Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (14 page)

Relinquishing the wheel, Captain Savage said, “Hesitate not to summon me from my bunk, First Mate.”

“Count on it,” replied Doc.

Overnight, Captain Savage had piloted the schooner on a more westerly tack in hopes of sailing around the
balla,
should it lie ahead.

As the
Orion
broke along wave caps, lunging like a frisky colt, that possibility became more and more certain. Even if the Dyaks could maintain their brisk pace—an impossibility in terms of human endurance, Doc knew—the schooner was sure to come upon them at this pace.

Every sail strained with the sheer joy of the exuberant wind. Canvas snapped smartly as the air bit into it. Such sounds carried, Doc knew. Even over the wind.

Holding the wheel to a steady course, Doc ranged the surrounding sea with his penetrating eyes. He had flown in Spads, Jennys, even a few captured German Fokker airplanes, stood watch in an observation balloon, but nothing equaled a good sailing ship in a running sea.

Noon came and went. All was peaceful upon the vast continual heave of the Indian Ocean. Far to the south, storm clouds hung along the horizon, as if a careless artist had daubed them there with blue-gray water colors.

Doc continually sniffed the air for strange scents, but the wind blew so strongly that it was likely to keep any odors from reaching him, if they were away from windward.

The crosswind began abating as the afternoon marched on. The
Orion
began to slow to a more decorous pace. It was still good sailing.

ALONG about three bells, Doc spotted something ahead to starboard. A bit of white bobbing on the foam. It had a cottony look.

Steering toward it, he kept his eyes upon the object. It seemed to be moving.

Gradually, the white thing came into sharper focus.

“Fetch the Captain,” Doc ordered Chicahua.

Although the Mayan appeared to understand no English, he went clomping down the companionway, presently returning with Captain Savage, who was donning his black captain’s cap.

“Albatross resting upon the waves, Captain,” Doc reported.

Opening up his spyglass, Captain Savage went to the bow and trained the instrument upon the resting bird.

The albatross jerked his head about, as if watchful of its surroundings. Otherwise, the sea bird sat there placidly, the swells raising and lowering it in long undulations.

“If we can startle it,” suggested Doc, reaching for his sidearm, “it would fly off toward land.”

Captain Savage shook his gray head.

“Gunshot sound might carry too far. And an exhausted bird should be left to take off when it has the strength to reach its destination. No, we will circle it, until it decides to leave the water. Stand by to tack.”

“Very well, Captain,” said Doc, as Chicahua rushed to slack up the sheets.

“Ready about! Hard alee.”

Doc spun the wheel, steering the
Orion
about in a long sweeping arc. As she came around, the after boom was hauled aweather. Doc pointed the clipper-style bowsprit at the floating flyer.

From their first view of it, the albatross had looked almost contented to rest upon the waves. But as they began their circuit, its agitated head turned this way and that, growing more pronounced in its evident distress.

Doc remarked, “He seems afraid of us.”

Captain Savage stroked his mustache thoughtfully, “He is afraid of something. Albatrosses have little fear of boats. No sailor would shoot one down for the sport of it. Bad luck would surely follow. Recall Coleridge’s ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner?’ No, they are our friends, and we, theirs.”

Coming around, they saw that the sea bird’s outward semblance of calmness belied a terrible truth.

For the entire right side of the sea creature proved to be a gory smear.

“Wounded!” said Doc.

The spyglass came up and Captain Savage muttered, “Wing is off entirely.”

“Shot?”

“No. Clipped. As with a knife, or perhaps by a jaw. Crocodiles have been known to take a snap at the odd roosting albatross.”

“Hungry Dyaks might have attempted to make a meal of this one,” ventured Doc.

“Best we investigate. Up for a swim, First Mate?”

“Aye, Captain.”

DOC stripped down to his undershorts and went down a dangling line. He found the water warmer than expected, and swam for the resting sea bird.

It attempted to swim farther away, but its legs lacked the paddling power of an adult swimmer. Doc soon caught up with it and took it in hand. It vainly flapped its surviving wing, but could hardly fly away.

