Jungle Goddess

by Charles Nuetzel

  The woman was cowering and cried out in terror every time a native touched her.

  More interested in watching the whites than anything else, Tallie followed in the trees above them, admiring the man and ignoring the woman.

  She followed the small group until they came to the clearing and village of the blacks. She sat on a tree branch, hidden in the foliage, watching as the two whites were shoved into a small hut. For a long time she sat there. She couldn't understand why they had allowed the blacks to capture them, why they had not spit fire from their hands. Maybe the lightning didn't work against humans—maybe it only worked against the jungle creatures.

  Standing, Tallie moved off through the branches, almost forgetting about the whites and their fate in her search to satisfy the craving of her hunger. Maybe after that she would return to the village and see what happened. In the meantime, Tallie decided to return to her cave and get the bow and arrows she had made. After having watched the natives she had learned how to make arrows and bows and how to use them, and perfected her ability with this modern—to her—weapon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  John Barton quickly searched his surroundings, discovering there was no way out of the hut other than the opening, in front of which stood a guard.

  Rita was huddled in the middle of the hut, sobbing almost hysterically.

  "Shut up!” John snapped annoyed. “That won't get you anywhere!"

  He stepped to the young woman and gripped her shoulders, shaking her. “Rita! Snap out of it!” John raised his hand and slapped her across the face. It was a hard, stinging blow and cut off the sobs as if he had turned off a radio.

  For a moment Rita Bentley looked up at him and then suddenly buried her face against his chest.

  "Look, there's nothing we can do right now—but we're alive.” The moment he said that, John realized it was a mistake.

  "For how long?” Rita managed to whisper between trembling lips.

  "I ain't dead.... Yet!” he stated with a determined smile on his lips. “You can't toss in the towel ... and you can't let fear get in the way of sound action! We'll get our chance—then make our move!” He sounded even convincing to himself; only a silent, inner voice admitted to any sense of doubt.

  She clung tighter to him, as if seeking comfort and some kind of control over her terror.

  For the first time John felt a temptation which was almost overwhelming. Chances were they wouldn't live out the next week—possibly the next day; perhaps not even the next hour. In the face of death things seemed completely different.

  "We aren't going to live—are we?” Rita inquired in a trembling voice.

  John felt it was more humane to tell her that they wouldn't live rather than the truth about what would happen to her after the savages had gotten rid of him. As a white women in the hands of savages she'd live out her life as a plaything for the males of the tribe, until she became pregnant, at which time the men would play a game that was even more than cruel. No, he thought, it was much more decent to say nothing or that they would both be dead in a short time.

  She trembled against him.

  John knew instinctively that in time Rita would make the first movements at seduction; for she was that kind of woman. In fact, it was quite human to seek escape if even for just a moment—hiding from the horror in an instant of brutalizing passion. They were in the same boat, so to speak, and only their fate would be different. He'd be brutally killed—a far less frightening end for it would come quick enough.

  * * * *

  The first thing Bob Lake knew was being cradled against a woman's breasts. Immediately he thought it nothing but illusion. Then as he heard Carol's soft controlled voice murmuring, he knew it had been the truth.

  The semidarkness gave just enough light to see Carol's features dimly outlined against the gloom. He could just make out moisture in her bright eyes and realized she had been crying.

  Sitting up, Bob surveyed his surroundings and immediately guessed where they were. Strangely enough, he wasn't as frightened as he might have imagined under such circumstances.

  "How long have we been here?” was his first, coldly controlled statement.

  Carol blinked and stared at him for a moment before answering. “Not long,” she told him in a shaky voice.

  Bob nodded. “How long has it been light out?"

  "About an hour.” Then suddenly she blurted: “Bob ... they're going to kill us!"

  He hesitated, uncertain what to do, say. The reality of those words sank in like lead yet, strangely, had no personal meaning to him.

  Bob moved to her, placed a protective arm around her shoulder. He was on the verge of pulling her into his arms when a tall native stepped into the hut, grabbed hold of Carol.

  Bob was just about to leap into an attack when another couple of natives pushed past the first and grabbed hold of his arms, holding him back.

  The first native, who's headdress was different from the rest, covered with bright colored feathers, gripped hold of Carol's blouse. A leering grin played on his thick lips as he brutally tore it from her.

  Carol screamed a loud piercing cry of terror. Then she suddenly went limp, unconscious.

  * * * *

  Tallie had gone to her cave, picked up her bow and then started down a game trail. Her thoughts turned back to the whites and then she remembered that she'd left the first two at their campsite.

  Tallie quickly changed direction and started toward the campsite. When she arrived at the camp, slipping down out of the trees, she quickly interpreted the information so vividly written there. The dead bodies of the three natives told her pretty much what had happened. She searched the strange object next to the cold fire. It was a skin cave, she concluded after having gone inside. It was much like the grass caves in which the natives lived.

  After having satisfied herself that nobody was in camp and that chances were the two had been captured as well, Tallie headed toward the native village.

