The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

  She pulled herself up, pressing her face over his in the darkness, crushing her breasts against his bare chest.

  “It was different then, Webb. Now you’ve got a reason to kill him.”

  “No.” The lightning flared and he saw her face was strained and she was crying. “Please don’t cry, Fran. But now more than ever, I couldn’t kill him. It would be between us — you and me. It would tear us apart.”

  She tried to pull away. “Why don’t you just tell the truth. You don’t want me.”

  “I do want you.”

  “But not badly enough. You’ll let him go on — making a slave of you, and worse of me. You’ve every reason in the world to kill him. We’ve got to be free. And if you don’t kill him, he’ll kill you — or me — or both of us.”

  “Fran. Look, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about nothing else — except you.”

  She stopped him with her hand over his mouth. “How long do you think we’ll get away with this? How long can we come here — like tonight?”

  “I know. I know.”

  “You don’t know. If you did, you’d know I’m right. Now that I’ve had you, it’s different. Before, it was just a sort of dream. A hazy kind of dream. Something that I wanted to happen, something that I hoped would be nice if it happened. Now I know. Now I can’t stand to let him touch me again. I can’t, Webb. I can’t. You’re all I want. And now that I’ve had you, I know I can’t ever have anyone else. And I can’t go living if something happens to you.”

  “Fran, do you want to stay here on this island?”

  “As long as you’re here.”

  “No. Listen to me. Listen carefully. Suppose you could never leave this island. Suppose you and I were alone on it forever. If ships or planes came, we’d have to hide from them. Would you like that?”

  “I’d … like the part about being with you.”

  “That’s only part of it, Fran. There’s the silence and the loneliness. There’s the chance of illness … death.”

  “Oh God, Webb. Please. Don’t talk like that.”

  “I’ve got to talk like that. I wanted this, Fran. An island like this. Maybe I imagined something where there were other people, indoor plumbing. But at least, I know I was coming down here. I wanted it. But the silence and the loneliness are not for you. You’ve got to get away from here — as soon as you can.”

  She pushed her fingers through his beard. “Not without you.”

  “If we killed Krayer we could never go.”

  Her naked body stiffened against his. “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t a secret we could take away from this island.”

  “Who would ever know it?”

  “You’d know it. I would.”

  A sob pushed across her lips. “Oh, Webb, you’re just talking. If we don’t get rid of Krayer, he’s going to kill you. I couldn’t stand that, Webb. I’d go insane. If it were self-protection, it couldn’t be murder.”

  “If it were self-protection.”

  She pulled away from him roughly. “What would it be if you walked out of this cave and met him waiting for you down on that beach — with that damned shark rib? Only it wouldn’t be self-protection then, because you wouldn’t have a chance in the world.”

  The lightning had moved closer, and it was as though it flashed in the small room with them.

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But I’d know what I was paying for.”

  She cried out. “Paying for? Paying? Why should you pay? Krayer is my husband because we didn’t make it all the way to Sydney. Because I was too weak to have left him years ago. That’s what Krayer is. God never meant for two people to live together the way Krayer and I have. I love you — and only you — and you don’t owe anybody anything for loving me.”

  He sat up, scrubbed his hands across his face. “Still … Krayer is your husband. And if I killed him, it would be murder. If I murdered him in his sleep, it would be cowardly murder. And I would have to live with it the rest of my life.”

  Her voice lashed at him. “And me. You’d have me.”

  “And that would make it worse. Because I would know and you would know. It would kill everything. And I don’t want that.”

  She jumped up suddenly, pulled her dress down over her head.

  He stood up, caught her in his arms. “Please, Fran, don’t hate me.”

  “Hate you?” Her voice broke. “God help me, I’ll never hate you.” For a moment she pressed her forehead hard against his chest. Then she pushed herself away from him. The lightning flare showed her face taut and miserable. “But that’s not going to help me when you lie dead — with a shark bone in your heart.”

