by Joe DeVito
She felt his hand on her arm. “Look at me, Ann. You know why I’m worried. I love you.”
Ann felt herself blushing, knew that her face was glowing pink. She bit her lip and could not speak for a moment.
Driscoll put his hands back on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. He pulled her into an embrace. “Ann, that’s why I worry,” he said in a stifled voice. “I’m scared for you, and I’m scared of you, and we don’t have much time. I love you, Ann.”
Ann felt tears stinging her eyes, but she lifted a smiling face to Driscoll, and when he leaned toward her, she returned his kiss. After a moment that seemed to go on forever, she forced herself to push away from him. “Oh, Jack.”
“Don’t say anything,” Driscoll said. “Just—just remember what I said.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the west, where the sun had sunk down to the horizon. “There’s an albatross.”
Ann felt a foolish smile on her face. “He’s so beautiful,” she whispered, but she hardly gave the magnificent wheeling bird a second glance. She leaned back against Jack, and he put his arms around her. “It’s all so beautiful,” she murmured, feeling warm and safe.
The western sky was ablaze with pink, with indigo, with saffron, peach, and yellow as the sun sank with the swiftness of the tropics. Against the brilliant display, the albatross swung in great arcs, enormous wings outstretched.
And to the south the low cloud had grown to a fog bank, gray to the east, lit with the splendor of the fading twilight on the west. “We’d better get back on deck before it’s dark,” Jack whispered into Ann’s ear.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Jack.”
As they made the climb down, twilight flooded the world. Ahead of the ship, the rolling bank of fog grew, its drifting tendrils shadowed, purple, mysterious. The Wanderer never deviated from its course. The prow rose and fell with the waves, rose and fell, but aimed constantly at that distant fog, at whatever lurked at the heart of it.
6
NEAR SKULL ISLAND
MARCH 12, 1933
All through the night, the fog thickened. Carl Denham stood, peering into the mist as though trying to dissipate it through sheer will. Doubt assailed him. He had dragged Captain Englehorn and his crew halfway around the world, all based on the Norwegian skipper’s incredible map. Had it all been a hope and a prayer, nothing more than a vainglorious attempt to do the impossible? It would have been easy to give in to such misgivings as he stood for hours on end through the muggy night. He shook off his worries and stared into the darkness ahead.
“Don’t lose your confidence now. Not when you’ve come this far,” he encouraged himself.
The ship had slowed and was making little more than steerageway. When morning came, she was still creeping through a yellow-white blanket, miles in extent. No garment could keep out the penetrating dampness of the fog. Denham’s light tropical clothing became heavy with it, soggy in every fold. Water dripped everywhere, from spars, stays, and walls, and gathering on the bare deck, it trickled in slow, uncertain rivulets.
Denham growled in exasperation. They were sailing blind. At a dozen feet, men and masts and ventilators became vaguely wavering wraiths. At greater distances they vanished behind the soft yellow-white silence. Denham climbed up to the bridge, where Englehorn, Driscoll, and Ann waited. From there he could see nothing of the sailor who heaved the lead in the bow, or of the other sailor who tried to pierce the thick veil from the high vantage point of the crow’s nest.
He could hear both men, however. By some atmospheric trick their voices seemed to ring more loudly through the fog than they had ever come through in clear sunlight. “This triple-damned fog!” Denham grumbled in a choked voice. He could barely speak from excitement and frustration. He felt as tense as a man on a tightrope, and he turned away from his effort to stare through the enveloping cloud. “Are you sure of your position, Skipper?”
“As much as I can be,” Englehorn murmured placidly as he lit his pipe. “Last night before this stuff closed in, I got a fine lunar sighting.”
“Jack!” Ann whispered, and Denham saw she had a firm hold on Driscoll’s hand. “If we don’t get somewhere soon, I’ll explode. I never was so excited in my life!”
“Don’t bounce around so much,” Driscoll warned her. “Next thing you know you’ll be rolling off the ship. And don’t keep doing things to get me excited. I’m fit to be tied right now. I’d like to throw my cap up into the air and yell blue blazes. But when I think of what we may be taking you into, I’ve got to keep my head.”
