“They did well enough,” Vincent said with a crooked grin.
“Guess so. You’re weak as a half-drowned cat, but somehow you seem happier than I’ve ever seen you. You know, your old man would have been proud of you, Vincent. I wish Ann could be here now. Maybe her nightmares about this island could end, too.”
The Storyteller said, “Friend of Denham, I welcome you. Come with me.”
“You’re sure he’ll be okay—”
“He is safe now. Come.”
Vincent heard those words from far away. Then he was asleep, asleep and at peace . . .
Vincent had no idea how long he had slept when he awoke to find the Storyteller sitting on his cot with Kara and Jack standing across from them. “What did you dream about, Vincent Denham?” asked the Storyteller. “You smiled often in your dreams. I almost did not recognize you.”
Vincent’s words were almost random at first, confusing even to him. But he quickly, eagerly, began to talk of rediscovered memories. Words spilled from him, words about his mother, his childhood recollections of his father. He smiled and said, “One thing my father always insisted on was that I paid attention at Mass. Funny. Somehow I thought I had outgrown my religion, but I suppose the things that are real sink right into the bones. Ishara knew that, didn’t she? Like you of the island, we believe in God, and our beliefs are the roots that nourish our lives and give meaning to existence. On this island, the Storytellers were like stars showing the way.”
“You sound like a Storyteller yourself,” Kara said, her tone half-doubtful, half-derisive.
Vincent shook his head. “No, I’m no Storyteller, I just can’t help seeing the irony of it all. If not for this island, I might not have lost my parents—yet because of this island and the story of Ishara, I’m beginning to find myself. I may not be there yet, but I am seeing things in a new way.”
The Storyteller said softly, “You are surrendering much in making your promise to leave the island to our people, Vincent Denham. I do not know if Kara wholly under-stands what you are surrendering. I tell her now, it is one stronger even than blood, as deep as the soul. Your pride in your work and in yourself is at stake, and you have offered that as your sacrifice.”
The Storyteller took Vincent’s arm. “The Tagu humbled themselves before the Infinite, as Vincent humbled himself before you, Kara. True humility is the ultimate strength, because to have it one must have the strength to master himself first. I think the teachings of the Tagu are alive in him, because they are a reflection of his own belief.”
Kara stared at the floor and then slowly slipped into the dark, her footsteps softly echoing behind her. And ahead of her. The Storyteller patted Vincent’s arm. “Vincent Denham, my apprentice has learned from you, I think. Now you must regain your strength.”
Vincent sat up, leaning on one elbow. “But I want to know—”
Driscoll shook his head. “Rest up, kid. We can all talk later. Take it from me, things are going to work out all right.”
The Storyteller turned to Driscoll and said, “For two days, Vincent must rest and recover from the poisons he has taken. And then I will guide you all to a place where questions may be answered. That will give Kara time to think. She has much to consider—far more than any of you know, especially for someone so young. Let us hope and pray that she, too, makes the right choice.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SKULL ISLAND
July 3, 1957
Vincent Denham sat blindfolded, leaning against a tree. He was conscious of others near him—the Storyteller, Kara, and two guards. Sunlight felt good, warming him to the bone. He heard a grumbling voice approaching: “Don’t know why you have to blindfold me every time we go anywhere.”
Then his blindfold was taken off, and he found himself looking up at Jack Driscoll, similarly blinking in the sunshine. “Well?” Vincent asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been in touch with the crew,” Driscoll said. “They jerry-rigged the repairs—” he looked around. “For the love of Mike, we’re outside the Wall!”
“Nothing will harm us here,” the Storyteller said.
“I’d feel better with my rifle, anyway,” grumbled Jack.
But the Storyteller shook her head.
“They’ve repaired the ship?” prompted Vincent.
Driscoll blinked at him. “Oh, yeah. Enough to get us to a civilized port, anyway. We can go aboard any time.”
“Okay,” Vincent said.
“Come now,” the Storyteller urged. “It is a long way. Follow me.”