  She moved away from him to the mouth of the cave.

  “Fran. Where are you going?”

  She stopped. Her voice was empty. “You’re sending me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not sending you.” The grumble of thunder muffled his words. “I only said I can’t kill Krayer — not for anything — at least, not yet.”

  “I heard you. It was a horrible thing to ask you. I never will again.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this. I’ve got to see you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Your voice sounds so dead.”

  She sighed. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe something is dead in me. I’m going back to Krayer. I’m not coming back. If I do, he’ll kill you. And he’s not going to kill you — not because of me.”

  He reached for her, but she moved away from him. Suddenly she was running into the darkness. Lightning cracked with a sharp crisp sound, and the whole island was illumined like noonday. Fran was already around the lagoon.

  He walked slowly, woodenly. Something was dead in him and he knew it. Huge swollen raindrops were already falling when he walked back into the clearing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  KRAYER WAS AWAKE when Webb walked into the clearing. Thunder was bursting out of the lightning; its grumbling shook the whole island. The rain beat down faster, pounding into the trees and dripping through the vines.

  Krayer was working over the fire pit. He was hollowing trenches, banking wood around the pit, trying to enclose it so that water would not seep into it. He drove four limbs into the earth and made a slanted shed of the widest palm-strip square he could find. He pushed the tops of the stakes through the strips and then he secured the stakes over limb stubs.

  The fire was already flickering. The only thing that would keep the flames from burning the palm covering was the fact that the rain was soaking it.

  Krayer stared over his shoulder at Webb. “Millar, get all this firewood and put it under the fallen palm on that old raft. It’ll stay a little dry there. If the fire goes out in this storm, I’ll have to rebuild it.”

  Millar carried the wood across the clearing and he felt Fran’s eyes on him. He got down on his knees and dropped the sticks under the canopy of vines. His gaze struck the bamboo harpoon.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Fran was watching him, but Krayer was busy with the fire. Webb lifted the harpoon and threw it as far as he could back under the vines.

  Krayer shouted at him. “Quit stalling, Millar. This is going to be a storm. We’ve got to get everything secured or this wind will blow it away.”

  Webb hurried back for more wood. The wind was so loud now that the pound of the rain sounded faint in it. The waves were breaking over the reef, and the surf was thunderous along the shore. The winds changed suddenly so that the banyan seemed to dance crazily when the lightning flashed.

  The rain made deep puddles and the puddles swelled into miniature lakes so that the grass of the clearing was under water.

  “Get under the tarps,” Krayer ordered. “Hang on so the wind doesn’t blow them away.”

  Krayer and Fran got under one tarp and Webb pulled the other over his head. The wind swept down and yanked it and he had to work hard to keep from losing it.

  “There’s only one good thing about this storm,” he heard Krayer call.
“The winds might drive some ship in here.”

  “It will never happen,” Fran said. “It’s too much what I want.”

  The water rose higher. There was no place even to sit down. The wind lashed at the trees, screaming through them and ripping the vines loose.

  “We’ve got to find a higher spot,” Krayer shouted.

  “There are none!” Webb yelled at him. “You picked the highest spot on the island. This whole island isn’t six feet above sea level.”

  “If this storm continues, it might be inundated,” Krayer said.

  “It damned well might.”

  There was the sudden thump as the wind ripped the coconuts from the palms and hurled them at the ground.

  “We’ve got to get out of this,” Krayer said. “One of these things can kill you as certainly as a lightning bolt.”

  “Let’s get out on the beach,” Webb said. “At least you won’t get hit by anything heavier than a palm frond.”

  They ran through the foliage to the beach. For a moment they were stopped by the fury of the storm that whipped the ocean and roared down upon them.

  “The lee side of the island,” Webb said. “Let’s get around there. It won’t be much better. But we’re not going to be able to stay out here.”

