An Island Called Moreau Page 12

  “That don’t leave you much.” He chuckled.

  “Right. This hasn’t been the best-ever century for faith, and some would say hurrah for that. No, I believe in a sort of abstract God, remote and not particularly comforting, whose specialty is continuity rather than succor. The universe is his—I mean, it makes more sense to think of a consciousness behind creation than to imagine that it all grew in its complexity out of nothing, like a mushroom out of concrete. But now that the universe is a going concern, my God is aloof from it—maybe he is now powerless to interfere. You could say he was more of an Artist than an Administrator.”

  Warren grunted. “He sounds a worse dropout than me. You’d be better off worshipping a little brass Buddha than a God like that!”

  “I agree. Except I don’t believe in brass Buddhas. Oh God, I disbelieve—help thou my disbelief! The only contact my God has with men is that he is manifest in trace elements in our best aspirations. When you aspire to do good in any field, then you are furthest from yourself, and so nearest to God. It’s up to you to keep the contact. It’s not up to him.”

  Warren listened to what I had to say with close attention. Poor fool, to be taken in by what I said, I thought; of course, he would be a sentimentalist at heart. I realized as I was talking that my belief in God was hollow, I no longer believed in anything.

  Only a year or two ago, as the ideological blocs moved toward conflict, I had argued that God was the greatest invention of the human imagination, and merely a positive goal toward which we were all moving, generation by generation. The idea was that we should gradually evolve into a kind of godhead. Even as I expounded this view, I was moved by my own faith and sincerity; besides, it suited eminent Undersecretaries of State to speak of profound matters. People had listened.

  Most of those people were now in uniform or subterranean bunkers.

  After a knotty silence, Warren said, “It ain’t for me to stake my claim that you’re talking nonsense. For one thing, I know that you’re better educated than me, just to hear the way you make with the words. But I guess my view is that mankind has somewhere, somehow gone wrong, and ended up too complicated. I’d agree with the Bible where it says that big cities is sinful—that I do agree with. No doubt but the Bible has a lot of sensible things to say, like ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But the only time I get a glimpse of any durn God is when I look around me at the beauties of Nature.”

  He indicated the silent scene around us, still bathed in moonlight, and its stately tranquility.

  I had been aware of light scuffles in the undergrowth while we were talking. Now the vague indication made by Warren’s hand directed my attention to a clump of bushes, dark and indeterminate, which grew under a cluster of palm trees. Had I seen something move?

  Warren, too, appeared to have seen or heard something. He stretched out a cautioning hand to me, peering ahead, before reaching to grasp his rifle.

  Tropical places generally have their share of nocturnal birds which forage in the undergrowth. Their rustling can conjure up all kinds of nervous fears if one has reason to suspect danger. We stood there, together yet separately, listening to the discreet noises. They seemed to come from all sides of us.

  He turned back to me, saying in a low voice, “Is someone there, do you reckon?”

  “Dart doesn’t travel easily. He’d come in daylight.”

  “May not be Dart …”

  A cloud began to cross the moon. Immediately, a heavy crashing came from the thickets on our right, as if someone or something had decided to take advantage of the temporary dark.

  “They’re there, right enough,” Warren said. “They’ve come for you. This is your doing, confound it all, coming up here talking about God and getting me killed.”

  “We’d better get inside. They may go away by daylight.”

  He did not heed me. Instead, he ran into the middle of the clearing, raised his gun, and fired two shots. The noise was transfixing. Long after the actual shots had died, the echoes of them went racketing out across the wastes of the Pacific. As the echoes were still hurtling toward infinity, nearer sounds spoke of a big creature crashing away through the bushes in panic.

  Warren stood where he was, gun half raised.

  “Whoever it was, he’s gone,” I called.

  “He wasn’t alone by any manner of means,” Warren replied grimly.

  Almost as soon as he spoke, an answering shot came from the jungle. I recognized the report as that of a carbine. Foxy? Next moment, ill-defined figures rushed into the open from several directions, converging on Warren. I called to him. He raised his rifle and shot one of the charging figures stone dead before the others overwhelmed him.