  * * * *

  When John Barton heard the feminine scream, he was sure it must be Carol Hill. Rita froze at the sound and a tremble shot through her.

  "What was it?” she whispered. He felt her body arch up more tightly against his own, soft, sensual, inviting, as if desperately seeking comfort, protection, strength.

  John didn't say anything; he merely listened. If that were Carol and ... He hated to even think about that. The thought kept circling in his brain, over and over again. He pictured Carol dead, or worse, in the hands of the natives! The mental pictures that kept building in his brain created a hard lump in his throat.

  The silence that followed was horrifying.

  Then he became aware of Rita's body, warm, alive, trembling against his. It was a desperate plea, a demanding act of almost insane need—selfish and all enveloping.

  The terror had drove Rita's body into a raging fit of passion. She arched up against his. She moaned as her body captured him deeply within it, demanding, unrelentingly demanding.

  * * * *

  Bob somehow twisted free of one of the men holding him. Without thinking, like a man gone insane, he swung a fist into the gut of the second man holding his left arm.

  Not waiting to see the effect of his blow, he leaped at the man who had attacked Carol Hill. All the pent up fears of a lifetime were smothered in the wild rage that suddenly surfaced under the pressure of the moment. He'd never faced real danger before, never been driven to a point where killing action might be demanded. Only in books and then in writing, had Bob Lake imagined such scenes. Now, in the last hours, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing a new self-awareness—he didn't even have time to consider the obvious change.

  The killing instinct which is always just below the surface of all men soared powerfully through Bob's every nerve and muscle. All he could think of was battering this man who had dared to touch Carol. It didn't occur to him that what he was doing was pure madness. That he could kill the man before being overpowered by the others
didn't enter his mind. He wasn't a fighting man; this was a trained warrior, a primitive used to killing. But rational thought was stripped from his mind. Something snapped inside at seeing the man strip the blouse from Carol's body. He felt an uncontrollable hatred, a driving need to kill. All the life long self-disgust surfaced in an overwhelming wave of rage.

  The native's eyes were bulging from their sockets by the time the other natives managed to get hold of Bob. It took their combined strength to pull him off their chief.

  Bob fought like a madman, swinging from left to right, hitting, kicking, in an insane attempt to go back to killing the chief.

  The next thing he knew was that two men were dragging him across the small clearing in the middle of the village. Men, women and children were crowding around, laughing gaily as if they were expecting some sort of exciting show.

  Groggily, he was aware of the two husky natives rushing him forward, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes before he would be dead. It was well for him that he wasn't aware of exactly what the enraged tribal chief planned—for it would be many hours before they would let him die. For the moment all he could think of was the amazing release that rushed through him at the surge of rage he'd experienced. No fear; just the killing instinct rushing to the surface—no thought of anything else had existed in that moment when his fingers were choking at the very life of the bastard's throat. The surge of inner power, mixed with the stunningly unexpected thrill of having overcome his natural sense of fear, blocked all other sensations.

  Maybe I'm not such a coward, he rationalized with insane conviction. What he'd done was much the same as how he would have chosen to write that very scene—action without thought of personal danger. The “fictional” Bob Lake had for a moment become a reality. Only later would he begin to entertain doubts.

  Bob was brutally tied to a tall, strong post that had been in the middle of the clearing for as long as the village had existed. The ropes, which bound his flesh, were tight, bursting, cutting at the circulation in his wrists. The natives had stripped him from the waist up and now the chief, whom Bob had attempted to kill, stepped up in front of him, face leering into a contorted grin of satisfaction. He spat out something at Bob and then pulled a small knife from his loincloth.

  Until only a few moments before, Bob had never been a brave man, but what had just happened revealed another side of him. Perhaps it had always been there, hidden, just waiting for the moment to surface. Maybe imagination was a fantasy projection of what a person would, in reality, do when faced with real danger. Who knew? Only in fictionalized articles and books had it been hinted at. Right now Bob Lake had no time to consider such rationalizations. When faced with the right cause, Bob could and would fight, without considering any danger to himself. That fact was stunning to him; and he clung to it in this moment of self-realization. It was all he had to hold to against what must certainly now follow.

  If his new conviction was madness, so be it. At least it was better than shivering and trembling in raw terror. Bob realized something about himself and possibly about the whole human race. One has their breaking point and their moment of courage. His thoughts raged from amazement and fear and then a sense of inner peace, and back again to the horror of what was taking a place. At the same time there was a sense of pride: facing death, now, he would gladly have died to save Carol Hill.

  The knifepoint gleamed as the man reached out toward Bob's chest. The chief pressed the knife under Bob's chin, pricking the flesh.

  For a moment Bob looked at what he knew was death and a tremble of fear and terror overwhelmed all thought. The old, life-long terrors rushed in to drown the new-found confidence that had driven him for a few minutes. It was as if all the energy had been drained away, leaving an empty shell to face his immediate fate. The momentary calm disappeared, shuddered away, and suddenly he was screaming, straining against the tight bounds that held him against the thick pole.