  Krayer and Fran moved, huddled under the wind-whipped tarp. The force of the wind nearly drove Webb off his feet. They could hear the surf wailing and pounding higher on the shore, hissing along the sand almost to their feet.

  From the jungle they heard limbs cracking and coconuts thudding the ground. Reaching the tip of the island, they began to run. No longer did they try to hold the tarps over them.

  The lightning crackled all around them, the tail of it snapping in front of their eyes. It turned the world a glaring white. Webb turned and he could see the terror in Fran’s eyes. The rain was a steady blinding deluge that began to hurt as it beat against them.

  The water was quieter on the lee side of the island, but the wind was whipping limbs and palms fronds out of the jungle.

  “Any more brilliant ideas?” Krayer yelled at Webb. “Here’s a lovely place to get killed.”

  “Come on,” Webb said. “Follow me.”

  Fran said, “Webb.”

  Lightning showed her face.

  He didn’t stop and she said nothing more. He began to run along the beach, feeling the charged atmosphere as the lightning snapped above his head. He heard Fran close behind him, but he didn’t turn. He knew that Krayer was following, stumbling a little, head turned against the lashing rain. Alfred Krayer was uncertain because he alone didn’t know where they were going.

  Webb slowed a little. His heart set up a ragged rhythm that had nothing to do with his running or the rain or the storm.

  Krayer had been awake when he got back to the clearing. How long had he been awake? Why hadn’t he mentioned the fact that Webb and Fran had been out of the camp together — while they thought he was asleep?

  He glanced over his shoulder. The storm had put that out of Krayer’s mind for the moment, but he’d get back to it. Webb shivered and wished suddenly he had brought that harpoon.

  At the lagoon, he hesitated. He looked back and saw that Fran was watching him, and the look in her face held both loss and terror. She said nothing.

  He stared at her a moment. But there was really no choice. The wind was bending the jungle, breaking it and hurling it at them. They couldn’t stay in the open during this storm.

  He ran to the water ferns and pushed them aside. Fran bent down, moved past him, went around the coral and into the warmth of the dry sheltered cave.

  Krayer paused beside Webb a moment.

  “Go ahead,” Webb said.

  “What’s there?” Krayer demanded.

  “A cave. Be careful of the coral there. Go around it to where Fran is.” Webb stared at Krayer as he spoke. Even if Krayer didn’t kill him when this storm was passed, all was over for him and Fran. They could never come here again, no matter what happened.

  Krayer moved by him and stepped carefully around the coral. He bumped his head as he entered the cave. Webb heard him curse.

  Fran said, “Be careful, Alfred. It’s not high enough to stand in.” Her voice sounded lifeless.

  Webb followed them into the cave. The silence inside was tense, charged. Lightning ripped the skies, turning the cave a smoky white. In that second, Webb saw two things: Fran was huddled deep against an inner wall; the cave was warm but she was trembling with cold. Krayer was sitting like a graven image in the center of the cave.

  In his face there was a look of mortal illness. And Webb knew that Krayer was thinking: They know this cave, they both know it. They know all about it. But I’ve never been here before. I haven’t been told about this cave at all.

  Lightning flared again. This time Webb saw the bow and arrow. Krayer held them in his lap. He stared straight ahead. He didn’t even blink when the lightning hissed and crackled at the mouth of the cave.

  • • •

  Webb didn’t know how long he sat near the mouth of the cave with nothing but numbness and the horror in his mind. They were beaten now, and this was the end. Sure, he had trapped himself by bringing Krayer here, but there hadn’t been any choice. None of them would have lived through the storm. Now, Fran at least had a chance. When Alfred Krayer moved though, it would be to kill. Webb knew that for sure. Krayer had fallen in love with the idea of putting that arrow into Webb Millar. Now he had the excuse his rigid mind demanded. The cave itself was tense with the feeling of death by violence.

  Once Webb thought he heard Fran crying deep in the cave. He wondered what thoughts were going on behind that mask of Krayer’s face. Would he fly into such a rage that he might try to kill Fran too?

