The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

  “I’m glad you feel better.”

  He knew Krayer was watching him. But he didn’t have to look up to know what expression was on the man’s face….

  Alfred Krayer cut a thick bamboo pole and sharpened the end of it. With this crude shovel, Webb began to hollow trenches three feet wide and six inches deep. Slowly he carved out letters five feet high in the beach above the high water mark.

  While he dug, Fran brought sea weed, coral and vines and piled them near the letters. She said once from under her floppy hat: “Remember on the raft, Webb?”

  He didn’t look up. “I’m trying to forget it. It’s either forget it or kill Krayer. If he didn’t harpoon me for touching you, he’d kill you for letting me.”

  She gave a hollow laugh. “You’re beginning to know him.”

  “I know too much about him. I wish to God I never had to see him again. But there’s no sense asking for him to hurt you. I’ve got to stay away from you.”

  “Can you?”

  “I’ve got to.”

  She laughed again, helplessly. “Yes. I suppose so.”

  He finished carving the last letter, looked up at her. Her eyes were warm. “Maybe some other lifetime,” he said.

  “I can’t wait for that.”

  “Do you think I want to? But I’m telling you this: until I can settle with Krayer, I’m staying away from you. I can’t keep him from hurting you. He gets too much pleasure out of that. But I’m damned if I’ll cause it.”

  She looked about forlornly. “This place doesn’t look like hell at first glance, does it?”

  He tossed seaweed and vines into the hollowed trenches. “It does to me,” he said.

  She breathed in deeply. “Maybe he can keep us apart, Webb. Maybe. But there’s one thing he can’t do. He can’t keep us from wanting each other.”

  He stopped working. His head came up and he stared at her. “God, Fran, what am I going to do? This island, less than a mile of it. You’re everywhere.”

  “I’m here,” she whispered. “Something will happen, Webb. I don’t know what. Something.”

  He came upon them suddenly, without a sound, his feet like cat’s paws on the sand. When he spoke, Fran went tense, trembling.

  Krayer’s laugh was cold. “You haven’t half enough seaweed, Fran. If you want a plane to spot this S.O.S. you better make it plenty dark.” He closed his hand on her arm, tightening his fingers, leaving a bruised imprint. He turned her and held the harpoon at his side while he watched Webb. “Get at it, Millar. Let’s get this job done.”

  Fran brought seaweed for the next half hour. She tried once or twice to talk to Webb again, but he didn’t answer. He had only to look at the bruises on her arm, the clear imprint of her husband’s fingers.

  Krayer’s shouting from the jungle made them run across the beach a moment after the last letter was completed in the distress signal.

  It was slow going through the matted jungle. Fran stayed close against Webb’s side. When he paused to clear away vines, he could feel the warm thrust of her body against his arm. He felt suddenly warmed as though he’d gulped down two fingers of raw whisky. He wanted to heel around, grab her in his arms, but he kept moving. He had the strange feeling that Krayer watched them even in the thickest part of the forest.

  Krayer called out again. He was only a few feet ahead of them, but they were almost upon him before they saw him.

  He was kneeling beside a small bubbling spring. He looked up at them. “Water,” he said. “Flowing water. I found it. First I found this stream. It was so slow I was afraid it was stagnant. I followed it. We’ve got fresh water — all the water we’ll need to drink.” He stood up. His gaze flicked against Webb’s. “You see now, Millar, how urgent it is to keep your mind on survival. Because I don’t waste time thinking about things that aren’t important, we’ve fresh water to drink.”

  Webb looked from Krayer to the bubbling spring. Water was vital, he knew, but water wouldn’t even touch the thirst inside him….

  That night the darkness was less awesome. Night came quickly, but the small fire in the clearing kept a wavering light against it.

  Fire, Webb thought looking at Fran across it, what a wonderful thing that must have been for the first man and his woman.

  The night pressed in on them and with it came the loneliness. All the silence of the universe seemed pressing down upon the small hollow of light made by the flickering fire. Krayer said, “Fran, come to sleep.”

