An Island Called Moreau (12 page)

I laughed. “And you were telling me to keep my distance.”

“Put your hand down here, between my legs.” She rubbed against me and I felt myself stirring. Hating myself for it, I moved off.

“How much provocation do you need, Cal?” she asked, eyes glittering in the sun.

She was stretching out to me again when the Master appeared. He was walking tall, dressed in his prosthetic armor. Certainly he made a formidable sight, clumping across the courtyard, riot gun slung across his shoulder, whip tucked into his belt.

“Mr. Roberts, you ready for the burial? I can see Hans is. Climb in beside me. Wait—you drive—it'll be easier for you than for me. I'll show you which way to go. Heather, you stay here.”

She was already climbing into the vehicle. “Hey, I'm coming with you! I want to see the fun. I like hearing the animals do their thing. You said I could come along.”

“Sorry, pet. This is an occasion when the animals get a little instruction, and they won't listen if they've got you to goggle at. Besides, I don't want to leave Bella alone in the house. Down you get.”

Heather looked mutinous for a moment. Then she climbed down.

“Fuck you, Mort,” she said.

“Open up the gate and let us through,” he said. “And don't be common.”

She did as instructed. I rolled the vehicle forward, and the gate closed behind us.

“We bury the coffin up the hill,” Dart said. “But first we go round to the village and rouse everyone up. Just to put you in the picture, this is a big event on Moreau Island.”

“Where did you get Heather from, Dart?”

“Heather's here voluntarily, believe it or not. She opted for the life. A private plane made a forced landing here at the beginning of the war, fleeing from the invasion of Samoa by the Cubans. She decided this was the refuge she was looking for. It's as simple as that.”

We took the primitive road to the village and I drew up where Dart instructed me, before the first shacks.

The Beast People were already on the move, even before he stood up in the truck and started shouting at them. It was no longer a shock to see their hideous variety as they shambled forth, dressed in ungainly coveralls, the females adorned with bones and shells festooned about their necks or in their hair. The pair of Bull Men came shuffling out, closely tagged by a Cat Woman who slightly resembled Bella. And there was a Swine Woman with hideous visage and plodding gait, and a bushy creature like a bear, and two small Bear Beings, who frisked and were quite appealing, and ape-like people, and many more, bringing themselves out into the light of day at the sound of their Master's voice.

The stubbly-faced George rushed forward, pushing the others aside with his thick shoulders hunched, snorting as he came. My friend Bernie ran beside him, glancing ever eagerly up at his boar-jackal companion. When he saw me, Bernie ran to my side of the truck, panting his name, panting my name, and then running back to George. Then he came to me again, but could not stay, and ran once more to George, totally undecided.

“This day big holiday, savvy!” the Master shouted to them. “Your friend Hans, he break Law, he get bottle, he finished. You people savvy finished.
Kaput
. All done. Today big funeral. You all come along me, bury Hans in Death Place. Hans with bottle, he go underground, meet Big Master. Come on now, quick time. Obey the Law, follow my car.”

While he was shouting variations on this theme, I saw that ginger Foxy was emerging from among the trees. His shanks were bare, as on the day before, but today he further distinguished himself from the crowd by wearing a long shoddy cape over his lean shoulders. As he slunk forward, keeping warily behind the gray Horse-Hippo, I was reminded again of countless children's stories in which wolves and foxes, dressed in human clothes, played the villain. None did it better than Foxy, or looked more disreputable.

Dart saw him and called to him. “Foxy, you and George get all people to the Death Place, savvy? Follow along my car.”

Dozens of loaded eyes watched as I reversed the truck and drove it slowly back the way we had come. I caught snatches of their furtive talk as they followed close. They were curious about me; the legend of my having been dragged out of the sea made them unsure whether I was completely human.

As we moved at funeral pace, a large ape-man took hold of the truck and strode along beside me. Although his body closely resembled a gorilla's, his face was completely malformed and, with its long snout, resembled a tapir's as much as anything.

Mortimer Dart glanced at him in approval.

