The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

“He may know about the cave. We better stay at the opening of it until we’re sure.”

  With his arm about her, he led her around the rim of the lagoon, through the sudden enveloping darkness of the water fern. She pressed her body close against him, and the chill and the strangeness and the loneliness were suddenly gone out of the night. The island was warm and fragrant, and good with the feel and the smell of Fran.

  He buried his face in her hair, breathing in deeply, and feeling the good smell of her hair going all the way through him, exciting him. His arms went around her roughly, dragging her nearer. There was no tenderness, no gentleness left between them.

  He laughed a little, pressing his mouth into her hair. “I’ll be gentle with you — tomorrow.”

  Her hands tightened on him.

  She pressed herself against him with the savage anger of long waiting. Her fingers dug into his bare back and he closed his arms about her, pulling her so close she could not breathe.

  She kissed him, pressing her open mouth against him again and again.

  “I’ve waited so long.”

  “He’ll kill us,” Webb spoke against her mouth. “But this I know. I know how I want to die.”

  She pressed her fingers into the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck. “He’ll sleep. The fright out on the raft today — it took it out of him. The way he worked all day, skinning that shark, shredding the flesh and squeezing out all the oil, polishing those bones.”

  “It was like an act of vengeance,” Webb said. He kissed her again. “The hell with him. He’s nuts anyhow.”

  She pressed her mouth on his, drew back slightly. “Webb, that’s it. That’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you. He is crazy. He really is. He was always bad enough, but now he believes we meet like this every time his back is turned. But something in his rigid mind has convinced him he has to catch us first. That’s all he’s living for. Can’t you see it when he looks at us?”

  His arms tightened. “I never look at him.”

  “He’s going to kill us anyway, Webb. Because he won’t ever believe you tried to stay away from me. That’s why we must … be together … for as long as we have.”

  He drew her down beside him under the overhang of the hidden cave. He heard the sudden thunder of the waves rolling in across his brain. The pound of blood in his temples was louder than the ocean against the reef.

  They were on their knees. He felt Fran go tense. She pressed her fingers over his mouth and they remained still, listening.

  “Krayer,” she whispered. “Out there, looking for us.”

  This was it, Webb knew. If Krayer had seen him find this cave, he would come directly to it. He reached around until he located the driftwood stick. He closed his fingers over it.

  They crouched hardly breathing until they heard Krayer crash by in the dark and head toward the tip of the island.

  They waited until he was so far away they could no longer hear the brush crackle against him. Webb took her hand, led her out of the cave and around the lagoon away from Krayer.

  “We’ve got to lead him as far from this place as possible,” he said.

  “Anyway, he doesn’t know about it.”

  “No.” He felt her hand tighten on his.

  They started through the tangled jungle toward the windward side of the island. Just before they reached the rim of the growth, they heard Krayer out on the beach, running along it.

  Krayer must have heard them. He angled in toward the jungle.

  Webb pressed his mouth against Fran’s ear. “When he gets just beside us there, you run. Run. Make noise, so he’ll run across here. Understand? Make him run past me.”

  Fran nodded, digging her fingers into his arm.

  With the driftwood, he struck a bush, the sound crackling loud in the stillness. He heard Krayer plunge toward them through the vines.

  “Run!” he whispered in her ear.

  She leaped up, thrusting her way through the foliage.

  Webb slid around a fern, and fell to his knees. He watched Krayer press through the matted brush, bamboo harpoon poised high above his head.

  From on ahead of them, Fran moved loudly.

  Krayer hesitated a moment and then ran forward. Webb waited until the last second, then thrust the driftwood out between Krayer’s legs. Krayer went lunging off balance straight forward into the brush. The harpoon flew out of his hand into the darkness.

  Webb didn’t wait to see any more. He came up on his toes, sprinted across the narrow open space Krayer had made from the beach.

  As he reached the edge of the clearing, he tripped on a vine and went sprawling out into the deep sand. He kept churning his legs, digging his toes in. He struck on his knees but managed to keep moving.

