“If our supplies get low, we can always come back here and get more,” Gwen says.
It’s a long shot, but Ishmael agrees. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Right,” Gwen concludes. “So tomorrow we leave.”
When Ishmael glances at Billy, he looks away.
The decision has been made: Mikal will cease. Later that evening, when it’s dark, a pyre of branches, sticks, and dried leaves burns at the lagoon’s edge, orange and yellow flames leaping while red sparks fly overhead to mix with the stars and then fade. Fayaway sits beside Ishmael, her face flushed with the apricot light, and her long dark hair glowing. Night-blooming flowers release their perfumed scents, and again music plays. Ishmael knows without asking that the islanders will stay as long as the fire burns, watching over Mikal while he rejoins the elements from which they all sprang, to become part of something new in the great cycle of life, death, and renewal that pervades every corner of the universe.
The next day, Ishmael and Queequeg are crouched over a net on the beach, picking out scurry. A shadow falls over them. It’s Fayaway.
“What art ye doing?” she asks.
When Ishmael tells her that they are preparing provisions for their search for the Pequod, her face falls, and she hurries away.
“I get the feeling she’s not real happy about that,” Queequeg says.
Ishmael watches Fayaway go, wondering if he should follow. But what could he say or do?
A few minutes later, Diana and Gabriel approach across the sand, both looking agitated. Ishmael and Queequeg rise to greet them.
“’Tis true ye’ve seen our terrafins?” Diana’s bearing is severe.
“Your terrafins?” Queequeg repeats with a scowl.
“I came upon them by accident,” Ishmael says. “Fayaway told me to keep them a secret, so I did.”
Diana turns to Gabriel. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis why they art in such a hurry t’ get back t’ their ship.”
“No, it’s because Billy’s better,” Ishmael says.
Diana snorts derisively. “’Twill tell them of the terrafins and ’twill come here and take it all.”
“Take all of what?” Queequeg asks, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“They can’t be allowed t’ go, ever!” Diana vehemently tells Gabriel.
Gabriel gives Ishmael a grave look, but before he can speak, a voice down the beach suddenly screams, “Thistle!” Ishmael is almost certain it was Fayaway who cried out.
Islanders are pointing at the sky, where a huge winged beast is flapping away, the tiny figure of a struggling girl clenched in its talons.
Gabriel and Diana dash toward the outriggers. Gwen comes running up. “Did you see it? It took Thistle!”
“The chase boat!” Ishmael yells to his crew. By now some of the islanders are in outriggers, paddling madly, but the winged beast is already growing smaller in the sky. The chase boat is the only vessel that stands a chance of keeping up with the giant flyer.
Billy joins them as they shove the boat into the water and climb aboard. Ishmael tries the engine. The RTG starts, then quits.
“Not this again!” Gwen groans.
Ishmael restarts the engine, and this time it keeps going and they accelerate past the outriggers and out of the lagoon. As they splash across the ocean, they watch the creature swing west, Thistle a tiny dark spot in its claws.
“For Earth’s sake, don’t drop her!” Gwen cries into the wind.
Thankfully, the beast is flying at an unhurried pace, certainly unaware that it’s being followed. Ishmael trails at a safe distance.
Behind them, the island grows smaller and more distant. Queequeg shoots Ishmael a concerned glance. Ishmael suspects that his friend is wondering how far they’ll go in this chase, and what they’ll do when — or if — it eventually ends. Gwen and Billy, however, never look back; their eyes stay fixed on the giant flyer and its prey.
A strip of green appears on the horizon and slowly grows, rising and broadening into a jagged coastline of cliffs with tall emerald mountains in the background. The beast flies toward the shore. If this is another island, it’s much bigger than the one they just left.
“What now?” Queequeg asks.
Ishmael doesn’t know. Unless the chase boat grows wings, they won’t be able to follow the creature inland.
“There!” Gwen points at a broad, murky river emptying into the ocean from between the cliffs.
“Think we can go up it?” Billy asks.
“We’ll find out.” Ishmael steers toward the mouth of the river, where the sea goes from sparkling blue to muddy brown. The riverbanks are jammed with thick green trees dotted with long-necked white flyers that burst into the sky when the chase boat nears. The air begins to feel warm and moist.
