Lost: The Novels

by Catherine Hapka

  As he stepped cautiously forward, he heard something that sounded almost like whispering. The deeper into the fog they stepped, the louder the whispering became. It sounded almost like speech, but it was no language that Jeff had ever heard, or even imagined.

  Jeff had an indefinable feeling that he had reached his destination, and stopped walking, although nothing he could see indicated that he had traveled more than a few inches. But he could feel that they were showing him something and when he thought about what they might want him to see, his trembling redoubled, his body jerking as if he had stuck his tongue into an electrical outlet.

  And although the fog did not seem to clear, Jeff somehow began seeing through it. He now felt he was in a dark underground chamber of some kind. Before him, the walls were covered with drawings and carvings. Odd shapes. Strange. And, he realized with a violent start, just like the ones he had been making since he arrived on the island.

  The terrifying figures closed in, surrounding him. They pressed in close but were as horribly indistinct at that proximity as they had been from the start. Perhaps they were wearing robes, Jeff thought. Perhaps not. It could be that their bodies were simply flowing and malleable, like cloth.

  They were all observing him with their malevolent glares, but one of them seemed to stare directly at him in a most meaningful way, as if trying to communicate something profound. Was it Jeff’s imagination, or was this one a woman? A woman with long, light-colored hair and delicate features? How could it be? He couldn’t see the others clearly enough to determine even if they were human, much less male or female. But this one was different.

  Looking deeply into Jeff’s eyes, she held something high over her head. Fearfully glancing upward, Jeff saw that it was a flat circle about a foot in diameter with an intricate design in the middle. He realized that the thing was a talisman of some sort. It seemed to be made of highly polished wood. The female said nothing but continued to hold the object high with both hands, seemingly willing Jeff to understand its meaning.

  And then he began to understand. Yes, he thought. Yes, of course. It’s the key…

  Jeff awoke with a violent shudder. His face was wet with perspiration and he was lying on the floor of the studio several feet from the pallet of leaves and branches he normally slept upon.

  He sat upright and held his head in his hands. Already the dream was beginning to drift away. The talisman’s meaning had seemed so clear to him, but now that he was awake, all he could remember of the dream was the terror. Oh, and the woman. These nightmares had been coming more and more frequently, but he was pretty sure that the woman had never shown up before. He knew that must mean something, but at the moment all he could do was tremble and try to force himself to relax.

  And as he took deep, calming breaths, something else came back to him—the talisman itself. He still couldn’t quite remember what he thought about it, but he remembered what it looked like.

  He stepped outside. The full moon was high overhead, casting the beach in a soft, white glow. A couple of campfires broke the darkness here and there, but if there were other island dwellers awake at this hour, Jeff didn’t see them. He walked over to his junk pile. For weeks, whenever he saw an interesting bone or seashell or chunk of driftwood, he brought it back to the studio and tossed it on the pile. He figured that sooner or later, he would find a use for it in some art project or another. And he knew that there was in the pile the perfect piece for his current inspiration.

  After digging around for several minutes, the search made more difficult by the low level of light, he stood upright, holding a large, thick square plank in his hand. Where it had come from, he had no idea. It looked like a wide board that had been cut with a saw. Jeff doubted that it had come from the plane, and doubted that there had ever been a saw on this island. But no matter—that was a mystery that could be pondered another day.

  For the moment, he had to get to work. He sat down beside the entrance of the studio and leaned back against one of the thick palm trees that formed the walls. And after sharpening his pocketknife on a stone, he began to carve a talisman.

  8

  JEFF CARVED THE PIECE through the night. The need for sleep finally caught up with him just as the dim light of dawn began spreading subtly across the beach. He felt as if he had slept for slightly under a millisecond when he was roughly shaken by the shoulder.

  “Rise and shine,” Hurley said, leaning over Jeff. “Time to go bag us a boar.”

