Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (26 page)

“I did not leave Skull Island,” said Stormalong, “for a very sound and simple reason. I could not. For I was a prisoner of Kong, high in his lair on Mount Skull.”

“Prisoner! For what purpose, father?”

“As near as I could make out, I was his plaything. Kong’s sole friend and companion. This was after the loss of the female ape that had been his only solace in life.”

“The brute treated you well?”

“He fed me. Kept me. Protected me. But it was a very long time before I could escape his lair. Most of my men perished attempting to succor me. Alas.”

This sacrifice was accorded the silence it deserved.

“And that is the sad story of the last of the
Courser,
” said Stormalong, fingering his profuse beard.

“You have not told how you escaped,” reminded Doc.

“Oh, that. It seems that the natives on the other side of the island like to sacrifice maidens to Kong every so often. It was during the ceremony that Kong took me up in his hairy hand and bore me to the altar on the plain where the poor unfortunate girl had been shackled.”

“I saw that altar,” offered Doc. “And deduced its purpose in part.”

“In picking up the maiden,” continued Stormalong, “Kong set me in a tree, and from this I escaped. I imagine the old brute thought after so long in his company I had no impulse for freedom. But escape I did. He has been searching for me ever since. But he has never found me. I constructed this tree mansion over the years. It has served me well. Kong cannot enter this portion of the forest. It is too thickly treed and defeats him every time he tries. But I suspect that he knows I dwell here. I do not think he has forgotten me.”

“I see,” said Captain Savage.

“Tell us about the slashers, Grandfather.”

“Vicious beasts. The very devil on bird-of-prey legs. I am reminded of the mythical wyvern and cockatrice, which combined the scaly bodies of dragons with the attributes of the bird family. Slashers run in packs, like hyena or wolves. Everything that walks is their prey. Man. Beasts. I have seen them lay open many a larger creature with their hooked talons.”

“They seemed intelligent. They whistled in response to my call.”

Stormalong pursed his lips and gave a credible slasher whistle. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” said Doc, slightly startled.

“They learned to whistle from me. That is my sound signal. They merely mimic it.”

“So who was whistling in response to my call?” asked Doc.

“At first, it was I. It was a little game, you see. I came upon your Indian and distracted him, so I could approach your father, and surprise him.”

Captain Savage exploded. “And I
was
surprised. No, astonished! I make no bones about it, gentlemen.”

Stormalong vented a hearty laugh that shook his long, bony frame.

“I used to surprise your father when he was young in just such a way. Well, I came upon him and he was so shocked he was speechless. When he told me that you were up that tree, I suggested a prank. He went along with it willingly.”

Doc Savage eyed his father. The senior Savage—senior no longer—averted his gaze.

“So when you landed and gave forth your musical call, I returned with one of my own. But the slashers were about. One heard me—a Jabberwock!”

“Jabberwock?” asked Doc.

Stormalong laughed. “So I named them, with due apologies to Lewis Carroll. Penjaga told me that the Tagu called them deathrunners. That was the one you discovered standing by his lonesome. The sapphire-eyed devil that whistled. He was luring you into a snare, you see. You can always tell a deathrunner from a mere slasher by the deep violet hue of their eyes. Also, by the bloody streaks amid their dark plumage. ”

“I suspected as much,” said Doc. “But you make them sound intelligent.”

“The pack leaders are. The slashers simply follow the deathrunners. When I realized your peril, I called out to you. It was too dangerous to jump into the fray, as I had no weapon other than your strange gun, which I did not know how to operate.”

Doc Savage drank it all in.

“I thank you for the timely rescue,” he said simply.

“It was the least I could do for my own flesh and blood. I am only sorry that our harmless prank turned into such a travesty.”

“It was not your fault,” said Doc graciously.

“Kind of you to say so, Clark. May I call you Clark?”

“I go by Doc these days.”

“Doc. Splendid name! I never fancied the name Clark. Too bookish. My late wife forced it upon me, in naming your father. I wanted to call him—now what was it? Oh, yes. Nicholas.”

“I would have enjoyed being known as Nicholas,” admitted Clark Savage, Senior.

“I never told you that. But when I caught you reading Nick Carter, I could not bear to hold it against you.”

“Well and good,” said Captain Savage, seeming uncomfortable with the past.

Stormalong looked around the table. “Well, now that we have eaten our fill, what is there to do but discuss old times?”

Doc Savage interrupted, “I would like to see Kong with my own eyes.”

“That would not be wise,” warned Stormalong. “He would no doubt endeavor to make a captive of you, as he did me.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Captain Savage sharply.