  When he walked back into the clearing, Fran was already there. She was putting another small piece of wood on the fire. She looked up at him just once. He picked up the tarp and dragged it around the palm away from the fire. He pushed it under some bushes and lay down.

  Krayer ran back into the small clearing. He had found his harpoon again. From behind the palm, Webb heard Krayer’s panting.

  Krayer said, “Where were you, Fran?”

  “I had to get up,” she said. Her voice was very calm. “Where did you go?”

  Krayer was silent a moment, breathing through his mouth. “Where is Millar?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Isn’t he asleep?”

  Krayer ran over to the palm tree. He started to speak but at that moment Webb sat up behind the palm trunk and stretched his arms in the shadows.

  Krayer remained staring. He opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t say anything. Webb saw his hands were shaking. But the hell of it was, so were Webb’s.

  EIGHTEEN

  WEBB DIDN’T SLEEP the rest of the night. He lay in the shadowed place beneath the palm, feeling his stomach in knots and knowing he was never going to be all right again until he had Fran.

  He was still lying wide-eyed and taut when the first gray drops of daylight began to drip between the thick matted banyan leaves.

  “Fran … Millar …” Krayer’s strident voice broke the silence and started the birds screaming.

  Webb got up and came out into the clearing. Except that his face looked more drawn than ever under his downy blonde beard, Krayer appeared about the same. His pale eyes had a look of dry, distended wildness, but Webb admitted that was normal with Krayer now. The man looked as if he’d actually slept.

  Krayer said, “Fran, you’ll fix breakfast. Millar, take the turtle shell and bring it full of water.”

  Krayer sat on the tarp. He began to work on the bones of the shark. The skin had already been treated with salt and stretched to dry on the fallen palm trunk.

  Webb opened his mouth to speak, but Fran moved suddenly toward the fire. He glanced at her and she threw him a quick look, shaking her head. He picked up the turtle shell and walked out of the clearing….

  After a breakfast of turtle eggs and coconut milk, Krayer returned to his tarp. Again he fell to work oiling and polishing the rapier-like shark bones.

  From the tarp, he said, “Fran, you’ll sit over here and plait palm strips into lengths of rope.”

  “I don’t even know how,” Fran said.

  “That’s it,” Krayer said. “There is only one thing you know how to do. But you’ll learn.”

  She sat down and he showed her slowly, repeatedly how to plait the strips into small cylinders and then work the loose ends into the next length so that the finished, hollow rope was stronger than wrapped hemp.

  Krayer ignored Webb. Fran’s fingers began to bleed in less than an hour. Webb went to her. “I’ll help you, Fran.”

  Krayer glanced up. “Fran doesn’t need your help,” he said. “She doesn’t need you near her. I think you’d better gather about three armfuls of wood. When you’ve done that, you can try to land a fish from the shore if you expect to eat at noon.”

  When Webb came near the clearing with his third load of w
ood, he heard Fran’s soft weeping and he hurried, moving into the clearing and spilling the wood near the neatly stacked pile.

  Fran was sitting on the tarp that Webb usually slept on. Her shoulders were sagged round.

  Krayer was calmly working on the shark bones. He lifted his head when Webb dropped the wood. “You better stack that up, Millar.”

  Webb ignored him and stared at Fran. Then he saw what Krayer had done to her. He had tied one end of the palm-strip rope about the palm tree, the other he had plaited into a permanent loop about Fran’s left ankle.

  Krayer watched Webb’s face go white.

  “When a woman acts like an animal, Millar, you’re justi-tified in treating her like one.”

  “You can’t keep her like that. It isn’t even human.”

  Krayer stood up slowly. His voice was slow, taunting. “There’s ten or twelve feet of line that she plaited herself. There would have been more but she complained of her fingers bleeding. The choice was her own. I think it will allow her to walk to the fire or to the bushes to attend her needs — ”

  Fran sobbed at that, aloud. She held her head erect and bit her colorless lips.

