Eviskar Island (19 page)

“Now it’s time for a little show,” he said with a grin.  There was a twinkle in his eye as he gathered the detritus of his labors and beckoned the students to follow him to the edge of a deep cleft in the hillside, another fifty yards further away from his shelter.  A trickle of water gurgled through the ravine, barely enough to supply the few ferns and stunted ‘bamboo’ that grew there.  “Allow me to introduce you to Moe, Larry and Curley.”  With that, he flung the guts into the gorge, sat down and waited.

The two boys eagerly anticipated what was to come.  Jocelyn, however, shivered when she thought of the dangerous creatures about to pass so close by.  Within minutes they heard the characteristic soprano grunts of approaching lizard wolves.

“That’s Moe,” Endicott remarked excitedly while pointing to the largest of three animals that sauntered up the stream.  Heads moving back and forth, up and down, noses sampling both air and soil, the pack homed in on its evening meal.

With quick, savage lunges the three carnivores attacked the remains of the cynodont carcass.  Powerful jaws ripped chunks of flesh from the pile, and the crunch of bone reverberated eerily off the walls of the gorge until absolutely nothing remained except red stains on the rocks.  It was a feeding frenzy comparable in intensity only to the boiling of an Amazon pool inhabited by crazed piranhas.

“Awesome!” Spencer noted when it was over.

Endicott smiled.  “I knew you’d be impressed.”  He again pointed to one of the creatures as it moved away.  “That one’s Curley.  You’ll note he’s missing his right eye.  And see the scars on his cheek?  At some point he either got in the way of one of his hungry associates, or he attacked something that put up a terrific fight.  The smaller one with lighter spots is Larry.  I believe she’s a female because of her size.  It’s really tough to determine gender among these brutes.”

Joselyn had seen enough.  Lizard wolves gave her the creeps.  She couldn’t understand the interest exhibited by her male colleagues; it seemed excessively primitive, and it made her uncomfortable.  “Can we go now?”

“Girls!” Spencer chided.

“I just wanted to give you an indication of the fate one might expect if one isn’t careful out here,” Endicott said dismissively.  “Normally lizard wolves won’t venture up to this altitude—not enough food here I suppose—but those three hang around perpetually.  They’ve been regular diners at ‘chez Endicott’ for several months now.  Smart little buggers they are, 250 million-year-old moochers.”  He shouldered the cynodont hide stuffed with their upcoming dinner and led the way back to the hut.

The roof of the structure had a trap door which the professor opened.  A ring of soot surrounded the hole indicated its purpose.  He then got down on his knees and carefully brushed aside the top layer of ash in the centrally located fire pit to expose coals left over from the previous fire.  Grabbing a handful of dried moss he expertly nursed the new fire along.  Soon there was a roaring blaze that cast warm shadows on the walls.

Twilight had brought with it a chill, and the fire lent much appreciated warmth to the evening.  They weren’t high enough to experience the low temperatures of the distant mountains, but it was significantly cooler here than in the river valley.  The increased altitude didn’t alter the humidity though, and the setting Sun left the still air clammy and uncomfortable.  Jocelyn noted that Endicott didn’t possess anything in the way of warm clothing, and asked him how he’d coped in winter.

Her host shrugged as he skewered slabs of cynodont tenderloin onto a stout stick and suspended them over a fireplace now glowing with hot coals.  “I told you earlier that I have no idea what day it is, and the only way I have of knowing what month we’re in is by the lengths of shadows of certain vertical posts I’ve been using as crude sundials.  Part of what depresses me about this prehistoric prison is the lack of seasonal change.  Aside from the fact that the Sun doesn’t come up for months, one wouldn’t know it was winter.  The monotony of a climate like this wears on you.  Day after day, month after month, nothing changes.  The geothermal springs and vents, most of which lie far to the south and west, inject a constant supply of heat into this huge, bowl-shaped caldera, turning water to steam which, when it hits the cold air on the other side of the mountains, turns to cloud.  Those constant clouds effectively insulate the valley, keeping conditions the same, day after bloody day.”

“That’s why the satellite images don’t show anything but cloud?” Spencer observed.