  I saw an oil painting in the backwoods of Austria once which represented the ultimate in self-betrayal. Two murderers in hunting outfits beckoned a young man into a gloomy forest. It was evident, even from the sickly smile of the youth, that he would never emerge living from that remote spot. But the two murderers had so cozened him that he was about to go with them voluntarily, unable to face the fact of his imminent death, thus deceiving himself as much as they deceived him.

  As I ran back into my bungalow, I felt it as an act of self-betrayal. It would have been nobler to have thrown myself into the middle of the clearing and died attempting to rescue Warren. But an instinct of self-preservation hurried me inside and slammed the door behind me.

  From the window, I was able to get a view of what happened to Warren. His attackers numbered at least ten. Among them, I thought I recognized the active Alpha and Beta, the two ape-men, and the grotesque form of the gray Horse-Hippo. Standing to one side, apart from the fray, was Foxy. He held himself like a man; the resemblance was heightened by the confidence with which he now carried his carbine.

  By some miracle, Warren broke free of the pack and ran for the undergrowth. Then he swerved, as if suddenly becoming aware of what he was doing, and doubled back toward the buildings. I saw him running toward me.

  One of the monstrously heavy Beast People—a creature that had been lurking undecided out of my line of view—bore into sight, charging at the running figure. Warren saw it, raised his arms, swerved slightly, and came on.

  The charging creature had its head thrust forward. It cannoned into Warren just as he reached the next building. It made no attempt to pause or even to seize Warren, plowing on like an express train and crushing the man against the wall. Warren uttered one gasping cry of agony and collapsed. The brute, stunned, fell beside him. Immediately, other creatures ran up, throwing themselves on Warren in frenzy.

  They began to tear his body apart, to rip his clothes and his limbs away from his body. Only Foxy stood aloof from the scrimmage. He came closer to watch the destruction of the body.

  So ghastly were these scenes, enacted in the bright moonlight, that I remained where I was by the window. The realization that their sport would soon be over and that they would then be after me—presumably their original quarry—threw me into a sort of dazed resignation without being able to shift me from the horror of the scene. Only when some small torn thing struck the window and slid down it, three inches from my face, did I pull myself away and think of escape.

  The building contained equipment for the solar plant overhead. Against one wall was a metal staircase leading up to the roof, and so to the great lattices outside. Since there was no place to hide inside the room, my way lay upward.

  Fortifying the outer door with old packing cases, I climbed the stair. It was difficult to see, and for a while I sweated and struggled under the roof, trying to pull back the bolts of a trapdoor. They gave at last. I pushed open the door and had a refreshing prospect of roofs, dark trees, moon, stars, and the lattices of power above me. I saw that night was sick and dawn near; bars of cloud drew across the eastern sky, the pallor of day radiated from behind them. The sun would soon come thundering out of the Pacific. It was an encouraging sign. Foxes prefer to hunt by night.

  There was no way of
locking the door behind me. I closed it and looked cautiously about. I was on a small platform. Solar heaters stood on the roof nearby. A ladder led up from the platform into the girders above. I was safe here only until I was noticed. All I could do was crouch, hoping that the Beast People would go away.

  They showed no sign of doing that. Their bloody party with Warren was almost over. While some of the smaller creatures still scrabbled with his torso, the others, as I could hear, were barging about round the buildings. The voice of Foxy came to me: “Search out other Four Limbs Long, heroes!” I hoped that fear of human habitation would keep them out of the bungalows and eventually drive them back to the bush. Alternatively, I hoped that they might all break into Warren’s bungalow, so that I could make good my escape then—the oncoming dawn should provide me with enough light to see my way downhill to Dart’s fortress.

  Now they were investigating the buildings. I could hear their thick grunts and voices. I crouched where I was, scarcely daring to breathe, the fate of Warren ever present in my mind.