“That's Alpha, helping you along. His brother Beta's just behind. You're growing used to them now, Roberts, aren't you? I told you my experiments here have gone through three stages. Alpha and Beta belong to the second stage, which I have now abandoned as just not on. He's not the result of mere crude vivisection, as in McMoreau's day. He's a product of genetic surgery. Of course, he was of McMoreau stock—that's the reason why we keep the village thriving, for the laboratory. By working on actual genetic material, I was able to alter his entire skull formation.”

“Don't expect admiration from me.”

“It's quite a trick—it deserves admiration, believe you me. Unfortunately, Alpha has almost no brain, as X-rays show. He just about knows enough to stuff his face with food twice a day. But he was a step in the right direction.”

We had passed the head of the lagoon now, and Dart directed me to drive past the palisade to where the road began sloping upward to higher ground. I could see how extensive the Master's headquarters were. The outer wall was so high, and so protected by trees, that we could not make out more than the roofs of the buildings.

I had to keep my eye on the road, which became more difficult to negotiate as it grew steeper. It was littered with stones and chunks of rock, and soon almost ceased to be a road. Soon we were driving over naked rock, across which frequent fissures ran. The vegetation, having to deal with the same obdurate rock, grew lower as it closed in on us. Alpha, the ape-man, fell behind as he was raked by broad thorny leaves.

“The next is the sticky bit,” Dart said. I took a quick glance at him. I could see that the jolting was making him suffer inside his armor.

I engaged four-wheel drive as the rock humped itself, and took the stretch ahead as fast as I could. We bumped over a succession of roots like fossil snakes, swerved to miss a gigantic coconut palm, and then followed the trail as it curved and climbed to the left. The back wheels spun and then we were up on a small plateau in a shower of dirt.

“Just ahead past that rattan thicket,” Dart said.

A great bird crashed off through the branches above us as I followed what path there was. When we were through the little grove, I braked, stopped the engine, and climbed down. This was the Death Place.

Our burst of speed had set the Beast People some way behind. I left Dart gasping in his seat and went to look round. A patch of ground had been roughly cleared; several slabs of rock stood from the ground, memorials to the dead. Below, scarcely glimpsed through scrub and jungle, was the section of the island I knew. On the other side was the unknown half. It hardly looked inviting. The land rose brokenly, covered in thick vegetation.

Something lay gleaming on the far side of the crude cemetery. I walked among the rocks and pushed through thick feathery grass, growing from pebbles. Things scuttled and slithered under my feet; I kept a watch for snakes but saw only harmless green lizards.

A gigantic metal framework lay among the undergrowth, almost smothered in vegetation. I traced it along as best I could, until a thorn thicket stopped me. I followed it in the opposite direction, but the end went over a precipitous gully where I could not follow, and was lost among low trees. It looked like a gigantic pylon of some kind. I turned back to the truck. Dart switched on a cassette player and savage music started and a roaring voice sang.

Animal or human, cast an eye

On the mystery of Death and Birth—

The Shape you're given the day you're born

Is lost when we put you under earth.

So human or animal, take good care

To speak with speech and obey the Creed—

It's better to suffer and keep your Shape

Than lose it all and be dead indeed.

Animal or human or human-like,

The Master watches you and you know why—

For when we put you under earth

You meet the bigger Master in the Sky,

With a bigger Whip and a bigger trip—

That Master in the Sky!

“How do you like it?” Dart asked, when I reached the truck. “I wrote it myself. The tune's an old English traditional air. It's the nearest I'll ever get to a hymn. The beasts like it because the words are simple and the sentiment's memorable.”

I recognized Dart as the singer. He had enlisted the aid of a synthesizer, and deepened and enriched his slightly reedy tenor.

“We get the Creed later,” he said. “The Beast People really go for that—you'll hear. You see, one thing I could have been if my life had been normal was a songwriter. I had a flair for it. You probably heard my jingles in the village, ‘Be Beastly Now,' and so on and so forth.”

“This hymn of yours sets you up as a sort of God. It's cheap blasphemy.”

