Kong: King of Skull Island

by Strickland, Brad

  Then Ishara heard Kublai shout, “Now!”

  From hidden perches in trees men dropped nooses of rope down. Some missed, but half a dozen looped around the kong’s neck. Immediately the men leaped down from the trees and hauled on the ropes. Others joined them. The kong reeled, clutching at its throat as the ropes cut off its breath.

  “No!” Ishara shouted.

  The weakened, injured kong staggered, swept a threatening arm, but finally crashed to the earth. The men cheered, and the Gate swung open.

  Then Ishara was running down the narrow stair, tears stinging her eyes. By the time she reached the bottom, the men had dragged the kong inside and the gates had swung closed. Excited islanders crowded around, and Ishara could not see what was happening. She could tell only that the men were dragging the body to the massive trunk of an ancient tree, the largest there was behind the Wall. “Let me see! Let me see!”

  They ignored her, and she pushed her way slowly through. When she finally saw what had happened, she was weeping, sobs shaking her whole body. The dazed kong was tied to the trunk, his head lolling, his eyes unfocused. Bar-Atu was handing Kublai a whip. “No!” Ishara screamed again, her voice lost in the cheers of the islanders. She turned as the whip cracked and fled to the sounds of its repeated blows.

  “It’s wrong!” she told Kublai late that night. They were on the beach, at the far end from the Europeans’ ship. Waves came rolling in, black against the darkness, then creaming into white. The sound was like the earth breathing. “Kublai, you know it’s wrong!”

  “It’s a beast,” Kublai replied sullenly. “It doesn’t understand anything else. The whip and starvation—those are the only ways to break its will. Bar-Atu knows.”

  “Bar-Atu lies!” she said fiercely. “This isn’t the way of the Tagu! You saw the kong when it tried to defend its parents. It’s more akin to us than to beasts!”

  “I know what I’m doing!” Kublai seized her arms and stared into her face. In the faint light, she could see the intensity of his gaze. “Your father will die soon. What do you want? Do you want Bar-Atu to become the only leader? I can stop him!”

  “Not by becoming him!”

  He pulled her toward him, but Ishara broke away and ran. Halfway to the village, she turned and looked back. Kublai stood, a dark silhouette against the white surf, his stance angry and proud.

  Two months passed, then three. More and more, Ishara stayed with the Storyteller, looking down into the village. The Europeans refloated their ship, but anchored it in the bay. They remained on the island, keeping to their own small village of huts on the knoll overlooking the beach.

  And every day Kublai beat Kong, as Ishara now thought of him. Kublai fed him only when Kong was submissive. The great creature was becoming gaunt. Without telling anyone, not even the Storyteller, Ishara sometimes slipped away in the dark of night to bring a few morsels of food to the captive, or give him a drink. At first Kong drew back from her in a way that wrenched her heart, but gradually he came to trust her. She spoke softly to him and wished she had the courage to cut his bindings.

  And slowly her feeling of dread grew. She spoke of it to Charlie one evening. “Tomorrow is one of the nights of sacrifice,” she told him.

  “What? Chickens and such?” asked Charlie, with a grin. It was meant as a joke. There were no such things as chickens on the island, though the Europeans had a few scrawny hens on board their ship, a source of wonder to the islanders.

  “One of our people,” Ishara said.

  Charlie looked at her, his young face startled. “Go on.”

  “Bar-Atu remembers the days when the Shaitan offered humans to the wild gods. Now Bar-Atu says the offerings must begin again. This is the moon of the first sacrifice. His priests will choose a woman from the people and tie her outside the Gate. Then they will sound the gong on the wall until Gaw comes. If Gaw takes the sacrifice quickly, then he approves of Bar-Atu’s teaching. Or so Bar-Atu says. Gaw has never refused any flesh.”

  Charlie looked uneasy. “Maybe with our guns we can—”

  Ishara shook her head. “It’s too dangerous to open the Gate when Gaw is near. Gaw has attendants, deathrunners, many of them. Even with your rifles, you could not kill so many.”

  The young man frowned. “But Kong isn’t trained.”

  “No. He may never be ready to fight Gaw. His parents weren’t, and they were much larger and stronger.”