  Jeff groaned. He was still leaning up against the tree. He had been sitting with crossed legs on the sand and now both knees creaked and ached as he gingerly straightened out and prepared to try to stand.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Surely the boar will be just as tasty if we catch it later this afternoon.”

  Hurley shrugged. “Locke says the morning is best. Maybe the boar likes to sleep in, too.”

  Hurley offered a hand. Jeff took it and struggled to stand upright. I feel like I’m seventy years old, he thought.

  “Well, I know how the boar feels,” Jeff said. “In fact, at the moment, I know how the boar will feel when Locke gets hold of him.”

  Hurley nodded solemnly. “It would be great to have some coffee, wouldn’t it?”

  “Indeed it would,” Jeff said. “Indeed it would.”

  A small group of boar hunters had gathered down near the spot where the fish had been cooked the night before. Some of the coals still glowed red and the sand was littered with fish bones.

  Jeff recognized most of the men in the group. Locke was tall and straight with steely eyes and a head that he kept shaved. Jeff figured he must have been a military man; Locke reminded him of those hard, indomitable men from the adventure stories he read as a boy—the kind of man who would join the French Foreign Legion or live in the jungle on swamp water and live rats. Locke frightened Jeff a little, although their few meetings had always been blandly pleasant.

  Beside Locke stood Michael. As with Locke, Jeff had only encountered Michael occasionally, but he instinctively liked him for no more apparent reason than he disliked Locke. Michael’s eyes were kind, and Jeff had observed the obvious affection between Michael and his son, Walt. And now that Hurley had told Jeff that Michael was an artist, he was eager to talk shop with him. The very thought surprised him a little. He hadn’t been eager to talk to anybody about anything since they had first crash-landed here in this verdant purgatory.

  Charlie was also there. His sleepy face broke into a grin when he spotted Hurley and Jeff approaching, and he waved a greeting. Locke and Michael were packing shoulder bags with bottles of water and pieces of fruit. When Locke noticed the new arrivals, he stood up and tossed them each a travel pack. Jeff noted that Sawyer was not among those present, nor was Dr. Jack. He wondered if the two antagonists simply avoided each other, or if both merely had more important tasks here at camp today.

  “Morning,” Locke said, smiling. It was a perfectly friendly smile, Jeff thought, so why did it chill him so?

  “Morning is right,” Hurley said. “Personally, I can think of at least one place I’d rather be than here.”

  Michael laughed. “I heard that!” he said. “I was dead to the world when this one”—he jerked a thumb at Locke—“came interrupting my beauty sleep.” Michael looked at Jeff and held his hand out. “You’re Jeff, right? Glad you’re coming along.”

  Jeff shook Michael’s hand and then gave a general greeting to everyone. He had the silly feeling that he was the new kid in school, the outsider among the popular kids. Charlie also shook Jeff’s hand and said, “You’re the one who found a natural-grown house, right?”

  Jeff nodded. “I guess so,” he said. “Just a stroke of luck.”

  Locke smiled that icy smile again. “No such thing as luck,” he said. He walked over to a lean-to on which were propped several spears; actually, they were simply reasonably straight branches or bamboo stalks with sharp points which had been carved by Locke.

  “Some of you guys have ne
ver gone boar hunting,” he said. “It can be dangerous, so I want everybody to stick together and take no chances. I’d much rather come home without a boar than to come home without one of you.”

  “Or you,” said Michael, his eyes twinkling.

  Locke didn’t smile back. “Not likely,” he said. “We’ll all have spears. I also have this.” He pulled a large knife with a long serrated blade from the sheath on his belt. “The spears will bring down the boar—we hope—and, if we can get him down, then I can finish him off. Probably that’ll be the easy part. Lugging several hundred pounds of ham and bacon back to the camp will be where the hard work comes in.”

  No one said anything. Jeff found himself unexpectedly excited by the prospect of the hunt. Back in England, he would have found the idea appalling. Indeed, he probably would have joined a picket line, marching against it. Maybe, he thought, he was turning into Elemental Man; maybe they would all eventually regress to the state of savages. After all, he’d read Lord of the Flies. He knew what could happen; what probably would happen.