Tucking the wriggling bird under one arm, Doc returned to the
Orion.

Going up the line one-handed was not practical. Doc managed the climb by taking the bird’s good wing in his mouth, freeing both hands to clasp the rope. The albatross was too fatigued to complain much. It squawked only once.

Topping the rail, the bronze man set the unhappy bird on the poop deck.

Prying up the stump of a wing with his rigging knife, Doc examined the wound.

“Bitten off,” he pronounced.

“Crocodile,” said Captain Savage. “There’s our explanation.”

But Doc Savage was not yet done with his study.

“Crocodile teeth did not do this,” he said, finally.

“No?”

“I have examined crocodiles, and this is not the work of their teeth.”

“Have you a theory, Mister Savage?”

“The teeth that did this were reptilian, if I am not mistaken,” Doc said at last. “But what species of reptile, I cannot state with certainty.”

“Well, small matter. It stands to reason that this unfortunate bird escaped being consumed close to some nearby shore. It could not have floated very far in its present deplorable condition.”

Doc nodded. “Less than a half day’s sail. We might light upon land before nightfall if we are lucky.”

“Keep a sharp watch, Mister Savage. I will catch up on my sleep and join you for supper.”

“Aye.”

Doc Savage took his stance before the
Orion’s
wheel. He was paging through his remarkably retentive memory for reptiles whose dentition would fit the creature that had crippled the albatross.

He could think of none. It bothered him greatly, but this fact did not register on his brazen countenance, which shone under the dying afternoon sun.

Chapter XVII

NO LAND WAS encountered that day.

Night fell with the startling splendor of the tropics. The fog gathered, thickened and before long a waxing crescent moon was illuminating it with an eerie, almost spectral light.

“Better night than last,” remarked Captain Savage, after coming up from his nightly sleep.

“The wind appears to be dying,” cautioned Doc.

It did die. Before the evening was very far along, the sails began to flap and droop. No amount of adjusting made any difference in their headway. They had drifted out of the ever-blowing trades.

Once again, they were becalmed.

“We have been saving our fuel for just such an occasion,” reminded Doc.

Captain Savage nodded silently, then made a tour of the deck. Doc left the useless wheel, following him.

“I agree with you, First Mate, but I have in mind that
balla.
”

“No sight or sound of it for nearly a day,” Doc pointed out.

The Captain of the
Orion
turned to face him. “If this were your ship, what would your decision be?” he demanded.

Doc hesitated.

“Before you answer,” his father interrupted, “I will remind you of what our late President, Mr. Roosevelt, so famously said: ‘In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.’”

Doc considered. “With all due respect to Mr. Roosevelt, I would await developments. The motor can be brought to bear at any time, should it be necessary.”

“A sound point. For we have no present emergency. A true emergency may lie ahead of us. In which case, we will be thankful for all the fuel we have on board.”

“I am glad we agree,” replied Doc.

“However,” added Captain Savage, “my decision stems from my observation that the tides are carrying us along ever so slightly. As long as we are making headway, and the ship is secure, what matter if our sails are filled or empty? The difference between one knot and ten is a matter of time, and nothing else. We have time.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Before long, they went below, leaving Chicahua to stand watch while they dined on pemmican and sea biscuit, enlivened by steaming black coffee.

“Time will tell if we are on a profitable course, or not,” mused Captain Savage.

Doc nodded wordlessly. He didn’t feel like conversation. His eyes were thoughtful and far away, the gold flakes that comprised the irises oddly quiescent.

Uncharacteristically, the old man felt like talking.

“I am wondering how you can be certain that no crocodile ever molested that poor albatross?” Captain Savage asked after a lengthy silence.

Doc paused. “I have wrestled alligators in Florida and hunted crocodiles along the Nile. The teeth of the crocodile are pointed like daggers, and spaced apart in a distinctive way. The saw-tooth bite I examined was neither crocodile nor alligator, but resembled both. My guess would be a monitor lizard.”

“Monitor lizards—in the landless heart of the Indian Ocean?
Impossible, sir!”

