The Hostile Shore

by Douglas Reeman

  Compared to the still, fetid air which hung over the empty pool, the interior of the House of Spirits seemed almost cool. The tall, tent-shaped building had been hastily erected of freshly cut palms, and the floor still showed signs of many feet, where the women of the tribe had stamped down the rough sand and dragged away any loose stone boulders from its surface. There were no windows, and the end of the house opened straight on to the small slope which ran the few remaining yards to the edge of the saucer-shaped pool, and was wide enough to show the water and damp sludge around the one isolated rock, and the great shadowed sea wall, unbroken but for the narrow V cleft in its centre, and through which the watery sunlight occasionally threw a distorted reflection of the hidden sea.

  The jungle seemed to encircle the rest of the building in two great green banks, and the smell of rotting trees clashed with the scent of the newly cut timbers.

  Tauhu, servant of the god, Pato, was well pleased with himself. With opaque eyes he watched as his assistants reverently lowered their burden on to a wide mat of woven palm leaves, their ochred faces averted, lest they should excite the anger of Pato, who now lay with threatening stillness on the mat. With the head and body of a shark, yet crouched on the crudely fashioned arms and legs of a man, Pato waited with every appearance of terrible expectancy.

  Tauhu nodded. His servants had done well. He had patiently trained them. for their tasks sincee he had chosen them from their boyhood, and had guided them through the painful initiation ceremonies, and had finally selected them as his personal assistants. Their head-dresses of sharks’ teeth marked them apart from all others, and next to Tauhu made them the most feared men on the island.

  He listened with contempt to the shrill cries and wild laughter of the warriors as they danced and drank around the edge of the pool. The chief, Naareau, would be there with his favourite son but, like all the others around him, would have to wait until he, Tauhu, chose to act. A shiver of anticipation ran through him. For a while he had been almost afraid that the Mota would never be convinced of their ordained path. For years they had grown soft, and had kept alive their dreams of power by mere acts of individual cunning and bravery. Some had carried out raids against the villages, and had eaten their captured flesh in secrecy. These same warriors had hidden in the bush when the white men had called at the island, and had not been able to meet his taunts. Now it was all changed. In a short while he had shown them their manhood, and had proved beyond doubt that the white men were nothing to be feared.

  He dropped on to his knees and ran his hands softly over the pointed muzzle of the silent Pato. The teeth, yellow with age, gaped lifelessly in the diamond-shaped mouth, yet still retained their appearance of ferocity and power, as they had for as long as he could remember.

  Tauhu was taller than his kinsmen and, unlike them, he wore no paint on his oiled body, nor was there any ornament to disguise the length of his muscular arms, which now hung relaxed by his sides. His head and face were shaved smooth, not even his eyebrows remained, and beneath the head-dress of sharks’ teeth his eyes seemed to protrude unblinkingly, like those of the inert shape on the mat.

  He did not move, as one of his assistants crossed noiselessly behind him, and with a few deft movements girded him with his ceremonial belt of fibre and bark. Next, he handed him his bamboo knife, and as his fingers closed around it Tauhu permitted himself a small shiver of extreme happiness.

  It was practically dark in the House, and he knew that the low threatening clouds were yet another sign that he had chosen his time to perfection.

  There was a movement at the rear of the building, and he lifted his eyes with practised slowness, as he always did on such occasions, so that his dilated pupils seemed as if they were the only things that lived in his crouched body.

  A flap moved aside in the crudely cut wall and the girl was carried carefully towards him. He nodded with slow approval to his two men, who had brought her by the secret path from the village. They were breathing heavily and covered with sweat, yet Tauhu knew well enough that his orders had been carried out. She would not have touched the ground all the way, nor would these two have allowed anyone to see her and live.

  With great care they lowered her to the ground, but kept her arms pinioned to her sides, so that between them she looked like a tall silken reed, or an exquisitely carved figure made by the gods. She wore a short kilt of smoke-cured waterleaves, and around her neck was draped a narrow garland of painted cowrie shells, which left bare her full breasts, and which shimmered together on their plaited cord, and were the only sign of her breathing and being alive.

