The Complete 3-Book Islands That Time Forgot Trilogy: Dinosaur Island, Ape Island, Snake Island

by K. T. Tomb

  “I thank ye, lad, but you know that striking a gentleman is a flogging aboard ship,” Sykes said. John nodded, accepting of his fate. “Fortunately for you, we are neither at sea, nor do I ‘ave my cat ‘o’ nines. Get him up, and let’s get moving. Least you can do is aid your poor victim to walk until he can do it himself.” John did so.

  “My apologies, Dr. Pikeham,” he said, but couldn’t quite make his voice have the required amount of contrition judging by the sour look the doctor shot at him. “If what we saw was indeed the history of our world, then surely we were shown it for a reason. As to what reason that might be I cannot fathom; I do not have your wisdom.”

  John was actually fairly sure that he had come to some kind of conclusion as to what he had seen, although his philosophical knowledge was, to his own mind, rudimentary and his scientific knowledge even more so. This place, he thought, this land out of time, was a warning that time itself was not quite the linear progression that humanity had believed it to be, a straight line that ran from Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden to the new, steam-powered ships of the sea and the fires of industrial revolution and the conquest of the British Empire. All he saw had happened before, and all he saw could—no, would—happen again. The dinosaurs he saw around him as they made their way back across the plains, this time skirting the foot of the mountain that they had thought to climb before they were shown the futility of the quest, these ancient creatures were once in his own shoes. Perfectly confident in their position as the dominant species on the planet so many millions of years ago, before creation itself, before humans and their petty cares and troubles and short lived cycles of birth, penance and death. There was nothing to say that the kingdoms of men would outlast the suzerainty of the dinosaurs. At any moment, Brahma could close his eyes, and the world would fall out of existence and back into the stream of the universe to be forgotten and reborn, with a new species at the helm to guide the course of the earth. Whatever forces were at work beyond the chrysanthemum were neither Judeo-Christian, nor Muslim, nor Hindu, nor obedient to the laws of science. In fact, to John’s mind, they were more like the pragmatic stoicism of Captain Sykes, caring for his ship at all costs, steering the course as best he knows how, and trying to keep his crew alive; or was that hyperbolic? Was it arrogance to assume that just because the eyes of man had witnessed the great window to time and space that whoever opened the window knew they were there at all? Does the boot have sympathy for the snail it crushes unknowingly? He didn’t know. The scriptures said that you cannot know the face of God, but, he wondered, could he finally know what it was to be touched by the divine? In any case, there was little to do but continue living, in as true a manner as he could. Perhaps one day, a long time from the day when God showed a soldier who didn’t know what to believe how time was a flat disc, maybe one day science or religion or both working together would learn the path required to avoid a second extinction, to manifest a destiny outside of the one trodden by the gargantuan lizards of the past, and to forge a new narrative history.

  John dumped the sack filled with meat that he was still carrying on the beach as the party of five crossed the tree line. He thought better of it, and replanted the opium and now quite stinking meat into one of the pits the crew had dug for a cooking fire and loaded up the kindling again. The opium wrapped in the meat was useless for sale now, at least he thought so. Burning it as an offering seemed primitive, but there was a sense that it was the right thing to do nonetheless, this strange primal meat mixed with the black gold that so many men had fought and died to control and export and import and exchange for silly pieces of paper. Burn it as thanks to whatever lived beyond the window, burn it in the traditions of the ancient Jews, burn it to Allah and Vishnu and Shiva the destroyer.

  Out to sea, the Nannie Dee bobbed at anchor, the incoming storm apparently veering away to the south shortly after Sykes and his party had entered the forest bordering the beach. Unmolested by the tempest, the dozen crewmen left behind had made excellent time with their repairs to the ship’s mast and were sure, they said, that by the morrow they could be on their way. As the sun set over the beaches to the west, the late light was joined by a single flame on the sands which illuminated the last row boat of men to leave this land of the dinosaurs, and flickered across the great decomposing corpse of the giant predator they had slain. The dinosaurs could keep their sanctuary land, their second Eden. No man would speak of it that bore witness—who would possibly believe such a tale, if it were told?

  Epilogue

  The Nannie Dee coasted over sweet seas with a stiff wind from the west, running before the breeze and showing no signs of suffering after her maimed main mast had been replaced. As she tacked on the wind, the crew saw the isle that had cost them so many of their fellows recede. From a distance in the daylight of the new dawn, they could see it was indeed an island, part of no chain as far as they could see; a remote speck in the Indian Ocean that would be overlooked by most ships and a death for any that landed to exploit its wealth. The crew of course had to switch to double shifts to maintain the captain’s required watch pattern, but if they resented any of it, John heard nothing as he worked the sails with his team, scrubbed the decks with Rajeev and ate from Montgomery’s table.