  Locke handed a spear to each man. “If you can carry two of ’em, that probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said. “There’s no telling what we’ll need before this is over.”

  Charlie asked, “How far do you think we’ll have to travel?”

  Locke pointed to a peak in the distance. It looked to Jeff to be about five miles away. “The last time I harvested a boar, I saw several piglets in that area,” he said. “If we’re lucky, they haven’t strayed too far from home. Maybe there are some adults there, too. Either way, we’ll take what we can get.”

  He gestured to the bags. “We’ve all got enough water for a day,” Locke said. “I hope we’ll be back by nightfall. But even if not, there are more springs back in the forest there, so we’ll be fine on that front. We should go easy on the fruit, though. Maybe we’ll find something on the way, maybe not.”

  Hurley grinned at Jeff. “Maybe we’ll find some of those cows you were talking about.”

  Jeff laughed.

  “What’s this?” Locke asked.

  “Nothing,” said Jeff. “Hurley and I were just talking yesterday about how much we’d enjoy a nice steak.”

  Locke smiled. “Wouldn’t we all?” he said.

  “Amen to that!” Michael added.

  Locke turned and started walking and the others fell in behind him. As Locke had suggested, each carried two spears. Jeff immediately began using them as walking sticks, holding one in each hand. He thought, absurdly, that he looked as if he were cross-country skiing. The thought flitted across his mind that he would never be able to do that again. Indeed, he would probably never see snow again. But as soon as the depressing and discouraging idea hit, Jeff tried to banish it. Walking just behind Michael, and almost by his side, Jeff said, “Hurley tells me that you’re an artist.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s right. He told me the same thing about you.”

  Jeff laughed and said, “Where was Hurley when I was back in England and needed a press agent? He seems to be able to spread the word pretty effectively.”

  Up ahead, Hurley twisted around a little and called, “If you’re gonna talk about me, you’d better keep it clean!”

  Walking just behind Hurley, Charlie smiled wickedly back at Michael and Jeff. “But if you talk about me, make it as dirty as possible! Ah, you never appreciate the groupies when you have them! But you sure miss them when you don’t.”

  Jeff looked questioningly at Michael.

  “Charlie used to be in a rock band,” Michael said. “Driveshaft. Ever hear of it?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Maybe some of my students did. I’m afraid my musical taste runs to classical. You know, the four Bs—Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and the Beatles.”

  Charlie said, “Well, we weren’t quite in their league. But we didn’t do too badly. Not too badly at all.”

  Michael looked at Jeff carefully and said, “I don’t mean to pry, but how is it that you don’t know that? I mean, this guy chatters about Driveshaft to anybody who’ll listen.”

  “Am I as bad as all that, then?” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” said Michael.

  Jeff walked for a while without speaking. “I don’t know how to explain this properly,” he said. “Even to myself. But ever since we’ve been here I’ve just felt…removed. There’s no other way to put it. I haven’t wanted to meet anybody or talk to anybody. And when I found my studio, it just seemed like fate had provided a place for me to be alone.”

  Michael said, “Well, you seem like a friendly enough guy.”

  “Yeah, except for the whole mysterious loner vibe,” Hurley said.

  Jeff laughed. “I am friendly,” he said. “At least, I always was before this, I think.”

  To his surprise, Jeff felt comfortable with this little group and eager to get to know them better. When Michael asked him about his art life back in Great Britain, Jeff regaled him with stories and described his various exhibits and adventures. He asked Michael about his work and listened with great interest as Michael told him about the kinds of things he drew and the kinds of things he aspired to draw. As the talk went on, hour after hour, as they hiked across the island, Jeff began to realize how much he had missed having human contact, having friends.

  This is fun, he said to himself. Or, as Mr. Blond would say, Very nice, very nice, very nice.

