In the presence of such competence I was glad I had something to offer. The grapes were good, and we ate a quantity while waiting for the meat to be cooked. It was cozy enough lounging in the shade of the boulder. Nevertheless, I still felt subdued.
“Just how do you figure the chances of getting away from here?” I asked, after reflecting on what I had seen on the ridge.
Golias spit a grape seed at a crab six feet away, scoring a hit. “Not good,” he said, helping himself to another cluster.
Coming from someone I regarded as a fourflusher who always filled his hand, this pessimism startled me. On the verge of expostulating, I shut my mouth. He was right.
“I didn’t get a four-way view. Barring the one we came from, are there any islands fairly near?”
“One or two, but as I told you, and even if we could reach them, they’re all tough to get away from. Unless caught in a squeeze the way we were on Aeaea, it’s better to take the dice as they fall. We might run into one of these jobs where you’re held in dalliance for anywhere from seven years to a couple of parrots’ lifetimes.” He gave the wooden spit a quarter turn. “Dalliance is good fun in easy doses, but I’ve got other things to do.”
“Like cooking goats?”
“Like finding a way to get off the island.” He grinned at me. “The chances aren’t good, figured as odds, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
Such vague reassurance failed to comfort me. In the course of two brief conversations we had explored the dimensions of our life. On the one hand was the problem of escape. On the other was food, representing the problem of how to live until we could leave. The larder now being full, I concentrated on ways of making a getaway. Golias was doubtless busy with similar thoughts, for he, too, was silent until the goat roast — the meat was somewhat flat and stringy but far superior to raw crab meat — was done and eaten.
“Did you put a marker where you found that footprint?” he enquired when we were through.
“Not necessary,” I told him. “It’s just beyond a promontory a couple of miles back. I’ll recognize the spot.”
“We’d better look the vicinity over,” he decided, “to see if there are any signs of a regular landing place.”
“Could we build a raft?” I asked, when we had walked in silence for a while. “Burn the logs instead of chopping them, say, and bind ’em with vines.”
He shook his head. “Probably the most marvelous craft that ever floated was a raft, but it cruised a river. In the ocean there’d be no steerage way.”
“We could paddle. No, we couldn’t either,” I agreed, when he gave me a satirical look. “But a sail, then.” I was silent, following this new lead. “Maybe we could get enough goat skins to make one.”
“The sail’s a possibility,” he assented. “Now all we need is something to put it on. A wind strong enough to push a raft would kick up sea enough to flip it over.”
I could see that, but I had another idea. “That mast drifted to the other island with us, because the wind sent the waves that way. Why wouldn’t the raft drift to the mainland when the wind was right? What’s the direction from here?”
“West,” he said. “Everything always comes from the east and goes west.”
“All right,” I said. “Suppose, for the sake of argument, we shoved off with a steady east wind at our tail. We ought to make two or three miles an hour, I should think. How far is it anyhow?”
“I could say a hundred miles, but it might be twice that — doubled again the way we’d travel. Forget that idea. I’m not leaving here on any craft I can’t move or guide.”
He was being practical, but I felt stubborn about giving up the only means of escape I could imagine. “Before we forget it,” I persisted, “let’s calculate the odds. Or if you don’t want to bother, give me a chance to.” The promontory we were seeking was just ahead, but we had come to one of the rare stretches of sand along the rocky shore. “How about making me a map, so I can visualize just what we’re up against?”
“All right, though, even allowing for the medium, drawing isn’t what I get paid for.” He picked up a stick. “These dots are the Archipelago. You’ll have to make your own guess as to which one we’re on, but in any case the nearest point of the mainland is this long peninsula, more or less due west. If we could disregard ocean currents and drift and could count on the wind to take us where we wanted to go, we might do all right. But it’s damned hard to hit a target when you can’t see it and haven’t got any sights. If we slide past the peninsula either to the north or south, it doubles both the time for the trip and the chance of running into storms. Or we could be becalmed for weeks and die that way.”
