The Cannibals (8 page)

The smoke made me cough and retch. If not for the bats I would have lost my way. I picked up the bag and followed them, as though borne along by their wings. I stumbled through the last chamber, then staggered out the door. And I dropped to my knees, spitting up clots of ash.

Mr. Mullock was staring up from the small buildings of his stone city. He called to me to come down, to hurry. “Bring the oil!” he shouted.

My eyes were watery and sore, and tears flowed from
them. With the bag to carry, I couldn't move fast enough to please Mr. Mullock. He came marching up and took it from me.

“It's lucky for you that you didn't come out empty 'anded,” he said, giving me his free arm to assist me down to the beach. “This oil's worth more than gold. It's warmth and light; a man can't live without it.”

It would forever be a puzzle why he came to help me. To be sure, his first thought was for the oil. But he must have wondered what I'd seen, and I could only guess that it didn't matter to him then. I was still of use to him.

The four of us worked together, patching the holes in the boat. The job we did would have sent a real shipwright starkraving mad to Bedlam. We covered the hull with scraps of wood, with turtle skin and sinew. Then we rolled the boat over, and tended to broken ribs that bent up like old umbrella wire. Mr. Mullock urged us on, but kept pausing himself to listen, then to ask, “Did you hear that, lads?” He imagined paddles in the surf, drums in the undertow, and chanting voices in the creaks of the longboat's planks.

Each time the sunlight caught his axe I cringed, for I imagined that very blade felling the Gypsy in a cloud of birds, or splitting the skulls that lay in their row in his cave. I worked as hard as he, for I was afraid to look idle. Yet I feared the moment when the work would be done, for then he might find our usefulness at an end.

“I've seen the 'eadhunters once,” he said. “Eighty men at eighty paddles in a double-decked canoe. A 'undred warriors in feathers and plumes, and hevery one the most fiercesome thing. Oh, Lord.” He hammered faster for a moment, his axe
a blur. “Paint on their faces. Bones in their noses. A dozen 'uman 'eads swinging from poles—all 'anging in the breeze like the devil's own coconut shy.”

He hammered quickly, then exploded into a blast of oaths, all aimed at me. “You had to come,” he said. “You chump of wood. You mallet-headed mullet. Why couldn't you keep away?”

He struck the hull so furiously that he nearly drove the axe right through it. One of our patches popped loose from the bottom, clattering to the stones. He kicked it and swore, but after that he only muttered to his bat, which had taken shelter in the sweaty warmth beneath his shirt.

In the evening the birds came back to the island. In waves that covered the sky, they converged from all directions. Some low to the ground, others high above, they came with their cries and their whistling wings. It was an amazing sight, but only Early Discall stopped to watch it. Bent over the boat, I heard them pass, and felt the air shiver from their flight. The ones we'd displaced with the longboat squawked their way amongst the others, and Mr. Mullock grew angry at the noise.

“Can't 'ear a thing but birds,” he said. “What if the junglies are coming now?”

“Perhaps they are,” I said, not daring to look him in the eye. I hoped that he would go up to the summit to check himself, and that I might have a chance to tell Midgely what I'd seen. “They might be landing this very minute.”

“Hah!” he said. “Why, we've nothing to fear. Dead men tell no tales, but the birds will watch out for us, won't they? If the junglies come, the birds will rise.”

We labored into twilight, and toiled as the moon came up. Mr. Mullock set out his lamps, the turtle-shell bowls, and we worked in the glow of the burning oil.

“When we get to sea, first thing we'll 'oist the sail,” said Mr. Mullock. “It'll be Midgely in the bow, and the stupid boy to tend the snotter. Tom, you'll 'and the sheet.”

I neither knew nor cared what a snotter might be, or what it meant to hand a sheet. But it pleased me to know that Mr. Mullock wasn't thinking of sailing off alone.

“Next thing, lads, we'll run to the east,” said he. “A good sea mile or two, that's all. Then we'll lie ahull till the moon goes down, set all sail and steer a long reach to those islands.”

This thrilled Midgely to no end. But it wasn't the idea that we'd be going right where he wanted that made him grin in the dark. It was the sudden string of salty phrases. “You're a sailor, aren't you, Mr. Mullock?”

“I'm sure I'd say I am. Ask me quick and I'll tell you so. My young friend, I'm a yachtsman.”

