Kong: King of Skull Island

by Strickland, Brad

  Late sun streamed through the open Gate. Kublai was the faster as they dashed from the great portal and turned to reach for Ishara’s hand. She reached forward—

  A rifle cracked, and an invisible hand struck Kublai in the chest, knocking him back as blood spilled from a great wound. He fell, many steps beyond the Gate. Ishara flung herself over him, trying to protect him, too late, too late. “No!” she screamed, her hands cradling Kublai’s head.

  Kublai’s breath rasped and rattled. “Run, Ishara! Find a way!”

  “No!” she screamed, dropping to her knees, lifting Kublai’s head.

  Kublai gasped, his words a whisper, “Don’t give up, Ishara, find a way. . .” He could say no more, but Ishara could see the love in his eyes—and then the life left them.

  “Kublai!” all hope left with him, and her faith deserted her. In an instant, her world was shattered. Ishara sprang up, consumed with hatred for Bar-Atu, wanting to tear him apart with her hands. But his followers had spilled through the Gate, and were already upon her. They overpowered her, dragging her back inside the Wall. She heard the boom of the great Gate closing and knew despair. Bar-Atu stood with legs apart, his gaze self-righteous and full of contempt. And behind him, forcibly bowed, was the Storyteller, looking weak and faded.

  Through hot tears of anger, Ishara spat in Bar-Atu’s face and cried, “Murderer! Are you not satisfied that you have won? Do you have to leave my husband’s body out there to be ripped apart by scavengers?”

  Bar-Atu wiped the spittle from his face, but his smirk remained. He stepped forward and slapped Ishara hard, buckling her knees, then lifted his staff. “Silence, before the same thing happens to you! Your husband mocked the protection of the Wall, so let him lie beyond it, free as he wanted to be—free to be refuse, food for the saurians and scavengers that the Wall protects us from!”

  The Storyteller took a step forward, and Bar-Atu struck her with his fist, bringing a cry of pain from the old woman.

  Panting, Ishara said, “Is this how a leader proves worthy? By striking a defenseless elder? Coward! Let her go back to her hut. She cannot harm you!”

  “Hear me!” Bar-Atu thundered over the crowd that had gathered before him. “See what happens when one takes protection for granted! This Kublai said that he could conquer the god! That old hag, the Storyteller, says not to rely on the Wall, but on the strength within yourselves. Fools! Where is their arrogance now? What protection do they offer you now? They cannot even protect themselves!”

  Ishara struggled against the men who held her. “Don’t provoke him,” the Storyteller said sharply. “This is Bar-Atu’s time.” Unspoken, but clear in Ishara’s mind, was the thought, Your time is yet to come.

  The people were murmuring. Bar-Atu’s sharp eyes darted, slyly. Respect for elders was a deeply held belief of the islanders, Tagu and Atu alike. In a measured voice, he said, “This useless creature is harmless. Let her go back to her perch, then. Her power has ended.”

  The warriors dragged her forward, to the small doorway that led to the stairs climbing to the top of the Wall. She went silently, with bent head, as the men ridiculed her, even spat on her.

  Ishara fought against her captors again, and one of them struck her hard on the side of her head, causing a blinding explosion of yellow light and then darkness.

  She came to consciousness some time later, feeling air on her face, sensing someone bending over her. Ishara tried to sit up, but gentle hands held her down. “Don’t yell out,” Charlie whispered. “They don’t know we’re loose.”

  “Where are we?” Ishara asked, groaning, trying to sit up.

  “That little corner where we used to meet. I slipped away when they went after you and Kublai, and I hid. They think they’ve locked you in a hut, but I got you out of there. We’re safe here for a little while, I think. Listen to ’em.”

  Then Ishara realized that the drumming she had been aware of was coming not from her aching head but from the village. Bar-Atu was leading the people in some kind of frenzied ceremony.

  “The Storyteller—” Ishara said.

  “She’s up in her hut. When you feel strong enough, we’ll go see her.”

