The Beast of Cretacea

by Todd Strasser

  Strangely, Ishmael sleeps soundly. Perhaps it’s being in the hammock in the fresh air scented with night-fragrant flowers. Or maybe it’s being among the islanders. Though he can’t remember his dreams, he knows they were pleasant. But then he wakes, and the agreeable sensations vanish.

  The islanders have prepared a breakfast of purple and yellow plant foods and treestone meat, but Ishmael is too wound up to eat. There will be four of them, armed only with blowguns — alas, that only Billy has learned to use — against dozens of heavily armed and benumbed pirates. What chance can they possibly have? Ishmael is haunted by the thought that he is leading this small band toward certain death. Even if his plan were to somehow miraculously succeed, it isn’t conceivable that they will all return unharmed.

  While they eat, Gabriel tries one more time to dissuade him. “Ye don’t even know ’tis Queequeg still alive.”

  For a moment, Ishmael contemplates abandoning the mission. He and the others could stay here and help defend the island. But no sooner does he think this than he sees the foolishness of it. Even with all of Diana’s preparations, the islanders wouldn’t stand a chance. Now that the pirates know about the terrafins, they will be relentless, sooner or later breaching the island defenses. Ishmael has already spent too much time imagining the terrible cataclysm that will follow.

  He holds Gabriel’s gaze. “I appreciate your concern. I may not live through this, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

  When it’s time to embark, Fayaway is not among the islanders who come to the beach to see the crew off. Ishmael suspects that she can’t face him, knowing what his fate will probably be.

  While the crew board Chase Boat Four, Gabriel and Diana stand at the water’s edge, engaged in a low, heated debate. At one point Diana raises her voice enough for Ishmael to hear her say, “No! They may have saved Thistle, but ye don’t owe them ye life in return.”

  Gabriel looks up and locks eyes with Ishmael. The two stare . . . and then Fayaway’s father appears to make a decision. He wades into the shallows toward the chase boat while Diana watches, stone-faced.

  “’Twill come with ye,” he says when he reaches them. “But one of ye must stay here.”

  “Why?” Charity asks.

  Ishmael can guess: “To make sure that if we succeed in freeing our friend, we’ll come back and not just abandon you?”

  “’Tis a foolish notion,” Gabriel allows, “but also a way for Diana t’ save face in front of the others.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Gwen says. “Of course we’ll —”

  “We don’t have time to argue,” Ishmael tells his crew. “Gabriel could be our key to defeating the pirates. He swims well and knows how to navigate by the stars and traverse the jungle in silence. And he’s a skilled hunter. Whoever stays behind could help the islanders prepare for an attack, in case we don’t succeed. . . .”

  He eyes Billy, who shakes his head. “Gabriel and I art the only ones who know the blowguns. Ye shall need us.”

  Next, Ishmael tries Charity, who shakes her head firmly. “Don’t even think about it, honey.”

  That leaves Gwen. She looks ready to argue, but then exhales an exasperated breath. “So it has to be me. All right, as long as you promise to give those pirates what they deserve, okay?”

  The others promise they will. Gwen climbs out.

  And Gabriel climbs in.

  The night sky is cloudy and, without benefit of orblight, very dark. The chase boat floats a dozen yards from shore. In addition to the nightly cacophony of jungle creatures, the sound of a raucous fight and the flicker of firelight come through the trees from the pirate camp. It has taken the chase boat several days to get here. The air is thick with nervous energy.

  Gabriel’s head pops out of the inky sea and he swims quietly to the boat. Grabbing a gunwale, he whispers up to Ishmael, “Art two guards in the jungle.”

  Ishmael doesn’t remember there being guards before. Does this mean the pirates believe that a rescue party will come for Queequeg?— in which case, he might still be alive!

  A few moments later, Ishmael noses the chase boat onto the beach. They walk quietly along the thin ribbon of sand until they’re only a few hundred yards from the howls of violence, and then head into the jungle and station themselves behind trees. Gabriel, Charity, and Ishmael pick up fallen treestones while Billy moves farther away into the dark.

  During a lull in the bedlam, Billy makes loud, unintelligible mumbling sounds, hoping to draw the pirate guards toward him. Sure enough, it’s not long before Ishmael hears footsteps and the rustle of underbrush.