She led them to what looked at first like a low hill. It turned out to be a man-made dome of stone, with one low opening. They crept into it, and then Vincent found he could stand upright. “It’s a tunnel!” he exclaimed.
“I have a little acquaintance with it,” Driscoll said dryly. “Or with its family, anyway.”
“This is the way Bar-Atu took when he surprised Kublai and Ishara the day Kong became King. It is also the path that took him back to the Wall before anyone else. Kublai never had a chance,” said the Storyteller.
“You mean Bar-Atu knew about the Old City all the time?” asked Vincent incredulously.
“Yes. And the seeds as well—that is how he was able to summon Gaw for the sacrifices. That is why he would disappear for days at a time. But it was far too dangerous to chance alone too often. He could never let on that the city existed lest others find some glimmer of hope. He had chanced upon the seeds and was running out. That is why he allowed Kublai and Magwich to form their expedition without interfering. He could not lose: on the one hand, Magwich had promised to deliver Kublai, and on the other, the journey provided Bar-Atu the perfect opportunity to discover more seeds under the protection of so many armed men. However, he did not know what the Storyteller knew. The ancient Atu knew certain ways to use the seeds of wild plants, but never how to cultivate them properly. Bar-Atu discovered some of the secrets of his ancestors and used them to make it seem as though his prayers could summon Gaw.”
For Vincent the pieces began to fall into place. They explained a great deal. Driscoll nudged him. “I suppose you can fill me in on this?”
Vincent shrugged and chuckled. “It’s a strange story, Jack. So strange a story that you may not believe it. But I do.”
“I’ve heard words like that before. Seems dramatic turns of phrase run in your family.”
They passed the murals, which Driscoll described to Vincent, but the Storyteller allowed no dawdling, much to Vincent’s frustration. They kept a quick-march pace, and though Vincent soon tired, he tried not to show how exhausted he was feeling. Especially since Kara strode grimly beside him, not looking at him and showing no signs of weariness herself.
They paused twice; and three times they passed through chambers at least as wide as the one Vincent had recovered in. He wondered if the network of tunnels continued under the village. Was this the kind of place where he had lain helpless for so long?
After a whole day of marching, they made camp for the night, with the Storyteller lighting torches and staking them around their campsite. The torches burned with a faint green flame, sending out an oddly soothing aroma. When they woke the next morning, the torches were still flickering green. The Storyteller put them out and carefully handed them to one of the guards. They had a quick meal and then resumed their journey.
Now and then sunlight shafted down through openings in the stone ceiling, or the tunnel itself emerged onto the surface. At these times, the guards went ahead and called when they were sure no predators were lurking in ambush. “We will be there soon,” the Storyteller announced. “When Ishara sought the Citadel, she did not know the short ways, through the tunnels. The pathway there is more direct, and less dangerous. What took her many days has taken us only a day and a half.”
And finally, with the sun already at zenith, they emerged in a range of low, green hills. The Storyteller did not hesitate, but led them to a mound as tall as a two-story house. A figure sat on a stone near it,
and he rose as they approached. Vincent heard Driscoll catch his breath. “My God, it’s him!”
Vincent felt frozen in place. Before him, his face gaunt, his hair gray, was a familiar figure. He had seen that face in films, in photographs, often enough. He remembered it from childhood.
Bitterness roiled in him. Carl Denham had deserted his wife and child. He had brought ruin on them all. And here the man stood—
Vincent closed his eyes. He fought down his resentment, fought down his anger. At the bottom of everything lay another feeling, the feeling of a son for a father, and in the end that was stronger. He found he was weeping. When he opened his eyes, the old man was still in the same place, his expression warm. No, Vincent saw, not just warm. Hopeful. After all these years, Carl Denham still had hope.
And one look in his father’s eyes told Vincent that the old man still loved him. Now he could see that his father had also suffered, that the distant image he had created in his mind was not the real Carl Denham. His father was a man, just like him. Whatever decisions he had made, whatever mistakes he had committed, had not been done out of heartlessness.