  Tauhu rose, and with slow, unhurried steps circled the trio to stand behind them. He noted the fine lines of the girl’s perfect body, and the way that her fair skin gleamed beneath its rich coat of scented oil. He reached out and touched her hair, and marvelled again at its silky lightness beneath his fingers. She stiffened under his hand, and he felt the mounting

  pain in his groin. He scowled, and fingered his knife. He must not think that way now. Far too much was at stake to be weakened by the feel of a mere woman. He thrust out his chin

  and glared at his other assistants. A blind woman was dangerous. It was well known that those without sight in their eyes harboured terrible evil and had to be destroyed.

  Reassured, he lifted his hand before her pale eyes, and was conscious of the admiring stares of his men. He smiled briefly and signalled towards the entrance.

  Instantly there was one loud blow on the carved log-drum placed by the pool, and like magic the voices outside were stilled, so that the silence of the jungle became more oppressive than any sound. Then there was a deep sigh, as from the depths of the shadows Pato emerged on his bamboo trestles and bared his teeth at the silent onlookers.

  Tauhu slowly walked down the slope and turned to face the watching tribesmen. With a steady stare he confronted the old chief and the elders, and held their eyes until they had to look away and humble themselves before Pato’s servant.

  A rumble of far-off thunder floated over the sea wall, and a small sighing gust of wind found it way through the Vshaped cleft to ruffle momentarily the feathered weapons and head-dresses of the assembled tribe.

  The tide, which had steadily mounted against the sea wall throughout the day, thrust its first exploring finger through the cleft, and as Tauhu spread his arms as if in welcome, a thin trickle of water spread over the lip of the depression and melted into the sand. As the waves crept up against the wall the trickle of water increased, so that even as Tauhu called down the wrath of Pato on the enemies of the Mota, his voice high and surprisingly shrill, the limpid patch of trapped water in the centre of the basin shivered and began to widen.

  There was a sudden disturbance as, squealing and kicking at its captors, a fully grown pig, its tusks fantastically curved and untrimmed so that they pierced the animal’s snout, was dragged down to the edge of the pool. Tauhu watched with satisfaction as his assistants waded into the wet sand and rolled the wretched animal on to its back. He permitted himself a quick glance towards the bent shape of Tabanea, the most trusted of the chief’s advisers. This pig had been his cherished possession and, on the island where pigs meant wealth and status, by its size and age alone it had been the envy of all. Tauhu had longunderstood that the old man who watched his every action, and tried to mask the anguish in his eyes, had been the main weakness in the Mota, the one who had whispered to the chief and sown the seeds of distrust, even disbelief, of Tauhu’s power. Now, as he stepped down into the rim of the depression, he heard the sudden thud of “the drum and the answering moan from the warriors. They were with him now, and nothing that Tabanea or any of the others could do or say would challenge him again. They had partaken of human flesh in the ritual feast in the village. The lust to kill was still with them, and the effect of the kava showed plainly in their dilated eyes. With infinite care he drew his knife across the animal’s throat, hard and deep. The squeals suddenly died and, after filling a small c
up with its blood, he stood up and watched the red stain spreading into the pool, which rose hungrily with each sigh of waves against the wall of rock.

  Flanked by his assistants, he strode up the slope and laid the small offering before Pato’s yellow jaws. The pig’s carcase rocked gently in the rising water, and then slid down the slope, making a pink cloud weave and swirl in its wake.

  The drumbeats grew faster and louder and, as if to a signal, the warriors began to rock back and forth in time to the persistent rhythm. Their bare feet shuffled on the rough sand in short, agitated steps, so that a cloud of fine dust rose over their heads and settled on their nodding red wigs. Their eyes were glazed, and as Tauhu watched them with his bulging, unwinking stare, he noticed that they no longer acted as individuals, but moved together, in a great pulsating mass of limbs and gleaming weapons. His chest felt tight, and only by a supreme effort could he concentrate on the timing of the ceremony, which now, before all else, must be perfect.