  They began to hammer on doors—whether mine or Warren’s I could not tell, since the roof obscured my view. Glass shattered. That was a woof of pain. Idiot scampering feet. Yelps and exclamations, thick quarrelsome voices. More sudden smashing—clearly from inside—yells, snatches of mad song. Another crash, insane laughter. “The Shape you’re given the day you’re born/Is lost when we put you under earth.” Furious shouting, a blow, whimpering.

  Then I saw one of the hideous Swine Women trotting across the broken ground, holding a can in one hand and her ripped trousers in the other. She was being pursued by a hairy creature resembling a bear. As she ran, she made a shrill noise—impossible to say if it was from fear or mirth. The bear caught her and, as they fell together, her can went flying. Liquor spilled from it.

  They had broken into Warren’s place without fear, and were at his beer supply. The knowledge gave me fresh heart. As they became drunk, they would fight among each other and forget me.

  Relaxing slightly, I stood up to ease my limbs, turning to catch the dawn breeze as I did so. I found myself staring into a pair of eyes only a meter or so from me.

  The nearest leg of the power grid rose beside the bungalow. Clinging to its diagonal spars was one of the ape-men, Alpha or Beta. There was no mistaking that misshapen head, with its baby skull and nose like a tapir’s. It clung to the mast with both hands and held a beer can by the rim in its mouth.

  Neither of us moved. I had no weapon. A fresh outbreak of screaming came from below. I let out a yell, flinging out my arms. The ape-man opened his mouth, letting the can drop but catching it economically with one hand. He did not fall as I had hoped. He let out a paralyzing answering yell, swarmed through the lattice of the mast, and hurled himself at me.

  There was a thin guardrail round the platform. It formed a slight obstacle between him and me. As he landed and clung to it, I thrust my right arm out and caught him a tremendous jolt under the chin with the heel of my open palm. Then I kicked the paw that clutched the guardrail.

  He fell back on to the roof, roaring. On the margins of my vision, I glimpsed the Swine Woman and bear creature stand up, point at me, and scream with rage. It was time to escape. In any case, I did not fancy myself in a fight with Alpha or Beta, whichever he was, and he was already picking himself up.

  Throwing open the door in the roof, I saw in the pale wash of light below that my room was already invaded. One of the Beast People walked there alone, beer can to mouth, his free hand making airy circles above his head as he staggered silently round the room. I slammed the door. Nothing for it but to jump from the roof.

  I went to the edge and peered down. The madmen were about, laughing and running, but this was no time to make any sort of a choice. The ape-man was coming up behind me. I jumped, staggered, and fell to the ground.

  As I pulled myself up, the ape-man landed beside me, taking the fall better than I. He wasted time bellowing his discovery, so that I started to run even as the others responded and came up. I went to double round the buildings, away from the sea. My way was blocked.

  A vile creature with bloody visage stood there, swaying slightly and waving some sort of weapon in his right hand. He had been eating from it. The unsteady light was sufficient to illumine one of Jed Warren’s forearms.

  Others were there, figures out of a hitherto undiscovered representation of the nether world. My heart quailed within me. The ape-man seized me from behind, grasping my shoulder.

  I turned to evade his other hand. The Rhino Man who had crushed Warren came bursting up behind and barged him out of the way in crazed eagerness to get at me. It was my chance. I dashed between them and ran for the nearest bushes.

  I was in the open. On the extreme margins of my vision—I dared not look to left or right for fear of falling—a gaunt figure rose and aimed a gun at me with a hunter’s deliberation. I dived into the bush as the carbine went off. The bullet plunged away harmlessly.

  Pulling myself up, I saw that the pursuit was now on. Ill organized as they were, some of them drunk on Warren’s beer, they could nevertheless hunt me down and destroy me. I was human quarry, by my very shape marked out as one of the enemy. They would tear me apart until that hated shape was no more. They would rend my flesh and eat my tenderest parts.

  As I ran through the bush, I could think of only one hope—to catch Foxy unawares and take the carbine from him. With the leader disarmed, the rest of the mob would come to heel. My best hope was to climb a tree and wait. But there were no trees here that could possibly be climbed. They were either lofty palms or small thorns and bamboos. To hide in the bush was impossible—these creatures would unhesitatingly smell me out.

