The Island of the Skull

by Matthew John Costello

  “The kid told me near Sumatra…hoped to do some sight-seeing.”

  Rosa shook his head.

  “Some islands nearby…who knows. But we will be in”—he tapped his bald head—“someplace secret.”

  “Well, I guess the Indian Ocean…is a bit of a destination.”

  Rosa smiled. “Yes. And don’t worry, my diver friend, I will make sure you have adventures, if not on Sumatra, then other places. Is a big world, no?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Good. We sail at morning!”

  And Rosa bounded back to his bridge, while Tommy jumped off the boat, followed by Sam.

  Walking back to the hotel, Tommy turned to Sam.

  “Hey, Sam, thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “Back there. I mean, he didn’t really want me—”

  “No kidding.”

  “But you got me on. I’m part of the dive team.”

  “You’re a diver, aren’t you? You got me the job. And a job is a good thing to have these days.”

  “I owe you. Twice now. And I always pay my debts.”

  “No debt. But you watch my back down there, and I’ll watch yours, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  They had reached the top of the hill. From here they could see San Francisco below them, the water in the distance.

  Soon there would be a massive bridge to cross that bay. Starting early next year, Sam had read.

  The world is changing.

  Growing smaller.

  Good time to have an adventure, somewhere in the Indian Ocean. The days of adventure in the big wide world might be numbered.

  He turned to Tommy.

  “Let’s celebrate, kid. How about we find a place that will sell us an illegal beer or two?”

  Tommy grinned as though it might have been Christmas…and Sam led the way to the speakeasy near his hotel.

  Morning, as he well knew, would come soon enough….

  Book Two

  The Discovery

  1932

  22

  On an uncharted island,

  somewhere in the Indian Ocean

  THE POUNDING OF THE DRUMS, the chanting, the yelling filled the night air.

  Flickering torches surrounded a young girl, the flames that seemed to move in time to the chants, to the endless pounding.

  An old woman gave her something to drink; the girl shook her head, but the woman grabbed the girl’s head and forced her…to drink.

  The young girl swallowed some, then spit out the rest. Then she opened her mouth, trying to say something, trying to beg.

  Her throat sounded raw, rough, worn to a raspy brittle sound from so much pleading, so much begging.

  Then the girl looked around at everyone, all staring at her. Their eyes wide watching this girl’s struggle.

  She tried to move her arms, but heavy ropes kept her wrists firmly pinned.

  She looked back and forth at her tiny arms, her small hands, clenched so tight.

  Now the ropes began to move. She began to rise, over the pounding, the flickering torches everywhere. As the streams of burning oil ran down the wall, the streams blurring together, dizzying runnels of fire…

  She shook—her body shivering, wriggling as she dangled, and they raised her high, higher…to her fate.

  To her doom.

  It began when the island shook. The island shook, rocking the huts, sending young children falling to the sand.

  A warning and a demand.

  And now it was time to give someone to…Kong.

  Others huddled quietly in their huts, the ones who were safe. They would hear the pounding drums, the strange words. Only waiting until it was over, and peace would return.

  Then today, the choosing began.

  All the women of the village standing, waiting.

  And the strange woman looked at the line of young women, searching for the right one.

  Then—suddenly—the old woman walked to this young girl, and with a single simple gesture it was done.

  They took her. And the day of horror began, which would lead inevitably to a night even more unimaginable.

  They moved her closer, this dangling girl, right to the stone wall, to the mammoth barrier.

  Sloping up, curving in. This wall that protected them, this wall that separated them. The giant stone faces looked at her, so much larger than a person, terrifying in their strange, twisting faces. The wall was now so close that the girl could almost touch it—if her hands were free. The torches below became smaller, the men all looking up, the sound of their chanting finally fading.

  The girl’s eyes closed for a moment; the drink they gave her made it hard to keep her eyes open.

  And one word rose above all others, clear, loud—Kong!

  Then over and over…Kong…Kong…Kong.

  No girl ever went to the other side of the wall and returned. And for the others, life on the other side of the wall would continue—until once more the island shook, and it would all begin again.

  Kong…Kong…Kong!

  And then the pallet stopped and the girl stopped going up. New sounds now—noises, ropes and wood being moved. Her body shook crazily, rocking left and right, but still suspended.

  Until, the rocking stopped, and then the pallet started down slowly.

  Her descending body passed the leaders gathered on the wall, looking at her, their mouths bellowing the ancient words. Chanting so loudly as if that might hurry the pallet on its way.

  Down, now on the other side of the wall. The only light, faint, barely reaching down to the chasm…the torches atop the wall. The lights from the village completely cut off, vanished. The sound of the villagers now muffled, cut off by the massive wall.

  And then she looked in the other direction.

  Into the darkness of the island, the hidden jungle with its mountains, and trees, and secrets.

  Some of the nearby trees and giant vines caught the scant light. But beyond them, nothing of the dark, almost black jungle was visible.

  They kept lowering her, the men above her watching, studying her dangling body, its steady fall.

  Until—it finally came to a halt.