  The next afternoon was overcast, with a threat of storm in the dark sky. Bar-Atu’s priests brought out the chosen sacrifice, a girl called Ashanta, and performed the ritual of bathing her, anointing her with oil, clothing her with flowers, of purifying her for the sacrifice. At sunset they dragged her drugged, listless body outside the Gate and tied her to the altar of Gaw. As the light died and torches flared, Bar-Atu gave a signal, and atop the Wall two men began to swing hammers at the gong atop the Storyteller’s hut. The old woman never stayed there at such times. She had come down and was sitting with On-Tagu, rocking back and forth and crooning softly. Ishara heard shouts and hurried outside to see what was wrong.

  A roar pierced the twilight, a hoarse saurian roar from beyond the Wall. Gaw was coming. Up on the Wall itself, men had kindled fires, and cauldrons of boiling oil, rendered from the fat of dinosaurs and kept here for defense, steamed and billowed. Near the fires, spearmen pointed into the distance, shouting as they did. Ishara knew that sometimes Gaw came with an escort of deathrunners, and that they often tried to force the Gate. At times Gaw’s coming had taken in death more than just the intended victim. Now the men took every precaution, just in case Gaw should find the sacrificial offering not to his liking.

  A shriek of rage, inhumanly loud even though it came from far beyond the Wall, made Ishara’s flesh crawl. She ran through the village and came to Kong’s clearing. Kong struggled to stand, tugging at the ropes that bound him. “What is it?” Ishara asked, but no one was there to answer.

  And then she understood. Kong had heard Gaw’s cry from beyond the Wall. “You can’t,” she said soothingly. “No one can help—”

  Another shriek and a guttural roar tore through the air. The world seemed for a moment to hold its breath, too terrified to move. Then from the dark clouds overhead the first bolt of lightning seared the sky. Thunder rolled across the island. In response, Kong threw back his head and howled defiance. Ishara took a step back, sensing Kong’s anger. Kong’s seemingly wasted arms heaved, the sinews and muscles cording with effort.

  The tree around which Kong’s arms were bound swayed, rustling, and then the wood gave a sharp crack. Kong’s eyes grew wide and wild, and his shoulders knotted as the ropes holding him parted with a twang, whipping the air. “No!” Ishara shouted again.

  His shoulders flexed as he redoubled his effort. Ishara ran to find Kublai. Behind her she could hear wood splintering.

  She had not gone far before a priest of Bar-Atu came running toward her, brandishing the great braided whip. “What is it doing?” he shouted. He did not live to hear an answer. A sweep of Kong’s arm shattered the man, sending his broken body tumbling, the whip flying. Ishara could have touched Kong as he hurtled past. She ran behind him, shouting a warning.

  Kong burst into the torchlit clearing before the Gate. He rose to his full height, well more than twice that of the tallest man, and his huge fists thumped his chest. Ishara stopped at the edge of the clearing. To her, time stood still as Kong gave out an ear-splitting roar and leaned forward to pound the earth. The impacts made her stagger, and the men in the clearing, stirred from their shocked inaction, stumbled as if their knees were buckling. Ishara stared at Kong in horror. His primal rage transformed him, changing his features. Instead of the suffering face of an intelligent creature, he now wore a mask of fury terrible to behold. Recoiling in fear, Ishara remembered what the Storyteller had said: a kong aroused to anger was exceedingly dangerous. Ishara’s mind whirled, her emotions torn between the empathy she had felt for the young Kong and her terror at this raging
creature.

  Suddenly Kong lunged toward the Gate, striking those who stood before him, sending them tumbling like broken dolls. Kong slammed into the doors of the Gate with such force that they groaned and creaked, but for the moment the great beam locking them held. The men on the beam platform began to haul for their lives, realizing that their only chance was to let the rampaging Kong out before he destroyed everything on this side of the Wall.

  Kong seemed to grasp their purpose. As soon as he saw the beam begin to slide between the two huge skull-like forms which held it in place, he grabbed it with both hands and wrenched it free, flinging it to one side. It slid, sweeping half a score of men from their places. Now nothing held the Gates shut but their immense weight. They began slowly, slowly, to move.