Queequeg points off the starboard side, where large river creatures with bumpy green snouts, bulging eyes, and long, pointed teeth watch them for a moment before slowly receding into the turbid depths. Billy and Gwen take their eyes off the flying creature long enough to glance worriedly at the beasts, and then look up again.
As they travel up the river, the banks begin to narrow, the tree canopy sometimes blocking their view of the huge flyer and Thistle. Soon the roar of rushing white water is in their ears. The river squeezes into a torrent. Ishmael has to gun the RTG to keep the boat headed upstream while he steers around the massive rocks that jut up from the riverbed. The crew hold tight as the chase boat struggles against the surging current.
Finally, the river grows too narrow and rocky, and the deluge too strong. Ishmael has no choice but to nose into the tree-lined bank, where the crew jump out and pull the boat partway out of the water.
They stand on the rocky shore, trees and thick green undergrowth on one side, the turbulent river on the other. Clouds of tiny insects swarm overhead, and feathery flyers dart from branch to branch. Pointing at a tall, limbless tree, Ishmael shouts to Billy over the river’s roar, “Can you climb that? Maybe you can see where it went.”
Like a born islander, Billy scampers up the tree. Near the top he points at a nearby peak. “I th-think it landed up there!” He scrambles back down. “We’ll need some l-line from the boat.”
Moments later, with coils of red rope over their shoulders, the crew start through the jungle. Billy has taken the lead, hacking with his knife through the thick underbrush. There are broad silken webs and nasty-looking eight-legged vermin to avoid, while flyers screech in the trees and delicate metallic-blue creatures flutter and dance in the air around them.
Their path begins to slant uphill, and they have to find handholds among the tree branches and vines to pull themselves along. From the undergrowth come the scratching and slithering of unseen creatures fleeing through the thick brush. Now and then the limbs of trees rustle and clatter when some larger beast is startled into a quick departure. Recalling the stories about the dangers of the mainland, Ishmael, Gwen, and Queequeg cast jittery glances at one another, but Billy forges ahead with single-minded determination.
The slope becomes steeper and the ground rockier. The air grows cooler and drier. There’s less foliage up here, and between the last remaining trees they can see the rocky crown of the peak.
Billy stops to catch his breath, then presses a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
Sounds of whimpering are coming from somewhere above.
“Thistle?” he calls.
The whimpering stops. Several dozen feet above them, Thistle’s face pokes out from a rocky ledge. Her cheeks are smudged with dirt and tears. Her eyes widen when she sees the chase-boat crew.
“Is the flyer up there?” Billy calls.
“’Twent away.”
“Can you climb down?”
“Art scared.”
“It’s okay. We’ll come get you.” Billy turns to the others, who hold on to roots and rocky edges to keep from slipping down the steep grade. “Who’s coming with me?” he asks while tying one end of the red rope around his waist. He plays
out a couple of dozen yards and then secures the other end around the base of a tree. Ishmael volunteers and ties a line around his own waist.
“You guys sure about this?” Gwen asks uncertainly. From where they stand to the crown of the peak is about forty feet of steep bare rock. A fall could spell death.
Billy nods determinedly. Ishmael wishes he shared his crewmate’s confidence.
“We’ll keep a lookout for the flyer,” Gwen says.
“Good luck, friends,” Queequeg adds somberly.
Billy and Ishmael begin to climb. It’s slow, painstaking toil, and they’re not even halfway to the peak when there’s a sudden loud flapping of wings. Gwen shouts a warning and Thistle screams from above. Billy and Ishmael look up just in time to see huge, outstretched claws diving toward them.
Crash! The creature slams into the rocks where, at the very last instant, Billy and Ishmael have squeezed into tight crevices. The flyer gives a shrill cry and flaps back into the air, kicking up dust as it prepares for another strike.
Heart thudding in his ears, Ishmael crams himself deeper into the shadows and braces himself.
But the second strike doesn’t come. Instead, the creature flaps higher. Thistle screams again.