“Oooh, a yachtsman,” chirped Midgely. “Is that how you fetched up here, Mr. Mullock? Was your own yacht—”

“Hush!” snapped Mr. Mullock. He held up a hand for silence. “Did you 'ear that, lads? You must 'ave 'eard that.”

The rustle and mewl of the birds had been a steady whisper all the night. But now it was loud enough to hide the surf 's rumble. Something had disturbed them.

We heard stones clatter and click. We whirled around to stare into the darkness.

Out of the night came a quavering voice.

“Hallo?” it asked. “Tom, are you there?”

It was Boggis. He came right up to the longboat with a flurry of birds at his feet. He towered above us all, yet somehow seemed like a small boy. “Tom, you ain't leaving already, are you? Please take me with you. Don't leave me here.” He fell to his knees. “It's haunted, Tom. We can hear the dead men crying.”

Mr. Mullock cursed him. “You lolloping thick-wit. It's the birds you hear. Pull yourself together.”

“It ain't the birds; it's ghosts,” said Boggis. “We can hear the dead men rattling in their graves.”

“The undertow!” cried Mr. Mullock. I could see by his
face that he'd spent many nights thinking of ghosts, telling himself that the sounds from his cave were only the stones rumbling in the surf. “Don't talk of dead men to me.”

“They're calling out,” said Boggis. “They're calling to the boat, and the boat's calling back. It's full of spirits here, Tom.”

“You can 'ear a boat?” cried Mr. Mullock. “Already you can 'ear it?”

“Plain as day,” said Boggis. “The spirits are wailing out there.”

“Lads, that's it,” said Mr. Mullock. “Launch the boat; we're leaving!”

“It isn't finished,” I said.

“Well, we are. Hah! We're all finished, boy, if we're not off this island.”

“Take me with you!” pleaded Gaskin. He turned from me to Mr. Mullock. He threw himself at the man's feet and took hold of his ankles. “I beg you.”

“Let me go!”

“Please.”

“All right,” said Mr. Mullock. “All right!”

I believe he would have said anything at all to make Gaskin let go. The moment the boy's arms unwrapped, he stepped away and shouted a string of commands. “Get the water. Get the mast. Get the fish and oil, and for the love of God get the blasted boat afloat.”

Poor Boggis must have thought all the commands had been aimed at him. Everything he could find, he snatched up and threw in the boat. The oars and the tiller, the pins and the
rudder, the bags of turtle skin and the mast with its sail; all of it went into the longboat. Then Boggis ran to the stern and pulled on the transom.

It had taken four of us to haul the boat up, but Boggis moved it on his own. He tugged and gasped, and tugged again. Then he stopped to catch his breath.

And I heard the junglies coming.

It was indeed a ghostly sound. It was far away, very faint and quiet. There were no words that I could make out, only a chant of many voices, a sound that swelled and fell away like the rolling of the waves. In each hush was a rumbling thump. A thump and a swirl of water.

“What's that?” asked Midgely.

“They beat time with their paddles,” said Mr. Mullock. “They never tire; they never stop.”

I had no thoughts right then for the skeletons or the Gypsy. I only wanted off the island.

We pushed the boat together, all at once. It skidded down the beach and into the sea stern first. There was a splash and a plume of spray, and the boat was floating. But almost on the instant, a puddle of water appeared in the bottom.

“It leaks,” I said.

“Never mind that,” said Mr. Mullock. “A boat's like a Cheapstreet strumpet; a few drops and she's tight. Now get aboard, Midgely, and mind you help the stupid one. The lout can row. Tom, you'll push us clear.”

“Why me?”

“Blast you, boy!” he shouted. “Do you have to question me at every turn? Would you have the blind boy push instead?”

“Golly, I don't mind,” said Midgely. “It's nothing to me to get me feet wet, Mr. Mullock.”

“You'll sit where you are,” said Mr. Mullock. He shoved me aside and got into the boat.

I would never know if he meant to leave me on the island. I suspected then that he did, and later I became almost certain. But at the time it didn't matter, for the birds suddenly lifted in a mass as shadowy figures came running down the hill.

“It's the junglies!” shouted Early.

Out sprang Mr. Mullock. Nimble enough he'd been before, but now he was fast as lightning. “I'll 'elp you, Tom,” he shouted.

He on one side, and I on the other, we pushed the boat from the beach. Then we clambered aboard together.

“They're coming,” said Early.