“Exactly. But I cannot place the toothmarks. They suggest instead serrated blade-like teeth. However, they match nothing in my experience.”

“You have lived less than a score of years,” grumbled the captain. “No doubt there are many things not yet in your personal lexicon.”

Doc did not dispute that, but he was bothered still.

Dessert was dried apricots. They ate sparingly since dried fruit doubled as emergency rations.

The meal was not quite concluded when they heard a peculiar thrashing and slapping above their heads. A squawk as of a frightened bird followed. Then the pelican-like rattle and paddle of something treading the deck that did not go about on human feet.

They grabbed for their pistols and pounded up onto the deck, weapons jutting before them.

IN the moonlit fog, they discovered Chicahua standing at the stern, his machete out, and waving both bare arms in a kind of frenzied frustration.

Captain Savage called out in K’iche.

The Mayan turned, eyes stark. His face was gray—terrible. His brown arms trembled.

He spoke one word over and over again.

“Camazotz! Camazotz!”

“What is he saying?” asked Doc.

“He says that a bat carried off the wounded albatross.”

“A bat?”

“If I understand him correctly. The word he keeps repeating is that of a Mayan god,
Camazotz.
The name means ‘Death Bat.’”

Captain Savage began questioning the man.

Words gobbled out of Chicahua’s pulsing throat. He gestured broadly, as if trying to convey hugeness.

“He said a bat as large as the mainsail. A bat whose wings were like twin jibs.”

Doc’s face was touched by a frown. “No such bat exists, as you know.”

Captain Savage turned, drew up on his heels. “Are you questioning my crewman’s veracity, Mister Savage?”

“No,” returned Doc in a reasonable voice. “Only pointing out that bats are not carnivorous, except where it comes to insects. Nor would one be large enough to carry off an albatross, even if they had a taste for meat.”

Captain Savage’s jaw snapped shut. He offered no retort. It was undeniable truth.

Doc began searching the deck for signs.

He found that scratches and scrapes had scored the portion of the poop deck where the albatross had been left to die. The wood appeared to have been raked, as if by wild talons. Kneeling, the bronze man examined these.

“No bat made such markings. They are too big for an eagle.”

Captain Savage shone a lantern on the scattered markings. While this produced more light, it did not admit more clarity into the situation. The marks stood out in sharp relief.

“If I did not know better,” he said slowly, “I would ascribe these talon-marks to a quadruped animal. There are signs of lesser and greater feet.”

“Ask Chicahua to describe the bat in more detail,” requested Doc.

Captain Savage fell into low converse with his agitated Mayan.

At length, he reported, “Chicahua describes a creature with a bald bony skull like a buzzard, wings like membranous sails and a whip-like tail belonging to the Satan of the Bible.”

“He is not describing a bat,” Doc said flatly. “Or a buzzard, for that matter.”

“I know what you are thinking.”

Doc looked at his father. Golden eyes locked.

“You are thinking that he is describing a prehistoric flying reptile,” said the elder Savage.

Doc nodded soberly. “Chicahua’s ‘bat’
does
fit the description of a Pteranodon, or other pterosaur.”

“I am not unfamiliar with these things, Mister Savage. But they no longer exist in our time. Science has spoken with finality on the subject.”

“I wonder…” said Doc slowly.

“What do you wonder, Mister Savage?”

“Flying reptiles are believed to have been fish eaters. I wonder if a Pteranodon might not find in a fish-eating albatross a tasty meal?”

Captain Savage declined to address that supposition.

They went back to the task of manning the
Orion.
But the silence that followed the carrying off of the hapless albatross left them with an uneasy feeling.

The feeling persisted, then worsened twenty minutes later when they spied a white wing floating upon the waves off to port, visible through the yellowish miasma.

Doc spotted it first.

It stood on the tossing tide, a forlorn fragment of a once-graceful sea bird. There was no blood. It looked perfect, as if clipped off by very sharp shears.

Doc called the wing to his captain’s attention. Savage joined him at the port rail as the
Orion
swept past the sad remnant.

“Clearly a left wing,” he pronounced.