made my way back to the yurt after spending several minutes on the shore watching the breakers, and wondering aimlessly if this new disturbance might cast some other valuables up from the deep.

  My supply of lead shot had grown dangerously low after a recent challenge from a few of the more courageous wild men. I did not relish the day when the rounds ran out, and the question of their replacement had hung over me.

  But the black sky and sea refused to answer, hiding its dangerous intent behind the wind that snatched the froth from the ocean waves and cast it inland.

  I paused on my way to the yurt, and drew my sword for I saw a hairy body lying prostrate on the master’s grave. I slowed on the path and approached cautiously as the wind buffeted and the rain began to pelt down.

  It was one of the devil-dogs with the mismatched limbs. The beast had dug deep, and exposed the urn itself. Cursed fiend! It must have been in hiding earlier as I strode past to the shore, only coming out again to finish its task.

  In trembling hands I held my sword, inching closer to it. I was prepared to draw my pistol and expend valuable lead, but I knew a well-placed thrust could prove as lethal—where the mere sight of me had driven them off before.

  Was it deaf? The devil-dog had not moved.

  Lightning struck near the beach and I started as the dazzling light sent my shadow over the beast by the grave. Still, it lay motionless.

  I snarled at the clouds to steel my nerve. With sword before me, I stepped closer still. Then I saw the thing’s wicked eyes were open and staring. Its hideous black muzzle was flecked with dirt and its powerful jaws and exposed fangs hung into the dark hole it had dug. Just inside, I saw the urn. Its surface had been scraped by the beast’s claws—and stained with streaks of blood.

  Blood?

  Lightning flashed again, and a vicious crack of thunder detonated over the clearing. So violent was the blow that the nearby trees came alive with noise as the nested birds reacted fearfully to the sound.

  I knelt to study the beast by the grave. It was dead—surely—but I poked it with my sword again to be sure. I did not know the things enough to trust, and it wore the look of nightmares.

  “Devil,” I whispered, nudging it with my sword point again.

  It was dead; so I grabbed it by the right hind leg and rolled it away from the open grave until it came to rest upon its back. It was dead, indeed.

  Its throat had been torn open; the thick hide was matted with clotting blood.

  I steadied myself in a crouch and cast about the clearing as the long grasses snapped in the wind. A devil-dog! Its brother then had killed it over the spoils, and yet lurked...or had one of the wild men come upon it?

  The clouds rumbled, power building and the jungle life raised a din to fill the void.

  There was a crackling sound in the long grass to my right. A weight had settled on brittle stems close by—and I glanced at the dead devil-dog, imagining the coming battle with another of its kind.

  Then to my dismay, I realized the jungle had gone deathly quiet, and in place of a thousand birds and animals, there was a sharp resonant clicking coming from within the long grass.

  I leapt up a
nd ran toward the yurt, only passing ten feet before the storm arrived with all its vehemence, releasing a blinding flash of lightning and deafening crash of thunder.

  I kept my sword up as I ran, half turning with the other hand poised to draw my pistol. If the powder were wet...it would not fire.

  And I could not climb to safety without one hand free!

  Behind me, I had no doubt, something followed that caused the wind-whipped grasses to jerk and sway. The clicking continued, but now I heard scrabbling claws on dead branches, as leaves and grass snapped against hard flesh and muscle.

  I kept on toward the yurt, and leapt for the lowest rung of the ladder. There was no time. I had seen beasts killed in the jungle, and it took no time at all. In a flash it happened.

  One second to look aside and the jaws closed over the victim’s windpipe.

  The clicking continued, repetitive, coming louder now and slowing: Clack! Clack! As if two stones were striking together—or like some beast was taking its position to strike.

  Thunder roared and rain poured down in a torrent as I leapt for the fifth slippery rung of the ladder.

  The rain hammered down upon my shoulders as I heaved myself upward rung to rung, and I barely suppressed a cry of joy when I saw the door before me. I scrambled onto the platform, and dropped my sword to lash up with an open hand to grab the leather loop I used to unlock it, and in a desperate second it swung inward so I could launch myself through the portal.

  As I scrambled in, something caught at my boots behind me, so I pushed forward with my wet hands fumbling and failing to close the door completely. Cursing, I pulled my feet inside and kicked clear of the frame as the door opened after me.

  I slid backward until my shoulders struck the far wall, then violently shoved a chair aside as I drew my pistol and aimed at the open door, praying the powder was dry. I slowly drew the long knife with my free hand as I waited, realizing grimly that with the devil-dog, my single shot would have to be lethal.