He looked up to see if I was convinced. I was, but I thought it as good an opportunity as any to learn something about a country I was perforce so anxious to visit.
“Finish your map,” I suggested.
“Deryabar at the tip of Ever After Peninsula,” he said, as he began to extend the lines he had made, “is not only the nearest place to us but the most easterly point of the entire coast. Laterally, then, the Commonwealth extends from there to — ” he stretched as far as he could “ — the western bulge of Pike County. North of the peninsula, after a sweep around the Boss of Arden here, the shoreline runs jaggedly to Utgard. South it is somewhat less irregular but ends with a jolt at Adamastor’s Haunt.
“And so north again.” He completed the line to indicate that the country was entirely sea-bound. “To locate some of the cities, here are Ilium, Carlion, Thebes, Valentia, Parouart, Argos, Troynovaunt, and Gotham. There are any number of others, though it often happens that a single building like the Red Branch, Swallow Barn, or Headlong Hall will overshadow the towns of a district.”
I pondered that information. “What do they do for a living there?”
“They do better than that, Shandon; they live.” Following that pronouncement he commenced drawing again. “Wading Street, running west from Deryabar, is the only highway which cuts completely across the country in either direction. The most extensive natural feature it pierces is Broceliande Forest, which floods all unsettled areas from the Boss of Arden to the Warlock Mountains on the other side of Long River, which more or less, as you see, bisects the land north and south. Between the Warlocks and this generally parallel range to the west, the Titans, is an inland sea known as the Midwater or Gitche Gumee. It — ”
He stopped, because we heard voices, half shouting, half singing. The sounds died away, then came again, as Golias and I looked at each other.
“They’re on the other side of the point,” I whispered. “Right where I saw the footprint.”
“We’d better look ’em over,” he decided. “If they look friendly, good. If not, the only way to stay hidden is to stay where you can keep an eye on whatever you’re hiding from.”
Leaving the beach, he began slithering through the tall grass of the meadow. I wriggled along the swathe he left. It was hot, hard work. I was soon lapped in sweat, most of my muscles ached, my knees and elbows were rubbed raw; and there were insects whose bite was an agonizing itch.
The racket made by the people we were stalking was a help, for it covered the sounds of our progress as well as guiding us. Nevertheless, Golias signaled to me to halt when we reached a certain point. Glad to oblige, I watched him crawl ahead. Then he motioned me to come on.
When I was stretched out beside him I gently pushed a tuft of grass aside and peered down at the beach. A dozen or so savages, naked as ourselves, were prancing about in circular follow-the-leader. All were men, and though they lacked the costume which movies had taught me to expect of redskins, I took them to be Indians. As center piece for their activities, the hot sunlight notwithstanding, there was a large fire. A seated savage was furnishing the only music for the dancers, beating a makeshift drum with both hands. His efforts could only be heard, however, when the others stopped shouting. This wasn’t often, though every now and then their voices would drop to a murmur. Then th
e fellows would reverse their field, hunching their bodies, showing plenty of knee action, waving clubs, and bellowing again.
None of them cracked a smile, and I didn’t find it amusing myself. There is something frightening about solemnity where mirth belongs. The only thing pleasurable in the scene was the presence of two big wooden canoes drawn up on the sand. They suggested that these might be only temporary visitors.
I looked to see how Golias was taking it, but I didn’t have to meet his eyes. The hand which gripped his knife was white about the knuckles. Shortly after I resumed watching, the dancing stopped. Several of the performers made for the canoes, and my tension eased. I thought they were getting ready to leave until I saw them remove another Indian from the nearest dugout.
He was tied hand and foot. I believe he was gagged, too, but it soon made no difference. One of his captors jerked his head back, and a second cut his throat with a stone knife. They held him up then, like a beheaded chicken, to let the blood drain out of him. Even then I didn’t get what they were up to until they ripped him up the middle.