Everything goes still. In his shadowy crevice, Ishmael presses a cheek against cool rock and waits for his heart to slow down.
“You guys okay?” Queequeg calls from below.
“Yeah,” Billy calls back, hidden in a cranny. “Thistle? You okay?”
Silence. There’s no way to know. Ishmael leans out from between the rocks to try to see.
Snap! A beak filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth spears down, missing him by inches. Ishmael jerks back into the rocks, his pulse galloping. Had he been a second slower, the creature would have had his head.
“Billy?” he whispers. “Any ideas?”
“Not yet” comes the reply.
Across the river valley, the cliffs are beginning to glow a golden hue; the sun will be setting soon. Once it’s dark, it will be almost impossible to climb back down from this rocky peak. And what are the chances that Thistle will still be there in the morning? They don’t even know if she’s okay now.
A loud rustle of leaves comes from the canopy below when some unseen creature leaps from one branch to another. On the sun-bathed peak across the river, Ishmael catches a quick movement of shadow when the huge flyer above them turns in the direction of the sound.
He has an idea, and calls down to Queequeg and Gwen: “Climb up a tree, but stay out of sight.”
A few minutes later, when Queequeg and Gwen are in position, Ishmael tells them to rattle some branches. They do so, and once again, the shadow on the sun-bathed peak turns in the direction of the sound.
“See that?” Ishmael whispers to Billy.
“Yeah.”
“Get ready to climb fast.”
“Gotcha.”
Ishmael whistles, and Queequeg and Gwen shake the branches again.
While the flyer is distracted, Billy and Ishmael slip out of their hiding places and scramble up to higher crevices. A minute later, they do it again. Soon, they’ve reached a spot just below the ledge.
Ishmael lets out a long, low whistle, the signal for Gwen and Queequeg to start thrashing branches like crazy.
“Now!” Ishmael whispers to Billy, and they both pull themselves onto the ledge.
Before them is a large, rocky nest. Ishmael’s spirits are buoyed when he sees Thistle on her hands and knees beside one of the creature’s huge clawed feet. Thistle’s mouth falls open, and Ishmael quickly presses a finger to his lips. Now he sees a new problem: The enormous flyer is standing on her long black hair to keep her from escaping.
Gwen and Queequeg are still rattling branches, but it’s hard to know how long they can keep the flyer distracted. Ishmael inches deeper into the nest, careful not to make a sound. Soon he’s close enough to feel the warmth of the creature’s body over him. At last, he’s on his hands and knees beside Thistle, sliding his knife from its sheath and gesturing to her hair. But Ishmael quickly discovers that it is not easy to cut hair with a knife. Locks slide and pull away. He must regather them again and again, and it is impossible to cut without pulling painfully against Thistle’s scalp.
As soon as he’s able to free her, Thistle immediately skitters away, determined to crawl over the ledge and clamber down by herself. When Ishmael tries to grab and stop her, the knife clatters out of his hand.
Above them, the flyer starts, swinging its long neck around until its eye — the size of a large treestone — is staring unblinking at the two humans crouched at its feet. Ishmael can feel its breath on his face.
Snap! The huge bill darts down, but Ishmael nimbly rolls out of reach.
Thistle cries out when the flyer closes one claw around her and starts to flap its wings. Quickly Ishmael unties the rope from his waist and loops it around the creature’s free leg.
A cloud of dirt and dust rises as the flyer begins to take flight.
But an instant later, the line from its leg to the tree below goes taut.
The flyer lets out a bellowing caw and crashes back into the nest.
The last thing Ishmael hears is Thistle scream.
Then everything goes black.
Hands are dragging him across rough, jagged rocks. Close by, the flyer shrieks and convulses as it snaps at the rope around its leg. Ishmael is pulled over the ledge, then bumped down through the rocks to the loose stones and gravel, where he slides into the underbrush and thuds into the trunk of a tree.
Dazed, the edges of his vision going dark, he lies on the ground, barely aware of the commotion on the ledge above. Then Queequeg’s blurred face comes into view, blood running from a deep gash on his chin. “Come on, beautiful.” Ishmael feels hands dragging him farther down the hill. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Is he making a joke? Ishmael wonders groggily as they struggle through the underbrush. “What about . . . uh . . . ?” He can’t retrieve her name.