  Heart bumping in his chest, he presses close to a tree. The footsteps grow louder when the guards tramp through the dark jungle. Ishmael catches a glimpse of movement between nearby tree trunks, but there are no telltale glow-in-the-dark tattoos. How can that be?

  Deeper in the woods, Billy again starts mumbling. But rather than going toward the noise, the footsteps stop.

  For a moment the only sounds are the nightly jungle chorus and the distant voices of cavorting pirates.

  Thunk! . . . Thunk! . . . Thump! . . . Sudden loud thuds and the rattle of brush close by make Ishmael jump. But no sounds follow. Was it treestones falling?

  He remains still, pulse hammering. The pirate guards must be there among the trees and vines somewhere; he would have heard their footsteps had they departed. Why haven’t they moved? What are they waiting for?

  There’s the slightest crackle to his right. Turning his head slowly, he surveys the dark trees. For a brief moment, orblight breaks through the clouds, and Ishmael catches a glimpse of a hulking figure. A pirate!

  Ishmael realizes what’s happened: When the guards heard Billy’s mumbling, they foresaw a trap. They came noisily through the jungle at first to make it seem like they were falling for the ambush. But once they got close, they stopped to blacken the glowing tattoos on their faces and arms. Now they are proceeding much more quietly, undoubtedly spreading out and hoping to surprise the ambushers. Instead of being the hunters, Ishmael and his companions have become the prey.

  He needs to warn the others. But surely if he takes a step, the pirate to his right will spot him. Staying perfectly still, the rough bark of the tree pressing against his cheek, he tries to figure out what to do. Right now, the loudest sound in his ears is the beating of his heart.

  Then he hears a faint puff followed by a slap!

  Thud! The figure near Ishmael crumples into the underbrush.

  Gabriel must have gotten the man with a dart. Ishmael senses movement as another figure slips through the dark trees toward the fallen pirate. He thinks it must be Gabriel, and needs to warn him that the other pirate might be nearby. But before he can, Gabriel reaches the spot where the pirate fell.

  Suddenly from out of the dark come the grunts and thrashing of a struggle. Ishmael can’t see what’s going on. He starts toward the altercation, then stops. If another pirate is close, he and Gabriel might both be captured. It takes every ounce of willpower that Ishmael has to remain hidden in the shadows, listening until the struggle ceases and is replaced by heaving breaths.

  Two figures rise in the darkness, one appearing to hold the other in a headlock.

  “All right, listen up, the rest a’ yous!” a voice calls, and Ishmael instantly realizes that the pirate has overpowered Gabriel. But how? He was hit by a dart, Ishmael’s sure of it.

  The pirate continues: “I got a knife to this tree dweller’s throat. If ya don’t show yerselves this instant, I’ll have his blood on my blade.”

  Deep in the jungle shadows, Ishmael, Charity, and Billy don’t move.

  “I’m warning ya,” the pirate snarls. “Show yerselves now.”

  There’s a rustling sound, and Billy’s silhouette appears between the trees, his hands raised.

  “I know there’s more of ya,” the pirate says. “This is yer last chance. Come out with yer hands up.”

  “All right, I’m coming out. Don
’t hurt him!” Ishmael calls, and steps out of the darkness. When he gets closer to the pirate holding Gabriel, he can see the glitter of a thin track of blood running down the islander’s neck. “I’m the last one.” Ishmael raises his hands. “You can lower your knife.”

  “Just three of ya come to take us all on?” the pirate asks suspiciously.

  “We weren’t planning on taking anyone on,” Ishmael says. “We wanted to sneak in and save our friend. He’s still here, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s around,” the pirate replies. “Though he sure wishes he wasn’t. Hey, Wesson, mate!” he calls into the dark. “Come out. I got ’em all.”

  The pirate’s partner, Wesson, starts to tromp toward them through the trees.

  “That was easy, huh, Wes?” the first pirate gloats, still holding his knife to Gabriel’s neck.

  Wesson grunts.

  “I bet we’ll be gettin’ some extra joy juice for bringin’ them in, ya know?”

  Wesson grunts again.

  The pirate with the knife scowls. “What’s with ya, Wes? Got a bug in your throat?”