Denham shook his head at the first mate’s words, thinking, Beauty and the Beast. Aloud, he said, “Well, if your position is right, Skipper, we ought to be almost on top of the island.”
“If we don’t see it when this fog lifts,” Englehorn returned, “we won’t ever see it at all. I’ve sailed for the position you gave me. Either we’re within sight of it, or else your Norwegian was having some fun with you and there’s nothing but blue water in the place it should be.”
The high, intent voice of the leadsman in the bow came sharply up to the bridge: “No bottom at thirty fathoms!”
“Of course,” Denham said almost hopefully, “the Norwegian worked out the position from what the natives told him. The black man in the canoe, though, was a sailor, and he gave his best guess. Still, we could be off by a few miles, I suppose.”
“If we sight an island, how will we know if it’s the right one?” Ann asked.
“We’ll know!” Denham rasped impatiently. “The mountain!” He leaned forward, trying to pierce the fog. “The mountain that looks like a skull.”
“I’d forgotten,” Ann apologized. “Of course. Skull Island, you said the Norwegian called the place.”
“Bottom!” The high voice shot back from the bow, and at that triumphant cry they all stiffened. “Bottom, twenty fathoms! Sand and broken white shell!”
“I knew it!” Denham roared.
Englehorn puffed calmly on his pipe. “She’s shallowing fast. Dead slow, Mr. Driscoll. Tell ’em!”
Driscoll tore into the wheelhouse and spoke down the engine-room tube. Bells jangled below in reply, and the Wanderer dropped off to a speed that was scarcely more than drifting.
“Look!” Ann cried. “Isn’t the fog thinner?”
“Sixteen!” came the voice from the bow. “Sixteen fathoms!”
“What does she draw, Skipper?” Denham demanded.
“Six!” For the first time Englehorn lost his customary complacency. He was like Denham now, staring intently, listening even more intently.
“Listen!” Ann whispered.
“What do you hear?” Denham whispered back.
Ann shook her head and with the other three continued to listen. Suddenly, the young, nervous voice of Jimmy dropped down from the crow’s nest: “Breakers!”
“Where away?” Driscoll shouted.
“Dead ahead! Not far off, either!”
Driscoll leaped for the wheelhouse and the engine-room tube again. His order came out to the others sharp and clear, and its dying note was followed by the jangle of the engine room’s bells and the roll and thunder of the Wanderer’s reversing engines.
“Ten fathoms!” called the man in the bow.
“Drop anchor!” Englehorn shouted urgently.
Up forward dim wraiths leaped into action. A chain clanked and rattled through a hawse pipe. An anchor splashed. More bells jangled below. The Wanderer suddenly lay motionless and still. Everyone listened.
Driscoll frowned at the muffled sound he heard through the fog. Rhythmic, yes, but with none of the rush and growl of waves crashing into a shoreline. “That’s not breakers,” he declared roundly.
“No, it isn’t. It’s the sound of drums,” Englehorn murmured, placid once more.
The fog, which had been thinning imperceptibly, tore itself to ribbons on a rising breeze while they listened. Before the edge of a growing wind, it parted and rolled away as though it were a curtain. The blue se
a lay exposed under a faintly veiled sun. And a little way off, hardly more than a quarter of a mile, lay a vast wooded island dominated by an eerie skull-like dome. The grisly, gigantic face leered down at them, and Denham had the sensation of slowly waking from a troubled dream. The island dominated by the skull seemed to reach out toward the ship with a long brush-covered finger of sand and rocks.
“We’ve done it! Skull Mountain!” Denham flung out a victorious arm. “Do you see it? And look at the Wall! The Wall! The Wall!” He struck Englehorn’s back with a mighty blow. “See it for yourself, you old sea dog. Do you believe me now?” Just short of hysteria, he shouted to the men at the bow, “Get out the boats!”
Beside him, Ann Darrow stared openmouthed at the green canopy of jungle, the bare gray slope of the mountain. “Jack!” she cried, “did you ever see anything like it? Isn’t it wonderful?”
Denham turned to hear his reply, and saw the excitement drain out of Driscoll’s face as he looked down at her. Driscoll’s mouth tightened somberly. He strode forward to direct the lowering of the boats and the storing of the equipment.