After that they weren’t the only killers there, for I was one in my mind, balked only by my impotence. It was not just the murder; it was the use to which they were going to put their victim. Only a few days before I had learned what a miracle a man’s body is. To think that all its mastery of skills should end as gobbets of chewed flesh was unendurable. I had not known the meaning of sacrilege and profanation. Here were both. There should have been something I could do about it. There was nothing. Hate fizzed up in me so that I had to chew my arm to keep from crying out.
When they had hacked the body apart and skewered it for roasting, Golias signaled for me to follow him away. “No use watching the end of it,” he said, when we were out of hearing.
My head hanging, I didn’t say anything. It was bad enough to have watched without talking about it.
“We’ve got a chance of getting away from here now,” he went on. “If you’re willing to risk it, that is.”
Both the hope and the challenge brought my head up. “With the canoes? But how?”
“If they run true to form, they’ll gorge on that redskin they’re barbecuing, then sleep it off. It’s not as simple as that,” he cautioned me, as my face brightened. “They landed, being sea-wise, after the tide started to go out. The canoes are high and dry and won’t be launched until the water reaches them again. That’s our margin of time, but it’s no use to us if they wake before the water gets to the dugouts. We could move them a little way — I hope — but not far without kicking up a fuss. Should we wake those lads — ” He shrugged. “If we hit the same stomach, a horn of mead says I’ll beat you to the pylorus.”
He looked at me steadily as he said that, and I made myself stare back at him. At the same time I didn’t hurry my decision.
“We might not get another chance,” I muttered.
“If we do, it’s apt to be the same one. It seems probable that these fellows make regular stops here. The odds for us will be unchanged, though.”
Still I looked from the island to myself, then at the empty waters. “Let’s go back for the goat meat and cut ourselves a couple of clubs,” I said finally.
Even though we took our time, we were too prompt. The sands about the feasters were scattered with freshly gnawed bones, but the meal was still in progress. Bleakly we watched them as they tore at the flesh. Their bellies were swollen, but they ate everything except the feet and the head. The latter, stuck on a pole, watched the gorging with drooping lids.
Well before the last bite was bolted, Golias showed himself a prophet. The heat and the overeating brought on sleep. One by one, like bloated slugs, they sought the shade of rocks or shrubbery and commenced snoring. Only one man stayed on guard.
From then on there was nothing to do but watch the tide, which was already setting in. It did not inch up the beach. It would surge to a point, then let that mark stand for minutes before it pushed on again. Meanwhile one or more of the sleepers would grunt and shift position.
The water got to within a yard of the canoes, and I touched Golias’ arm. He shook his head, and again when the distance was halved. By the time foam touched the nearest dugout a savage was sitting up, yawning and scratching his chest. I was convinced we had missed our time, but Golias still looked from the cannibals to the water and back like a cat watching two mouse holes.
Three men had rejoined the sentry near the remains of the fire by the time Golias rose to a crouching position. He looked in my eyes, and I knew he wanted to see what I hoped was there. At his nod I drew my knees up under me.
“Now!” he whispered.
We were halfway to the canoes before one of the Indians shouted the alarm. We had reached them before they had collected themselves enough to see what we were after. Simultaneously I was making a discovery of my own. Golias had known what he was talking about when he had waited for the water to get well up under the craft we were trying to launch. The big canoe was heavy and moved grudgingly.
“Try the other one!” Golias gasped. “It might sit lighter.”
That proved so. We shoved it two feet. Then I almost fell on my face, for the vessel started to slide. We got no farther. I had dropped my club to push, but I caught up a paddle as the cannibals rushed us. Bending to do so saved my life, for a spear zinged past my ear.
As I sprang to join Golias, the lead savage fell away from his knife, trying to hold his guts in place. Four others were a jump behind, and I swung my paddle. Catching one on the jaw, it felled him. Of the remaining three, two ducked back. The third was tripped by the man I had downed. Unluckily for him he stumbled forward, and Golias slit his throat.
