Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  ‘Then how'd you find their temple?’ Oscar tapped the glass with his fingernails. The head shifted in its embalming fluid and he snatched his hand away.

  ‘There's an ancient map on the wall of a cave … in southern Borneo,’ Raymond French said. ‘It shows a thriving city round the temple, but my colleague found no rubble from it. Just the solitary temple, right where the map placed it, overgrown by rainforest. It was sealed with huge stones and he presumed at first it was a mass burial site. However,’ French shrugged, ‘it wasn't. Turned out there were no bones inside.’

  Oscar squinted at the grisly find. ‘Just him?’

  ‘And a small stone tablet with more of these glyphs on it.’ His uncle pointed to the relic's forehead. ‘Odd. They're almost cuneiform, out of place in ancient South-East Asia as we know it.’

  ‘You said you'd know soon who he was.’ Oscar imitated the head's death-scowl.

  The professor nodded. ‘I must drive into the city. Meet another colleague. Language specialist. He's been working on the tablet. He rang just after you did. He's close to breaking the code. Wants me there when he translates the inscription. Look, Oscar, he's a bit funny about youngsters, so I can't take you with me.’ He sighed then gestured at a shelf on the cellar wall. ‘You could stay here, though … read my reference books again.’

  Oscar smiled. ‘And guard the rare and mysterious Head of Savakor! Wait till they hear about this in History! Will you do me some photos again?’

  ‘Surely!’ The professor winked. ‘But remember: touch nothing but the books.’

  Oscar gave him an earnest salute before turning back to the jar.

  ‘You're really taken with him, aren't you?’ Raymond French chuckled. ‘Unlike my colleague's hired bearers who helped unearth him. They ran away, shouting Kit-cha!’

  Oscar frowned. ‘Kit-cha?’

  ‘It doesn't have a strict translation.’ The professor folded his arms. ‘Closest English would be … black priest, I think. Anyway, I'm off. Now remember, if your mother rings and you have to go, lock up properly.’

  The steps creaked, the cellar door slammed. Oscar leaned on the table, tapping the glass over the artefact's stitched mouth. ‘No one messes with the black priest, or his guard!’ His face beside the jar, he mimicked the relic's down-turned mouth. ‘Death to Napier,’ Oscar growled in a deep voice, ‘enemy of the Kit-cha!’

  The artefact's eyes opened. Dark pupils darted over yellow-veined whites to lock onto the boy. Oscar launched himself off the table and reeled backwards. He crouched on the floor, one hand over his pounding heart. After thirty seconds, Oscar slowly rose to his feet. The head's dark eyes followed his movement. Oscar turned to run for the steps. A low, firm voice in his head made him freeze.

  ‘Fear not. We barter, share trust-gourd, take milk together.’

  Oscar turned and blinked hard at the jar, forcing out his words. ‘Was that … you?’

  The response entered his mind quickly.

  ‘We barter. Goats, sago, bows, maidens … choose.’

  ‘I don't need any of that,’ Oscar said, fascination overtaking fear, ‘besides, I've nothing to trade.’

  ‘Not so.’ The head narrowed its eyes at him. ‘Barter!’

  The jar filled with white mist. Oscar leaned forward, trying to keep the relic in view, but it quickly became just a dark outline inside a miniature cloud. Oscar edged closer, squinting. The pale smoke inside the jar twisted and thinned. Suddenly it was gone. Oscar shuddered. A different head now filled the jar.

  He stared at the bruised, bloodied head of Gerard Napier. The bully's eyes were closed, his face a death mask of terrible pain. Blood was smudged around each nostril, and his swollen blue lips were stitched shut with familiar plaited cords. Between them ran a thick wedge of dried blood.

  Oscar gaped at the floating head of his nemesis. It was too vicious an end for anyone. Yet something in him was enticed to approve of it, to see it as nothing more than Napier's just deserts. Oscar licked his dry lips. Was that urge from within or without? The inside of the jar abruptly clouded up again, and when it cleared, the original head was back.

  ‘This you need,’ its voice rang louder now in his mind, ‘barter!’

  ‘I don't understand,’ Oscar said slowly. But at once he knew that some tiny part of him did.

  ‘Strength against enemy. Draw against enemy.’ The relic's gaze locked on Oscar's hands. ‘Draw!’