  The first night at sea saw the return of the familiar stars, and the crew celebrated with as grand a feast as their supplies would allow. Food was not a great issue in the stores, seeing as there was a diminished crew, but with a number of the men for whom alcohol was haram, fresh water was always an issue. By the tenth morning, there was barely a thimbleful for each thirsty mouth, and yet the land that Captain Sykes was sure must lie to the east was nowhere to be seen. He spent most days poring over his maps, and despite now having at least some idea where they were; somewhere around the equator, and heading north by northeast, there were still no signs of the anticipated landmasses of Indo-China. His brow furrowed more and more regularly, and the crew became disheartened to see their captain so vexed. Dr. Pikeham tried his best to assist him in the mathematical calculations of latitude and longitude, but with no idea where the island of dinosaurs lay all of their guesses were words in the falling wind.

  Becalmed at sea is the worst fear of the seaman. All sailors had heard tell the legends of sailors being trapped without wind, without water, without land for so long that they slowly go insane through dehydration and hunger until, inevitably, murder takes the mind of men with cannibalism on its tail. John had heard these stories from his crew mates as they had set out from Mangalore and had at first laughed despite himself, through his nerves, which did not endear him to his stonily faced new comrades. His own laughter rang hollow in his memory. Many of the men who had spoken of those tales at port were now dead, destroyed by the dinosaurs. What would they do now if they were here? The water would have run out long ago, and the parched, split lips and raw throats would have been doubled. Would any of them have slit John’s throat now to become the abomination in order to survive? He hoped not, for the sake of their karma, and his own if he had been turned into the beast himself in their stead.

  On the fourteenth day, Little Gupta came down from the crow’s nest. The last of the supply of water was used to refresh his throat enough so that he could speak. After some minutes and with all the crew surrounding him, he said two words. “Land ho.” A thin trail of smoke appeared visible to the east over a shimmer of green heat haze. Civilization, at last. The Nannie Dee bobbed achingly slowly toward salvation, toward life and fresh water.

  From the shores of the island, many eyes looked out to sea from branches of trees as her sail appeared. Glances, hoots and hand signals were exchanged, and troops of warriors spread the word. Humans were coming.

  The end.

  The Islands That Time Forgot returns in:

  Ape Island

  Return to the Table of Contents

  APE ISLAND

  The Islands That Time Forgot

  Book #2

  by

  K.T. TOMB />
  Ape Island

  Published by K.T. Tomb

  Copyright © 2015 by K.T. Tomb

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  The author wishes to dedicate this book to the late

  Jack Vance.

  Ape Island

  Prologue

  When our Teutonic ancestors migrated to Britain from the continent of Europe, they brought with them the heroic songs in which their minstrels were accustomed to, celebrating the deeds of their kings and warriors. It is a practice that has been taken up by every walk of humanity the entire planet over at one point in history or another.

  Various social practices of the times are recorded in such works and often there can be found short descriptions of the recitations at feasts made by important persons in attendance at these kinds of lays. Perhaps as early as the seventh century of our era, after the introduction of Christianity, an unknown poet gathered material from these lays and composed the epic of Beowulf.

  Besides the stories, he took from the older songs their metrical form and many features of style; but how far he retained their actual language there is no longer any means of knowing. He must have added a good deal of comment and reflection; and the structure of the epic is certainly due to him. He did not sing or chant to a harp as his predecessors in the treatment of this material had done; he wrote a book to be read. ‘Beowulf’ is thus not folk-song, but belongs to a much more conscious and developed stage of art than the popular ballad.

  The exploits narrated in the poem belong to the life of Germanic peoples before they crossed the North Sea, and at least one of the characters can be identified with a historical personage. Hygelac was the Danish king, Chochilaicus, who was killed in a raid into the countries near the mouth of the Rhine, around 520 A.D.; and as he was the uncle of Beowulf, this fixes approximately the date for the historical prototype of our hero. But the events of the poem are legendary, not historic. The fights with monsters and dragons, which occupy so much of the poem, are clear evidence of the large extent to which the marvels of popular tradition had attached themselves to figures whose historical identity had already become shadowy.

  Some scholars have even tried to interpret the persons and events of the poem as mythology; and while one cannot deny that mythical elements may have become interwoven, the poet believed his hero to be thoroughly human, and his foes to be such ghosts and monsters as are still believed in by the peasantry in many parts of Europe.

  Chapter One

  Forth he fared at the fated moment,

  sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.

  Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,

  loving clansmen, as late he charged them,

  while wielded words the winsome Scyld,

  the leader beloved who long had ruled. . . .

  In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,

  ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:

  there laid they down their darling lord

  on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,

  by the mast the mighty one.

  Many a treasure fetched from far was freighted with him.

  No ship have I known so nobly dight

  with weapons of war and weeds of battle,

  with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay

  a heaped hoard that hence should go

  far o'er the flood with him floating away.

