The Urn

by G. Wells Taylor

  Always the birds and animals took up their song again, and I was allowed a small decrease in my anxiety.

  There would be no time to search out a spring or stream for fresh water, nor would I go too deeply into the dark forest until my black powder had completely dried out and been tested. However, the heat of the rising sun had me thinking that a water source would soon be paramount, perhaps a treasure more important than the shelter I was endeavoring to build.

  I was lucky in the end, for a short distance down the beach, no more than a quarter mile, I discovered a chunk of decking from the Westerner’s cargo hold that had broken loose in the explosion and grounded, and upon this was roped a flat of planed lumber, undoubtedly destined for some port along the African coast where builders would be expecting its arrival.

  Farther along the beach I found a bottle of wine and then was thrilled to see something rising from the shallows 50 feet offshore. I almost ran the last distance after I had waded out through the waves, for I’d seen the words stenciled upon a box of three-inch nails.

  In the rocks nearby I found more finished wood—unvarnished trim and doorframes—a heavy mallet for pounding stakes or large iron spikes, and half-buried in the sand, a shovel. In a drift of dirt and seaweed ten yards from that, I came upon a large, crumpled sheet of drowned sailcloth and a ball of thick twine twice the size of my fist.

  With such a bounty at hand, I decided it was time to build.

  One glance at the sun confirmed this, as it had risen high during my search, and would be directly overhead by the time I had carried most of my building supplies back to the clearing.

  It would be a grave oversight if I did not also mention that I found a body, though in truth, I was surprised that there were not more. The poor fellow was 20, had a red beard and was a stranger to me for I could not remember him from the Westerner.

  He had no wounds upon him, though his flesh was as pale as scrubbed stone, and while I could not prove it, I was certain that like the rest of the crew, he had drowned when the steamer went down; but unlike his fellows, he had been washed ashore.

  I dragged him up to the rise where the jungle grew down to the sands, and left him after I had searched his pockets and found three English pennies. I kept them since I realized in this place I found myself, any manufactured item had enormous value, and who knew what eventuality could occur where I might need money—no matter how small the sum.

  It was impossible to handle the cheap metal without thinking of all the gold and silver of mine that would now be at the ocean floor.

  That thought diminished the sinking feeling I suddenly had in my gut, for how could I feel guilt knowing that if fate had altered things but an inch or two this way or that, the dead sailor could have easily been claiming a fortune from my own corpse?

  The dead man also started me wondering what had happened to the others. Had Captain Banks and any of his crew survived the wreck? Had the British hunters? That second notion had me looking over my shoulder as I gathered up the lumber I could carry.

  They would likely be armed, and Colonel Frank had looked more than capable of surviving the rigors of the jungle—perhaps even flourishing in the wild. I understood that the Westerner’s sailors would have blamed me for the shipwreck, and would have sought revenge upon me for that. But, I knew Colonel Frank and the hunters, had they survived, would have more personal motivation for vengeance against me.

  But there was no reason or evidence to think that anyone else aboard had survived the steamship’s explosion. No more than there was yet any indication that I was lucky to have lived through it.

  Even more good reasons to hurry about the business at hand. More than likely, everyone had perished in the blast or drowned in the storm, and what remains came ashore had been consumed by the predatory creatures that I had only heard about in tales.

  No need to worry about British hunters, when the jungle surely brimmed with so many of the African kind.

  An hour or two passed, and I had managed to get the majority of the building supplies back to the clearing just after noon, with only a few disruptions: sounds from the jungle, of movement or bloodthirsty calls of the kind I have previously described. These disruptions always made me drop my burdens and stand trembling in place with sword in hand, with my eyes scanning the dense foliage.

  I do not know if it was on my fourth or fifth trip back to the beach, that I noticed the sailor’s body had disappeared from where I’d left it at the eave of the jungle. I could see the marks in the sand, grooves made by lifeless legs and feet to show that the corpse had been dragged, but I dared not investigate it further.

  What was there to do but be terrified, and terrified, what could I do but see to the working of my plan? Only through action could I hope to diminish my fears.

  The day was at its hottest with the sun directly overhead when I started working on the main support structure using long stout boards that I doubled up to increase in length, and nailed these to the inner edges of the four stoutest trees over the central tangle of branches that would bear the weight of what I could later build.

  This form was roughly square, about 18 feet on a side and ten feet from the ground. I was then able to build a rudimentary platform on the south side of this structure by positioning boards that crossed from the form to the intertwining branches in a series of joists that I covered with the planed planks to make a floor. This temporary base was about 18 feet by five.

  After that, I built a makeshift wall by folding up sailcloth and nailing it to overhead branches where it hung down with its lower edges held out and open by nails to form a triangular lean-to on that partial platform. I could enter the shelter through folds in the cloth that could be held closed from within.

  There still remained a few branches and a fifth tree trunk that grew inward and would interfere with the completion of my floor but the wood and sailcloth “shelf” I was building would offer me some protection until I could find a way to prune them.

