Kong: King of Skull Island

by Strickland, Brad

  He grew stronger, more muscular. In his memory the days of his captivity still smoldered, a dull pain relieved only by his recollection of Ishara’s tenderness. From the cliffs and the plateau, Kong looked down on the forest below. Sometimes he saw the great reptilian creatures that dwelled there. Once he caught sight of a king dinosaur, like the one he had fought, and the fur on his neck and shoulders bristled. In his mind a creature of that kind had killed his parents. He witnessed its ferocity from his high place, and in him ferocity awakened. The strong survived; the weak died. The fierce prospered and ruled. Kong learned.

  He became at home on the bare stone cliffs, climbing them with practiced ease, exercising and building his already prodigious strength. At last, driven by curiosity and restlessness, he moved along a narrowing ledge until he reached the face of the mountain. He found handholds and toeholds that no other creature his size could have used, edged around until he hauled himself, at last, into one of the eye sockets of the skull face itself. The space inside was a vast vault, dry-floored but reeking from the droppings of pterodactyls. Ledges and pathways led Kong to the far eye socket.

  Venturing to the opening, Kong stared outward. And looking down, he saw—

  Gaw.

  Far, far below. Kong hissed and stared. A ledge led from two ridges on either side of the mountain to the mouth opening of Skull Mountain. Beyond that, a great crater opened in the earth, and in this crater was Gaw, at rest in the sun. Around her wheeled a herd of deathrunners, fighting over scraps of flesh and bone. Plaintive cries came from other creatures, juvenile ceratopsians. The deathrunners had herded them into the mouth of a ravine and would not permit them to leave. One had been slaughtered not long before—the deathrunners were contending for what remained of its meat.

  Kong’s eyes narrowed. It was possible the deathrunners could come into the mouth of the mountain. They would have to climb out of the crater some distance away, but they could follow the ridges, then the ledge, as he had done. But could they get from the mouth to this cavern?

  Kong spent hours exploring and finally found a passage downward, one leading to the lower cavern of the mouth. It could be blocked with boulders easily enough. And then what? He would be trapped up here.

  Or would he? If he came from the cliffs, he had a back way in, one that the dinosaurs could never use.

  Over the next days, Kong made many journeys from the plateau into the caves. He blocked the steep passageway down into the mouth, using stones pried out of the cavern walls. He brought soft grasses to make a bed. He found a water supply in the depths of the cave, warm, brackish water, but drinkable. And he brought food, enough for days if he needed it.

  The first night he spent in the cavern was . . . profitable. The pterodactyls coming home to roost were easy prey, snatched from the air, their necks broken, and the next morning stacked in the sun to dry. Two nights, and the pterodactyls did not return, but flew to more remote cliffs.

  Kong brought lianas into the cavern, tough, thick vines. He found ways to loop these around a strong stalagmite. He could toss these from the eye socket and have a way of descending and ascending.

  Then he heard sounds from outside, the shrill trumpet-call of a maddened adult ceratopsian. Kong climbed down the vines and sped along the ridge until he stood on a boulder-strewn ledge, looking down into the crater. He instantly grasped what had happened. The deathrunners had rounded up more juvenile ceratopsians, but this time the mother had been close enough to follow. She had burst into the lair in fury, and now she charged the deathrunners that were nipping at the heels of two of her offspring.

  One leaped at her, but a snap of her great beak bit the predator in half. She lowered her head and skewered a second with a brow horn, tossing her head to dislodge it, snorting in anger the whole time. The small deathrunners fell back from her—And then a deeper, louder challenge split the air. Gaw had come. The triceratops spun, confronting the larger menace. Another deathrunner sprang at her, but she trampled it and circled warily, lowering her head. Kong noticed the gleam in Gaw’s eye as she took a careful step forward. The triceratops charged, bellowing, but Gaw spun away from the horns with surprising ease. The infuriated mother turned at once and lunged, and Kong saw how careful Gaw was to avoid those horns, how menacing they were. He would remember that.