Carl Denham’s mind roiled with a thousand details. He hadn’t come all this way to miss the opportunity. He had made a dozen pictures before, but none like this one. This one would have it all. “Come with me,” he said, grabbing Ann’s arm. They half climbed, half slid down the ladder from the bridge to the deck and rushed forward to where the crew was lowering the boats. Denham let go of Ann’s arm and laughed. “Man, I can’t wait to set foot on that beach!”
Ann gave him a sharp look. “I’m going ashore with you, aren’t I?”
Denham laughed. “Are you kidding? Of course! Why do you think I brought you?”
Ann’s excitement rang in her voice: “Thank you, Carl!”
Driscoll must have overheard, for he turned away from his work and scowled at Denham. “Should she quit the ship before we find out what’s going on and what we’re likely to run into?”
Nothing could dampen Denham’s mood. With a cheerful shake of his head, he replied, “Look here, Jack, who’s running this show? I’ve learned by bitter experience to keep my cast and my cameras all together and right with me. How do I know when I’ll want ’em?”
“Listen, Mr. Denham.” Jack took Denham’s shoulder and pulled him a few feet away from Ann. Then he lowered his voice: “It’s crazy to risk—”
Denham shrugged him off. “It’s all right, Jack. Get back to work. Okay, if you’re really worried, deal out the rifles and ammunition. See that the men take a dozen of the gas bombs. Oh, and pick me a couple of huskies to carry my picture stuff.”
Driscoll shrugged and shot a frown in Ann’s direction as he turned to his sailors. Denham shook his head in amiable exasperation and winked at Ann. “I’ll have somebody get the costume box up and into one of the boats,” he said. “If we’re lucky we may get a swell shot right away. Get into the khakis and helmet, Ann. Just in case. And get some makeup on.” He hurried back toward the bridge, and behind him, Ann went below.
* * *
Captain Englehorn stood sweeping the island with powerful 15 × 60 binoculars. He had skippered dozens of voyages and knew exactly what to do, what details to oversee. But this one—his eyes scavenged for every detail—this one he felt was different. In the surrounding excitement and clamor, his instinctive composure hid an unaccustomed inner tension.
Englehorn nearly started when Denham, right at his elbow, demanded, “See anything, Skipper?”
The captain made his voice calm as he replied, “Nothing but a few huts at the edge of the brush on the peninsula.”
Denham nodded. “I can make ’em out from here. I took a look from the bow and I think there are more and bigger houses back beyond the thicker brush.”
Englehorn lowered his binoculars. “Strange, though. This is the first native island I’ve called on that the whole tribe didn’t come down to the beach for a look-see.”
Denham braced his hands and leaned on the rail. “The tribe is somewhere close by, though. Hear those drums?”
“Some ceremony, maybe,” Englehorn said. A deep, soft clamor rolled across the bay, rising and falling in a swift, importunate rhythm.
“Funny they haven’t spotted us yet,” Denham said.
That had been bothering Englehorn, too. He replied, “You’re right, there. By now, every last native ought to be out and down at the water’s edge.”
“Maybe they have seen us. Drums could be a signal.”
“You’ve heard native drums before, Mr. Denham,” Englehorn responded. “You know those aren’t signal beats. There’s some kind of ritual going on inland. A big gathering, too, if you ask me.”
When Denham didn’t reply, Englehorn stood wondering just what kind of ceremony could be going on. He remembered Denham’s mention of Kong, the god of the island. Though he wasn’t a superstitious man, Englehorn couldn’t help wondering if the islanders worshiped something real, something physical, under that strange name. But he wouldn’t be able to learn the truth standing on the bridge. He scanned the deck for Driscoll. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said, as if to himself.
“Soon enough,” agreed Denham.
* * *
Driscoll stood by the davits and supervised as the crew lowered arms into the boats. He glanced up as Captain Englehorn approached from the bridge. “Mr. Driscoll.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“Where’s the bo’sun?”
Driscoll glanced forward and cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Murphy! Over here!”
The petty officer, a thick, heavy seaman, hurried over. “Yes, sir?”
“Bo’sun, I want you to stay aboard with fourteen men,” Englehorn told Murphy. He turned to Driscoll. “You choose the fourteen. All the others will go ashore with us.”