  A new impulse filled Oscar's veins, a dark electricity surging through his limbs. Instinctively, he mimed drawing an arrow in a great bow. Turning to the bookshelf wall, he pictured Gerard Napier's leer.

  ‘Chingaru!’ Oscar snarled. He grinned at the word he had just invented. ‘Chingaru!’ he repeated, exhilaration growing. Then with a growl, Oscar released the invisible arrow at his imaginary foe. Loud hissing cut the air. Oscar stared at the bookshelf in disbelief.

  A bamboo arrow stuck out from its wood, the tail of green and red feathers vibrating. Oscar walked to the arrow and warily reached for it. It had to be an illusion, like Napier's head in the jar. As his hand closed tentatively around the arrow's shaft, its flights glistened with the sheen of a tropical bird's wings. Oscar gasped. It was solid, real. He started to pull it free. A wave of dizziness instantly swept over him. A detailed image replaced the bookshelf and wall.

  Before him now loomed a stepped pyramid of grey stone blocks skilfully fitted together. It towered over a sunlit clearing surrounded by dense jungle. A group of archers, brown bodies streaked with yellow and green paint, stood in a circle on the pyramid's flat top, each facing outwards. Every man was lean and muscular. They wore loincloths, black feathers in their long hair, and woven shoulder quivers packed with arrows. Repeatedly they fired their bows, red and green flighted arrows flashing out of sight, down into the clearing. One warrior dropped to a kneeling position and a figure was revealed, dressed in black robes, enthroned inside the circle of archers.

  He pointed and gestured, each move commanding and forceful. The arms of his robes were trimmed with bright feathers. The man sat with his head held high, brown face framed with long black hair that tumbled onto his shoulders.

  Oscar's chest heaved with excitement. This noble king looked fearless, even in the heat of battle. His archers were winning, too, for no enemy arrows or spears flew back up at them. The warriors’ lips were moving, as they sang or chanted in time with one another. But since the vision was soundless, Oscar was unsure what exactly was going on. He pulled his hand from the arrow. At once the detailed tableau faded.

  Turning back to the table, Oscar focused on the head. It appeared to have changed. He took a step closer, studying it. Half the stitches over its lips had vanished.

  ‘Shown you. So barter,’ it demanded, voice louder than ever in his mind.

  ‘How can I barter? I've nothing.’ Oscar showed his empty hands. ‘What do want from me?’

  ‘Later.’ The relic's eyes rolled upwards, locking on the ceiling. ‘Choose. He comes.’

  ‘Who?’ As Oscar followed the head's gaze, a shower of stones landed on the roof of the house.

  ‘I know you're in there, Frenchy! Loser!’ The voice of Gerard Napier came from the street above.

  The head's dark eyes twinkled. Oscar felt his arms crackle with energy.

  ‘Enemy hunter circles. Go. I make you strong.’ The relic glanced at the cellar stairs then back at Oscar. The boy hesitated. Another shower of stones landed, and Oscar felt his anger swell into rage.

  ‘Yes,’ the head said with relish.

  ‘Deal!’ Oscar nodded at the jar. Fury gripped him as he ran up the stairs. Oscar hurled open the front door, hands shaking, teeth bared. He pounded through his uncle's small yard, hands becoming fists topped with white knuckles as he caught sight of Gerard Napier.

  Grinning, his enemy dropped a handful of stones and stepped back into the middle of the road. Oscar took up a shooting stance. The bully's hands confidently went to his hips as he watched his smaller opponent, looking him up and
down. Oscar gripped then drew his invisible bow. A warning instinct made him pause. There had to be a catch to this. What if – then he saw the mockery in his enemy's eyes.

  Gerard Napier sniggered. ‘Whatcha playing at Hist'ry Boy? Watyagot?’

  ‘This!’ Oscar shouted, releasing the unseen arrow. His voice emerged deep and fierce.

  There was a loud hiss and an instant later Napier gave a startled cry of pain. Oscar's eyes widened. Blood ran down one of the bully's thick arms. Napier reeled, clutching his shoulder. A bamboo arrow protruded from it, front and back. Gaping at its brightly coloured flights, Napier sank to the road with a long, helpless whimper.

