“I remember Jack saying the map was the real one, but that it was different. He said the tunnel information saved his life.”
“I’m glad of that. Driscoll’s a good man.” Carl shifted uneasily, and in a softer voice, he added, “Be careful when you get back, Vincent. Others may still be wondering how to find that map.”
“I don’t like the sound of that word—others. But don’t worry, Dad. Jack and I will make sure no one else gets his hands on it.”
They talked endlessly. Vincent filled his dad in on what had been going on in the world —World War II, the atomic bomb, jet engines, the Cold War, television. The rush of history that turned Kong into a myth, a legend, a dimly remembered story that might be a hoax.
Carl heard it all, shaking his head. “Another Great War and an atom bomb,” he said. “Sounds like stuff out of the pulp magazines. Maybe I had it better on this island than I knew. What about you, son? I hope you sleep better now that you know something about what really happened.”
“I’d sleep better if I knew what you’ve been doing here for twenty-five years. What have you found? And what happened to Kong’s body? What happened to Ishara after Bar-Atu gained power? She seems like someone I know now. Wish I could’ve met her.”
Carl leaned on his cane. “Another day, son. Besides, those aren’t my stories to tell. Maybe you’ll hear them in time. There’s always tomorrow.”
Skull Island
July 14, 1957
That morning Carl Denham simply did not wake up.
Vincent knew his father was dead the moment he saw his still face, although the expression might have been that of a serenely sleeping man. Vincent couldn’t help staring at him. His thin, withered body was a shadow of the dynamo who was willing to take on the world. But his face still reflected the indomitable spirit that once dwelled there. Vincent thanked God for the opportunity to see his father one last time. Grief welled up in him, but it was grief tempered with a sense of peace.
They buried him on the green hill, covering his grave with a cairn of stone. Driscoll read the burial service, then said with emotion, “I had my share of disagreements with Carl Denham, but I’ll say this: he was a man who held onto life with both hands. Vincent, your father was a good man, better than most. I’m glad you had the chance to get to know him these last few days.”
The Storyteller and Kara watched Vincent closely. He nodded and then said a short prayer for his father’s soul. The Storyteller slowly approached and stood beside him. “I asked your father about this cross that you sign over yourself many times. Its meaning speaks to me. May its sign bring you peace, Vincent.”
When he looked up, his eyes were clear. “It does. In my heart, my father had been dead for so long. Now—well, I’ve never felt so much that he’s alive as I do at this moment. My prayers were answered. But what about your people? My father told me many amazing things, and one was that you traveled with him to our country. You’re more than a Storyteller—you’re a Storyweaver. My father wouldn’t tell me what happened to Ishara, or much about what happened to him here.” Vincent thought deeply for a second. “Tell me, did my father’s return help your people? Have they found peace? Now that I know what I missed, it would make all those years without him easier to take if I knew he did some good.”
The Storyteller looked over at Kara and thought for a moment before answering. “There is an old saying among your people, which has its equivalent with ours: ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ I will give you time to yourself. We will talk later.” The Storyteller and Kara turned to leave, but as they did, Kara hesitated and glanced back at Vincent. But her thoughts did not leave her lips.
That evening, as he tried to bring some order to the mass of papers his father had left, Vincent looked up and was startled to see Kara standing silently nearby, watching him. She said impulsively, “You did not ask if I have found peace.”
“I thought you would tell me when you were ready,” Vincent replied.
She took a deep breath. “I am, as you say . . . ‘working on it.’ I understand now, at least, that your father wanted to help us. That he has helped us. Your father was a great mystery to us and very few were allowed to get close to him. Because of that there were many things said about him. The Storyteller said that was best for our sake, and for his. Only she really knew his mind. She always told me that as the next Storyteller, I must remember what is good for all of the people of the island, not just for myself. Tell me, did you mean what you said? Will you go away from the island and never return?”
“You’ll see me leave,” Vincent told her. “Soon. I will take nothing with me that would give away the location of the island and I will destroy whatever I already had. You have my promise.”
“Perhaps that is asking too much,” Kara said. “I’m no longer sure what is right. But I thank you for your promise. I know it cost you much.”
“Not so much,” Vincent said with a crooked grin. “Just my future as a scientist and my father’s reputation. But I can live with it now, I think. The important questions are the ones I asked myself, not the ones the world asked me.”
Kara’s expression was one Vincent could not read, although he sensed it held nothing of hatred. Suddenly she asked, “May I help you with your father’s things?”
As she turned and gestured toward the voluminous papers and artifacts, Vincent stood frozen. He could never have imagined a more beautiful woman. He could not understand how he had never noticed her that way before. Her perfectly proportioned limbs, the slender curve of her body, flowed with a sureness of purpose and a natural grace that were extraordinary. If she were aware of his gaze, she said nothing. A casual flash of her eyes unnerved him and he self-consciously sprang into action shuffling papers. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a dry croak. Under his direction, Kara began to stack and organize. After long hours, Vincent saw some order to the mass of materials, but as he turned to thank Kara, he found she was gone.
The next morning The Storyteller, Kara, and Driscoll woke Vincent from a sound sleep. Several men shouldered Carl’s effects. Under the open sky, Kara asked, “Where are we going today?”