  Some dreadful being, heavy and insensate, was plunging along in the bush to my left. I stopped for a moment, and he stopped too. Was he pacing me, simply for the pleasure of the hunt?

  Sudden hope filled me. “Bernie?” No reply.

  “George?” No reply. I began to run again, and the hidden thing began to run too. For him, this was a game, and I was game. As in a trance, I plunged through the colorless jungle of dawn, not heeding how I scratched or tore myself in my flight.

  Like a clear, clean vision came the thought of that high eastern cliff and the jutting rock from which Warren had tried to push me the day before.

  I would jump!

  Even if I never survived that terrible fall, at least I would be free of a far worse death. There was no other escape for me, as the shouts and yelps all about me made clear. The pack was closing in.

  I bounded through the bush in what I believed to be the direction of the cliff. The creature on my left kept pace with me. Occasionally, I saw its monstrous form through the swinging foliage.

  Noises sounded ahead—shouting and crashing. Again I swerved, and in a moment arrived at a clearer patch of ground. The ocean glinted ahead. With one sweep of vision, I took in a far glimpse of sun—a chip of it merely, only the merest segment of it cutting above the horizon and sending a dazzle across the ocean in the very instant of its rising. Dark cloud piled above it, but that first ray lit me—and lit two of the Beast People plunging up from my right flank.

  Only a few meters lay between me and the rock on which I had fought Warren. I knew my one hope of making that leap was to plunge forward without pause or hesitation, or my courage might fail me. I had stepped from spaceships into the gulfs of space, but this was a challenge of a different order.

  What finally spurred me was the bestial face of a Swine Man who came bursting out from my left. He it was who had paced me, who now moved in with smiling yellow teeth for the kill. Swine he was, but I read vulpine ancestry there as well in the sweep of his fangs and cut of jaw under that piggish snout. He stretched out his arms, and I ran like madness itself for the high cliff.

  The Swine Man screamed with fury. Seabirds burst from underfoot. The universe wheeled about my head. I saw the cliff, the supine sea, the jut of rock, saw my death on the rocks beneath, ran eve
n faster.

  My courage had fled. But it was too late. I bounded along the jutting rock as if it were a diving board above a pool, shouted with all my strength, jumped. The Swine Man tried to stop too late, toppled, fell with a great cry. Lucifer without grace.

  As I plummeted, all fear left me. I fell with arms and legs outstretched, performing slow cartwheels in the air. I saw the place I had left, the cliff wall, the expanse of sky, the sea, the creature who fell some distance from me. I fell, and a muddle of thoughts coursed through my brain. I even recalled the old idea that one relives one’s past in such moments before death; yet I could recollect nothing but the terrors of my days adrift at sea and the secrets of Moreau’s researches—even in this extremity, I was not free of the island.

  By bracing my body and getting control of my limbs, I was able to stop tumbling and plunge down feet first. The drop seemed to last for ever—yet equally the ocean came rushing up to meet me at incredible speed. As I closed with it, I saw that I was free of the rocks. The tumbling creature who kept me company at some distance did not look so lucky.

  Just as I hit the waves, the sun appeared to sink back below the horizon. It was as if I had traveled back in time—on the level of the ocean, sunrise was still an instant away. The water was dark. It struck me hard and swallowed me.

  Everything became confused. I had not fallen straight. The breath was battered out of me. Beneath the water, dark shapes of rock loomed, or so I thought. I tried to find my way to the surface, became lost, saw red and green streamers of light explode about me, lost consciousness.

  Not entirely. One rarely loses all awareness. But my senses became detached, and I could do nothing effective. Except drown.

  Yet I did not drown. The muddle and pain that saturated my being finally receded like a tide. I was aware of people about me, of a thatched roof overhead. Hands were on my naked body. A remote but sensuous pleasure had roused me. I closed my eyes in extreme languor, only opening them again with an effort.