  ‘Another,’ the familiar voice was almost deafening now, ringing in Oscar's head. ‘Finish him!’

  He stared at Gerard Napier, crumpled on the bitumen, sobbing pathetically. Oscar swallowed. No. No more. It had already gone way too far.

  ‘I won't do it,’ he said. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Finish him,’ the head's voice echoed, ‘and so feed Chingaru!’

  Oscar shuddered. Why did he know that name? Of course. He'd used it as a war cry, one that had felt natural and spontaneous. But now it was clear that he hadn't made it up.

  ‘Who are you?’ Oscar snapped. ‘Tell me! No, show me, or it all ends now.’

  ‘Yes. See,’ the reply came fast, ‘see, know, then finish barter.’

  Dizziness struck Oscar as the jungle clearing and stone temple replaced the street. As before, the circle of archers fired at their unseen targets from around the throned figure. But this time, Oscar heard the hissing of the bowshots and more. Terrified screams came from all directions, the voices of women and children. The awful cries suggested hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. Oscar clutched his stomach. No wonder no arrows flew back up at the temple archers. This was a massacre, not a battle. As the warriors fired on relentlessly, they chanted a single word together in perfect time. Chingaru.

  ‘No more!’ Oscar shook his head until he again saw the road and the crumpled bully. He dashed back to his uncle's front door, bounded down the stairs into the cellar and slid to a halt before the big table. The back of his neck bristled. The head's mouth-stitching was completely gone. It grinned wickedly at him.

  ‘Finish barter,’ the tattered lips moved freely, ‘feed Chingaru.’

  Oscar pointed at the relic, his chest heaving. ‘The place in the jungle … it was you on that throne. You had everybody murdered!’

  The head scowled. ‘Grey hunter returns. Chingaru give you many arrows. Take him.’

  ‘Uncle Raymond?’ Oscar gaped. ‘You want me to –’

  ‘Grow strong again,’ the head bared pointy yellow teeth, ‘great city. Make many barters.’ Its hateful eyes darted about with delight. A black tongue flickered between the lips.

  Oscar felt his throat constrict with fear. ‘You're a monster!’

  ‘No,’ the relic smirked, ‘Chingaru trader!’ Its dark eyes glared. ‘Finish barter, or be hunted.’

  Oscar dived onto the table, snatched the jar to his chest, then rolled across the dark wood. His feet sent camera lenses spinning to the cellar floor, tools and papers flying from the bench. As he swung the domed glass out over the acid bath the relic hissed, its face contorting with anger.

  ‘Weak before Chingaru!’ it growled. ‘Break barter and pay!’

  Oscar blinked, looking about. He was no longer in his uncle's cellar. He turned his head, squinting in bright sunlight. Unseen drums beat in the distance. The odour of rotting plant matter filled his nostrils. Around him was terrible chaos. He was being jostled, in the centre of a screaming, stampeding crowd at the foot of the stone temple. Bright arrows rained from above and brown-skinned women and children cried out as they were hit. The tumbling victims fed a growing carpet of writhing arms and legs, pierced with arrows, spattered with blood. Oscar glanced down between his feet. A baby lay there, still, arrows in its back. He closed his eyes tightly.

  It was not real, he told himself, like Napier's head in the jar. Chingaru created illusions, and though this slaughter had actually happened, that had been long ago, and he hadn't been there. Nor was he there now. Oscar ground his teeth together.

  ‘Liar!’ he shouted, opening his eyes. He was back in the cellar, on the great table, the jar suspended over the acid tub. Avoiding the relic's gaze, Oscar let it drop.

  A high-pitched, echoing squeal filled the cellar as the artefact dissolved in teeming yellow foam. Oscar covered his ears, dropping into a tight hunch on the floor. He was still there, curled up, when hands gripped his shoulders.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Professor French hauled him to his feet. ‘My god! What happened?’

  ‘I had to. I had to destroy it,’ Oscar panted with tension, ‘Chingaru was alive. He wanted me to kill. First that Napier kid that bashes me. Then you.’

  ‘Impossible,’ the professor whispered, ‘and yet … you know his name!’ His mouth twisted. ‘It couldn't be true.’

  Oscar glanced at the bookshelf. The original arrow was gone. He let out a slow sigh of relief. His uncle carefully drew a note from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘The legend, carved on the stone tablet, it couldn't actually be history … could it?’