  And to her horror, Ishara saw the doors were not opening outward under the force of Kong’s strength, but inward! With a crash the doors sent even Kong sprawling backward. The great hinges groaned as both sides of the colossal Gates swung open under the force of Gaw’s huge clawed hands. The last of the bravest who had rushed to try and close the Gates began to scatter like flies. Torches dropped and flew as the huge, malevolent face of Gaw leered above them.

  The islanders fled in all directions. Ishara saw Magwich and half a dozen of his sailors pushing against the flow. One of the men leveled a rifle at Kong, who was painfully rising again to his feet. Magwich struck down the sailor’s weapon. “You fool! That beast is all that stands between us and death!”

  Kublai was shouting orders from atop the Wall. Just as Gaw raised his massive limbs to eviscerate the dazed Kong, ribbons of hot oil steamed down, searing Gaw’s back. Bar-Atu was baying his disapproval, but Kublai’s warriors ignored him and poured more oil from the cauldrons.

  Gaw’s back arched, and he reared with a roar of pain and anger. “Fire!” Magwich cried, and from the rifles of his men tongues of flame erupted in the dark. If the bullets found Gaw, they made no impression.

  But a cascade of fuming oil splashing across his head and into his eyes did. Gaw reeled backwards, screaming in agony. At that moment, Ishara suddenly felt—somehow knew —that Gaw was a female. Gaw screeched, then turned and ran back into the forest. From the dark space outside the Wall, an untold number of her minions rushed, chattering and hissing, following their queen into the jungle.

  Ishara saw Kong charge through the open Gate, leaping over a pool of smoking oil. He roared once, pounded the earth again, and then seemed to pause in thought for a moment before taking a different direction from Gaw, fading into the darkness. “The Gate!” Kublai yelled. “Close it now!”

  “Ashanta!” screamed Ishara. Before anyone else could move, Charlie drew his knife and ran outside. Ishara followed immediately, feeling the heat from the pooled oil rising around her bare legs. With quick movements, they cut Ashanta’s bonds, and the three of them stumbled back inside just as the men began to shove the Gates closed.

  “He’s gone,” Ishara gasped to someone in the dark.

  Hands led Ashanta away, and Ishara found that the Storyteller was embracing her. “Yes,” she said in her old voice. “Kong has escaped. The men will never get him back, not now. He will go to Skull Mountain to heal and grow strong.”

  “Gaw will kill him,” Ishara said numbly. “She is twice Kong’s size, and swarms of deathrunners are always with her.”

  The Storyteller looked off into the darkness. “Never repeat the mistake that almost cost you your life. Kong is no longer the helpless young creature you first encountered. If he survives, in time his body will grow as large as his spirit. In rage he will be far more terrible than what you saw tonight.”

  Ishara shuddered at the thought. “Has he changed forever? You should have seen his face when his parents were killed. I cannot imagine the young Kong growing into the creature I saw tonight. He would have killed me had I been in his way, though I was the only one to show him kindness.”

  The Storyteller patted her shoulder. “Ishara, when we help, it should be for the other, not for ourselves. Life is not always fair, nor do we always know what is best to do. I cannot see the future, but I know that Kong will be Kong. His spirit is too great to be anything but a king. The next time Kong encounters Gaw, their struggle will be to the death.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SKULL ISLAND

  Date Unknown

  Vincent Denham lay awake, not knowing whether it was night or day. In this strange cavern, there was little difference. He idly wondered what day it was and how long he had been here. It seemed a long time.

  And yet, it couldn’t have been that long. A week? That much? He wasn’t sure.

  He had been puzzling over the Storyteller’s tale for some time now. When had Ishara’s story taken place? The late 1800s? Was the kong of the story his father’s Kong? He suspected it was. The Storyteller had once said that the kongs lived half again as long as men. If Kong had been just a juvenile, then by the time of Carl Denham’s visit in 1933, he must have been in the prime of his strength, a fully grown creature of power and force. He had no real way of knowing.

