Merian C. Cooper's King Kong

by Joe DeVito

  The boat’s bow slushed into the beach, and Englehorn rose to leap over the side and help run it up. He consoled himself that this would likely be his last voyage with Denham, but he doubted it. If Denham asked, he would be ready.

  * * *

  Denham jumped out of the boat and onto the beach in an instant. He took equipment from the men clambering ashore and within seconds he had mounted his camera on its tripod. “Come on, men.” He swung the weight of the camera up onto his shoulder and led the way.

  The sights and smells of the village permeated his senses and heightened his awareness: smoldering cooking fires, the scent of broiling fish, the sunstruck beach leading up to a scatter of bamboo huts. This was what he lived for. Every nerve in his being was on fire. The island was real, and he was standing on it! He now believed Kong, whatever he was, was just as real. At the top of the first rise, he held up his hand, and the first party waited until the second boat had grounded. When Denham saw Jimmy climb out, hoisting the crate of bombs, he nodded and beckoned. With the bombs, Denham thought, we’re ready for anything.

  When Driscoll’s crew sprinted up the hill, Denham immediately put them to work. He burdened one sailor with the mounted camera, another with a case of film, and a third with the box of costumes. Meanwhile Englehorn was dividing cases of trade goods among the others. Jimmy grimaced as he shouldered the heavy container which held the gas bombs.

  “You stick close,” Denham directed Jimmy. “And watch your step. There’s enough trichloride in that case to put a herd of hippos to sleep.”

  “Are we going to see any hippos?” Jimmy asked.

  Denham grinned. “Something a lot more exciting, I hope. Where’s Driscoll?”

  Driscoll came trotting over, followed by Ann. She wore khaki trousers and a short-sleeved tan blouse, and carried her pith helmet—her explorer’s costume.

  Englehorn, standing close to Denham, turned to his first mate. “Mr. Driscoll, I want an armed man to guard each boat.”

  “Already attended to, sir,” replied Driscoll. Denham heard him add a quick aside: “Stay beside me, Ann.”

  Denham chuckled and said casually, “Jack, it might be a good idea for you to look after Ann until we find out how we stand.”

  Driscoll flushed, but he said, “That’s fine. What next?”

  “Let’s see. Skipper, do you think it’s safe to go on toward the village?”

  Englehorn nodded. “Men, form up, double file. Shoulder your rifles and don’t use them unless I give the order. Blast it, Denham, wait!”

  Denham had set off, striding vigorously toward the scattered houses at the edge of the brush. He didn’t look back, but knew he had automatically become the leader of the march. Just behind him paced the men bearing camera and films, then Jimmy, whose pained face had convinced another crewman to help him with the gas bombs. Next came Englehorn, then Driscoll and Ann.

  As the party climbed up the slope from the waterline and achieved some elevation, the Wall began to tower above them, although it still lay far off. Denham realized how enormous the structure really was. The Norwegian skipper’s crude sketch had poorly estimated the mighty barrier which ran the full breadth of the peninsula. Off to the sides, trees closed in to hide its base. Giant vines slithered up its sides as if to form some cryptic map of the dawn of time. To Denham, the Wall seemed a great rooted thing, monolithic, eternal—alive—the way an ancient, gnarled, apparently dead tree can still manage green leaves on an occasional branch. The vastness of the mighty structure was not dwarfed even by the purple loom of the overhanging precipice. It seemed to be part of the foundation of the island itself.

  What it was made of Denham could not exactly tell. Heavy beams, perhaps even whole tree trunks, made up part of it, but soiled or blackened, possibly tarred to preserve them. These stood interspersed between gigantic blocks of something, blocks that made up the bulk of the Wall. “What are those dark masses?” Denham asked.

  From behind, Englehorn said, “Maybe volcanic rock. Though the texture doesn’t look right, somehow.”

  “Look at the top,” Denham said, pointing up to a ragged row of triangular shapes. “What do you think, Skipper? It’s almost Egyptian.”

  “Colossal, like the Pyramids,” Englehorn agreed. He spoke as though in a dream.

