The Cannibals

by Iain Lawrence

His eyes remained open, his teeth in a terrible smile. I had to pry his fingers from my arm, fearing all the time that Mr. Mullock would suddenly appear above, come to find where I had gone. I fled from the place and over the wall.

  As Boggis had said, the island seemed haunted. It rang with the cries of murdered men. I imagined that I was racing over their hidden graves, and I heard them shout; I saw the ground shift as they struggled up from below. I ran and ran, and didn't look back until I reached the streets of the tiny city.

  I slowed then. I gathered myself, wondering what to do. Things made sense now that hadn't before, and Mr. Mullock suddenly seemed like a monster. “That's over,” he'd kept telling his little bat, and he must have meant the killings. But what was I to do: challenge him outright? Pretend I'd seen nothing?

  I leaned against the high wall of the Admiralty, still breathing hard and fast. The face of the dying Gypsy hovered in my mind, and I still felt the grasp of his fingers.

  Behind me, pebbles crunched. Every muscle in my body seemed to leap and tighten. Mr. Mullock called out, “Did you see 'im?”

  I was about to lie, to tell him I'd seen no one. But my voice caught in my throat, and Mr. Mullock strode up the Mall.

  “'Ave you gone deaf now?” he asked. “I said, did you see that boy?”

  “Penny?” I said, my voice a squeak. “Yes, I saw him. He won't come and help.”

  Mr. Mullock looked into my face. “You're white as a sheet. What else did you see?”

  “Smoke,” I said quickly. “On one of the islands there's smoke. The others won't help because people are coming.”

  “The junglies!” said Mr. Mullock. He suddenly looked as fearful as I felt. He clawed at my arm. “Are they coming now? Did you see the boats?”

  “Only smoke,” I said.

  “Then there's time,” said he. “There's still time, thank God.”

  He pulled me down to the beach. From the top of the slope he shouted at Early and Midge, yelling as he ran. “It's the junglies!”

  I hadn't known until then that fear could spread like a plague. Not I nor Midge nor Early had the slightest idea what a junglie was. But I saw the blood leave Midgely's face, and drain as well from Early's, and suddenly I feared junglies more than I'd feared anything in my life, including Mr. Mullock. I couldn't stand in terror of a man who was terrified himself.

  “Hurry!” he cried. “It's our lives now, lads.”

  We took up the wood; we took up the nails; we swarmed across the longboat. It was as though we, like Noah, had been instantly given the knowledge of shipwrights. I threw a plank atop the hull. Early laid down another, and Mr. Mullock whipped out his axe, all ready to hammer. But that was as far as we got.

  We weren't shipwrights; we weren't Noahs. We didn't know even how to start.

  “Patch 'er up,” said Mr. Mullock. “Cover the 'oles with patches; that'll do us.”

  “They'll only come loose again,” I said. “The boat will sink.”

  “If we're not off the island we're lost,” said Mr. Mullock. “We 'aven't a chance. Not a 'ope.”

  Then Midgely piped up. “How hard can it be?” he asked. “There's proper idiots building ships, you know. Men with two saws and no thumbs.” He parted his hands in a shrug. “We can do it if we keep our heads.”

  Mr. Mullock cackled. “You 'ear that, Foxy?” He cuffed his bat, and it shrieked. “That's the ticket, lad; keep our 'eads!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The junglies,” said he. “They 'unt for 'eads.”

  My spine tingled. Headhunters. The first of my father's dangers.

  “But wait,” said Mr. Mullock “They might not come, I suppose. Why should they, to a place like this? They don't know that hanyone's 'ere.”

  Then Early said, as casually as anything, “Oh, I think that might tip them off.”

  He was looking inland. He was nodding. “Yes, I think they're bound to see that.”

  From the mouth of Mr. Mullock's cave swirled billows of smoke. It was black and greasy, bubbling up like tar. Yellow flames danced on the rock, and out from the cave came Weedle. He was staggering backward, dragging a ball of fire.

  “My oil!” cried Mr. Mullock. “They've lit my bags of oil!”

  nine

  I EXPLORE THE CAVES

  Behind Weedle came Carrots. They each had a sack of oil, and they hauled them together across the ledge. Together they rolled them over the cliff.

  The bags tumbled down, spewing fire and smoke. They burst upon London, and the fiery oil flowed into the Thames. It spread to the south, under the bridges and past the Tower, racing to the sea. The smoke went higher and higher.

  Mr. Mullock howled like an animal. He brandished his axe, and he shouted at me. “This is your doing, isn't it? Look what you've done!”

  “I did nothing,” I said.

  Mr. Mullock turned as purple as a plum. “You came to my island!” he roared, and raised his hand and knocked me down. He lifted his axe again, and I thought he was going to cleave me in two. The blade hung high above his head, sparkling with the flames and sunlight. Then it came flashing down. But it flew from his hand and clattered across the rock; he had hurled it away in his fury.

  “Go!” he shouted. “You cabbagehead! Try and save what oil is left!”

  He kicked me as I got up. He pushed me forward. I went up the slope as fast as I could, and Weedle and Carrots fled as I climbed. Mr. Mullock and Early—and even Midgely—frantically stomped at the fire.

  The cave was full of smoke, and all across the floor, the bags of oil were burning. They lay like flattened sausages, raging in flames from end to end. Oil was still spreading from them, flowing through the cave and down to the chambers.

  I took a breath and dashed to the far wall, straight to the back where Mr. Mullock kept the bags. But Weedle had thrown them here and there, and only one could I see. It lay in the next chamber, beyond a narrow passage. On hands and knees I crawled toward it, surprised to find that the smoke was not as thick near the ground. I could breathe there, though the heat and smoke smarted in my lungs.

  I came into a room not much bigger than the maintop on my father's ship. I could span the floor with my arms, and saw that it dropped straightaway to a third chamber some six feet below. A trickle of burning oil had reached the edge and was now falling—drop by drop—to that lower place. Little beads of fire sizzled through the air, bursting at the bottom.

  I looked over the edge and gasped. Five faces were staring up at me.

  From the depths of the cave rose a shriek. It was shrill and deafening, a terrible scream that came amid a fluttering din, as though a hundred carpets were being beaten of dust. Then a dark wall rushed toward me.

  I thought it was smoke, but it was bats. By the score and by the thousand they flitted past, all twittering and crying, bouncing from the walls, from my shoulders and my head. My face to the ground, I looked down at a row of skeletons lying side by side. The bones of their arms were stretched out, their fingers splayed. In the flickering shadows, the skeletons seemed to shift and roll like five in a bed, trying to find comfort on the rocks.

  I grabbed the bag of oil and hoisted it up. I toppled it into the higher room and clambered after as the bats swarmed around me. From above came a burst of flames, a blast of air, and the flow of fire quickened.

  Passages that I hadn't seen before suddenly opened on every side. I saw a pile of metal that I knew at once to be a heap of convict irons. I saw the clasps, the chains and heavy balls. Nearby was a mound of black cloth, and beside it lay a hat—the sort of low-crowned one worn by a priest.

  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.

  ten

  MR. MULLOCK'S GREATEST FEAR

  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.