The second echelon of Indians was by then halfway to us. The two survivors of the first were waiting for them, so we had a respite a shaved second long.
“I’ll hold ’em!” I yelled. “Shove! Jesus! What are you doing that for?”
He had vaulted into the unlaunched canoe, but I was too busy to watch him. Seeing me alone, the two lurking redskins closed in. A step behind, the rest of the band came leaping.
Had they been ordinary foemen they might have snowed me under. I would have fought, but not as I did fight, knowing them to be man-eaters. A few days earlier my flesh had been coveted, and I had merely squealed. Now the case was different. All hate and anger powered the blow I swung at them.
Again I stove in a man’s face, but this time they were too many to be stopped. The one who grazed me with a spear thrust got the butt end of the paddle in the mouth, but another ducked under my arms. I went down under a pile of them, of which the man who had tackled me wasn’t one. He lay still under me after the treatment I gave his neck.
In the scramble they couldn’t always be sure whom they were fighting, while I could never be in doubt. Nevertheless, I had a rough time before I broke a man’s grip, his thumb along with it. It was when I was getting to my feet that I saw why I had been able to break away. Golias was pulling his knife out of an Indian’s back.
“Come on!” he snapped.
Turning, I staggered toward the canoe, now afloat and drifting a few feet off shore. With a lunge I flopped over the gunwale, started to rise, then fell full length, as the dugout shot seaward.
“Grab a paddle!” Golias ordered, as he dove over the bow.
The five or six able-bodied Indians were shoving out the other canoe, which didn’t take them as long as I wished it would. Yet when they hauled themselves aboard, they didn’t start paddling. Instead they took to the water again and sloshed toward us. Two men weren’t enough to maneuver the big dugout fast. Luckily the rollers were small in the shelter of the promontory. We made headway toward the smoother water beyond the shallows, and I saw we were gaining on the wading cannibals.
Seeing that, too, the one who led them started to swim. He went faster thus and actually got a grip — we were still backing away, half paddling and half shoving — on the bow of the craft. His comrades gave a shout of triumph which h
e drowned out in a cry of pain. Golias had reached forward, and the clutching fingers slid down inside the canoe.
That was their last effort. They were wading ashore, as we turned the dugout to head toward the open sea. It was not until we were well out that I took the rest I needed. Aside from the spear graze, I was bruised, shaken, scratched, nicked, and scraped. My head ached, and my right eye was closing. Meanwhile the exhilaration of action had gone flat in me. The incident just concluded absorbed my attention, but as if it were something which had happened to someone else.
After mulling over the action I realized that a facet of it puzzled me. “Why didn’t they use their canoe?” I enquired.
Golias looked tired, too, but he grinned over his shoulder. “For one thing, we’ve got their paddles,” he said. “Do you think we ought to return them?”
4
Driving for the Mainland
THE CANOE was seaworthy, but our position was not otherwise good. We had provided ourselves with goat’s meat wrapped in pieces of hide tied around our respective waists. Golias still had his chunk, but I had lost mine in the scrimmage. Carrying water had been out of the question. We had had to chance it that the savages, who had presumably carried some sort of supplies on their trip to the island, had left some water aboard. They had left very little.
From the moment I knew that my thirst began. “How far away do you think those fellows live?” I asked, dipping my paddle to keep us from swinging side on to the waves.
“Probably not too far,” Golias answered. “The trouble is we don’t want to go there. I’ve had my fill of cannibals and don’t want them to have their fill of us. The only thing we can do is to head west and hope. Luckily the wind’s with us.”
When we were worn out with paddling, there was nothing for it but to let the waves and the wind take the craft as they would. In the light seas it floated like a cork and seldom shipped any water. We took on only a little water ourselves, being able to afford only a sip at a time.
Silverlock (Prologue Books) Page 4