  Staccato, hissing chirps echoed from Gaw, and a horde of deathrunners leaped at the triceratops from behind. It grunted and snorted as its massive body and horned head quickly pivoting toward them. Immediately Gaw rushed forward and seized the plant-eater in her powerful front arms. With a roar of effort, Gaw threw the heavy dinosaur on its side, and then struck again and again, viciously snapping her jaws.

  Kong growled as he watched Gaw rip open the plant-eater’s throat, remembering how his own mother had died. Kong snarled, seized a boulder, and hurled it. It crashed down the face of the ledge and smashed to earth beside Gaw. The startled creature leaped back, its screams echoing throughout the cave. Kong threw another boulder, not at Gaw, but at the pack of deathrunners. The impact killed half a dozen of them. Another boulder rained down on them, then another. Gaw roared in rage. The killers swarmed up the sides of the crater.

  Kong had already retreated. He climbed the lianas, then hauled them up after him. The snapping, chittering deathrunners arrived at the mouth of Skull Mountain, only to be greeted by more deadly stones. The harsh, furious voice of Gaw called them away. She stalked the distant crater, lashing her tail, staring up at Kong, secure, safe, beyond her reach. Kong beat his chest and roared a challenge. Gaw answered with an unearthly shriek.

  So began a siege and a war. Kong struck when he could, always killing a few death-runners, sometimes even bringing a body home with him for food.

  Gaw chose more inaccessible places to sleep for herself and the remaining death-runners, for the pack was thinning. Enmity was stoked to a fever pitch.

  And in the lonely evenings, Kong found things in the caves, things that reminded him of his father and his mother.

  Things that reminded him that he was the last of his kind.

  Hatred burned.

  Loneliness grew.

  The years had not changed the Storyteller. She was strong for all her wrinkles and apparent frailty. Ishara visited her less frequently, but whenever she did, the old woman welcomed her warmly. One evening the Storyteller said, “Come, my queen. Let us sit and talk for awhile.”

  “I’m sick of it all,” Ishara told her. “Kublai is making the old Atu mistakes all over again. I can’t bring him to see the truth. He is becoming Bar-Atu’s puppet.”

  The Storyteller put her arm warmly around Ishara’s shoulder. “We must all choose a great path to walk: either for good or for bad. All the paths in between lead eventually to one of the two, depending on what a heart truly desires.”

  “Why are we in such trouble? Why has Bar-Atu seized such control of our minds and hearts?”

  “Because lies are often easier to follow than the truth. Bar-Atu calls the bad path ‘good,’ and the good one ‘bad’ and his lies deceive many, so they follow him. But the great paths go where they will, no matter what name he gives them. You, and Kublai, must not be fooled if you are to save our people.” The Storyteller touched her cheek with a calming hand. “Be at peace, Ishara, and do not worry. The learning is in the journey. Listen to your old Storyteller. Have faith and never give up hope. You will find that your eyes will be opened when the time is right. When it seems darkest, the stars shine brightest,” she said.

  “I want to choose the right path,” Ishara said slowly, “and I want Kublai to choose it as well. I wish there were a way to show the people they’re being fooled by Bar-Atu’s lies.”

  The Storyteller was staring at her with a strange light in her eyes. “You have the blood of the Tagu Storytellers in you,” she said. “Yes, you have that in full measure.”

  From that day life changed for Ishara. She spent all of her time with the Storyteller. Oji, the Storyteller’s pet, became her constant
companion and refused even to accept food from the Storyteller. “He is yours now,” the Storyteller said. “And he knows that.”

  There were days when, sitting quietly she felt the same connection with Oji, and other animals, as she did with the sleeks in the sea. Creatures did not seem to have any fear, or react to her as they would to anyone else.

  Frightened at first of the sensations, Ishara only slowly told the Storyteller of what she was experiencing. The Storyteller nodded solemnly. “It is in your heritage,” she told Ishara. “It is a gift of the spirit, given to the Storytellers.”