“Dad,” Vincent said, nearly choking. Then somehow his father was embracing him, and Vincent could not speak at all.
“Twenty years,” Carl Denham said. “Englehorn was a good man and a brave one, but the ship cracked up and the monsters in the lagoon took the crew, one by one. So there I was, the only survivor. I can’t tell you what it was like, bringing supplies and equipment ashore, never knowing whether one of those sea-serpents was gonna snap me up.”
Driscoll asked, “What exactly happened to the captain—did you try to save him?”
“Yes, Jack, I tried,” Denham said solemnly. “Englehorn got a bad bite, and it became infected. I got him to shore, but he didn’t last long. The Storyteller will back me up—she did her best for him even though every other person on the island wanted to throw both of us back. Englehorn’s buried beyond the Wall.”
Driscoll sighed, but his expression was respectful. “I guess if anyone could make it, it would have been you. I know how tough an old buzzard you are. My sympathies are with the critters.”
“Not so tough,” Denham said. “I’m not going to live so very long, the Storyteller says. And she knows. She knows. But Vincent, you’re right about one thing. The world can’t learn the truth about this island, not yet.”
“Secret’s safe with me, Dad,” Vincent said.
Driscoll chuckled. “Me, too. I don’t have a single seaman aboard who could navigate, and nobody’s seen the charts except Vincent and me. I don’t ever plan to come back here myself.”
Denham nodded. “The islanders deserve to be left alone. I did a terrible thing to them when I came and took Kong. I’ve spent a quarter of a century trying to make up for it. Come with me.” His eyes twinkled. “I might just show you the ninth wonder of the world.”
Laboriously, he stood and, leaning heavily on his cane, he led Vincent to what seemed another tunnel opening. It led into the green hill, into a domed room equipped with a bed, a simple fireplace, a chair, a table, and stacks of notebooks. Carl Denham gestured at it. “My diary, son. What I’ve learned about the island. Sketches of its animals. Translations of writing that even the Storyteller had forgotten.” He coughed. “See, I had a pretty fair education once upon a time. Learned six, seven languages during my travels. And you know how I always loved to draw—Lord knows I had the time to develop my skills. I hope you feel my work meets with your approval. You know, if my life had been different, I could have made a pretty fair scientist. I guess we’re not so different after all,” he said with a grin. He sat at the table and waved his hand at the storehouse of paper. “It’s yours, son. Use it. Use the knowledge in it. But keep the island secret, at least for now. You’ll understand more when you’ve read some of it. Start with these.”
Carl Denham reached to the table and retrieved a thick sheaf of paper. “Letters to you,” he said. “And to your mother, God rest her soul. I hoped some day someone would find them and get them to you. I never expected to hand them to you myself. Son, I’ve done a lot to be ashamed of and a lot that I regret. I can’t ask you to forgive me, but maybe you can sort of understand.”
“I can do more than that,” Vincent said, taking the letters. “And I can forgive you, Dad.”
“You’re a better man than I was at your age,” Carl said, sounding as if he meant it.
“I hope to be as good as you when I’m your age,” Vincent returned, and he meant it, too.
Carl smiled and patted his son on the back. This was the way Vincent always imagined it should have been growing up. They walked together, Carl’s arm around his son’s shoulder, out of both pride and the need for physical support. For a man on the mend himself, Vincent never felt better. He was amazed at how easy it was to release what he had suppressed for so long, now that he was talking to his dad. And saddened that he knew their time together was going to be too short. He told his father about his mother and the hardships that they both endured. Vincent could feel his father’s old body react as though struck by a blow. Several times he had to stop and allow the old man to recover his composure.