  Webb looked at her a moment. He grabbed up a length of wood and heeled toward Krayer.

  “I hoped you’d attempt to restrain me,” Krayer said. “She isn’t the only one needs a lesson. However, I’d hoped when you saw what would happen to her that your strange gallantry would keep you in line.”

  Fran said, “Webb.” Her voice shook.

  He stopped, turned to look at her. She had pulled up to her feet and came as near to him as the rope would allow. She met his eyes, stared into them and shook her head.

  • • •

  Webb waded into the surf and cast out the line. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done to stand there fishing, all the time knowing what was happening to Fran back at the clearing.

  He caught three fish, but one of them was a poisonous puffer fish and he cut it up for bait. He cleaned the other two, wound in the line and returned to the clearing.

  It was as though they had not moved. Krayer was working over the shark skin and didn’t even bother to look up. Webb built the fire slightly and hung the fish over it.

  He was kneeling beside the fire when he saw Fran get up and come to stand beside him. His stomach went empty at the sight of the rope about her ankle.

  “Are you hungry?” he said, loud enough so that Krayer would know what he was saying to her.

  She turned her back to where Krayer sat, pushed both hands along the side of her head, stared through the foliage at the sea. “I can’t stand this,” she whispered.

  He stood up. He lowered his voice. “I’ll do something. I swear it.”

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  He glared at Krayer, hating him almost as much as he hated himself.

  Fran moved her head, glanced toward the fallen palm and looked quickly away. He barely heard her. “We could leave. You and I.”

  Krayer jumped up and ran across to them. His eyes were wide and he grabbed Fran by the shoulder, hurling her around. He drew back his arm and slapped her across the mouth with the backs of his fingers.

  Webb stared at the quick lines of blood that spurted through Fran’s blistered lips.

  Krayer heeled around, staring at Webb, legs apart, hand shaking on his harpoon.

  “Stay away from her.”

  Webb said, “Krayer, how inhuman can you get?”

  Across Krayer’s shoulder, he saw that Fran was shaking her head at him, frantically. She doesn’t want me hurt, he thought bitterly.

  “Keep smelling around my wife,” Krayer said, “and you’ll find out.”

  He walked past Webb, his face rutted with contempt. He went back to his tarp, picked up the largest shark bone and began rubbing the shark oil into it.

  Fran was staring at the fallen palm and the canopy of vines — and the raft beneath it….

  The next morning before noon, when Webb returned with the turtle shell filled with fresh water for Fran, Krayer was testing a strange white bow and arrow.

  Webb stared at it. The bow was small, made of a pencil-thick shark bone and strung with oiled, treated sharkskin that hummed when Krayer flicked it with his finger. The arrow was made of another bone, polished and stone smoothed to a sword point.

  When Webb walked into the clearing, Krayer was testing the pull of the bow, fitting the arrow against the thick string and straining back as far as he could pull it and keep the rapier point against the bow. He turned.

  A bird fluttered upward. Krayer tensed, watching it. It sailed for a moment and landed in a bush several yards in the jungle. Holding the bow, Krayer moved across the clearing and out into the foliage.

  Fran said, “Webb.”

  He put down the turtle shell of water and strode to her, going down on his knee beside her.

  She said, “We can’t stay here, Webb. I want to go. On the raft. With you.”

  “We’ve no way to take water or food.”

  She gasped. “Webb. Think. We lived a few days. We can again. We’ll take the tarps, the knife harpoon, the paddles. At least, we’ll try. We’ve got to. I can’t stand it here any more. It’s only time until he kills one of us — and you know it.”

  He looked over his shoulder. He knew she was right. If she were willing to go out on that raft again, it had to be the only answer. He nodded, because she was so completely right.

  This was something new to him, wanting something badly enough to die for it. He had run away down here, but he hadn’t wanted freedom badly enough. It was something he had wanted to live for. Now he knew when you want something badly enough to die for it, you’ve begun to know what desire really is.

  “Yes.” He caught at the plaited loop about her ankle. It was too tight to slip over her foot. He looked around for the knife harpoon.