  Webb watched her grow tense, bite her lip. “In a little while.”

  Krayer sat up on the tarp. “I can tell you this. You two aren’t going to sit there by that fire and hope I’ll sleep.”

  Webb said, “Lay off it, Krayer. I haven’t touched her. I’m not going to.”

  He said, his voice cold: “Oh, you’re being very careful. Very careful. But being careful won’t deceive me, either. If Fran is going to stay there, you get to your tarp.” He stood up, harpoon in his hand.

  Webb glanced at Fran across the flickering blaze. Something in her eyes was begging him to do as Krayer ordered. He sighed, got up and went to his tarp. He lay down and after a moment he heard Krayer lie down again.

  Webb couldn’t sleep. He watched the fire glittering in Fran’s dark blonde hair, and his heart set up an unsteady rhythm and never quieted.

  Fran remained sitting beside the fire and staring into the darkness. Webb felt the urgent need for her mounting in him, flowing through his body. The very intensity of his desire tired him, his lids grew heavy and finally closed. Fran was still quietly there when he finally fell asleep….

  Krayer was up at dawn. Webb didn’t know how many times the man had gotten up during the night, but the small fire was still blazing in the pit.

  “Come on,” Krayer said. “This morning we’re going to gather pebbles. I want them the size of bird eggs. We ought to be able to get them while the tide is out.”

  Still groggy, Webb followed him down to the edge of the water. Krayer began gathering the smooth pebbles and filling his pockets and hat with them.

  “Mind telling me what we’re going to use these for?” Webb said.

  Krayer spoke over his shoulder. “Believe me, I’ve got a use for them or I’d never bother getting them.”

  Webb moved along behind him, gathering the stones. He said, “Has it ever occurred to you, Krayer, that you could get ulcers, even in a place like this?”

  Krayer stopped walking. “I’m staying alive, Millar. I’m keeping you alive. Never forget that.”

  “You’re running, fella — just as though you were back in the states. If we eat, if we stay alive until a ship finds us, there’s no need this hectic career you’re making of this thing.”

  “Nothing exists very long without order,” Krayer said. “I mean to have that order — in everything. Bring those pebbles and let’s get back to the clearing.”

  After a breakfast of coconut meat and turtle eggs, Krayer started to work with the pebbles. He had them all agree on the date the plane had crashed and then checked with them the number of days they’d been on the water and on the island. When that was established, he made a square of branches on the ground. Within this large square he made seven divisions. These blocks he filled with a pebble to mark the days remaining in the month.

  “Very clever,” Webb said. He was making a net of his undershirt on the end of a bamboo pole. Then he cut a length of fish line and knotted fish waste at the ends of it. “But what good will it do us to know what day it is?”

  “For the last time I tell you, Millar, we’re going to live as orderly an existence on this island as possible — and that includes obeying laws — all the laws.”

  “These laws,” Webb said. “You’ll make them?”

  Krayer nodded. “I believe I’m most emotionally and educationally equipped. But don’t worry, Millar, you won’t have any trouble, as long as you obey those laws.”

  Webb sighed. “That was true back home.”

  • • •r />
  Webb returned to the clearing with half a dozen crabs he’d taken in his undershirt net. Krayer was still at work with his pebbles.

  Near the calendar, Krayer made a perfect circle of the pebbles. He worked all morning to assure its perfection. In the exact center he set an upright stick and then crouched as he watched that stick until its shadow almost completely disappeared.

  “This is the instant of local noon,” he said. From this point, he made lines of pebbles marking twelve, three, six and nine.

  That afternoon Webb killed a bird with a stone.

  By nightfall, under Krayer’s constant supervision, Fran had plaited a palm-strip rug about three feet square. Krayer cut four equal-length limbs and set them up around the fire pit. “Even during a rain,” he said, “we won’t lose this fire. Not as long as we can keep it covered.”

  After they’d eaten the bird and some of the crab meat for supper, Krayer ordered Fran to the tarp. Webb had no desire to sit around the campfire with Krayer. He got up, yawned and stretched and moved over to his place near the palm.