After a long silence Carl wiped the tears from his eyes and muttered, “It was the hardest decision I ever made, son. There were a lot of important people involved in that voyage and a great deal of damage done by Kong. So many people were killed, and if I didn’t leave so that they could lay it all on my back, a lot of other people would have been hurt. Wrong as my decision may have been regarding your mother and you, what I envisioned happening if I stayed was far worse. Fortunes and reputations were on the line, and they needed a scapegoat. I would have stayed on my own account, but I had to protect your mom and yourself. Lawsuits, physical threats—I couldn’t let you be exposed to that.”
Vincent said, “I think I understand.”
Carl Denham drew a deep, unsteady breath. “And then there was Kong. I was so blinded by fame and money that I never considered what the costs would be. When we left this island, Kong wasn’t the only one we took. The Storyteller and the last of her helpers came with us. I didn’t know why or how at the time, but I couldn’t tell her no.”
Vincent had never heard that. He said, “So that’s how she learned English.”
Carl said, “Well, how she learned more of it, let’s say. She and I have had lots of time to practice talking each other’s language since then. You know, during the whole return voyage back from the island with Kong, she sat down in the hold of the Wanderer. She wouldn’t leave him. She constantly burned these mixtures. By the time we arrived in New York, I had heard quite a bit of the story you heard, and I was beginning to wonder about what I had done.”
Vincent had never supposed that the Storyteller had been outside the island, let alone in New York. He wondered what the city had meant to her, what knowledge she had brought back.
Carl went on, “Well, son, under the bright lights, all that self-recrimination went out the window. It was all so much bigger than life, if you get my drift. I was deep in debt, and I thought a week of exhibiting Kong would clear me. What happened next was worse than what happened on the island. So many people died and were injured.”
“I’ve read about it.”
Carl sighed, leaning heavily on his son. “The Storyteller had predicted what would happen before we left the island if we took Kong. As I sat alone in the dark hours of the morning after Kong’s rampage, it all came flooding back. She was the only one in the room with me. To this day, I don’t know how she got there. She was so sad, but hopeful that some good could come out of it all. It was with her urging that I finally left to—as she put it—make things right with myself and with the ones I loved. There was a time I might have come for your mom and you, but even so, how could I have asked the two of you to take such a risk as coming to this island? At any rate, what’s done is done.”
A pterodactyl cruised over, banking on the thermals. Carl shaded his eyes and watched
the graceful, soaring creature. “They’re so beautiful when they aren’t trying to kill you,” he murmured. “So beautiful.”
Vincent could only stare in awe. “I’ve always dreamed about dinosaurs,” he said. “To see them alive—”
Carl still seemed lost in the past. He said, “You know, I couldn’t decide which wanted my carcass more, the creatures on this island or the bigwigs in New York. They still talk about me back home, Vincent?”
Vincent shrugged. “Your early movies are still shown now and then. But as for Kong, there was a complete cover-up. You must have had some powerful people wiping out your tracks. I never could learn much of anything past what the newspapers said.”
Carl leaned on Vincent’s arm. “Ah, well, we were in a Depression, son. People were desperate and nobody wanted to be responsible for making things worse than they already were. People were paid off from top to bottom to get Kong into New York. When he went berserk, heads were ready to roll. There was blood in the water and the sharks were ready. Believe me, I had no real choice but to leave with Kong’s body.”
“Lucky you had a friend with a ship. But how did you supply it?”
Carl coughed. “I, uh, well, sold a map to the island.” He looked sheepish. “It was a pretty good map, too. Only thing was, it wouldn’t lead anybody to within a thousand miles of this place. Of course, I made a photographic copy of the real one, and then I hid the original behind the only family picture I had near me when I left. I guessed you’d find it if you were meant to. The Storyteller seemed to always think that was possible. I never believed her. But after—what is it, twenty-five years?—with her on this island, I’m not so much of a pragmatist any more. She’s a strange old woman, and a very dear friend. Anyway, the Storyteller had me add several bits of information to make things a bit easier if you made it back, marking the jungle trails and so on. I translated her language as best I could, a sort of pidgin-Tagatu I’ve used often in my notes. You’ll figure it out—give you something to do on your long voyage home.”
Kong: King of Skull Island Page 18