  But the Storyteller couldn’t be that old. If she had been counseling Ishara sixty-seven years ago, that would make her well over a hundred. She looked ancient, Vincent thought, but surely not that old! Yet he could not deny her uncanny sensitivities, and those of Kara too. He could not explain them scientifically, but he could not deny their reality, either. He comforted himself with the theory that in his weakened state he was more susceptible to their suggestion. He didn’t mind the Storyteller, who emanated an overall calm and peacefulness. Kara, though, was beginning to frighten him, and he was still too weak to fight the feeling off.

  Vincent dozed, and when he woke, it was because Kara was beside him, shaking his shoulder. His injured shoulder. He could not tell if she had done so innocently or if she wanted to wake him with pain. “Here,” she said shortly, offering him a shallow cup.

  He took it and sniffed its contents suspiciously. The odor was bitter, ashy. “What is this?”

  “Medicine.” Kara tossed her head. “She said you are to have it. Drink it all.”

  It was tepid, slimy, and tasted worse than it smelled. Vincent got it down without gagging and handed the empty cup to Kara. “Where is—” he began, but the young woman turned and left him without a word.

  He drowsed again, and when he woke, it was to the raucous screech of Oji. The Storyteller sat near him, her chin resting on one hand, her eyes speculative. “What are you seeking, Vincent Denham?” she asked him.

  He frowned. “You know that. News of my father.”

  “You still have not learned what you seek.” The old woman sighed. “No matter—you will in time, I think. But you begin to see a little, do you not? You see what your father took from the island when he took Kong?”

  “If it was the same one.”

  “It was the same. Oh, yes, it was the same. The last of the Kongs, and the greatest of them. Shall I tell you more? Shall I tell you what happened after Ishara’s father died? That she married—and not of her own choosing? Shall I tell you what happened the next time Kong met Gaw?”

  As if taking his silence for a “yes,” the Storyteller closed her eyes. “The Europeans did not leave the island. Not then, not for a long, long time. Months passed, and some of them took brides from the village. Magwich was always helpful, always kind. It was he who buried On-Tagu that summer, when the old man’s spirit finally left him. An honor guard, he called his men. And they raised a stone to the dead king, after their own custom. . .”

  Skull Island

  The Past

  On the longest day of the year they buried On-Tagu atop a low hill overlooking the ocean. Charlie and some of the other sailors had carved the name, in letters of their own alphabet, in a spire of black volcanic stone, and this they set at the head of the grave. Ishara wept and scattered flowers, as was the practice of the island. Her father had slipped away at the end, sleeping deeply until one night when he simply ceased to breathe.r />
  Death came to him the day before the second sacrifice of the year. Bar-Atu, who had vanished several days prior to the old king’s death, reappeared before the funeral, though he refused to take part in it. The ceremony of naming Kublai the new King came the following day, and a glowering Bar-Atu assisted in that. Kublai, perhaps not sure of his power yet, allowed Bar-Atu to send his own servants onto the Wall, and they lit the fires and prepared the cauldrons. A sacrifice was chosen, was bound to stout new pillars many steps farther from the Gates than the old ones. Gaw came, with a guard of deathrunners, and she snarled at the men atop the wall. Clearly she remembered the heated oil, and she warily kept her distance from the doors. Then she charged toward the sacrifice and with a roar of disdain ripped the screaming victim from the altar. She turned and disappeared back into the jungle.

  For a week Ishara visited her father’s grave every day. On a quiet evening, she placed a perfect seashell on the grave and sat looking down the slope, toward the village. Children were playing some game of their own far down the grassy hill. Ishara realized that any one of them, all of them, might be chosen as sacrifice. “I swear,” she said in a fierce, soft voice, “I swear, my father, that I will never let Bar-Atu, no, nor the Wall itself, cast the shadow of fear over my spirit or my people.”

  Hours later, toward evening, she saw a figure striding up the hill: Kublai. She waited stoically.

  He slowed as he approached, as if she were surrounded by a forbidding circle. He crouched next to her. “Ishara. I come to tell you of my sorrow at your father’s passing.”

  Ishara nodded but did not speak.

  After a moment, Kublai reached to pick up the shell. It was whorled and delicate, and three small holes had been drilled in its body. “A musical shell,” he said. He lifted it to his lips and played a little melody, haunting and simple. “Why put such a thing here, Ishara?”