“Precisely.  Even in our modern technological society, the details of what this place is like, here under all these clouds, have remained a mystery.  Actually, mystery isn’t the proper term.  I suspect nobody’s ever really thought to explore this island.  It’s fairly small, as islands go, terribly remote, and it’s far enough from the ice pack that no humans or polar bears can walk to it.  Although it’s readily accessible by sea, the caldera rim presents an imposing rampart, one sufficient to discourage all but hardy, properly equipped mountaineers from venturing forth.  And what possible reason would compel a climber to visit this place—to gain access to a supposedly steaming volcanic cauldron high above the Arctic Circle, in the middle of nowhere?”

“We did it,” said Spencer.

Endicott gave him an icy stare.  “Yes, you certainly did.  And look where it got you—me as well.  We both found the most promising access point to the interior, that small beach and the weak, broken ridge that has eroded just enough to entice one to hike in and explore.  This island is like the Greek isles inhabited by sirens, those sultry beings who beckon the unsuspecting and curious to explore their charms, only to lure them to their deaths.”

Jocelyn shivered.  Whether it was the chill or the nature of the conversation she couldn’t tell.  She found Endicott’s mood swings unsettling.  Most of the time he appeared to be perfectly normal—at least as normal as could be expected for someone who’d been through such a harsh period of exile.  He was a strong man, not just physically, but capable of dealing with, and overcoming, the hardships he’d faced.  Stubbornness and a determined will had put him in this hut, where he lacked nothing essential to life; food, shelter and warmth…he had what he needed.   But there was something else, perhaps the lack of human contact, that had instilled in him this disturbing erratic attitude.  He definitely harbored an enormous sense of abandonment at having been marooned here.  The thought of his exile made him despondent, but when he was reminded of the accident that cast him into this world, and the real or perceived lack of a successful rescue attempt, it had made him angry.  The most innocent of questions seemed suddenly to trigger his ire, and she could tell he fought to control himself, to avoid a transition into rage.

Jocelyn had friends at school who used drugs.  No high school in the country was immune to the problem.  She’d borne witness to similar mood swings, especially among football players who took anabolic steroids.  “’Roid rage” is what they called it.  It often affected them badly enough that other students openly shunned them.  Jocelyn regarded those players with a mixture of revulsion and pity.  It both fascinated and appalled her to see what people would do to their bodies in desperate attempts to win glory and recognition for doing nothing more than playing a game.

Endicott, however, wasn’t on drugs.  He had lived for the past year about as far from a pharmacy as one could get.  Jocelyn attributed his behavior to either the stress of his exile or to some sort of brain imbalance—schizophrenia perhaps.

Regardless of the cause, she felt he wasn’t a stable man, and that made him a dangerous man.  Jack and Spencer didn’t see it.  To them, Loren Endicott was someone to be admired for his cleverness, knowledge and perseverance.  That was true, of course, but they couldn’t also see the dark side, the inner turmoil lying beneath the tough exterior, the curse that made him a tragic figure.

It was easy to lose track of time in the everlasting twilight of summer at high latitudes.  Jack’s stomach growled as the scent of almost fully cooked cynodont steaks assaulted his nostrils.  He had no idea of just how late it was nor did he care.  He was famished.  None of the students had had a proper meal in over three days.  In an attempt to take his mind off of food, he looked around Endicott’s dwelling and his eyes settled upon the spear the Doctor had used to kill tonight’s dinner.  He walked over to pick it up and returned to sit by the fire.

The weapon was robust and extremely well made.  Its shaft was about six feet long, strong and lightweight, made of a stout piece of the ubiquitous ‘bamboo’ with which they were so familiar.  The end of the piece had been split to accept the crown spike of a cycad tree; tightly wound animal sinew held the blade firmly in place.

Endicott noticed Jack’s interest in the object.  Setting the steaks onto a crudely constructed table to cool, he said, “That pike’s kept me alive in more ways than one.  Food and protection are what life is about in this land.  Maintaining a supply of cynodont meat and keeping lizard wolves at bay would have been nearly impossible without it.”

“You did a good job,” Jack said admiringly.  “This cycad tip is as hard as hickory, and sharp too.”