“Thistle? Billy’s got her.”
“And Gwen?”
“She’s okay.”
As Queequeg half drags and half carries him through the thickening brush and trees, Ishmael’s thoughts slowly begin to clear, despite the painful throbbing in his skull. “I think I can walk.”
Queequeg helps him to his feet. The gash on his friend’s chin isn’t bleeding anymore, but damp blood sticks to the wound.
Ishmael tries to take a step — and starts to list like a sinking ship.
“Whoa!” Queequeg catches him and hoists him onto his shoulders. “Nice try, Twinkle Toes.”
With Queequeg carrying him, the way down to the riverbank is treacherous. Queequeg teeters under branches and around tree trunks. Several times he almost loses his footing. Ishmael can hear branches snapping and rocks crunching as the others struggle to descend as well.
Soon there’s another sound: the rushing of water. The air becomes warm and moist. When they reach the shore, Queequeg has Ishmael sit on a rock. The taste of iron is in Ishmael’s mouth — blood.
Billy comes through the trees, carrying Thistle, her face dirty and a patch of her black hair chopped short. When Gwen arrives, Billy orders everyone into the boat. Even in his wobbly state, Ishmael finds it hard to believe that this is the same boy who cried himself to sleep in the men’s berth not so long ago.
Gwen helps Ishmael into the boat, then smirks at him. “Next time you want to break rocks, try using a hammer, not your skull.”
Ishmael’s head continues to throb painfully. He must have really been hit hard before he blacked out. “I think I’m lucky I still have a skull,” he mumbles.
It’s nearly sunset now, and the river is deep in the shadows. Instead of starting the engine — and possibly alerting other dangerous creatures to their presence — Billy uses a long branch to pole the boat from shore, then takes the wheel and steers with the current, which catches the chase boat and takes it on a rapid, bumpy ride d
ownstream. They dip and splash around boulders, tepid white water soaking them. Ishmael feels Gwen’s hands on his shoulders, pressing him down to the floor, where he’ll be less likely to tumble out.
Gradually the current slows and the ride becomes smoother. Despite the pain in his head, Ishmael slowly props himself up on his elbows, wondering why Billy hasn’t powered up the RTG. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the deep twilight shadows, but when they do, what he sees is enough to make his heart stop: Along the riverbanks, scores of creatures have come to drink — in groups, in pairs, and sometimes alone. They vary in size from smaller than a man to much, much larger.
“Amazing!” whispers Gwen. “Thistle, have you ever seen these creatures before?”
Thistle shakes her head. “There art only flyers and smaller creatures where we —” She stops short and draws a sharp breath.
Up ahead, an enormous greenish-brown beast lumbers along the shore, the very ground seeming to shake with each step. The creature’s head alone is the size of a boulder and it has thick legs and powerful-looking thighs, but its arms are surprisingly slight. It bends forward and tips its huge head into the river, its jaws working as it laps up water. Ishmael is astounded that anything so large walks on land.
They’re all staring in silent fascination when suddenly Thistle looks skyward and screams. Out of the deep-blue evening, the huge flyer is swooping down on them with claws extended.
“Jump!” Queequeg shouts.
Billy scoops up Thistle and plunges overboard, followed by Gwen. Queequeg grabs Ishmael, and together they topple over the side a split second before the creature’s claws clack shut where their heads just were. Ishmael strokes to the surface and spits out a mouthful of murky liquid. The boat floats a dozen feet away. Billy clings to the gunwale, helping a soaked and trembling Thistle to climb back in. For the moment, the flyer has banked high. Treading water, Ishmael is relieved to see Queequeg bobbing near him, then remembers that Gwen had stubbornly refused to learn to swim while they were on the island. He looks anxiously around, but before he can find her, something strange happens. Back in the boat, Billy lunges for the machine gun. Ishmael assumes he’s going to fire at the flyer, but instead he swings the weapon around until Ishmael can see the dark mouth of the barrel aimed at him and Queequeg!
The Beast of Cretacea Page 17