The Storyteller looked at her and said with a smile, “Perhaps a place you least expect. There are many things that can only be learned when one is ready to accept them. Knowledge must be earned, or its real lessons are wasted.” The Storyteller turned to Vincent and said, “Your father was right when he said that I had more to tell. But a story must be told in its correct order to have its full effect. This is a living story, and the end is not yet written. Come my children.” As though reading his mind, the Storyteller added with a smile, “Yes, you too, Mr. Driscoll—I am old enough to be your mother as well!”
Driscoll grinned. He seemed to be developing a genuine like of this mysterious old woman. As Jack had told Vincent, it had taken him some time to place her from their having been together on the Wanderer during the trip back from Skull Island a quarter century ago. Then he had seen her face only once or twice and had never heard her utter a word. Carl was mysteriously silent concerning her and always pensive when questioned about why she was allowed on the ship.
This time, though, the Storyteller led them to one of the underground vaults and lifted a torch high. “You should see this,” she said. “See what Carl Denham brought back to the island.”
The skeleton was gigantic. It was a completely unknown species, clearly related to apes but certainly not a gorilla. The bones were laid out in proper order, though not articulated. At first, Vincent could only stare. And then the thoughts came flooding back: as a boy, he was confronting the very source of his nightmares. The very thing that took his father, took his mother, and ruined his family’s name. For the first time, Kong’s existence, his reality, struck Vincent with all the force of a physical blow. Somehow seeing Kong’s bones caused the knot of emotions that had bound him for so long to finally unravel completely. He could no longer hate and fear the creature that had stalked him in his dreams. Kong h
ad paid a price, too—the ultimate price. Vincent felt a curious sympathy, a strange sense of peace. It was as though an enduring weight had been lifted. It seemed Kong’s bones were the hub around which all of his questions and their answers converged. He felt exhilarated! His mind was free to wonder as never before.
And as a paleontologist, he felt at a loss. In a flash, the skeleton triggered Vincent’s recurring vision, the one he last had during his convalescence on the island: Kong mounted in the Museum of Natural History astride the famous skeleton of the tyrant lizard king in the Great Hall of Dinosaurs, returned to New York once again as “The Eighth Wonder of the World.”
Vincent was only vaguely aware that both the Storyteller and Kara were intently watching him.
“It’s tempting, Dad,” he whispered. “But no. You brought him back here to rest. You gave up your family and yourself. Let him stay here. This is where he belongs.”
Kara was weeping. “I have never seen this,” she said. “Now I understand. They are so like the bones of a man. I can feel his loneliness. He was not too far from what we are—”
“He wasn’t quite human,” Vincent told her. “But he was more than an animal. King Kong. Yes, I think he was well named.”
Driscoll sighed. “We didn’t treat him very well,” he said, as he surveyed the remains. Fractures and breaks were everywhere. Vincent could tell that some, acquired earlier in his life, had healed. Most were not. Many showed unhealed breaks and shattered places where bullets had entered the great body. It was evident that this creature had suffered greatly in life and in death. Driscoll shook his head. “Vincent, this may sound strange, but I think Carl had more respect for Kong than for most people. Kong never backed down an inch. In hindsight, Denham respected that and felt bad for getting Kong killed. They had a lot in common. We should have left him here.”
“With every evil comes good,” the Storyteller said. “Had Carl Denham not traveled to our island, he would have not returned, and much knowledge would have been lost forever. Although it was wrong to take Kong, it was equally wrong to worship him as a god. We were created for a higher purpose, Mr. Driscoll—as I know you now believe. We are not mindless savages and murderers.”
Driscoll looked away, flushing. “Yeah. I made a bad mistake,” he said.
Yet Vincent thought the Storyteller’s words were not meant as a reprimand so much as a kindness in acknowledgment of Jack’s acceptance of her and her people.
The Storyteller touched Jack’s arm. “Please help an old woman walk. The day has been long and I need a strong arm to lean on. The night is not so far off, and we must hurry.” Jack offered his arm with a rough, yet delicate gallantry, and Vincent saw from his smile that he fully understood the forgiveness and acceptance in the Storyteller’s gesture.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SKULL ISLAND
July 22, 1957
“Don’t want to miss the tide. I’d better shove off. You gonna be okay, kid?” Driscoll stood with one foot on the thwart of the launch, the other unseen beneath the creaming waves rolling into the beach below the village.
Vincent grinned and offered his hand. “Don’t be away too long.”
“Figure four weeks, tops,” Driscoll replied, shaking Vincent’s hand. “Don’t worry about the chart. I’ll keep it under lock and key, and like I say, there’s not a man aboard the Darrow who could find his way back to the island without me to lay in the course. You take care, now. I can see you need some time alone here. I found out all I need, but I get the feeling you have more work to do.” Driscoll winked, leaving Vincent feeling genuinely confused.
Driscoll hitched up his gunbelt. “We’ll provision the Darrow, make sure all the repairs are good, and be back by the last week in August. I mean what I say about being careful. Don’t try to climb inside any caves that happen to have teeth.”