  A great sigh rose from the packed figures, as if all the tribe felt a simultaneous pain, as the girl was led from the shadows of the House of Spirits. A mere movement of his hand, and the drummers stepped up the tempo yet again, their bent bodies shining and with foam on their slack lips. An imperceptible movement with his knife, and his assistants had twisted the girl’s arms behind her so that she fell on her knees before Pato. He could see her body quivering from head to foot as his men forced her lower, so that the pale hair brushed against the upraised snout, and her breasts almost touched the sand. Again he was sorry that she was blind. It would have been even more exciting to have seen her face at this moment.

  Gillian stared dully at the great mass of crudely stitched skin, and down the gaping jaws which seemed as if they might snap shut over her neck. She could no longer obtain a clear picture of anything, and all thought was restricted to the great roar of noise about her, and the agonizing pain in her arms. She could see her shadow across the outstretched hands of the hideous idol, and she was vaguely conscious of the water behind her twisted body. She could no longer control her terror, but it was so great that it was mercifully numbing to her limbs, so that she hung limply in the steely grip of her guards. Like the pig, she thought. Only they’ll make it hurt more than that. Then she was on her feet, arms pinioned behind her, and for the first time she saw the great swaying mass of mesmerized onlookers. She tried to retch, but her throat closed tight. She wanted to faint, but her terror denied her even that. She realized that they were wading into the water, and had lifted her over their moist shoulders, so that she hung on her back, staring up at the clouds. There was a new pressure under her spine as she was lowered on to the small rock, which was already half awash. Her wrists and ankles were pulled outwards, and seemed to fit into worn grooves, where they were secured by wooden staples.

  Soon, soon. Her mouth moved slowly as she spoke the words aloud. They were lost in the great sea of noise which washed back and forth across the pool, but they gave her comfort. Her head hung back over the side of the smooth rock, and she felt the ends of her loose hair moving gently in the lapping water. She could also feel it against her feet. Perhaps they will let me drown in the rising water. It was what she had wanted, anyway. Peace, sliding down into the protection of the sea.

  A shadow crossed her face, and she stared up at the shining figure of the priest. His long body looked distorted, and she could see the small droplets of sweat across his stomach as he shouted across the water, his voice rising to a scream. He raised his hand into her line of vision, and her body seemed to screw itself into a tight knot. But he held no weapon, merely a small cup, which he lifted high over his head like an offering. She saw the cup tilt over, and with horrified’ eyes watched the thin stream of red blood pour over its lip. It was still warm, and in spite of her tensed muscles she began to writhe as it splashed slowly the length of her body. She closed her eyes, shutting out the maniac face and the panting naked limbs which stooped over her. Like an ice-cold knife the distant memory of Fraser’s words came back to her. When there was blood in the water, he had said, there would always be sharks close at hand. Even close inshore nothing was safe. The miniature sharks, or becuna fish as they were called, would flock in droves, driven mad by the scent of blood. Unlike their bigger brethren, they attacked blindly, and with savage ferocity, destroying one another to get at their prey.

  Her skin tore against staples, as with sudden desperation she twisted and writhed like a pinioned animal, her naked body scraping on the rock so that the pain at last managed to transmit the message of defeat, and she felt her spreadeagled limbs begin to go limp.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the misty picture of the rock barrier, with its thin cleft of daylight. Through that opening the becuna fish might already be jostling each other to gain an entry. Involuntarily she moved her fingers toes, aware that the tepid water was over her shins and lapping behind her neck. Would it be a, sudden sharp pain, or` could it be slow and agonizing? She closed her mind and concentrated with every fibre in her being on the racing clouds overhead.