  No less these loaded the lordly gifts,

  thanes' huge treasure, than those had done

  who in former time forth had sent him

  sole on the seas, a suckling child.

  High o'er his head they hoist the standard,

  a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,

  gave him to ocean.

  Grave were their spirits, mournful their mood.

  No man is able

  to say in sooth, no son of the halls,

  no hero 'neath heaven — who harbored that freight!

  -Beowulf

  The door opened and slammed. A hulking bear of a man walked into the room. The other members were already seated at the large table in the center of the hall. A fire raged in the hearth behind the table. The other members of the council were sheathed in the writhing shadows cast by the fire. Algoth shook out of his bearskin coat and hung it on a peg near the door.

  “Finally,” Caius said, addressing both Algoth and his fellow councilmen. “Algoth arrives!” With a hearty laugh, he bounded over the table and the two Danes embraced.

  “What kept you?” Djorn asked.

  “You know how treacherous this world is,” Algoth responded. “Though the walls here keep most of the… creatures… out, they range free outside our palisades. I even lost a couple of men on the journey here.”

  “In the twelve miles between your keep and mine?” The question rumbled from Haldur’s deep chest. Haldur was built like a Danwash longship – tall, wiry and sturdy – and as the ruler of Vorbasse, it was his responsibility to patrol the roads to make sure that travelers could move somewhat freely, and with relative safety.

  Four hundred and fifty-eight months ago, the world died. The nuclear clock ticked down to zero as world super powers clashed. The nuclear explosion and the subsequent fallout created a desolate world. There were few areas – primarily those near oceans – that survived the aftermath. Since then, the population had begun to stabilize. Population centers were rebuilt, but the technology of the long-distant past were lost. Since the loss of technology, the population reverted to the techniques that they had either retained through family trade or that could be found in ancient texts and records. The Danes recovered especially quickly, with plenty of resources at their disposal. Access to both the sea and forests enabled them to fish and trade, and the immense amounts of iron in the southern wastelands allowed them to make armor and weapons. Other parts of the world recovered similarly as well – the people of the British Isles were exceptional seafarers and continued to be so. The peoples of what was Western Europe were brilliant at breeding horses. Most of the areas that survived the fallout had some specialty or another. The Danes, however, had become the economic center of their dying world.

  “Yes, Haldur. It was only twelve miles. And the abominations continue to get worse. We came across a giant lizard that sprayed two of my men with a venom that melted the skin from their bones. If it weren’t for a well-placed thrust of a spear on the part of Gamal, more of us may not have made it through. He died in that endeavor.”

  “GAMAL!” the men in the room shouted – as was the custom when someone was killed in defense of kin and countryman against an abomination – and each drank down what was left in their cups.

  “Now then, to business,” Haldur said. The men took their places. Each man a hardened veteran and a ruler of a keep.

  As the rulers of their individual cities, they were dependent upon each other to maintain society. They had also taken up the burden of trying to discover a new world for their people.

  “It is a fact that this world is dead,” Algoth stated.

  “Aye,” said Jannick. “Algoth speaks the truth. We cannot stay here. We do not have that luxury anymore.”

  “We should have enough time yet to launch at least one successful exploration, though,” Keld responded.

  “Aye, we should. But we haven’t. And there is nothing to prove that we will. The explorations we have funded have been, to say the least, less than satisfactory,” Algoth said.

  “True enough,” Tor said. “But there is so much that has been left unexplored.”

  “Aye again,” Jannick chimed in. “But of the places unexplored, there are some that the Exploration Guild will not send their crews. And worse, we do not have time to explore those parts of the world that the Guild would send their sailors to.”

 
“Then,” Haldur finally said, “perhaps we must look elsewhere. Perhaps it is time to look at other options for new discovery. We have commissioned over a hundred Explorations. We have yet to find anywhere other than here in which we could survive. There was nowhere that the Guild has gone that satisfies the terms of the contracts we have signed. They refuse to send crews through veils our own sailors have encountered because they are cowards. They fear what they do not already know and they have not one Sentient that is powerful enough to know for certain what lies beyond every veil and that makes them useless to us. We have paid and paid, and we have not received the information or found the place that we have been seeking. This being the case, again, I will state, perhaps we must look elsewhere.”

  The room went silent.

  “The Guild controls all the findings of every crew that sets sail. They give the contract holder a less-than-fair share of their findings. Anything that comes from their crews that is not specified by the contractors is considered theirs,” Tor said. “I myself have lost numerous trading contracts to them because they were able to bring back something better than what I was selling. We’ve all lost to them. Whether it be trade, or men, or land as punishment for… straying… outside the Guild’s laws.”

  “Oh, considering the penalties that would be enacted by the… by the Guild… if I understand what you were suggesting Haldur, we could all be ruined,” Jannick stammered.