  Ishara and Charlie made the climb in the dark of night. The old woman seemed more concerned with Ishara’s loss and with her hurts than with herself. Ishara took comfort in the old woman’s consolation, and there in the hut she mourned the loss of her Kublai. That night they rested, and the next morning they watched from the top of the Wall as two warriors bound a struggling woman in preparation for the first sacrifice to Kong.

  The Storyteller sighed. “Bar-Atu has made a misstep. This time he has chosen the wrong god. This one is not like Gaw. This is a kong, a descendant of the ancient war-riors of the Tagu. This creature is still less than human, but more than animal. Gaw fed on the sacrifices without caring anything for the reason why they were given to him. Gaw saw us only as food. On some level Kong will know he is being given dominion and will react to that.”

  “I don’t believe Kong means to hurt us,” said Ishara.

  “Not after we hurt him so badly?” the Storyteller asked. “And remember the horrible things he has experienced. Even more, he is no longer a child. He is grown into adulthood—with all its passions.”

  “I failed,” Ishara confessed. “We brought back only fragments from outside. If I had done as you asked—”

  “You did your best,” the Storyteller said. “And you have a part to play yet. I will not be with you long now. But I think you are ready.”

  “I cannot fight against Bar-Atu now that he has become king of the island.”

  The Storyteller’s smile was grim. “He only thinks he is king. Because he is merciless, he believes Kong is merciless—merciless and mindless. But Bar-Atu will find soon enough that Kong must be appeased. Bar-Atu is not a king, but a slave—the slave of a god he made. In willingly sacrificing others for his own selfish desires, he has unwittingly finally sacrificed himself!”

  In the distance, Kong roared.

  The Storyteller said softly, “Kong is King of the island now.” She was silent for a long moment, and then, surprising Ishara, the old woman added, “How I pity him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SKULL ISLAND

  Date Unknown

  Vincent Denham thought that he had been awakened by bad dreams. His mind played tricks on him, he knew. Sometimes he saw moving shapes that were not there; sometimes he heard stealthy movements that existed only in his mind.

  But one of these voices—

  “Jack?” Vincent asked, and his voice came out as a harsh croak. He rolled out of bed, rose staggering to his feet. One small torch burned a long way off, giving him coppery dimness instead of light. He felt as if he were back aboard the Darrow. The stone floor beneath his bare feet seemed to tilt and roll like the deck of a ship.

  But the voices were louder. Vincent reeled toward them, stumbling over his own feet. His shoulder hit the rough wall, and half supporting himself against it, he edged forward. A doorway, low. He ducked and stepped through and saw an open door to his left, with yellow light spilling from it.

  “Killing’s in your blood,” Jack’s voice said. “This bit of the island is like Australia was in the beginning—where the killers and thieves were sent. That’s why you’re going to kill me. Come on, say something!”

  Silence, and then Jack roared, “You ever wonder what you losers are doing locked behind this wall? I know why you’re here, do you? You should have picked Australia, it’s a bigger island. Guess all the good real estate was taken.”

  Vincent grabbed the edge of the door, hauled himself through the opening, and swayed, his eyes wide.

  An earthenware lamp flickered on a triangular table. Jack Driscoll stood in a corner, his back against the wall. And before him, holding a short spear—

  “Kara!” Vincent shouted.

  She spun on him, her eyes gleaming in the light. Jack took a step forward, but Kara danced back, threatening hi
m with the spear. Her teeth grinned fiercely. To Vincent she looked like a woman ready to kill.

  “Get out of here, kid,” Driscoll ordered. He did not look at Vincent but kept his eyes locked on Kara’s in an effort to stare her down. “The little lady has some beef with me. I want to find out what it is,” he said with a steely look. Vincent saw no fear in Kara’s stance, though—she was the one in control, not Driscoll.

  “He dies, too!” Kara said, pointing at Vincent.

  Driscoll’s eyes widened. “English! Kid, you know this woman? Looks like she’s been treating you rough!”

  Kara, balancing on toe-tips, yelled and thrust toward Vincent. He tried to duck away as Driscoll lunged forward. Driscoll was too slow, Vincent too unsteady on his feet. The spear blade missed him by an inch, but he fell to his hands and knees.