  He sat down, aware that Krayer was watching him warily. He frowned, wondering what was the matter. He supposed Krayer mistrusted him because he had not fought back all day. But he refused to worry about Alfred Krayer.

  He stretched out on his back and tried to think pleasant things: the way Fran’s eyes went soft when she looked at him, the gentle silence and the warm languor of the island at this moment. He fell asleep.

  He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he heard someone speaking his name and shaking his shoulder. He sat up groggily.

  “What in God’s name is the matter with you now?” he said.

  The light from the fire flickered across Krayer’s face. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “I’ve figured out just about where we are.”

  “Great,” Webb said sarcastically. “And does that prove anything?”

  Krayer ignored that. “I waited until this late to get the stars at their brightest. Now, if you look across there you’ll see the true Southern Cross. I extend a line south and connect the two bright stars to the east of the Cross, bisect this line with one at right angles. With this imaginary line from the dark pocket over the South Pole — ”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  Across the clearing Fran sat up sleepily. She said, “Webb, what’s the matter?”

  His voice was taut. “Krayer knows where we are.”

  “Are we near other islands, Alfred?” Fran said. “Is there any chance we might be found … soon?”

  “According to my calculations — and I’ve been working on them for the past four hours — we’re on the southernmost of the Marshalls. Actually, I’m not sure. If so, we’d have been off course when we crashed. However, that’s entirely possible. This must be a small atoll too minor to be mapped. There are many of them. But I’m not satisfied. Not yet. I’m still working on it. I’m quite positive I’ve figured correctly, but something is wrong. Something about my calculations upsets me. It’s a wrong I can’t put my finger on. It keeps nagging at me. But I’ll keep working on it.”

  Webb watched him stand up, stare at the bright stars of the Cross and frown. Webb lay back again. Fran was already asleep again.

  FIFTEEN

  WEBB CAME AWAKE with the sun in his eyes. He frowned up at the glinting sun rays through the matted vines that laced the trees together and wondered why Krayer hadn’t wakened him at dawn.

  He blinked, rolled his head. There was no sign of Krayer in the clearing. The sun must have been up at least two hours. He gave up thinking about Krayer and stretched out again. He had forgotten it was so pleasant to have nothing in the world to do.

  He stayed relaxed only a moment and then the thought and the smell and the nearness of Fran struck him. He pulled himself up and leaned against the palm.

  Fran was asleep across the clearing. Her face was under the matted roofing of vines where cool shadows must have been like night.

  For a long time he remained motionless staring at her. Her tattered dress was high along the firm roundness of her thigh. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen, lying with her face in the shadows and her long legs stretching into the sunlight.

  To look at her like that was torture. Even her deep regular breathing thrust her breasts against the faded fabric and made him shake in his stomach wanting her. She sighed in her sleep, turning a little, her body pushed out toward him like a warm, early morning invitation.

  He pushed higher against the tree, feeling his throat go tight. He looked around again for Krayer and held his breath, listening. The waves lapped against the sand, a bird cried in the jungle. There was no other sound. He could hear her breathe across the clearing.

  Get up, he told himself, get up and walk away from here. Hell, he thought, where is the man who could do that? I was born human and nothing more. Having her near all these days and nights, knowing what she would be like, and knowing he couldn’t have her. It was like starting an insatiable thirst inside him.

  She’s over there, he thought, wanting me as badly as I want her. And where was Krayer? What did it matter? What mattered except quenching the thirst that was killing him? What if he quenched it in his own blood? He couldn’t think of a better way to die.

  His fingernails dug into his palms. No. He couldn’t deceive himself that Alfred Krayer would kill him, not as long as Krayer needed him to survive on this island. Alfred had probably already devised in his mind a torture for them.

  He started to get up. He had to get out of here, stay away until Krayer came back.

  She sat up, bracing herself on her elbows. Her dark blonde hair was tousled about her sleep-warm face.

  She smiled. “Hello.”