But it wasn't the junglies who emerged from the dark. It was Weedle and Penny and Carrots, and they came in a rush. Down to the beach, right to the sea, they stumbled and ran.

“Wait, we're going with you,” said Weedle. “It's our boat too, and we got our rights.”

I would gladly have left them behind. But Mr. Mullock said, “Bring them in. There's safety in numbers.” And seeing that he was at the tiller, and that he had an oar at hand, he had his way, and the three came over the side.

Mr. Mullock fitted the rudder as we crossed the narrow passage. Then we threaded past the rocks and out to sea. Boggis pulled with all his strength. As the heavy oars swept round, the wooden pins they lay against cried out from their sockets.

From the north came the chanting voices, along with the drumming beat of paddles. All but Boggis stared in that direction. “Quiet now,” said Mr. Mullock. “Someone wet those blasted pins.”

I heard a splash, and the squeals of the oars turned to a wooden rumble. Mr. Mullock certainly knew his way around boats.

But he wasn't much of a carpenter. Before we'd gone a hundred yards I felt water round my feet. A hundred more and it was lapping at my ankles. I said, “I think we're sinking.”

Mr. Mullock whipped off his helmet and tossed it forward. “Bail with that, Tom,” he said. “Make yourself useful.”

I, alone, couldn't keep up with the water. Soon Carrots was bailing, and Early too, each with one of Mr. Mullock's little bowls. Benjamin Penny scooped with his webbed fingers, and our combined effort maintained pace with the sea.

The chanting grew steadily louder, the beat of the paddles more clear and sharp. But stare as we might, the ocean seemed empty all around. Only the tiny moon was visible, so low in the sky that it seemed to float on the sea.

Suddenly it vanished. It disappeared entirely, and as quick as I could blink, there it was again. It pulsed like a star, like a lamp fed by sputtering gas. I couldn't fathom why. No moon I'd seen ever flickered like that.

Then the truth struck me. I was watching a great canoe pass before the moon. Its prow had blotched it out, and now each paddler, passing, hid it for an instant. It flashed and flashed and flashed again. Fifty times it must have gleamed between as many paddlers. I breathed three breaths before
the moon turned solid again as the stern went gliding past. It was a canoe as long as a ship.

“Not a sound,” said Mr. Mullock in a whisper.

Boggis leaned on his oars, holding the blades high. We stopped our bailing. We sat still, barely breathing. The longboat rose and fell on the gentle swells, and all the stars seemed to swing above us. Our island was now a dark hump, with a line of pale surf at its base. Our world was so quiet that I could hear the drops of seawater falling from the oars. I could hear it seeping through the patches.

But out there, the voices chanted. Out there, the sea split and tumbled as the canoe sliced through it. I saw the wave it tossed up, and the chant came clearly to us.

“Hiiiii-ya,
uhmp!
Hiiiii-ya,
uhmp!
” sang the paddlers.

The first words were high-pitched, the last a deep moan that trembled in the fog. It was followed right after by that rolling drum as the paddles struck the hull.

The canoe took shape in the darkness. It looked like a black beast that thrust its head high, that crawled on a hundred legs. I thought no canoe had ever been built as large as that. Then we saw it more clearly in the moonlight.

The bow soared higher than the height of three men. At its very top was a wooden bird, its wooden wings spread wide, that seemed to fly across the stars. The paddlers, with their strokes and thumps, seemed to give a breath to the beast. They leaned forward as one, and back as one, singing that chant, “Hiiiii-ya,
uhmp!
” Towering above them was a platform of reeds where warriors sat, each in a cap adorned with plumes. The stern was even taller than the bow, a swaying mass of fronds and feathers.

“Hail Mary, mother of God,” whispered Mr. Mullock. “Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.”

I thought it
was
the hour of our death. If the canoe turned, if a single paddler looked to his right, we were doomed.

Already there was half a foot of water in the boat. Mr. Mullock was on his knees, clasping his hands together. I didn't see his bat, but all of a sudden it cried out in that piercing chatter.

“Foxy, hush!” said Mr. Mullock, but the cry went on.

In a flash, he had his hand at his shirt, and he pulled that creature out. I saw it writhing in his fist, one wing flapping loose. Then both of Mr. Mullock's hands were round it. With a twist, and a tiny crack of a sound, he snapped its little neck. He tipped it into the sea, where the bat twitched and trembled, then drew itself into a huddled ball of brown fur.