  Kara laughed at him. “Too weak!” she taunted. “Fool! The medicines I have been giving you have poisoned you. And not even the Storyteller knew! Now your friends come to take the little we have left. You will die, both of you!”

  Vincent pulled himself up, one hand on the door sill, one against the wall, steady-ing himself. A figure darkened the doorway. For a fleeting instant, Vincent thought it might be the Storyteller—but it was a man, armed as Kara was with a short spear, menacing Driscoll.

  Driscoll made another lunge, but the newcomer was on him. This time Driscoll did not miss the opportunity. He deflected the spear with a forearm, grabbed the shaft with his free hand, and turned the man’s momentum against him. He stumbled, and Driscoll swept his legs from under him, wresting the spear free. Before the man could rise, Driscoll was behind him, the spear shaft held horizontally against his throat. “That’s more like it,” he said softly. “Behave, now.”

  Kara yelled something in her own language, and Driscoll’s captive grunted a reply.

  Driscoll’s grip tightened. “Let Vincent alone, or I swear I’ll break his neck.” Kara’s sharp eyes nearly glowed as she kept Vincent pinned against the floor in the adjoining room.

  Vincent felt a strange sensation, a sensation almost of peace. Weak though his body was, his mind seemed suddenly clear. He released his hold on the spear and spread his arms wide. “I’m getting up, Kara. I’m not as afraid to die as you are to live.”

  “Don’t do it!” Driscoll yelled. “These people are killers. It’s in their blood. I’ve seen their history. The people on this side of the Wall are the descendants of murderers.”

  Kara screamed, “Liar! You and your kind are the killers! You took everything we had and left us to die—” Her rage increased, and she fell into her native tongue. Behind her, Driscoll increased the pressure on the man’s windpipe until his eyes rolled up in unconsciousness.

  Vincent stretched out his neck as she drew back for a deadly spear thrust and asked calmly, “Are you Atu? Or Tagu?”

  Kara froze. Vincent was no Storyteller, had no insight into the minds of others, but he saw doubt in her eyes, and he knew that she felt his strange certainty.

  “An Atu shames himself by killing those who don’t resist,” Vincent said. “A Tagu never takes life without reason. Which are you? Or are you nothing more than a killer, as my friend said?”

  Kara drew back her spear, but Driscoll let his unconscious captive fall and sprang forward to grasp it. He was stronger than she, and with a wrench and a thrust, he tossed her onto the cot, leaving him holding both spears. He held Kara’s on her.

  Vincent rose, took a step toward him, and pressed the spear down. “Don’t,” he said.

  “It’s a temptation,” Driscoll admitted.

  “Kill me!” Kara snarled. “If you don’t, I promise I will kill you. Both of you!”

  Vincent sank beside her, sitting on the cot. “Listen to me,” he said simply. “I know why you feel the way you do. It’s the same reason my friend feels the way he does. In your place, I might have done the same. But this must stop. I promise this, Kara: I will do whatever I can so that no more of my people will come to this island, not without your knowledge and your permission. Your people have known too many years of death and suffering. Nothing is worth knowing I helped to contribute to that. Not even my dreams of bringing knowledge of the island’s creatures to the world. Not even—” he fought to say the words— “not even my hope of finding my father and clearing his name. The killing has to end. I am willing to take the first step.”

  The guard groaned, pulled himself to his feet, and stared at them. Driscoll braced for action but a moment later the guard obediently stepped to the side as an old woman stepped out of the shadows behind him.

  “Be at peace, Jack Driscoll,” she said plainly. “Lower your weapon. No one will harm either you or Vincent.”

  Driscoll glanced at Vincent, who gave him a short nod. But the spear was already down. “Who’s this?”

  Kara’s eyes narrowed, and she spat something that sounded like a curse.

  “Silence!” The Storyteller spoke with finality, and it was as if Kara were struck dumb. The Storyteller calmly turned to Driscoll. “You are as wrong in what you think of us, Mr. Driscoll, as Kara is in what she thinks of you. Where there is mystery, there is often misunderstanding. I think Vincent Denham now understands.”