  In one swift movement, Wesson pulls a branch from behind his back and swings hard, catching the other pirate on the side of the head. Crack! The branch breaks against the man’s skull, the knife flies into the dark, and the pirate goes down to his knees. But not for long. An instant later he’s starting to rise when Wesson pounces on him, quickly lashing his wrists together with rope and jamming a rag into his mouth.

  If that was unexpected, Ishmael is even more surprised by what happens next: Wesson furiously begins to strip off his clothes.

  “Get these filthy, disgusting things off me!” Charity says, struggling out of the pirate’s tunic and pants.

  Suddenly Ishmael remembers: “Those thumps we heard before. That was you?”

  “He passed right in front of me,” Charity says, kicking the pirate’s pants off her ankles. “When I realized they were sneaking up on us, I clocked him with my treestone. It took two conks before he went down. They must both be full of neurotoxin.”

  Billy kneels beside the fallen pirate. “’Twasn’t he hit with a dart? Why didn’t it work?”

  Gabriel presses his fingers against the cut on his neck. “Don’t know. But what if it shan’t work on the others? ’Twill we do for weapons?”

  “We’ll have to improvise.” Ishmael points at the fallen pirate. “In the meantime, we’ll tie this one’s legs and secure the gag, then find the one Charity conked on the head and do the same.”

  Not long after that, a familiar, sickeningly tart odor greets them as they tiptoe out of the jungle beside the hut near the cave. Behind them through the dark overgrowth come the loud shouts and cheers of yet another brawl.

  Charity wrinkles her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “The stuff I told you about.” Ishmael opens the door to the hut. “Help me move these bags up the trail.”

  They lug a dozen bags of gunpowder from the hut up to the entrance to the cave. Then, while Billy, Charity, and Gabriel run a long fuse back down the trail, Ishmael lays a second fuse from the hut itself, where dozens more bags are still stored.

  “Everything here is set.” Ishmael hands Charity the box of matches from the hut. “You guys know what to do?”

  “Why do Billy and I both have to wait here to light the fuses?” Charity asks in frustration. “You two can’t possibly take on all those pirates by yourselves. Let me come with you.”

  “No, I need to be absolutely certain this gets done,” Ishmael tells her. “It’s the most important part of the plan. You want revenge? Blowing up this cave is the worst thing you can do. Without gunpowder, the pirates’ll be helpless. That means no attacking the islanders — and no more kidnapping either.”

  Charity makes a face, but she doesn’t object.

  “Remember,” Ishmael continues, “wait half an hour, light the fuses, and get back to the boat as fast as you can. If Gabriel and I aren’t there, leave without us.”

  “But —” Billy begins to argue.

  “I mean it,” Ishmael insists. “There’s no reason for all of us to risk our lives. And once the cave is sealed, someone has to go back to the islanders to let them know they’re safe.”

  Ishmael and Gabriel creep through the dark jungle. Firelight glimmers through the trees, and raucous shouts and cheers greet their ears. With jumpy adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ishmael is surprised to see that Gabriel is empty-handed.

  “You left the blowgun?” he whispers.

  “’Tis useless against these men,” Gabriel whispers back.

  Ishmael thinks of the ferocious fights he witnessed among the pirates, and of how unstoppable they were when they raided the Pequod.

  “Why don’t the islanders take the nectar to make them impervious to pain, too?” he asks.

  “To be numb to pain ’tis to be numb to pleasure. ’Tisn’t living, what the pirates do. ’Tis merely running from what ’tis natural.”

  “From ceasing, you mean?”

  “’Tisn’t a thing t’run from. ’Tis a thing t’respect and, when the time comes, accept.” By now they’ve crept to the side of the shipping container. Crouched in the shadows, Ishmael peers through the gap in the chained door, where he can barely make out a figure sitting, head tilted forward as if asleep.

  Relief floods through him: The pirate guard back in the jungle was telling the truth. Queequeg is still alive!

  “Queek,” he whispers.

  The figure in the container doesn’t move.

  Ishmael inches closer to the chained door and whispers again. “Queek!”

  When his friend still doesn’t rouse, Ishmael reaches through the gap to touch his shoulder, then recoils in horror. Beneath the cloth of Queequeg’s uniform is nothing but bones!

  It’s . . . a skeleton!