  Denham’s own mind was far away for a moment, remembering the several times he had been around the world. He had viewed many of its wonders but could not quite place this eerie structure. Despite his first impression, it was not really Egyptian. It looked—and then his mind hit on a frightening realization—it looked reptilian! He felt an odd chill.

  “Who could have built this?” Englehorn asked. “And why?”

  Denham shaded his eyes. “As for why, my guess is that it must have been the outer defense of some sizable city on this peninsula, maybe one that even included the two smaller islands out in the bay. Isn’t it enormous?”

  “But who do you suppose could have built something like this?” Ann asked in an awed tone.

  “I went up to Angkor once,” Driscoll remarked in solemn admiration. “That’s bigger than this. Nobody knows who built it, either.”

  Denham realized they had all been speaking in hushed tones, like worshipers in an ancient cathedral. His practiced eye saw a panoramic shot that would stun audiences. “What a chance!” he exulted. “What a picture!”

  As the group continued along the line of the Wall toward the ceremony, Englehorn muttered, “Listen to that.”

  Denham nodded. The cadenced drumbeats steadily increased in volume and intensity. And Denham sensed that with them, the party’s uneasiness was increasing, too.

  They passed the first few straggling huts but saw no sign of an islander. None appeared even when the explorers reached the first outskirts of the village. Denham judged that the settlement would hold a tribe of at least several hundred, filling an area equal to six city blocks. The longhouses lay widely separated, each enclosed and partially masked by the thick brush. Narrow paths through the undergrowth provided the only connecting links. Each building stood by itself in a bare circle of beaten dusty earth smoothed by many feet. One extraordinary detail made the village different from any other that Denham had ever seen. All about lay a scatter of magnificent, broken columns of carved stone—or what looked like stone, anyway—and fragments of skillfully built walls. These ruins stood on every hand, but the majority lay forward, closer to the Wall.

  “Part of the original defense during the building of the Great Wall?” Englehorn asked, gesturing at the fallen stones.

  “Maybe,” Denham replied. “But look at the houses. They’re primitive compared to the carvings on the pillars, and they’re nothing compared to the Wall. It doesn’t add up!”

  They pushed through the heart of the settlement, still seeing no one. But suddenly, between two steps, the roll of the drums softened. And now, above their low purring note, voices began to rise in a wildly swelling chant.

  Denham swallowed. He must have been wrong in his estimate. The chant sounded as if it came from thousands, not hundreds, of throats. Next to him, Driscoll halted and flung up an arm in warning, and the others stopped dead in their tracks. Ann clutched Driscoll’s sleeve, and the sailors looked at one another apprehensively. The sound of the chant came from somewhere close to the Wall. Denham motioned to Englehorn and pointed to an unusually large house ahead.

  “If we can edge around that,” he said, “I’ll bet we’ll see everything.”

  “Do you hear what they’re saying?” Ann asked in a soft voice. “They’re shouting, ‘Kong! Kong!’”

  “Denham!” Driscoll called. “Did you catch that? They’re at some god ceremony.”

  “I can hear just as well as Ann,” Denham said. “Come on.” Moving forward cautiously, he beckoned Englehorn closer. “Think you can speak their lingo?”

  “Can’t catch any clear words yet.” Englehorn paused for a moment, head bowed, listening. “It does, though, sound a bit like the talk of the N
ias islanders.”

  “Let’s hope it’s close enough to let you talk to them,” Denham said.

  They reached the last house, and Denham halted, waving the rest of the column to close up and gather near. He himself advanced guardedly to the corner of the house. “Easy now!” he whispered. “Stay here until I see what’s going on!”

  He stepped around the corner, leaving the others behind. In a moment, he returned, barely containing his excitement. “Holy mackerel!” he whispered. “Englehorn! Driscoll! Get a look at this—but be quiet!” He led them to a vantage point, and all three of them stood transfixed.

  The sun had sunk past zenith, and the Wall cast a deep shadow over everything before it. An explosive shout of massed voices rose above a murmurous, hypnotic rhythm. Cries of ecstasy, triumph, awe, and fear rolled thunderously over the gyrating populace.