Driscoll tried not to show his surprise. The captain’s plan would put most of the crew—a small army, with the guns they were taking—on shore. But he nodded soberly and went about the selection. He chose Lumpy first of all, to that veteran adventurer’s audible chagrin.
Denham had followed Englehorn. He pushed forward and asked, “Jack, who do you have in charge of my gas bombs?”
“You take ’em, Jimmy,” Driscoll ordered.
The young sailor, Jimmy, stooped over the box, hefted it experimentally, looked slightly surprised at the weight of it, and then bore his burden over to the last boat.
“Of course, you’re coming, Skipper?” Denham asked.
“No sense in breaking my streak now,” Englehorn said with a nod. “Never missed looking over a native island yet, once I caught up with it.”
“You’re likely to be a big help. You’ll probably have to do the talking. In this part of the world, odds are against my having picked up their lingo.”
Driscoll didn’t like any part of this. To Murphy, he called, “Arm your men, Bo’sun, and keep a sharp lookout. All right, gentlemen, the boats are ready.”
Englehorn and Denham climbed down into the first one. Englehorn gave an order, and the crew pushed off. Driscoll motioned the second boat to wait where it swung on its davits. Ann was hurrying across the deck. He helped her in silently, then directed that the boat be lowered. While it settled into the water, he took a last look around the deck.
“Listen for any sign of trouble,” he said to the boatswain. “And it wouldn’t hurt to do some figuring on the range from here to the island.” Without waiting for a response, he swung over the side and joined Ann.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen the whole crew together,” Ann told him as he dropped into the boat. “I hadn’t realized there were so many.”
“Twenty men in each boat,” Driscoll said. He added gloomily, “We may need ’em.”
“But if we don’t frighten the islanders, surely they’ll be friendly.”
“Maybe,” Driscoll said shortly. “I don’t know, though. Those drums mean some kind of ceremony. I wish I knew what kind.”
Ann smiled. “Maybe it’s a wedd
ing. Or maybe they’re announcing some pretty girl’s engagement.”
Driscoll suppressed an exasperated smile as he looked at her. She was enough to enthrall any man. She carried the pith helmet in her lap, and her golden hair shone free in the sun and blew about her flushed, excited face. The rhythmic sound of the oars slicing through the pale green water flowed at a steady, calm pace. Everything about Ann struck Driscoll as graceful, like the weightless birds that floated just yards above and behind her head. Suddenly the drums grew louder, and with every tug at the boat’s oars, the rhythm grew more distinct and ominous. Then gulls sheered off with menacing shrieks. Driscoll’s momentary elation left him. He could not help looking over his shoulder at the island, bobbing in the water as they neared it. No, Driscoll thought. The boat was bobbing, not the island. Bobbing like bait.
* * *
As his boat approached the shoreline of the peninsula, Englehorn eyed his surroundings like a wizened owl. He was on the lookout for any clue as to what to expect, details to give him a sense of the island culture. Next to him, Denham held open a map he had painstakingly redrawn from the fragile original, scanning the sketched sandbars and small islets and verifying their position against the real items.
Englehorn needed only a glance to see they were in the channel leading right up to a curved beach on the peninsula. He had sailed over the Indian and Pacific oceans and knew firsthand that scattered remote islands offered more danger than anything imaginable in the civilized world. Once he had landed on Komodo Island, where he lost two of his crewmen to the giant lizards that lived there. Lizards with lethal bites, creatures appropriately referred to as dragons.
Still, up until now he had never really believed Denham’s map and his story of the Wall. But seeing was believing, and right in front of him, big as life, reared the great structure. What kind of monster had it been built to keep out? Could all of Denham’s outlandish story be true? Was there really a Kong, some kind of beast-god? Englehorn settled back, studying the land ahead, trying to glean any detail that might give his party a better chance of survival.
Denham was daredevil enough to risk anything, but Englehorn had known that going out and had signed on in spite of it because Denham was also one of the most resourceful and bravest men alive, and he paid well, too. Very well. And though Englehorn would never admit as much, he felt something within himself that was larger than his comparatively slight frame, something that craved the unknown. Without ever voicing the thought, Englehorn knew that his own reserve nicely balanced Denham’s recklessness. They made a good team, and both knew it.