  “There isn’t time,” she said. She was watching the foliage into which Krayer had disappeared. “Pour some of that water on this rope.”

  He clutched up the turtle shell, sloshing water over the side. He doused her ankle. He heard her soft smothered laugh. She worked at the palm strips which stretched when soaked.

  She pulled it over her ankle and jumped to her feet. “The tarps, Webb.”

  He nodded at her, grabbed them up. Then he saw the knife harpoon near the fallen palm. He ran to it, clutched it up.

  Suddenly he no longer cared if Krayer came back before they got away. When you wanted something badly enough to die for it …

  “Webb!”

  Fran’s broken sob chilled him. She was kneeling beside the fallen palm where Krayer had been working for two days. She looked up at him, her face pulled down, eyes distended in agony.

  Webb dropped the tarps and knelt beside her. He stared under the canopy of vines. The raft was there, but it was flat — pancaked.

  Fran sank against him, shaking with the sobs in her throat.

  “We must have punctured it,” Webb whispered.

  He reached under the bushes, dragged out the deflated rubber tubing. At once he saw it had been ripped, calmly and coldly cut; there was a gash almost a foot long in the side of the outer walls.

  They didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. They just sat and stared at the useless hulk of rubber.

  NINETEEN

  “I PUNCTURED IT,” Alfred said.

  Webb and Fran spun around and crouched there, staring up at him.

  Krayer’s smile looked as if it had been etched in acid. He held the white bow and arrow in his right hand. Between his fingers dangled the blood-streaked bird.

  He tossed the bird over near the fire pit. He stood looking at them with the small bow in his hand.

  “You are gone,” Webb said.

  “Am I?” Krayer shook his head. “I thought Fran might talk you into trying a fool trick like this. I didn’t want you to. I’m not ready to lose her yet.”

  Fran’s voice was dead. “You lost me, Alfred.
Long ago.”

  His head jerked up and he stared at her. “I don’t remember telling you to loosen that rope.”

  “I decided not to wait for you,” she said, her voice still lifeless.

  “A decision you’ll regret, my dear.”

  Webb got slowly to his feet, his fingers tightening on the harpoon.

  “Stay steady, Millar,” Krayer said. “Don’t try it. That’s not much of a weapon against this bow. I got that bird. On the wing. The first time I tried.”

  Webb’s voice shook slightly. “And I got a shark. The first time I tried.”

  Krayer’s mouth pulled into a savage smile. “Another mistake you made, Millar. And one I know you’re going to regret.”

  “I wake up screaming about it now. But suppose you just hold that bow steady. If you even lift it, I’m throwing this thing.”

  Krayer met his gaze for a moment, without blinking.

  “Check,” Krayer said. “But I warn you. That harpoon isn’t fast enough to keep me from killing you with this bow. Have you thought what might happen to her” — he jerked his head toward Fran — “if she were left alone on this island?”

  Webb breathed out heavily and lowered the harpoon.

  Krayer shook his head. “I’m continually amazed at the fool things you’ll do, Millar. The very thought of her suffering and you throw away your advantage.”

  Webb tensed, cursing under his breath. He started to lift the bamboo pole again, but Krayer had the bow string pulled taut, the point of the arrow fixed on his navel.

  “You see what a fool you are, Millar?” Krayer inquired. “Why you are no match for me, why you never will be?” He laughed. “I’m always ahead of you. I knew that Fran would try to run away. I figured it. From all its angles — never as you figure a thing, simply from its emotional content — and I decided I no longer needed the raft.”

  Fran stepped forward. “Put down the bow, Alfred.”

  He glanced at her. “Stay out of it, my dear. Don’t get hurt any more than you have to.” He faced Millar again, looking him over. “I realized that this island is a raft. And I made my decision. I’ll stay here until a plane or a ship rescues me. The odds are the same as far as being spotted is concerned. There’s a much better chance to stay alive. Fresh water, fresh food, protection from sudden storms. No. From now on this island is my raft.”