  The Storyteller turned to look at Kara. “Vincent has passed your test, Kara. And mine. What remains to be seen is whether you will pass my test—and your own.”

  To Vincent, she explained, “It has never been the choice of the Storyteller, or anyone else, who the future Storyteller will be. How the gift appears is a mystery. There is no doubt Kara has been chosen to be the next Storyteller, the bearer of the wisdom of this island. In Kara’s hands will lie the future of our people. Will she lead by the way of the Tagu or by the tyranny of the Atu? Has she learned enough to choose wisely? She demanded that she be allowed to test you, to learn whether you could be trusted with the knowledge of this island and our people. But she overstepped her bounds. I have known she was mixing poisons with your medicines, not enough to kill, but enough to keep you weak. Not only in body, but more deceitfully, in mind.”

  “I thought I was a long time healing,” Vincent said ruefully.

  The Storyteller nodded. “And yet, you have turned aside her attacks and shown that you are capable of sacrificing personal desire for a greater good. Your own will has overcome the weakness of your body and your inclinations and made a choice—a human choice. You have given the proof to the Tagu teaching that we are free to be the masters of our passions. It is the Atu belief that the people are ultimately helpless against their inclinations.” A faint smile played on her wrinkled lips. “Kara, you did not realize that when you asked to test Vincent, you placed yourself under the same test? Tell me, how do you judge your own behavior in comparison to that of this outsider? Do you choose to control your passions and cast aside your anger, as Vincent has, or do you choose to be controlled by them and follow the way of the Atu, to continue the killing?”

  Kara’s face twisted in an agony of frustration and regret. “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you ask this? To humiliate me? I’d rather die!”

  “Not to humiliate you, Kara, to help you to choose wisely.” The Storyteller said softly, as if to herself, “It is an awesome responsibility to receive the gifts of the Storytellers. I remember well, when I was a young woman like you, Kara, the confusion in dealing with the rush of emotions. They nearly ripped me apart.”

  She then spoke directly to Kara: “But with all gifts comes the strength to use them properly—if you have courage. It is your challenge to harness your gifts, and keep them within proper boundaries so that they serve you. If you do not succeed, they will rule you. At first you find joy in the release, but before long you will realize that they are cruel taskmasters!”

  Kara glared at her, but could not meet her gaze. She lowered her head.

  The Storyteller put an old hand on her cheek. “In the ancient, long line of Storytellers, there has never been one like you. The blood of both the Tagu and the Atu flows in your
veins. This inflames your already heightened sensitivities. You are faced with a greater challenge than any Storyteller has ever faced. Because of this, your actions are understandable and forgivable. But you must come to realize that you can master your conflicting emotions. If you choose to. Vincent has taken the right path, Kara. So can you.”

  Vincent said simply, “Are we so different, you and I? Like Ishara, we have both had our childhoods stolen by events that were not of our making. And for the same stupid reasons: fear, ignorance, greed—it seems the whole world suffers from the same malady. I guess some just suffer more than others,” he said, unconsciously relaxing as though a great, invisible weight had finally been lifted from him. He felt drained and sank onto the edge of the cot. “I guess we both want the same thing Ishara wanted: to be at peace inside.” He looked at the Storyteller and said, “Because of her story, I may have finally learned how to feel that way.”

  “Rest,” the Storyteller said. “This has taken much of your strength.”

  Vincent couldn’t argue that point. He lay back, but speaking dreamily, as though to himself, he said, “Ishara thought everything was lost. But maybe not—if we can find our way through together, perhaps she will have succeeded after all. We can be the proof that Bar-Atu was a liar.”

  “You okay, kid?” Driscoll asked.

  Vincent nodded. He felt so worn that he hardly cared that the two of them had been in mortal danger just minutes before.

  Driscoll leaned against the wall. His expression was one of utter confusion, mixed with an almost fatherly admiration. “I don’t know what Vincent is talking about, but I’ll grant you that I might be wrong. I can tell things aren’t what I thought—Vincent looks like death warmed over, but he seems clear-headed enough, so I guess you did take care of him.”