  No. He was sure Krayer would keep her alive. Not even Krayer would want to face nights on this island alone.

  The wind and the rain stopped once, abruptly. A charged sense of waiting silence rose in the cave. Then the storm began again, harder than ever. The cave darkened and some of the warmth failed. Webb wanted to give Fran his tarp, but he knew if he spoke to her whatever Krayer was planning would erupt.

  He still wanted to put that moment off as long as possible. He sat very still and realized that this had been the story of his whole life. He never wanted to face trouble. He wanted peace. And when he didn’t have it, he’d moved on to try to find it.

  He breathed out heavily. All this running and here he was surrounded by trouble: trapped by it, caged with it in a cave too small for him to stand. But now he was going to be forced to face it. He thought about Fran, crouched against the wall, not worrying about herself, but scared in her insides for him. She knew Krayer and knew what was in his mind.

  He thought about the bow and arrow, the deadly arrow that Krayer had made. Alfred Krayer had been thinking about Webb Millar as he honed its rapier point. Webb thought about Dorothy and their life together, about the jobs he’d held and given up when trouble came. He thought about the way he’d dreamed of this island, or an island like it, as the last peaceful place on earth. And he had come running … straight into hell.

  Time had no meaning now. The storm raged out beyond the water fern. He could hear the wind and the surf and the crack of lightning. Every sound was exaggeratedly loud. He tried to think, but his mind kept coming back to Fran, behind him there. Between him and Fran was Krayer and that shark-bone arrow. No matter what else he tried to think, it all came back to her.

  He turned. When the lightning crackled again, he saw her face and knew that if he lived he must keep her near him. If he didn’t have her, living didn’t mean much.

  An almost violent sense of urgency seized him and he wanted the storm to end; he wanted it all to end. There was trouble surrounding him and he had to face it — or run.

  He moved in the darkness toward the mouth of the cave. He held his breath.

  Krayer said, “Where are you going?”

  “Why would I go anywhere?”

  “If yo
u don’t know, I can’t tell you.”

  Webb waited until the lightning showed. Then in the blinding dark that followed, he moved again, striking against the coral wall.

  Krayer yelled at him. Webb came up to his knees and ran. The last sound he heard from the cave was Fran’s sharp quick sob.

  There was no longer any white sand around the lagoon. The water had risen all the way to the rim of the jungle. Webb moved deliberately into it, and the water swirled about his knees as he sloshed forward, keeping as close to the brush as he could. Lightning showed him the water boiling and churning in from the ocean, and then everything was hidden abysmal blackness.

  He got around the lagoon and reached the narrowed, littered, white stretch of beach. It seemed the rain had slacked a little and the wind had receded. He stared up at the sky and tried to find a break in the clouds. Rain slashed at his face, but he felt sure the storm was easing slightly.

  He went all the way around the tip of the island. The windward beach was a nightmare. Water foamed up to the palms and was spilling through the foliage into the jungle. He got as high as he could, sloshing through the churning water.

  He moved through the foliage and into the water-covered clearing where they’d lived. He ran across to the fallen palm and pushed himself under it. Shoving the stacked wood aside, his hand found the harpoon. He pulled it out of the foliage and stood erect and looked around.

  The fire was gone and the plaited cover had collapsed under the weight of the rain. The fire pit was a black pond of water. The whole world appeared black.

  He moved to the palm beside which he’d slept every night. He sat down, close against it, his back to the wind. Then he placed the harpoon across his knees and waited.

  He wondered what time it was. It didn’t matter. There was nothing for him to do now but wait … wait out the storm. He had been running from trouble all his life and he couldn’t run from it any more. He had the insane feeling that if he turned his face, trouble was going to knife him in the back.

  He looked toward the east and searched for the first gray fading of the night. The wind was dying, the palm fronds no longer came hurtling through the darkness. The rain paused, faded and soon it didn’t beat through the leaves any more.