  Maybe if he screamed loud enough some supernatural power would come to his aid; or insanity would give escape from reality. Maybe if he screamed long enough the nightmare would shatter.

  And so he screamed almost in delight while at the same time hating himself for screaming.

  God, this can't be happening, a part of his mind cried out, welling up inside of him, attempting to block out reality. But unlike when creating such a fiction scene he couldn't edit or change or cut what was about to take place. He was helplessly caught in a nightmare reality from which there was no escape.

  And so he screamed in the insane hope that this mere sound would somehow give escape—make reality disappear and fantasy replace the terrible end that now faced him. He screamed in manner of a madman desperately hoping the sound could drown the coming physical pain that was destined to torture his body in its last moment of existence.

  All he could think of was that he would die for no good purpose. His whole life a mockery; wasted in fantasy. And Carol would be left to the savage lust and lecherous satisfaction of the men of the tribe.

  * * * *

  John Barton was just sliding away from Rita when he heard the scream. What had just taken place between the two of them both annoyed and disgusted him. Not that the woman was undesirable, only that her greedy demands were overwhelming. He was, also, angry at understanding, to some extent, what had driven her.

  The agonized scream shattering the night was enough to chill even raw passion.

  John moved to the hut's entrance. The guard was looking towards the center of the village.

  Impulse, instinct, moved him.

  Without thinking, John reached for the native guard. His arm went around the man's neck, fast, squeezed tight, cutting off any sound the man might make. It happened so quickly that the stunned native had only time for a short, minor struggle. He slumped against John's body, merely writhing against the strong choking arm that was cutting the life breath out of him. John dragged the man into the hut, keeping the pressure on his throat.

  Rita was cowering against the back wall, horrified at what was happening.

  The man relaxed in death. John made up his mind as to what they would do next.

  His short view of the center of the village had revealed enough to make him realize that their chances of escape were fairly good. It was good for his peace of mind that he hadn't seen what had the full attention of the native tribe.

  He grabbed at Rita and they slipped out of the hut.

  John had decided that he would search the immediate huts for Carol. If he didn't find her quickly, then he would have to leave with Rita. It was better that at least the two of them got away.

  It took only a moment to spot the hut where Carol might be. A native guard was sitting by the entrance, looking toward the center of the village. John's fingers gripped the knife, which he'd taken from the native he'd killed a few moments before. Silently and quickly he crept up on the native. It took only a moment to plunge the blade into the man's throat. Without a sound the native slumped to the ground, dead.

  Rita entered the hut and discovered Carol there, still unconscious. She called to John who came into the hut, took in the situation quickly and then bent over and pulled Carol into his arms. Without a word they slipped out of the hut and started toward the edge of the village.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The native chief had quickly pulled the knife away from Bob's throat laughingly ran its point lightly across the white man's chest, cutting a thin red line.

  Bob's scream broke off at the first sensation of the stinging point cutting along his flesh.

  His terror cooled; snapped off like the breaking of a twig. His vision cleared and he coolly surveyed his captors. Then he saw something that startled and overjoyed him.

  Rita and John Barton were creeping toward Carol's hut. He saw the white hunter kill the guard, then watched as Rita and John disappeared into the hut.

  Bob screamed again to keep the attention of the natives surrounding him.

  He screamed when Barton and
Rita left the hut with Carol and headed toward the jungle.

  He saw Rita turn. Her eyes spotted him and she hesitated, said something to Barton. The two froze, just at the edge of the jungle, looking at him.

  Go away, go away! Bob pleaded silently. Then he screamed, knowing that the natives would not understand his words: “Leave me ... for God's sake ... for Carol's sake—leave me!"

  They hesitated for a moment longer and then Bob felt a thrill of relief as they quickly moved into the jungle.

  The native chief stepped closer to Bob and ran his knife point once more across his chest, in the opposite direction of the first cut, making a large cross of red on the white flesh.

  Bob felt a tremble of pain needle through him. Terror started to choke his throat and he fought to keep it down. What would Bob Lake in fiction do? It was the only thing he could focus on. Play it out like you're writing this scene. Play that altered self!

  He realized that the best chance that the other three had of making good their escape was if he put on the best damn show the natives had ever seen. With that thought, Bob let out an ear-piercing scream that sounded through the jungle like an explosion. A thrill raced through him; for the first time in his life the old Bob, the cowardly self, was able to fully surface in all its glory for a great and grand purpose. In the instant, he realized such a wave of pleasure that it overwhelmed every other reality. He screamed, almost happily, inviting the full attention of his tormenters. He screamed in thrilling pleasure that his death would serve a good, grand purpose. The cowardly Bob Lake would die in the glorious knowledge that this had given the other three whites a chance at escape and survival. What better gift than to offer one's life for that of his friends?

  Even as he had screamed, his eyes were coldly looking at the native's face. A part of him was calculatingly aware of everything happening, even while that inner core was raging with energy so overwhelming that it was difficult to contain it.

  Words formed as he looked into the native's eyes. For a moment calm teased along his mind as he said: “Go screw yourself! You son of a bitch!"