  I drank sparingly of the wine that I had found, and had collected up a handful of smooth beach stones that I kept in my mouth to curb my thirst.

  With my temporary “shelter” taking shape, I could stand back and imagine the rest of the simple construction I had in mind. The 18 by 18 foot arrangement of supports would be utilized to their fullest later, and seemed a trifle generous when I looked up at them from the foot of the ladder I’d made after scavenging short lengths of dead wood and nailing a series of nine rungs up the outer surface of one of the trees.

  True I could have constructed a smaller permanent shelter much more quickly, but I realized weather and proximity to predators might keep me locked up inside any house I built for myself, and so I had hoped more space within might make any long periods of confinement endurable.

  Near sunset, I made a small meal for myself of berries that grew in abundance on dense bushes that ringed the clearing round, had a couple more swigs of wine and climbed up into my “shelter.” Then with my back set against layers of sail cloth that formed the wall and a stout tree trunk tight against my kidneys, I pulled the material closed after me and with my long knife and sword in hand attempted to pass the night.

  The jungle came alive with noise when darkness fell—bird song again, though different, and other cries strange and uncanny indeed. These sounds came to me, seemingly louder than in the day, though I’m sure the pitch black exaggerated their effect. As the night progressed, some calls grew more terrifying and sudden, jerking me from what meager sleep I could manage.

  Something large passed noisily through the trees beyond the western side of the clearing, and a terrifying yowl came from the north soon after that I instinctively identified as coming from some kind of great cat from the tales I’d been told.

  I kept my knees tucked tight to my chest as I listened to the night just past my fort of sailcloth, and I resolved to test the black powder I had collected up before sunset.

  I had loaded my pistol before entering the shelter and i
t was close at hand, but I would only use it in desperation, for only then would I chance a misfire. I had decided against testing the powder before my shelter was ready for the night because the noise from it was sure to attract creatures of every kind.

  However, I could not suffer another sleepless night with only blades to protect me, and I swore that if I survived until daybreak, I would have a better answer to the wild creatures that crowded around me.

  Later, I heard something snuffling at the foot of the trees under me, and I was put in mind of the pigs that my mother used to keep in summer. With this warm thought in my head, I drifted off and passed the final few hours before sunrise.

  The following morning I breakfasted on berries and the remainder of the wine, knowing that I’d have to make all haste to finish my shelter, while realizing that without water or food, there would be little point.

  The berries would provide some sustenance, but I would require water if I wished to work quickly in the heat, and I knew that I would have to venture into the surrounding jungle to look for a source of the precious fluid. To do that I needed a special kind of courage.

  So I took some steps from the sheltering trees, lifted my pistol and fired it toward the beach, much to the loud protest of the jungle around me. I could not help but smile as the gun smoke rolled like fog across the long grasses, thinking that the report had put my savage neighbors on notice that the Gypsy Horvat had arrived, and he would not go down without a fight.

  The black powder was dry, and it seemed the percussion caps had not suffered from their immersion.

  With reloaded pistol in hand I traveled the perimeter of the clearing, and then took some cautious steps beneath the jungle cover, moving inland to the east. The land rose there and at times showed a mossy outgrowth of rock and stone. The air was damp with moisture, and I was envisioning the collection of raindrops for drinking when a distant gurgling sound reached my ears.

  I moved carefully through the tall ferns and tangled creepers, until I caught sight of an outcrop of crumbled black rock. The block-like shape of the stones gave it a misleading look of having been a structure that had collapsed and fallen down the slope upon which it had stood.

  But I was relieved to find a small stream at its base that was fed by a cold, dark spring. Imagining the sort of creatures that such a water source might attract, I knelt down on one knee and drank by using my hand as a cup while I kept my pistol trained on the surrounding verdure.

  The water was delicious, clean and fresh, and I drank until my belly was bloated.

  I would return later with my wine bottle, and fill it, and would look along the beach for other containers in which I could carry water.

  Feeling somewhat refreshed, I walked down to the shore and continued my search for supplies and materials, and was pleased to see from patterns on the sand that the waves had come up quite high in the night which meant that more flotsam might have been carried ashore.

  The Westerner must have been hauling a cargo of building supplies for I quickly found more lumber. Pieces of varied lengths and thickness had been pushed up separately in the night. These would do well as part of the main platform and floor, and the basics of uprights and beams for framing in the structure.

  They would allow for rapid construction once they had been collected and dragged to the clearing. I added to this prize with another great sheet of sailcloth, and a bundle of canvas. Combined with some of the oversized leaves I’d seen at the jungle’s edge I imagined the oiled canvas to be a perfect sheathing for my roof.

  As the heat increased, and the afternoon wore on, my shelter continued to take shape. But the heat was punishing. I had quickly finished the water I’d earlier collected, and had twice dared the jungle’s edge to refill it.

  My stomach grumbled constantly now, and cramped painfully if I drank too quickly. When I finished the bottle again, I walked toward the jungle spring but paused first to fill up at the berry bushes that ringed the clearing, and as I stood there with pistol ready, I listened.

  Various creatures bellowed and called in the tangled jungle, while distant shapes moved like shadows behind the cover of trees and bushes, terrifying me as I moved finally back toward the spring. While drinking there, I saw a set of red eyes flashing at me from the shadowed undergrowth to the north.

  I had known instinctively that all these wild things were coming near, and watching me, curious but fearful of my foreign look and scent, and it was only that fear that had kept their bloody hunger in check.

  They would be hungry as I was...

  Perhaps this need sent me out to the shore again to look for flotsam while the sun was still high, with the hope that other things had washed up that I might eat. In fact, while scouring the sands, I found and devoured a small fish that had been swept by the sea into a shallow pond.

  Other small fry dogged my weary feet when I waded out past the waves, but they easily escaped my efforts to catch them. That experience left me with the desire to build a fishing pole or somehow make a net.

  It was while I was on my way back after that, feeling some small contentment at the influx of nutrition, that I was blessed by the saint with the discovery of an axe.

  It was lying flat in the sand, and almost buried, and I would have missed it if not for the constant erosion from the waves. It must have been washed up right after the shipwreck and buried by the storm. As I lifted it free, my heart surged at the turn of luck, and encouraged me to believe that there could be many other useful items buried near.

  With my new axe I returned to building and chopped off the top of one tree where it would have pierced the floor and ceiling. While that had brought painful blisters to my hands, I continued on to shear off two stout branches and several dead ones that would have interfered with the raising of my walls.

  Up to that point I had been using fist-sized, flat-edged stones collected from the beach to hammer nails which was a finger-bruising but efficient enough method; however, I was pleased to streamline that process by inverting the axe-head and employing its blunt end to pound them into the boards once they’d been started.

  The day left me hungry, soaked with sweat and exhausted staring out at the setting sun from within my little shelter. My stomach complained of hunger, but I was pleased with my progress, and fell asleep beneath my sailcloth walls awaking only once to clutch at my weapons when more snuffling things passed beneath me.

  I awoke the next morning and surveyed the structure. With the intruding tree and branches out of the way, I was able to get right to work, and so completed the sturdy floor by extending joists and affixing them to the center tangle of branches that would bear their weight.

  I continued like this, building the greater structure outward from my temporary “shelter” using most of what remained of the planed lumber to cover the floor. Upon that base I built the frame for the walls, installing one section after another in from the edge of the platform by some two feet or so.

  This left an open shelf of flooring that traveled the perimeter of the walls and would be sheltered by an overhang of the roof when I completed that. It was my thought that I would require a safe place to hang the skins of animals, and cook foods outside of the building proper. It would also create a balcony from which I could safely observe the surrounding area.

  Some time after noon, I started closing in the walls using sheets of splintered wood I’d found from the wreckage, fixing them behind a double-thickness of sailcloth and canvas, at times reinforcing them by weaving stout branches in the frames I had built, connecting them to the other frames in the wall, and tying them in place with twine to conserve nails.

  When I finally stepped back to have a look with the roof joists halfway completed, I realized the result of my efforts looked familiar, and I laughed to think it the shape and design of a yurt. It was a type of building used by nomadic easterners and its design was shared and borrowed by Szgany from those stony plains.

  Seeing the canvas-draped sides and flexible lines
of the roof, I was put in mind of a large tent built on a wooden platform and perched up in a tree. I laughed again, and took a swig from my bottle of water. Indeed, I had been forced to build eight sections for the walls because I did not have enough long lumber to do fewer, and in my haste, I had attached them together in a somewhat circular fashion.

  Later, I would reinforce the sides using logs from the forest and mortar from the clay that surrounded my waterhole, but for now, I could revel in my yurt’s nostalgic and absurd character.

  My good humor left me that night as I tossed and turned on the hard wooden platform within the protection of my simple shelter, for thought of my master’s remains would not leave my mind. They had been hidden high in the tree for two nights now and needed to be buried.

  Was I forestalling this eventuality with the small hope that he might still somehow survive the wrecking of the Westerner? Or was I simply delaying that moment that would sever my connection to him in this life, and in that severance, my connection to the homeland he had provided me?

  There was no chance of his resurrection now. Each day I’d climbed up to look into the urn that had become a coffin but never was there any change to the sad remains within.

  I had accumulated a thorough enough knowledge of the master’s book to know that seawater was the bane and destroyer of any attempt at reclamation for him. Once mixed with his ashes, the salty liquid would reduce his remains to nothing, and forever dispel his noble spirit.

  Yet I could not commit him to this end without leaving at least some lasting mark of his resting place, and so the following morning, I took the urn and its contents some 60 paces southwest from my shelter. To bury him there would allow me to gaze at his grave from my savage home whenever my spirits grew fearful in the jungle night, and I needed the memory of his bravery to bolster my own courage.