  Oscar rubbed his temples. ‘What legend?’

  ‘The account of a nation, wiped out in a single day,’ the professor said. ‘A trader in spells came to them from a faraway land. He gradually seized control of their government. The tablet said he bewitched every hunter of the tribe to slaughter their own wives and children, along with any men that resisted … Chingaru. The tablet ends with “and the dark king feasted on death”.’

  ‘But somebody killed him. Your friend found his severed head.’

  ‘From the outset, the tribe's “wise woman” distrusted him and secretly despatched messengers to their allies in the south, begging for help. The rescuers arrived to a scene of absolute carnage. They defeated and executed Chingaru and his followers. It seems he cursed them as he died, and they feared calamity would befall their lands as a result. Hence the precautions they took with Chingaru's head, and why the temple of Savakor held but one occupant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oscar glanced at the acid bath.

  ‘That pyramid was neither grave nor temple.’ The professor squeezed Oscar's arm. ‘It was a prison. A prison never meant to be disturbed …’

  It was probably about three o'clock – since we lost electricity I've never been sure about the time, the fungus clogs mechanical clocks – when I saw Jones melt.

  He had been whining, in that wearisome voice, about the killing heat and the lack of change in the seasons. I had lost interest in what he was saying almost before he began, and it was only the unexpected silence which made me look around. To see his clothes slide and crumple onto his wicker chair, his shoes tip over, empty, and the whole body which had been Jones flow through the chair into a puddle of reddish, bluish, gelatinous liquid on the veranda floor.

  His spectacles reposed in the middle of the puddle. For a moment I caught a faint hint of dissolving form – was that an eyeball, perhaps, or the nails of a hand raised to ward off this strange dissolution? Then there was nothing but the puddle of foul-smelling fluids.

  I suppose I should have been astonished. But the heat pressed down on me like a blanket, removing thought, making action impossible.

  I rang for a steward. Then I realised that most of the natives flatly refused to come out of their caves until the sun had gone down.

  It took me a few minutes to lever myself out of my chair, and then I could not think of anything intelligent to do. It seemed heartless to mop the poor man off the floor, but he shouldn't be allowed to just lie there. For one thing, the spilled acid from his stomach was bubbling the varnish and the club members were very proud of their polished veranda floor.

  I went inside in search of Dr Palmer. He was usually to be found in the club in the afternoon, and he might have an idea as to the suitable disposal of Jones’ … I suppose one should call them … rem
ains.

  I found him berating Kai, one of the few natives who agreed, or had been forced, to stay up during the day. Even then he wasn't a real native, not one of the N'gah. He was a Tawa from the islands, and the locals called him an outlander.

  ‘When I say rum punch, I mean fruit juice, ice and rum,’ Dr Palmer was saying – none of us shouted any more, it took too much energy. ‘What is missing in this equation, Kai, is the ice.’

  ‘No more ice,’ said Kai. ‘No more kero for the fridge.’

  He spoke calmly. It was always hard to read any expression in his smooth face. Dr Palmer took the glass and sat down at the library table, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

  ‘Jones has melted,’ I told him, signalling for another rum punch. Kai brought the amber beverage. It was very strong and blood-warm. Disagreeable, but I drank it anyway.

  ‘Melted,’ repeated Dr Palmer. ‘What have you been drinking, West?’

  ‘I swear,’ I said, too hot to resent his tone. ‘Come and see. There's nothing but a big puddle on the veranda floor.’

  He did not speak, but I saw Kai's reaction. He set down the glass he was polishing very carefully. His hands gripped the edge of the bar. I hadn't seen him so moved since that big game fisherman brought in the last marlin. Huge fish. The N'gah said it was the Father of Oceans and its death signalled the beginning of the end of the world. Primitive nonsense. We mounted it above the bar, with a plaque saying how heavy it was and when it was caught. That was when we still did things. Before the heat set in.

  I took Palmer out onto the veranda. By then most of Jones had dripped onto the seared remains of the garden. The ground was smoking.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘Strange,’ said Dr Palmer. Grunting, he knelt and scraped some of the fluid into a collecting jar. ‘I'll analyse this,’ he said. ‘And you, West, stay off the jungle juice.’