  “Then you have these feelings, too?” Ishara asked.

  The Storyteller inclined her head. “Yes, but in a different way. Each Storyteller, it seems, is given a different part of the story. Little by little we add what we learn, and we pass it on to others. One day our people may know the whole story,” she added with a smile.

  Thinking about this, Ishara gazed down from the Storyteller’s hut. From here she could see both sides of the island. She felt her skin prickle strangely as she suddenly realized something: if she could climb higher, higher even than the Wall that had arisen between her and Kublai, she could see, she could understand both sides. Then she would know clearly what she must do. Ishara gasped and heard the Storyteller murmur, “Yes. I know. You want the best for our people. Kublai wants to be a strong king.”

  Ishara swallowed, feeling her throat tighten. Her mind raced as she blurted out, “But what can I do to help him? I know now he needs me more than ever, and I should be there beside him!”

  With a slight smile, the Storyteller said, “You give me hope, Ishara. You have taken a larger step than you know. I cannot guide you to where you must go, but I can tell you this: your gifts are given you to discover answers to the problems of the island and to your own troubles.”

  “I don’t know how,” Ishara said.

  “You will. Understand that Kublai must find his own path without your gifts of perception. If you lead him, you will take what he needs away from him. With Bar-Atu and his followers ever present, Kublai must now use the gifts he has been given to accomplish the tasks before him. You each have a part to play. And then there is the stranger, Magwich. On whose side does he stand, other than his own? You must watch him and decide that.”

  “It is a heavy burden,” Ishara said meekly.

  “I know it is, and you are the only one who will listen to a mad old woman like me. We have very little time to act, and we may have only one chance. We must succeed.”

  The Storyteller gently caressed Ishara’s face. “Listen to me: Bar-Atu and his men are about to usurp the power of the King. Kublai is with them. Unless you help him, he will not survive.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I am old, but not blind. I see more from my perch atop the Wall than Bar-Atu ever suspects.”

  Ishara sprang to her feet. “But Kublai will not even talk to me!”

  “He still loves you very much,” the Storyteller said. “But his heart has been wounded by pride and misunderstanding.”

  Ishara felt as if her own heart was being torn in two. “How can Kublai’s way give us hope? He follows the old Atu path, and you know where that will lead!”

  “Life is not always so simple. There is more than one way to tame a beast. At times you must give before you can receive, and answers may be found in the most unexpected places. There are bonds I can feel between the two of us, and between you and Kublai. Nothing can be solved when we build walls between ourselves and others. There is one Wall on this island, and that is enough.”

  Ishara felt weary. She leaned against the Storyteller. “I will try to understand and to find the way. How must I begin?”

  “Your hope is to find the secret places in the Old City, the vaults where the ancients stored seeds, formulas, and knowledge. If this knowledge is properly used, fear of the creatures beyond the Wall can be conquered and our people can once again become their own masters. This can rekindle their hope by offering them a choice other than Bar-Atu’s cult of blood and death. If our people can master the beasts of the island with knowledge, then Kublai may expose Bar-Atu’s lies and restore a proper balance to the island. You must go with them, Ishara, and search for the secrets of our ancestors while they search for treasure.”

  Ishara felt fear and confusion, but she fought to master the feelings. Dimly she began to realize that the Storyteller was right, that her destiny and Kublai’s might work out in a way she could not now even suspect. In the midst of evil and darkness, light could find a way to shine through.

  A brilliant day came, with only a few lazy white clouds, a day of heat and promise, and the hunt was to take place on the next morning. As the day passed, Ishara was restless until sunset, when she found Charlie and asked him about the hunt, though he couldn’t tell her much. “I’m no great hand with a rifle,” he said. “And our ammunition is beginning to run low. Captain Magwich takes only the best shots.” He shrugged. “I’m glad I’m not going. I think they’re crazy! The villagers who stay away from those monsters, they’re the smart ones.”