  So it had all been a waste of time after all. How petty her hopes and ambitions had become. Now she was not even 2. person, not even a woman. just an object of sacrifice, or a symbol of something only the Mota understood. A scream bubbled in her throat as something moved by her head, b° she saw that the priest was still there, staring down at her.

  Tauhu was aware of the great silence which had fallen when he had signalled for the drums to cease. Every eye was upon him now, as always. The swirling water had almost covered the rock, so that the white body appeared to be floating on the surface. He could not wait any longer, for he knew that it was time for the devil fish to come. He could see the expressionless faces of his assistants as they stood grouped behind the crouching Pato. This would be a lesson they would never forget.

  He began to stride through the pool, conscious of the sand tugging at his feet, and the gentle power which surged around his waist.

  Gillian twisted her neck and arched her body like a bow, as if to keep the water at bay. There was no sun now, and although all air seemed to have been sucked away from the pool she felt ice cold. Soon, soon. Oh God, help me. She stared back at the black cliff, and fixed her smarting eyes on the small shape which seemed to grow out of its summit. She blinked to clear her vision. The shape was moving. Not daring to breathe, she saw it move closer to the edge, and even at that distance she could see the tattered shirt and the pale blob of a face.

  Then she screamed. Something hard and rough darted across her shin, and even as she cried out she saw the gentle puff of smoke from the cliff, and felt a warm breath fan across her full length. The sound of the rifle’s sharp crack was half drowned by a strangled cry as Tauhu swung drunkenly in the shallow water by the side of the pool. The heavy, soft-nosed bullet smashed into his shoulder with such savage force that he fell to his knees, his terrified eyes staring down at the water which leapt up to claim him. What had gone wrong? The pool was reddening all about him, and he screamed again as he saw the swift, streamlined fish streaking towards him, their diamond-shaped mouths glinting white beneath the surface.

  His body rose out of the water, already gashed and torn in several places, and then he fell on to his side, hidden by the tearing, tumbling mass of fish, which seemed to engulf him completely, and which lashed the surface of the pool into a froth of spray and red-tinted spume.

  Gillian tried to cry out, but the water was lapping against her mouth. She was dimly aware that the rifle was firing again, its short whiplash barks magnified by the rock and the jungle. Perhaps he is trying to kill me. It would be better to die like that.

  Tarrou’s wet face bobbed beside her, and she felt him pulling the staples from her wrists and ankles. He looked completely terrified, his eyes white and bulging from his puckered face. She felt herself floated free of the rock, and floundered feebly in the water’s warm embrace. Objects splashed into the pool nearby, and Tarrou’s gasping voice implored her to hu
rry.

  She allowed herself to be dragged, half-drowned, across the deepest part of the pool, towards the deep shadow cast by the wall. She could still hear the thrashing, plunging shapes behind her, and wondered vaguely what was happening.

  Tarrou felt the rocks beneath his scrambling feet and swayed out of the water, pulling the girl behind him. For a brief instant he stared across the pool and marvelled that what Blair had promised had come true. The Mota had stopped fixing their arrows. into the water and had fled into the safety of the jungle, unnerved by the rifle which they could not see, and which could not possibly exist. Three dark shapes lay in abandoned attitudes of death, and Pato still stood by the House of Spirits, forgotten by the tribe he had been impotent to help.

  The pool was again empty, and the rock had completely vanished. But for the sudden darting movements beneath the surface there was nothing to show what had happened.

  He just managed to catch the girl as she fell against him. He felt her hair wet against his throat, and he peered over her smooth shoulder towards the deserted clearing.

  Aloud he said: `I did it! I saved her!’ When Blair had told him his plan he had nearly collapsed, and he still could not remember how he had made the journey down the cliff, and had waited for the shot which was to be the signal. It had been so incredibly easy, and yet … He tugged off the remains of his precious jacket and wrapped it round her. But now what would they do? he wondered. He was even more surprised to find that he was no longer afraid. Blair’s voice, strained and harsh, floated down the cleft in the rocks.