He looked ugly, and was evidently still in pain from the drive. “No, Roberts, not cheap—dear. Everything I've got I've bought dear. In the Creed, I set myself up as the ideal standard of beauty on this dump. Why not? If everyone had limbs like mine, that would be the measure of beauty, right?”

Dart laughed. I looked beyond him, listening to the ever present boom of the ocean against rock, and tracing with my eye the huge metal structure, couched among the undergrowth like the carcass of a giant animal.

“Dart?”

He was recovered, although the sweat glittered on his forehead under the helmet.

“What's the pylon object lying in the undergrowth back there?”

“It
is
a pylon. Dates from the eighties and the old Omega global navigational system. Cost billions of dollars and was obsolete as soon as erected. The world's a sideshow really—don't even you sometimes feel that?”

“Frankly, no.”

“That's what I like about you, Mr. Roberts—you're always good for a spot of conversation.”

The Beast People were filling the clearing now, shambling up and gathering round the perimeters of the cemetery, glancing at each other meanwhile, unclear of their roles. The effect was stunningly like a human gathering at a burial when, if ever, daily functions catch us unrehearsed for the presence of death. These uncouth and ailing parishioners had most things in common with my own kind, and I felt my mistrust of them diminish.

While the Master supervised four of them in digging a grave with some entrenching tools, courtesy of U.S. Army, which he had brought along, I took a closer look at the slabs of rock that served as gravestone. They numbered seven. Four of them had names cut, or rather scratched, in their surface; Jimmy Baedermeyer, Chuck Hapgood, Ed Bergetti, Andy Hall. Beneath each name was their year of death—the same year in all cases—below that the letters “R.I.P.,” and below that, faintly scratched, the initials “H.M.” Hans—he had taken the trouble to commemorate the dead. I wondered if the four men had any connection with the private plane which, according to Dart, had brought Heather here from Samoa.

Dart glanced at the watch plugged into his cyborg arm.

“Getting on for three o'clock, Mr. Roberts. Of course, there's a difference of time zones, but I like to think that your high-up chums in Washington are holding a funeral for you right now. Full religious rites and all that, faces as long as your sleeve.… Which ceremony is the bigger fake, do you reckon?”

“You told me you cared for Hans.”

He grunted dismissively. “Do you think I care for his corpse? Do you think
he
does?… Wait till this lot get worked up in a bit. You'll enjoy it. There's more genuine feeling running here than in Washington, I promise you that.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead. “Aren't you a bit afraid of them?”

After a moment's silence, during which he stared out at the Beast People, he said, in a more serious tone than he had been using, “In a way, I regard them as my kind. None of us belong anywhere but on Moreau Island …”

Maybe he thought these covert pleas for sympathy had some effect on me.

The hole for Maastricht's coffin was dug with great effort. Even the brawniest of the Beast People were making slow headway. Finally, Dart cried, “That'll do! We aren't trying to strike oil. George, Alpha, help get the coffin off the truck, and go easy with it. If you drop it, you go in the hole yourself.”

I watched him closely. He never kept still, striding mechanically from side to side, flicking the whip, and towering over the submissive and unkempt heads of the Beast People.

The hole was less than a meter deep. As he passed me, I said, “Are you down to the rock? It's a very shallow grave.”

“I wouldn't put it past them to try and dig Hans up once we're gone, would you?” he replied. “Just to see what really happens when you're dead.”

The coffin was lowered in and the two surly Bull Men were delegated to shovel back the earth and stones. George pulled his hat from his head with an uncouth parody of reverence.

All this time, the cassette player in the truck had been grinding out Dart's “hymn”; he switched it off now and addressed the congregation.

“My people, this is a solemn time, when a friend of ours, Hans Maastricht, finally loses his Shape. You all know he did wrong and did not obey the Master, which is me. So we bring him here to the Death Place to be taken up by the Big Master Underground and in the Sky, who watches over all of us, me included. His Whip is bigger than mine, and his wrath greater, and he's fast, so watch it. It takes a long while to acquire your Shape, but not very long to lose it. That's what it's all about.