  She was on ground, on a stone platform, suspended near the edge of the black jungle. Nothing visible to her but the horrible wall on one side, and the terrible darkness on the other.

  When suddenly the chanting, the drums, stopped.

  The old woman appeared atop the wall and said more words. Then all was quiet. The girl turned as if cocking her ears, as if…listening for sounds close by, sounds from those trees, from the towering plants.

  Sounds that might be close to her.

  Then from above, that single word again from the woman, her voice so strong.

  Kong!

  Followed by a sound that dwarfed all others, the low rumble of a giant metal gong, smashed, once, then again, then again…

  Silence.

  The girl’s head turned again, facing the jungle.

  She was breathing fast, the air bellowing in and out, as if trying to store oxygen for whatever would happen next.

  Silence.

  Then, in the distance, clearly from so far away. Far away, yet, deep, powerful.

  A roar. In answer.

  It was coming.

  Kong was coming.

  Another roar, and even in those few moments, it grew clearer, louder.

  Coming here.

  The girl screamed then, and looked up at her clenched fists. The rough ropes binding her had rubbed her skin raw.

  Another roar.

  Something close by moved—a new sound…the rustle of brush, plants. Something not small at all, but moving, running from that noise.

  The girl closed her eyes.

  Kong would soon be here.

  23

  25 degrees, 30 minutes, 44 degrees, 5 minutes—

  The Indian Ocean

  SAM KELLY POPPED TO THE surface to see that the sky had turned a deep blue. The sun,
blocked by the Mia Susana, outlined the ship with a fiery orange.

  He grabbed the hoist, and waited while they used it to raise his now-dead weight out of the water.

  With each few feet, the glow grew more brilliant until, completely out, he could see the setting sun, making the ocean appear on fire.

  Beautiful, Sam thought. So beautiful.

  And below? A reef unlike anything he had ever seen, a forest of twisting coral; the oyster beds with their pearls protected by towering fortresses of coral.

  Incredible.

  And the fish…Sam didn’t know such colors existed, let alone the number of fish he had seen.

  They moved Sam onto the deck and lowered him down into a chair. Two of the crewmen quickly started undoing the bolts that fastened his helmet. Another removed the lead yoke, the heavy weight that lay on his shoulders.

  Tommy took off the helmet.

  “Just in time for dinner, Sam.”

  Sam smiled. The two of them were on their own on this ship. A few of the crew spoke no English and stayed to themselves. The others did their job and tried to stay out of Captain Rosa’s way.

  Then there was Dr. Bakali.

  There was a third diver, who for some reason was called Dr. Bakali; Sam guessed there was some kind of grim joke attached to the name. He and Rosa were clearly friends, and Bakali made no secret that he didn’t think much of the two inexperienced pearl divers.

  Though once Sam showed that there wasn’t anything about helmet diving he didn’t know, Bakali backed off.

  Still, he always had something to say.

  “Not much down there, eh?” Bakali said, squatting close to Sam, a stub of cigar in his mouth. The smell of the cigar, after breathing the compressed air, made Sam’s stomach go tight.

  As though Bakali knew it did exactly that.

  Bakali patted Sam’s shoulder. “You know, it’s like I tell Rosa. You may know diving, but finding the beds, looking for the right oysters. We are”—he laughed, exaggeratedly loud in front of Sam’s face—“a pearl ship, eh?”

  Bakali stood up. “Some things take experience, hm, amigo?”

  Sam stood up so they could pull off the dive suit. This was like being a matador, ready to face some underwater bull. And the razor-sharp coral, some shaped like horns, could easily gore you.

  Tommy leaned close. “That guy never lets up.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Bakali could be especially cruel to Tommy…to the point that Sam was thinking that sooner or later, they would have to have words about it.

  Or maybe not…words.

  The ship cook, Jorge—who also served Rosa in at least three other roles on the ship—stuck his head out from below.

  “You want to eat, you eat now.”

  “Guess he means dinner is served,” Sam said.

  Tommy grinned, and followed him below to the cramped mess room.

  Rosa gestured with his knife. “We Portuguese ruled the oceans, eh? Our ships were the fastest. Our captains the best. We sailed around the globe when your people”—he winked at Bakali, then looked back to Sam—“were figuring out new things to do with potatoes.”

  Sam grinned. The nightly lectures were something Sam had gotten used to. To be on this ship was to enroll in a class on Portugal’s incredible, and to Rosa, neglected, place in history.

  “Captain…” It was Ernesto, who functioned as more or less a first mate. The Basque had perpetual bags under his eyes, and his stringy hair looked as though it had never had an encounter with a comb. Ernesto didn’t say much. So…this was unusual.

  “What, what do you want?” Rosa looked at Sam again. “The Basques! Takes them forever to get a sentence out.” Back to Ernesto. “What the hell do you want?”

  The other table of crewmen lowered their voices, probably eager to hear what the tongue-tied Spaniard had to say.

  Jorge plopped down another bowl of what looked like cabbage and meat floating in a thin, watery sauce. The food here was easily a notch or two below Navy fare.