“I’ll be okay. Take care. And, Jack . . . thanks for your promise.” Vincent held out his hand.
Jack grinned and shook hands. “My promise not to let anybody know about the island? Vincent, my wife means a lot to me. I think Ann would up and leave if I let anybody know about Skull Island. I’m not about to let that happen. Besides, I owe your old man.”
Vincent helped Driscoll shove off, then stood and watched the older man fire up the outboard engine and thread his way out toward the waiting ship. The Storyteller had assured Vincent that the monsters of the bay rarely showed up here, in the shallower waters. But all the same, Vincent watched until his friend had scrambled aboard the Darrow and the winches had lifted the dripping launch onto the deck. Then Vincent turned and made his way up a worn path toward the village, thinking of the million and one things he hoped to accomplish in four short weeks. So much to see, so much to catalogue, so much to learn.
And there was Kara.
Although greatly diminished, the distrust that occasionally still showed in her eyes stung Vincent. He knew now that she had her reasons, that her past, the island’s past, and—face it, he told himself—his father’s past all joined in a jagged pattern of pain. For someone as young as she to have grown up with the stories she had heard. How could he expect her to change so quickly? But at least, he thought, she tolerated him now. It also occurred to him that even though she lived here and was to be the next Storyteller, she had not seen many things. They were kept from her for a reason. He was soon to find out why.
Skull Island
August 12, 1957
A steaming, hazy Monday morning, and for hours Vincent, the Storyteller, and Kara wound their way along underground passages, now and again emerging into the jungle. The Storyteller carried a staff, whose head was a torch, burning with a slow flame, brilliant in the tunnels, pale in the sunlight. Nearly colorless vapors roiled from the flame. Every half-hour or so, they paused to discard the burned-down head of the torch and replace it with a new one, laced with an incense that smelled of spice and a calming aroma, not quite floral, not quite musky. Twice Vincent saw creatures start toward them—a carnivore ten feet tall, and later a pteranodon that swooped into a clearing. In both cases, the creatures hesitated before they sheared away.
The virtue of the essences held them off, the Storyteller explained. The vapors of the torch were enough to calm the beasts, to turn them aside from prey. The trail grew rougher; climbing over saddleback passes over the tops of ridges, descending into cooler valleys, but always rising toward the rounded form of the mountain that wore a skull as a face.
And at last they climbed a tortuous, winding path up the shoulders of that mountain. As they entered the gaping cavity of the mouth, Vincent saw unusual indications. Then, as they climbed higher, he realized something that had never occurred to him: The skull face was not wholly natural—there was evidence that human hands had worked it! Clinging to the bare stone here and there lay patches of masonry.
The Storyteller paused to rest at a turn not far below the nasal cavity. “Ages ago,” she said in a low voice, “After the Atu had taken over the Old City, in an act of final defiance of Tagu beliefs, they attempted to fashion the mountain’s natural caverns into a human face here, to look out over the island to stare defiantly into the heavens, as though they could make even the stars bow down before them. It was never finished. Earthquake and weather have worn away most of what was done. All that is left is the eroding skull. It stares over us to remind us of past follies, a reminder of the true face of pride.” Vincent could not help but marvel at their ingenuity. He understood the temptation. He pitied them, and offered a silent prayer of thanks for turning away from it before it was too late.
They toiled up a steep passage, no doubt the one Kong had once blocked with stones, and a quarter of an hour later, they stepped into the main cavern itself, from bright afternoon sunshine into gloom. Again he realized that he was in the presence of something any other scientist in the world would give anything for. Dinosaur bones—not fossilized rock, but real bones! The graveyard of Gaw! Vincent gasped in astonishment. Each time he thought he had seen the
ultimate, something more incredible loomed before him. This time he could not believe his eyes. Proof of the Storyteller’s tale took his speech away. Lying in front of them, atop a mass of skulls and other bone debris, lay the skull of Gaw, unmistakable in its physiognomy, the huge cranial case indicative of higher intelligence. It dwarfed the famous Tyrannosaurus rex skull in the Museum of Natural History in New York City. Vincent could only imagine the size of this creature in life. Even in death it intimidated and awed. Vincent bent over it, noting the gaps where years before a triumphant Kublai had wrenched fangs from the jaws. “How did it come to be here?” Vincent asked.
“Kong brought it. It was a symbol of his victory. As were the others.”
Strewn beneath the remains of Gaw were similar skulls in miniature: the dreaded deathrunners! Their craniums rivaled in size those of any primate. These finds could turn paleontology on its ear forever. Vincent turned to speak, but the Storyteller stood mesmerized by a human skeleton mixed in with the debris. She seemed on the verge of tears as some event unfolded before her eyes that only she could see.
Kara stood riveted in place as they beheld the remains of the “god” that had terrorized her people in life and legend. Even in death Gaw’s jaws looked ready to kill.
Vincent could do nothing but wonder at the sight before him. With no intent to go back on his word, he could not help feeling that the world needed to know of such treasures. The temptation that the science was simply too great to ignore gnawed at him. He kept his feelings to himself and struggled mightily to suppress them.
Kong: King of Skull Island Page 19