  A light suddenly bursts on, blinding Ishmael and Gabriel.

  A voice growls, “Put yer hands up!”

  “Well, well, conshider who jush couldn’t reshist returnment,” Glock lisps, and starts to pat Ishmael and Gabriel down.

  “You let him starve to death?” Ishmael lashes out in rage. Several large pirates struggle to hold him while Glock ties his wrists with rope. “Savages!” Ishmael tries to fight free of his captors. “I’ll kill you for this!”

  The white-haired Kalashnikov jabs him hard in the ribs with the muzzle of his rifle, and Ishmael doubles over in pain. “Enough of your useless bluster, poppet.”

  Turning next to Gabriel, Kalashnikov blinks with surprise. “A tree dweller? Well, isn’t this an unexpected gift! I imagine your people will pay handsomely for your return. You should be worth every drop of juice they possess.”

  Ishmael’s shoes are taken, Gabriel’s hands are tied, and the two are marched through the camp. The fighting has stopped, and around the fire pit figures with glowing green tattoos stare at the captives. Ishmael feels the bumpy hardness of bones under his bare feet.

  He and Gabriel are forced along a narrow trail lined with thorny brush. Thick loops of vine hang from branches overhead, and the ground turns spongy and wet as they near the edge of a dark, shadowy swamp.

  Above, the clouds have started to thin, and in the faint orblight, Ishmael sees something that makes him draw a sharp breath: On the swampy shore are the same large, scaly beasts that attacked them in the river when they rescued Thistle. When the pirates approach, the creatures slither into the water and lurk submerged except for their bulging eyes and bumpy backs.

  Kalashnikov points at a thick tree limb extending out over the swamp. From it hang several large baskets made from sticks and vines. Slumped in one of the baskets is a thin figure. Ishmael’s eyes go wide. It’s Queequeg!

  Kalashnikov chuckles. “Your friend remains among the living — at least the last time anyone inquired.”

  “Queek!” Ishmael calls, but Queequeg doesn’t respond or even lift his head to see who’s said his name.

  “Save your breath, poppet,” Kalashnikov growls,
then tells Glock to cut the rope around Gabriel’s wrists. The pirate leader motions toward the tree with his rifle. “Ascend, tree dweller. You should feel right at home.” Next he turns his gun on Ishmael. “As for you, I’d be sure to keep a firm grip on the branches. You wouldn’t want to join our slimy green comrades below.”

  The rope around Ishmael’s wrists is cut, and he clambers up the tree, anxious to get a closer look at Queequeg. But when he starts for his friend’s cage, Kalashnikov aims his rifle.

  “Tut-tut, poppet. You’re not up there to play nursemaid.”

  Reluctantly, Ishmael lowers himself into the basket next to Queequeg’s. Glock is sent up to clamp each basket shut, then settles himself on a platform hammered into the juncture of the tree limb and trunk. The night watch, Ishmael assumes.

  Poked and scratched by the sticks that make up his new accommodations, Ishmael squats and peers worriedly at the shadowy shape in the next basket. Pale and ghostly in the dark, Queequeg looks frighteningly gaunt.

  “Queek?”

  His friend stirs. Ishmael feels a great wave of relief. He’s alive! Just barely, perhaps, but alive all the same.

  Ishmael considers his options. There are only two paths for escape: get past Glock somehow, or drop into the beast-filled swamp and face certain death. And that’s assuming he can figure out how to get out of the basket. For several minutes Ishmael quietly feels around the latch overhead, but it won’t open. The basket itself is lashed together tightly, making it impossible to spread the sticks enough to squeeze through. Ishmael shifts uncomfortably, his thoughts casting fitfully about for a solution. Can it be that this time there really is no escape? He lets his head lean back. Maybe all he can do now is wait for the explosions that will seal the cave and destroy the pirates’ supply of gunpowder. At least the islanders will be safe.

  The minutes pass, and jungle noises fill his ears. Below, a wobbly, long-legged animal with white-spotted brown fur slinks out of the dark and makes its way to the swamp’s edge. No sooner has the creature lowered its snout to drink than one of the gnarled beasts bursts from under the surface, clamps its toothy jaws around the animal’s throat, and drags it into the swamp. The water roils briefly while spindly legs thrash . . . then vanish into the murk.