  “Every day,” Ernesto began, “we sail further west. Away from Sumatra.” The first mate shrugged. “Why?”

  Rosa laughed.

  “He asks why. My Basque amigo asks his captain why. Okay, I will tell you.”

  Now the crew at the other table became completely silent. Here was a subject that interested them all. Tommy looked at Sam.

  Rosa stood up.

  “You see how we do here. Yes, we get some pearls, but so many of these beds, off the islands, in the shallows…they are not the way they used to be. Other boats come, the oyster beds change.”

  “So why…west? There’s nothing there. Just the sea,” Ernesto asked.

  Rosa made a condescending smile. “So, what do you think I do when we are inshore, when everyone has a good time, spend their money like fools, hm?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “I will tell you. I talk to the other captains, and not just the pearl boats, but the big fishing boats, even the freighters carrying who knows what…from China to California. And I begin to see something.” He tapped his head. “I begin to understand something. I am Portuguese. Sailing is in my blood, no?”

  “What is it you understand, Captain?” Ernesto said.

  “That we think we know so much about the sea; we think we know it all. But it is so big. If a place wasn’t in the fishing currents, or used for trade, then there should be so much we don’t know. Islands, great reefs, whole sections ripe to be discovered. Quietly, secretly! To look for pearls where no one ever has.”

  Sam cleared his throat. He was only a diver, perhaps below—in the pecking order—even the first mate. “And if you find nothing?”

  Rosa turned to Sam. Everyone knew he had been in the Navy; maybe they weren’t surprised that he would question Rosa. At any rate, Rosa nodded, and took a few moments before responding.

  “Of course. Yes, we could find nothing. Just great stretches of Pacific, remote, endless. That could happen. But listen to me, my ex-lieutenant, without going somewhere new, somewhere people have not gone before, then we know—we know— we will find only what they found, to dive only where others have dived. It’s my ship. My chance. My decision.”

  “Captain.” It was Ernesto again. Sam expected another challenge.

  But the sad-eyed Basque looked up. “Thank you for telling me, telling us. Now at least we know what we are doing.”

  The challenge was over. Now onward to parts unknown, on a small dive boat with a captain who relived the dream days of the great Portuguese navigators.

  And not for the first time, Sam had to wonder…

  What the hell am I doing here?

  24

  On an uncharted island

  THE GROUND SHOOK.

  And with the shaking, the noise of every massive step, cutting through the jungle, as if the creature’s rage, its bellow alone could clear a path, the terrible roar itself powerful enough.

  The villagers, safe on the wall, still cringed as they looked down at her, waiting, watching, safe. Her screams grew even more ragged now.

  Pound…pound…pound…and then a new sound, the snapping of trees being pushed away, snapped like twigs.

  The power immense, overwhelming.

  And the girl—so young, small, and slender—looked into the darkness, alone, facing what was coming for her.

  But this girl had watched things; she had tried to figure out things.

  Things like what had happened on this island…what could the wall possibly mean? No one ever talked to her about it.

  But she looked at what was done.

  She looked—and thought about death…and Kong.

  And she must have thought about other things, maybe sneaking a look at one of the women before her, sailing high up to the wall top, then over.

  How to escape? What could one do? Was there anything one could do?

  Resist the heavy ropes. Heavy and thick—because of…Kong?

  Did she think that maybe
there might be something that could be done there?

  Then she must have had an idea. She must have thought that if she could keep some control, then maybe there might be a way to escape.

  If she escaped, the leaders would kill her.

  She could never go back to the village.

  That was impossible.

  There would be only one way…deeper into the island, to its secrets, its dangers.

  She would have no choice.

  More trees snapping, the wood now so like the explosions that roared from the sky, or the even worse explosions that erupted from the mountain when the island shook.

  If the girl was going to act, she had to act now.

  The leaders on the wall watched her below.

  Not one of them would guess what she was about to do now.

  What she had planned.

  Her fists tight, and in each, a rolled piece of cloth, filled with grease taken from the meals.

  She squeezed hard. She looked at her hands, the grease gathered from the wooden plates oozing out between her fingers.

  A big dollop fell onto the ground, useless.

  A giant snap of wood, and she looked up. Her plan wasn’t working; a foolish idea, and now Kong was so close. Another roar, the ground shaking, trembling.

  But then a trail of watery grease streamed down one hand, then the other, down to her wrists, her small girl’s wrists, so thin.

  Creeping, so slowly, too slowly.

  She turned back to the dark jungle; and something moved there.

  She had only seconds.

  The grease hit both wrists. Furiously the girl twisted her arms, back and forth, crazy, faster, the rope cutting her wrists, and then—

  When the grease had spread all around, she tugged.

  As she tugged, both her hands caught right below the thumb; but she quickly forced her fingers together, each hand doing the same things as she jerked, and pulled, and tugged, until—

  One hand popped free, timed to another roar loud enough to hurt her ears.

  And if the other remained stuck? Then it would be useless. There would not be enough time.