  Above the crowd loomed a towering central structure that dwarfed the Wall itself, which stretched off into the distance on either side. At the center of it all reared a portal, guarded by a pair of immense wooden gates. These in turn bore ornaments, the likenesses of two gigantic prehistoric skulls, their horned faces eerily illuminated by the flickering torches below. A colossal wooden beam ran through each of the obsidianlike masks and firmly barred the doors. One corner of the gate, at the lower right, bore a patch of fresher-looking wood. What force could have broken that mighty structure?

  Denham could barely contain himself. He frantically motioned to the camera bearer, took over the machine and tripod, and slowly began to work it to a spot offering the clearest view. While he maneuvered, the drums rolled softly and the chants rose ever higher. Irresistibly drawn to the spectacle, everyone drifted slowly forward until suddenly, without realizing it, they were all standing in plain view of the entire population of the island. The air vibrated with the ongoing chant: “Kong! Kong! Kong!”

  7

  SKULL ISLAND

  MARCH 12, 1933

  Ann could only stare. In front of the party lay a double row of huts, with a few unusual artifacts or remnants of different kinds of structures scattered randomly among them. In the far distance, under the shadow of the looming Wall, Ann saw a great beaten square. The tremendous maw of an open gate frowned down on this. Up to the gate’s sill rose a series of broad stone steps; and halfway up the steps, on a rude dais covered with skins, knelt a young native woman.

  Ann saw at once that the young woman had a lithe and beautiful form. The torchlight gleamed on her bronze skin, which shone as if she had been anointed with oil. Woven strands of flowers, serving as a crown, girdle, and necklace, were her only apparel and increased her soft, frightened charm. On either side of the girl, some on the stairs and some in the square, the chanting natives swayed in ordered ranks.

  Ann had an impression of great solemnity. The islanders had not yet noticed the intruders staring at them, for they focused all their attention on the kneeling girl. The leader of the chant seemed to be an ancient man, arrayed in a multitude of leathery skins, decked out with strange long feathers of orange, green, red, and yellow. He swayed as he chanted, his movements jerky, as though he were in the grip of a force more powerful than his own will. Smoldering torches billowed with strangely scented smoke. It was all hypnotic, and to Ann’s eyes, every single one of the massed natives swayed spellbound by the old man’s voice and movements.

  Ann saw, still farther to one side, a strongly built, imposing man, magnificently costumed in furs, grass, and feathers, watching with a kingly detachment. Balancing him on the opposite side of the ceremony, an old woman leaned on a staff taller than herself. Her intense gaze burned on the old man who led the ceremony, but she did not sway, as the others did, and she seemed unaffected by the tide of sound. Ann felt a kind of pity for the woman, who looked like an outcast dressed in rags, though she had the bearing of one who had confidence in her own power.

  The witch doctor—that was how Ann thought of the old man leading the ceremony—stood with his arms upraised and his head thrown back. The crowd moaned and chanted, mingling with their repeated cry of “Kong!” something that to Ann sounded like “Atu! Atu!”

  Ann saw the old woman suddenly straighten, and she realized that she and the others from the ship had been spotted. Still, the woman made no effort to alert the other islanders. She stood apart, watching the newcomers and waiting.

  Ann heard Driscoll quietly ask, “What do you make of this?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Denham whispered back. “I can only imagine. Look at that old guy in the feathered robe. If he only holds still for a moment until I can focus!” He began to crank his camera.

  Driscoll glanced away from the director and motioned for Ann to move behind him. She stepped a little nearer, but stayed where she could see.

  Moving close to the girl dressed in flowers, the old witch doctor began an oddly supplicating gyration. In slow, humble gestures, his weaving hands seemed to offer the maiden to a dozen huge and terrifying dancers, who leaped out of the chanting ranks. Broad hollowed furry skulls covered their heads, and rough black skins hid their bodies. Ann couldn’t tell whether the fur was actual animal hide or whether it was made of fine strands of dried grass dyed a jet black.