  The only member of the party who didn’t involve himself much in the conversation was Locke. He stayed a distance in front of the others, carefully searching the trail for signs that a boar or some other edible animal might be in the area. Every hour or so, he signaled for them to stop and rest. When he did, they sat on the grass, leaned back under shade trees, and took cautious sips of water.

  It was still well before noon, but Hurley declared that it was time for lunch. They each took a piece of fruit from their packs. Michael had brought two leftover fish from the night before, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. Charlie was a vegetarian and didn’t want any. Hurley scrunched up his nose in disgust at the sight of it.

  Michael shrugged, smiling. “Oh well, Jeff. More for us.” He handed Jeff one of the fish, then called out, “Locke! We have some fish here! Want some?”

  Locke was at least a hundred yards away, standing on a rise and surveying the region before them. He waved his arm “no” and then turned his attention back to the landscape. He was too far away for Jeff to see any expression on his face. So why, Jeff wondered, do I have the feeling that he’s worried about something?

  The fish was lukewarm and had not been cooked terribly skillfully, but it seemed like a feast to Jeff. He thought that this was partly simply because he was so very hungry. But there was another reason, too—the fare was made more delicious by the fact that he was having a meal with friends, something that he hadn’t done in a very long time. It was a good feeling.

  After he ate, Jeff closed his eyes. His lack of sleep the night before was beginning to wear on him and he thought if he could just rest for a few moments, he would be energized enough to continue the journey.

  He was jolted awake by Locke’s voice. “How long has he been asleep?”

  “I’m not asleep,” Jeff said defensively. Then he noticed the others were grinning at him.

  “If you weren’t asleep,” Charlie said, “you obviously feel that snoring is a good way of communicating. Because you were singing out!”

  “Yeah,” Hurley said. “If there’s a boar around here, you probably scared him off. He probably thought it was a lion roaring.”

  Even Locke looked amused. Jeff grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Michael said, “Don’t worry about it. You’ve only been out for forty-five minutes or so. We couldn’t go anywhere until Locke got back, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Hurley said to Locke. “Where ya been?”

  Locke pointed ahead, to the place where Jeff had earlier seen him standing. “I saw some boar tracks leading into that little val
ley just beyond the rise. There might be four or five of them, so we have to stay alert.”

  Everyone nodded soberly. They all knew how dangerous wild boars could be.

  “It’s about noon,” Locke said. “If we don’t bag one in the next two hours or so, we’ll probably need to make camp for the night. I think we’re past the point of no return. Everybody okay with that?”

  Hurley smiled and said, “And if we aren’t?”

  Locke pointed behind them. “You know the way back to camp.”

  Hurley, Charlie, and Michael laughed. “Yeah, right,” Michael said. “Like we could find the way back without you.”

  Locke stood up. He had that friendly smile on his face that Jeff found so unsettling. “Then I guess we’d better press on.”

  The others stood up more reluctantly. “Forward, march,” Charlie said.

  They did not find a boar in the next two hours, or in the next four. The sun was beginning to sink below the treetops, casting the landscape around them into soft shadow. Without flashlights or torches, they wouldn’t be able to continue after dark, so the group’s hunt shifted from boars to a place to make camp.

  “Let’s head over to that hill,” Locke said. About a mile in the distance stood a rocky hill which looked to be about fifty feet high. There was not much vegetation growing on it, so it stood out in stark relief against the green countryside. Locke continued, “There might be some overhangs there. That might come in handy if it starts to rain.”

  In fact, it rained almost every day; it was just an accepted fact of life for the island dwellers. But even though they were used to it, nobody wanted to sleep in the rain if there was any alternative.

  The group turned toward the rocky hill, but before they had taken more than a few steps, four deafening cracks sounded in quick succession. The five men were puzzled and began looking for the source of the sounds. To Jeff they sounded like someone had snapped four broomsticks into the microphones of the loudest sound system on earth.