  He just stared at her. He didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say; there wasn’t any need to say anything. “Where’s Krayer?” she said. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “I don’t know. Not long.”

  She smiled crookedly. “And you’re still way over there.” She pushed herself up.

  “No. Fran. Stay there.”

  She pushed her fingers through her hair. He watched her breasts pull up taut when she lifted her arm.

  “How much longer, Webb?”

  “I’m not going to get you hurt.”

  She tipped her tongue across her lips. “I guess there are different kinds of hurt, Webb.”

  He looked at his hands. They trembled.

  “If you must be hurt,” he said, voice low, “I’d rather do it — not him.”

  “Yes.” He watched her hand move along her bare leg toward him. As though she were reaching for him, as though she could touch him across the sunlit clearing.

  “I liked watching you sleep,” he said.

  She glanced up. “Don’t be nice to me,” she said.

  “I’m not being nice. I’m being selfish and crazy and sick in my guts. I never wanted anybody before. I never even knew what it was to want.”

  “There was never anything like this, Webb. Not for me.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Do you wish I wouldn’t tell you that?” she said.

  “No. I’m glad. I just look at you. I just wonder: would it be like this, would you want me … off this island?”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Anywhere.”

  He picked up a handful of sand, balled it in his fist. “I saw you when you got on the plane.”

  “Yes. I saw you looking at me. You’d been celebrating. You must have had a terrible hangover.”

  He shook his head. “I drank because even then I still wasn’t sure. You know? I was cutting off everything I’d ever known or ever been. As Krayer said, I was throwing over everything. Maybe I was being a damned fool. Looking for something nobody was ever going to find. So I drank, to be sure I got on that plane.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she said. She lifted her eyes, staring at him. “When I got t
he sunstroke, I didn’t want to live. If you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have.”

  He tried to smile. “I don’t know what I’m complaining about. I got my island … and you. More than I ever dreamed.”

  Her voice broke. “I can’t go on like this, Webb. We’ve got to do something. I want to touch you and I can’t even touch you. If I could touch you it would be better.”

  He smiled, shook his head. “No, it would be worse.”

  She shook her head, pulling herself up on her knees. “No. If once in a while, I could just touch you — ”

  A twig snapped out beyond the rim of the clearing.

  Millar sprang to his feet, feeling the anger and hatred congealing in the pit of his stomach. He stared around the clearing, thinking, This is what I’ve been waiting for, a moment when I no longer cared if I broke his face or smashed his ribs. And damn his soul, now I don’t care.

  As he ran he grabbed up a length of driftwood.

  Fran cried, “Webb!”

  He didn’t hesitate. He went into the matted foliage, thrusting the vines and limbs aside.

  He came directly upon Krayer. He moved so swiftly that the man was just straightening up from behind the wild fern where he’d been crouching.

  “You damned, spying — ”

  Webb had the driftwood raised. He stopped, staring at the knife glinting at the end of the harpoon.

  Krayer’s face was white, his pale eyes distended. He drew back the harpoon. His teeth were bared and there wasn’t a sign of sanity about him.

  “Get back,” he said. “Get back.” He brandished the harpoon, jabbing at Webb.

  Webb stumbled backward with Krayer crowding him. When he had retreated into the clearing, he stopped, the breath coming fast. He stared at Krayer moving out into the sunlight after him.

  His voice was hoarse. “What are you looking for, Krayer? What are you trying to do?”

  “Shut up,” Krayer said, speaking through clenched teeth. A pulse throbbed in his temple. Sweat stood on his face. “I know what you two have been up to.”

  Fran got slowly to her feet. “You’ve gone insane, Alfred.”

  “Have I?” He heeled around, shouting at her. “Well, if I have, it’s because of you. I know about you two. I’ve known. From the very first I’ve known. On the raft. You never fooled me. But now you think you can. Oh, I know how clever you think you are, Fran. You think I can’t see you planning it with him? Think you’ll fool me by being careful before my face, sneaking around behind my back, waiting until I’m asleep, waiting until I’m working.”