  “Where are they going?” Ishara demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said, looking miserable. “Into the jungle, that’s all.”

  Ishara could not control the beating of her heart. “Charlie, I need your help. Because I am going.”

  They had been sitting on a rocky outcrop, staring out over the western sea, toward the sunset. Charlie sprang up, his eyes wild in the fading light. “Are you cracked? Besides, he’ll never let you. It’s too dangerous.” He rubbed his arm, as if he were cold, and growled, “They’re dangerous.”

  Ishara stood. “Still, I will go. Kublai needs my help, and my heart tells me this is the final hope of our people, our last chance. I need you to go with me, Charlie.”

  Fear flashed in his eyes. “Your people, not mine. Look, I’d like to help, but—listen, Bar-Atu don’t know it, but your Kublai, he’s out to kill Gaw. I’ve seen that thing close up. I don’t think any of the men are likely to come back. Ishara, I like you, but I spent years in shackles, praying for rescue. I don’t want to get gobbled up by monsters. I never wanted to join Magwich’s crew, but it was that, death, or slavery, and at least sailing with Magwich was a kind of freedom. But to go up against Gaw—what good’s freedom to a dead man?”

  Ishara swallowed hard. “Then I will go alone. You can still help me if you will. Stay here and watch after the Storyteller. Now she is the only one standing between Bar-Atu’s lies and the souls of our people, and you’re the only one I can trust to protect her.” Ishara saw relief flood Charlie’s face, and taking that as her answer, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  “Wait—how can you survive out there alone?” Charlie called after her. She pretended not to hear.

  And before dawn the next day, Ishara left the Storyteller’s hut, a soft leather bag of the precious herbs tied around her waist. As she set out, she was aware of the irony of her plan: Her journey would begin in the dark. She did her best to put all doubt out of her mind and to proceed with the conviction of one who had already succeeded. She followed the Wall to its end, intending to creep around it and wait on the far side. Then she planned to follow the men at a distance.

  Dawn had just broken when she heard a footstep behind her. Giving no sign, Ishara continued on her way, but when she reached a thicket of brush, she quietly stepped aside. A moment later, a thin figure crept past. Ishara touched his shoulder and felt the man start in surprise. “Charlie?”

  “I didn’t want you to go alone,” he said miserably.

  “I asked you to look after the Storyteller.”

  Charlie grunted. “Yeah, well, she don’t need any help. I went to talk to her, but she waved me off. ‘You know where you have to go,’ she says, and I did, by thunder. I didn’t want to, but I knew.” He grimaced. “Or maybe she didn’t say it at all. The voice was more in my head, like, and I somehow knew which way you had gone, and I trotted right along
after you, and here I am. That’s a strange old lady, Ishara. She gave me this.” He held out a leather pouch, like the one Ishara wore.

  She didn’t tell him of its power over the beasts of the jungle. “You said it was crazy to go into the jungle.”

  “I know,” Charlie admitted. “I still think it is, and I guess I must be crazy myself. If I end up dying out there, I’m gonna be so mad I’ll probably kill myself.”

  Ishara gaped at him, until she realized that Charlie had just tried to tell a joke. She smiled at him. “All right. If I die, you can kill me, too. Let’s go.”

  “I got a pistol,” Charlie said. “Six shots, that’s all I have. I hope you know where we’re going.” He shivered, though the morning was already hot. “I’m scared to death already. But it’d be worse if something happened to you because I was a coward. I’ll follow you.”

  “You’re not a coward,” Ishara said, and she led the way to the end of the Wall. She worried about whether Charlie would be able to make the climb down the cliff face, across, and up again, but he was a sailor and was agile enough. Being on the far side of the Wall made him nervous, though. In the pale light of dawn, his eyes jerked at every sound.

  Ishara stood for a moment with eyes closed. She could feel the clean air laden with morning dew. She heard the chirps of early insects and from everywhere the sounds and singing of the flying things. “There are no dangerous animals near,” she said. “They may have learned to stay away from the Wall now.”