“If and when you see Kong with your own eyes,” snapped Old Stormy, “you will instantly know the why of it.”

And that was all Stormalong Savage would say on the subject.

Chapter XXXII

THEIR REPAST CONCLUDED, they were given a tour of the tree house of Stormalong Savage. They climbed the spidery ratlines to reach its various platforms.

It began reminding Doc of a magnificent ship of the trees, with clear analogues to decks and holds and other, similar structures. There was a hammock for sleeping strung between fat boughs, just as ocean-going sailors once slept in similar arrangements in their crew quarters. For shade and privacy, enormous ribbed sails such as decorated the Dimetrodon dinosaur back in the Jurassic were erected in strategic spots.

Even the thick leaves in the branches suggested natural sails and rigging. It was like some jungle fantasy out of Kipling or Haggard.

“Built by hand, every bit of it,” the grizzled old sea captain said proudly. “Of course, it was engineered for a crew of men. Sadly, it houses but one.”

“It is very much like a jungle home fit for a king,” agreed Captain Savage, showing pride in his father’s handiwork.

Stormalong grinned widely. “It is a refuge from wild creatures. For as you have already discovered, Skull Island is a relic of antiquity. I have come to call it the Island that Almighty God Forgot.”

“There is no doubt of that,” assayed Captain Savage. “I, too, pronounced it thus—in nearly identical terms.”

There were few conveniences, of course. Vines weighted with blocks of wood served as simple devices with which to reach the ground. One had only to toss one off a platform constructed for that purpose and slip down to the ground. Clambering back up, one withdrew the line for storage and to confound any climbing creature, human or not.

Studying it all, Doc was reminded of the story of the Karo-Batak tribe, who, having lost their sea, kept their seafaring traditions alive in their architecture. But he thought better than to bring up the comparison.

Clark Savage, Senior, turned to his father. “Captain, I suggest that we repair to my ship, if for no other reason than to give you the opportunity to stand on a sound deck once more.”

The grizzled old man looked sad of eye. He was a long time answering.

“Swear to me on your family honor that once I have done so, you will not sail off with me as unwilling supercargo.”

“I so swear,” Captain Savage said forlornly.

They shook hands and it was done.

Dropping lines over the edge, they slid down, all four of them. Chicahua insisted upon going first to face any danger, his broad machete lifted.

Striking out for the western shore of Skull Island, they began the long march to the sea. Chicahua led the way, swinging his machete as if he ached to encounter marauding Dyaks.

Doc Savage again took the lead, his Annihilator submachine gun cradled easily in his great arms. He seemed not to tire.

“I do not recognize that uniform, sir,” Stormalong Savage said after a while, eyeing Doc.

“United States Army, lately separated. We have just fought a world war—the first in history.”

“I trust our side emerged victorious.”

“It did, sir.”

“Bully!”

Stormalong Savage had a coil of plaited rope tied to his waist, from which hung three black balls.

“What is that, may I ask, Father?” began Captain Savage.

“I spent some time in the Argentine, as you might recollect. I there began practicing with the bolas. I find it among the most useful devices imaginable for whatever one encounters in these horrid woods.”

As they walked along, Captain Savage paused once in a while to whistle.

“What is the purpose of that?” asked Clark Savage, Senior.

“If there are slashers about, it flushes them out of concealment, the better to dispense with them.”

“If there were slashers about,” interposed Doc, “I would have detected them.”

Old Stormy cocked a curious eyebrow. “By what means?”

“My son has possession of the most extraordinary olfactory receptors,” supplied Captain Savage. “He means that he would smell them.”

“He has taken after his grandfather, I see,” said Stormalong, adding for Doc’s benefit, “Slashers smell of carrion.”

“I know,” said Doc. “I committed their repulsive odor to memory on my first encounter with them.”

“My son has the benefit of an unusual and extended education,” said Captain Savage proudly.

“I can see that he has reached his majority a splendid specimen of manhood,” agreed the most senior Savage.

“Actually, he is short by many months of that milestone. Over a year, in actual fact.”

“Indeed! He looks to be a man of maturity.”

“He is.”

Doc kept silent. He was unaccustomed to being spoken of in such a way. He remained intent along the way ahead, absorbing everything he could. The presence of Stormalong was a distraction, however. He was very curious about his legendary grandfather. What conversation passed between the storied clipper captain and his own father was proving to be very revealing.

THEY passed through the jungle without encountering anything more noteworthy than the insects which seemed to belong to another time. Cockroaches as large as a thumb. