by Douglas Draa
Dom is seeing him surrounded by a kind of luminous glow. A supernatural halo brighter than the sun. He sees the dull ancient pulse beneath the skull. The quick deadly survival instinct. He concentrates his energies and reaches out his hand to the standing man, a gesture of defeat, of inevitability. Matsu looks at the extended hand strangely, as though momentarily conflicted. Then condescends to grasp it. Dom feels the slender hand locked into his own, the smooth hairless skin, the frail bones beneath the skin.
The revving of an auto-engine behind him. Matsu’s car maneuvering in tight. Then the shock of slow impact as it comes up hard against the Honda’s rear, nudging it forward. As Matsu seeks to disengage his hand, Dom grips harder. For a second they strain against each other. Then Dom feels the bones splinter and crack as he crushes. The other man screams and his knees buckle. The car lurches forward, towards the cliff edge. With his free hand he reaches down and releases the handbrake.
Now he can reach out and seize around that flabby throat. Matsu falls inwards, up against the steering wheel, spluttering and gasping. Nothing else exists in the universe but to crush that windpipe. A sickening jolt, the car hangs out over space. Obscene tides of foulness engulf him. Formless black on blackness, congealed from shadow in feral pulsing horror. A vile cellular presence as ancient as time, probing its way into him. Matsu is dying, the death-rattle of trapped phlegm caught and vibrating in his ruptured trachea. The parasite within him slithering into its next host… a thing slobbering with slime and delirium spawned from nightmare.
I wasn’t as strong as you, Rachel. I’ve never been as strong as you. I’m going to be strong now.
Carl and Lennie watch the Civic vanish over the cliff-edge and plummet down towards sweet oblivion. The thing can’t be killed. But how long can it survive frozen to a corpse on the seabed? The car idles for a moment. Then reverses away from the brink, turns, and cuts back onto the Brighton road. The coast road is a white scar through the night.
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AN UNSOLICITED LUCIDITY, by Lee Clark Zumpe
The following journal was found amidst the possessions of the late David Arthur Brown, noted nature photographer. Though undated, records obtained from William Whitley College list a D. Brown as “team archivist and publicist” in connection with the ill-fated 1961 expedition.
Day 1: Marooned
The world takes sinister pleasure at reminding people like me that the meticulous designs of meager men may be easily swept away by the folly of destiny.
What should have been a standard assignment for a veteran writer and photojournalist has disintegrated into chaos. What should have been a routine voyage to the Malagasy Republic has deteriorated into crisis. Now, instead of documenting the biodiversity of endemic lemurs, I find myself penning the first few lines of a journal that will hopefully be restricted to a few pages in length.
All five passengers and four crewmen aboard the cabin cruiser Aurora survived the tempest that beached our 1925 Elco flat top motor yacht on the shore of this remote island. Having endured two days of fierce squalls, incessant gales and rouge waves, I am not surprised that the captain hesitates when asked exactly where we might be and how long we might have to wait for rescuers to locate us.
In this part of the world, I wonder if authorities even bother to search for ships lost at sea.
Little more than a week ago, I was enjoying a cup of locally brewed coffee in the lobby of a hotel on Kilindini Road in Mombassa. The establishment caters to Westerners vacationing in Kenya, eager to walk the sandy beaches along the azure waters of the Indian Ocean. On the streets of the Old Harbor quarter, native Africans mingle with bearded Arab seaman dressed in turbans; European tourists barter with market square vendors trying to lose themselves in postcolonial culture; and chatty American businessmen scramble to profit from a fledgling country’s doubt and indecision much like their carpetbagger ancestors did almost a century ago during the Reconstruction era.
There, where dhows set sail with cargoes of coconuts and ivory, I met with members of an expedition from William Whitley College, a small liberal arts school located in the highland town of Tahlequah, N.C. Professor Alfred P. Weating, the team leader and chair of the school’s biology department, monopolized the conversation that afternoon, detailing his desire to inventory the Strepsirrhini clade and lauding the Malagasy Republic as “the eighth continent” because of its long ecological isolation and the distinctiveness of its fauna.
“Should fortune smile on us,” I distinctly remember the professor saying, “We may even find certain species thought to be extinct.”
The college commissioned me to document the expedition. More than just taking notes and snapping pictures in the jungle, they have entrusted me to authenticate their research in a professional manner and to make public their findings at the conclusion of the effort. While I do not share Weating’s enthusiasm over the subject matter, I found the salary William Whitley offered quite pleasing.
As a freelancer, I contribute both copy and photographs to several scientific- and travel-related periodicals including Modern Biologist, National Geographic, Safari Journal, Science Digest and Bizarre Destinations. In those magazines, I generally work as part of an entourage and I rarely see a byline or earn a photo credit. The appeal of being the sole writer and photographer enticed me almost as much as the promise of substantial income.
Of course, it will be difficult spending that paycheck stuck here on this island.
Ironically, Weating insisted on an approach by sea so that he could investigate islands in Mozambique Channel for additional signs of biodiversity. Scheduled stops on our journey to the seaport of Majunga on Bombetoka Bay included Anjouan, Mayotte and Nosy Be. Unfortunately, the captain believes we were driven eastward on monsoon winds, deeper into the Indian Ocean and far from our intended course.
“We’re among the Seychelles,” the Kenyan seafarer told me this morning as we considered options for rationing provisions. His English phrasing comes slowly and deliberately, so I am not certain if the hesitation I detected in his voice stemmed from struggling with the language or some unspoken doubt. A few moments later, he conferred with his first mate about the condition of the radio, speaking then in his native Swahili. Though I did not understand what he said, I recognized both exasperation and frustration in his expression.
Tomorrow, the captain and his crew will explore the waters offshore, hoping to find the Indian Ocean brimming with fish. Weating has asked me to join him and his colleagues as they attempt to circumnavigate the island. The captain warned us both to avoid the forested interior. I see wisdom in his caution, but I have already noticed the professor staring past the palm trees that skirt the beach into the lush tropical flora that no doubt accommodates a thriving population of exotic animals and at the dark gray mountain that rises from the jungle floor and stretches skyward.
Day 2: Natural exclusion
The captain admitted this morning that the radio is beyond repair. What he refrained from mentioning until my persistent questioning embarrassed him sufficiently is that the radio never worked in the first place. The damage had been done on a previous voyage. The first mate failed to have it rebuilt or replaced on their most recent stay in port.
My own suspicions justified, I immediately regretted pressing the issue when I realized the other crewmen had also been kept in the dark. Upon discovering the oversight, they quickly turned on their former friend with murderous eyes. Only the captain’s stern commands, delivered in sharply spoken Swahili, pacified them—at least for the time being.
With tempers at least temporarily moderated, I set out with Weating and his five colleagues to explore the perimeter of the island.
In front of us, the gentle surf rolled ashore—a beguilingly tranquil vision considering the stormy waves that dashed our 65-foot vessel against a coral ledge before depositing it on the coast. Behind us, the white wood hull of the Aurora gleamed in the m
idmorning sun while the Kenyan crew gathered nets and gaffs to facilitate their hunt for a meal.
The moment we were out of earshot, Weating made his concerns about the captain known.
“I’ve nothing against the man personally,” he said, prefacing the accusations that would follow. The professor questioned his abilities the moment he came on board. He noticed navigational charts hopelessly out-of-date, shoddy housekeeping and a copious amount of rum squirreled away in nooks and niches all over the ship. Aside from these few abstract allegations, he completely disagreed about our location. “The Seychelles,” he told us, “Are mostly low, raised coral atolls and granitic islands. We can all see that this island owes its existence to some ancient volcanic eruption.”
Weating believes the storm drove us southeastward toward the Mascarene Islands, leaving us several hundred miles east of our destination. His calculations, if they should prove accurate, offer little comfort. Perhaps it is my chronic cynicism that encumbers me with a flood of foreboding and dread over our predicament. Though I expect our team’s benefactors at William Whitley College to mount some kind of recovery effort once our absence is observed, such a mission might take weeks or even months to organize. Among both members of the expedition and members of the crew, I seem to be the only one pessimistic enough to imagine a worst-case scenario.
While my negativity may represent one extreme, Weating personifies the antithesis.
The professor, despite all the prospective consequences of our dilemma, considers this an unparalleled opportunity for discovery. He envisions himself and his team as potentially the first scientific visitors to the island and has developed a strategy to identify and classify the endemic flora and fauna in hopes of uncovering some new species.
“It is places like this,” Weating said during our survey of the beachhead this morning, “that the most exciting finds are made. An isolated environment allows for natural exclusivity and evolutionary aberration.” He referenced the many creatures known only to exist in the Malagasy Republic as well as the extinct Raphus cucullatus of Mauritius. “On this island, we may find something that has never been seen by man before.”
Tracing the edges of a lagoon, we located a small, fresh water stream within an hour’s walk of the boat. Disregarding the captain’s counsel, we followed the tributary beneath the tropical moist broadleaf forest along its meandering course. While Weating and his companions dutifully collected samples of the local insect population for further study, I mashed more than a few bloodsucking sandflies and other vexing bugs without a trace of remorse.
Despite initial protestations, Weating grudgingly complied when I eventually demanded we wrap up the day’s exploration. By that time, the stream had led us up into a steep-sided ravine thick with lush vegetation. Trees of every shape and size and hue surrounded us, many stippled with colorful blossoms and others dangling sprays of white bell flowers with fine lacy petals. The professor rattled off a list of indigenous timber, including bois de natte, colophane, ebony, and tatamaka.
Retracing our steps, I became acutely aware of an unseen presence. Having had time to reflect on the situation, I realize now that the forest possesses a hush and stillness that is both unnatural and unsettling. While the omnipresent insects continued to plague us during our return, no other living things made themselves evident. One might expect to see a variety of birds, geckos and even small rodents on an island of this size and age.
The absence of these creatures provokes a certain sense of anxiety and uneasiness in me. Weating never spoke of it, but I suspect he feels it, too.
By the time we reached the beach, the sun had begun its listless descent, slipping out of view behind the mammoth summit of the long-dormant volcano. A deep shadow spread across the forest, its primordial darkness settling on us heavily as if it meant to snuff out our lives with the same indifferent aggravation I had exhibited toward the marauding sandflies.
A raging bonfire on the beach welcomed us back to the Aurora.
Day 3: The first mate disappears
It is early morning. The dawn is still an hour away.
Weating and his colleagues, exhausted from their hike, remain in their staterooms aboard the beached Aurora, their bellies full of fresh fish.
The captain did not see fit to allow me the consolation of a full night’s sleep. He summoned me an hour ago to tell me that the first mate vanished during the course of the night. He claims that the man feels singly responsible for our troubles. The other crewmen apparently shunned him yesterday, driving him off with unremitting verbal affronts.
Though the first mate’s silence at dinner substantiated a degree of despondency, I find the captain’s contention that he simply wandered off less than convincing. As a detached observer and a competent judge of character, I have no difficulty in suggesting the possible involvement of the other crewmates in his disappearance. The blatant rage they displayed yesterday upon learning of his negligence provided me ample incentive to recommend at least a cursory inquiry.
The captain, however, does not agree with me and refuses to even explore that prospect. He reports that the first mate’s last words to him last night were “open your eyes.” The cryptic message makes no more sense to me than it did to him.
Today, I will join the captain in a search of the adjacent lowland forest while Weating leads the crewmen to the creek so that the water tanks aboard Aurora can be filled to capacity. The professor will probably insist upon further study of the interior, though the captain again cautioned him against it. I echoed the captain’s admonition last night, advising each member of the team separately that the island may conceal as many risks as it does rarities.
Weating will not listen. Men driven by unconstrained curiosity habitually fail to notice looming threats as they clamber to accumulate knowledge.
Even with the encroaching light of dawn and the fire beside me, the skies overhead are swarming with stars. I have never seen so many lights in the heavens, so many beacons of distant galaxies. Staring up into the endless cosmos, I grapple with its breadth—all units of measure seem obsolete, all understanding of distance and duration and scope become hopelessly inadequate.
Like the deep shadow that threatened to suffocate us yesterday, the twilight anchors a singular burden in its vastness—an undeniable apathy that unknowingly mocks the greatest civilizations and ravages any cognizant being attentive enough to recognize it.
* * * *
It is not as though I have not seen death. I was 18—a willful and intractable boy with elaborate aspirations—when I covered the battle of Dien Bien Phu in north-western Vietnam when the Viet Minh captured the French fortress. A few years later, I happened to be on assignment when anti-European riots swept through Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo.
I have seen enough of the gruesomeness and grimness of death in my 25 years to dislodge all those lingering delusions preachers utilized to frame the Sunday morning sermons of my childhood. I cannot speak for the survival of the soul once the body has expired, but I can speak of the body itself. I can attest to the speed with which the semblance of life evaporates, the abrupt alteration in the skin’s tone and texture, the prompt and unpleasant hollowness that supplants vitality.
Still, when the captain signaled that he had found his first mate, nothing I had witnessed could have prepared me for what I was about to see.
His remains waited for us beneath a coconut palm on the edge of the beach not far from the Aurora.
We buried him before the others could return, worried that seeing his mutilated corpse might lead to panic, violence or madness. Considering the scale and severity of his injuries, neither of us bothered to ponder the precise circumstances that culminated in his death. Hordes of voracious insects had already claimed ownership of his inert flesh and had to be discouraged against carrying off any more meaty morsels as we dug his grave.
More unsettling than the scaveng
ing bugs, though, was the man’s white-knuckled grasp on his own knife and the gaping and apparently self-inflected wound beneath his chin. The gash suggested that he had not merely tried to cut his own throat: He tried to commit suicide by decapitating himself.
We agreed not to speak of the matter with the others.
* * * *
Tomorrow, I will follow Weating into the interior again. He is anxious to show me something he found in the jungle. His colleagues did not reflect his excitement regarding the day’s find—in fact, they seemed sluggish and sullen this evening. Perhaps their inquisitiveness had waned. Unaccustomed to long hikes in tropical weather, they will not be joining us tomorrow. At the mention of another expedition, they swiftly volunteered to stay behind and help the captain and crew restock our supply of fish.
Day 4: An ancient shrine
It rises from the jungle floor unobtrusively, its archaic design showing no signs of deterioration though smothering vines have utterly encased it. No more than a simple pile of brick, it consists of a threefold base, a dome and a pointed top. Architecturally, it resembles the dagoba temples of Ceylon.
Weating is inspecting the inner chamber while I stand guard at the doorway to the temple. Occasionally, he blurts out a fact he deems interesting, and I make a note of it in the margin of my journal without investing much in the investigation. My interest in the archeological spectacle might be stimulated if I could distance myself from the gravity of our situation. Discovering the remnants of an ancient religious complex seems inconsequential unless the news can be conveyed to the rest of the world.