“I carved an edge onto it and filed it sharp using an abrasive rock.  I then hardened it carefully over a fire,” he said with pride.    “Believe it or not it’s the only tip I’ve used.  Several times I’ve lunged and accidentally driven it into the ground, but it never broke.  That wood is a better quality material than many modern synthetics.  Those cycad trees have been of great importance to me.”

“They’re real important to those dragonflies too,” Spencer quipped.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed that have you?  Well, here’s something you haven’t experienced.”  Endicott pulled several flat objects that looked like thick tortillas from a pouch made of cynodont hide and handed one to each student.  He then grabbed one for himself, took a bite, and beckoned the others to do the same.  Jocelyn nibbled hers and nodded approvingly.  “So, tell me what you think,” her host asked.

“It’s really tasty,” she replied, “sort of like bread with a flavor that reminds me of—it’s hard to describe—kind of a carrot-potato blend, almost like a soup.”

“’An it’s sweet,” Spencer added, “has a high sugah content.”

“There’s a pith layer in the crown of the cycad,” Endicott explained, “right below where the point projects, and under where the seeds grow.  It’s very much like the modern bread palms they have in Africa.  Although I’ve never tried those, I daresay they can’t taste much better than this.  Mashed up with a bit of water, I knead the pulp and bake it to make these.”  He indicated what the students held in their hands.  “Obviously it yields a delicious and very important source of carbohydrate to one’s diet.  And that’s not the end of it,” he added with a smile, “The cycad seeds provide me with something much more delectable, my most important discovery to date.  I found that when you rinse off the objectionable goo that attracts those pesky dragonflies, the small, black seeds are most useful.  When dried and roasted they may be steeped to yield a delightful beverage, one very similar to coffee.”

Endicott’s last statement caused Jocelyn to draw a breath.  She was about to say something, but suddenly thought better of it and held her tongue.  Instead, she commented on the weapon in Jack’s hand.  “What I find interesting is the wood you used to make the shaft.  There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t recall what it is; it looks sort of like bamboo, but I’m virtually certain it’s not.”

“Well now,” the question brought approbation from Endicott, “you’re quite the botanist, Jocelyn.  Most people would not have noticed the odd nature of this plant.  You’ve undoubtedly noticed them growing almost everywhere.  They’re called horsetails, and the varieties on this island I’m fairly certain have been extinct elsewhere on Earth for 100 million years or more.”

“Mmmm…this is superb.”  Jack hadn’t been able to wait any longer.  The steaks had cooled enough to handle, and he was savoring his first taste of cynodont.  Spencer took the hint and dove into another piece of meat.

Despite her hunger, Jocelyn held back.  Convincing herself that the boys made good guinea pigs, she thought she’d wait to be sure the food was safe.  If it didn’t cause them any gastric distress, she would eat some herself.  No use taking chances.  But harbored deep within her psyche lay the real reason she was reluctant to taste the cynodont: she’d seen the animal when it was alive.  Knowing that’s what she would be eating was affecting her appetite.  It had looked so terrified and helpless back there on the river bank moments before Endicott had dispatched it, and now a portion of it was sitting in front of her, grilled to perfection, smelling wonderful, sort of like the pork chops her mother prepared. 
Oh, knock it off
, she chided herself.  The animal was dead now.  Cows, pigs and chickens probably look the same before they go to slaughter—except perhaps the chickens, she reasoned, after all, they were just birds—but all consumers ever see are dismembered cuts sitting on display in the meat section of the supermarket.  And what about the fish she caught in the Gulf?  She was never squeamish about eating the snapper or the reds she and her friends caught.

“You better dig in, Jossy,” Jack said when he noticed her staring at her dinner.  “But if you aren’t hungry, just pass your steak down to me.  I could eat a horse.”

“Unlike the rest of you heathens, some of us say Grace before we eat,” came her specious excuse as she picked up her portion and began to nibble.  It was surprisingly good.  Whatever her jumbled thoughts had led her to expect, this was different.  Cynodont, she decided on the spot, would be tops on her list of favorites if they were available back home.  Its taste was a delicate blend of chicken and pork, not gamey at all, and very tender.  She slowly forgot about the source of the food, and concentrated on her own hunger.  Within minutes she was done, her earlier trepidation replaced with the opinion that she’d just had the most remarkable meal of her life.