  “They look like gorillas,” Driscoll muttered. “But there are no gorillas within a thousand miles of here. How did they get that idea?” As if noticing that Ann was still in the open, he moved to put himself more squarely between her and the natives. As though by common impulse, the Wanderer’s whole crew grew jostled more closely together, until Ann could hardly see at all. Holding on to Jack’s shoulder, she stood on tiptoe to get a better view.

  The native chorus dropped into softer and softer tones as the costumed apelike men advanced. The witch doctor moved back and looked toward the king. The old woman standing to the other side had disappeared into the surroundings, leaving the stage to the two men. The king stepped forward, but in that instant his expression changed as he looked beyond the crowd, toward the interlopers, toward Driscoll, Denham, and Ann. “Bado!” he shouted as he raised an arm to point. “Bado! Dama pati vego!”

  The chanting, the dancing, all the sound, all the movement, froze to stony silence. Ann tightened her grip on Driscoll’s shoulder as he half turned toward Englehorn and asked, “Ever hear that lingo before, Skipper?”

  “It’s familiar,” Englehorn murmured. “That’s the leader, the king, talking. I’m pretty sure he’s telling the old witch doctor to stop the ceremony, to beware the strangers.”

  “Looks like we’ve been found out,” Denham said, never looking away from the camera viewfinder.

  The massed natives turned as one and stared at the newcomers. Ann had a sense that many of them were drugged, their faces and movements uncertain, glazed, nearly stunned. An errant breeze rolled the smoke from the smoldering torches over the party from the Wanderer, and Ann felt a moment’s giddiness. Something in the smoke, she thought. Like one of Denham’s gas bombs, but not a knockout chemical. Something soothing, hypnotic.

  Cries of surprise and outrage brought her attention back. The islanders stared at them with wide, fearful eyes. As if by a silent direction, the women and children had begun to slip away. Many followed the path taken by the old woman who had been standing opposite the king.

  Jimmy muttered, “I don’t like the looks of this. We’d better beat it or we’ll be up to our necks in trouble.” He turned, but Ann saw Driscoll’s steadying hand reach out to grip his arm.

  “Good catch, Jack!” Denham called from his position at the head of the party. “Jimmy, they’ll cut us down if we show fear. Nobody run! No use trying to hide now. Everybody stand fast, put up a bold front.”

  The king made an imperious gesture, and two tall warriors stepped to his side. Slowly, with evident caution but no real fear, he strode forward. Ann saw that the last of the women and children had vanished.

  “Look out, Mr. Denham!” Jimmy yelped. “They’ve got spears—”

  “Shut up, you fool!” Driscoll shot back.
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  “Hold on, everyone,” Denham said again. “Skipper, you’ll need to translate.”

  “Jack!” whispered Ann. “Does it mean trouble when the women and children go away?”

  “Trouble for them—if they start anything,” Driscoll replied, his voice firm and confident. If he was scared, he was hiding it well. Still, Ann clutched his arm more tightly than ever.

  Some of the sailors shifted their rifles, their fingers slowly inching toward their triggers. Denham, as though he had eyes in the back of his head, rapped out a warning: “Steady, boys! There’s nothing to get nervous about!”

  “Hang on, Ann,” Jack added. “The chief wants to see if we’ll scare. It’s all a game of bluff, and I’m betting on us.”

  Half a dozen paces in front of them the chief paused with his guard. Tall and stern-featured, he stared down at Denham. His broad, strong face glistened with sweat, the deep lines in the flesh accented with ceremonial paint. Above and behind him, the gaunt witch doctor glared at them. Ann had the impression that the older man, the witch doctor, felt more outraged than the king at their intrusion.

  For long moments the strongly built chief stood surveying them. His eyes were as clear as glass, yet wide as saucers. His bizarre costume and his expression gave him the look of a terrifying apparition from a childhood fantasy. Still, no one could mistake his authority.

  Denham had stopped his camera. He didn’t flinch from the island chief’s challenging gaze, but said from the corner of his mouth, “Skipper, this would be a good time for a friendly speech.”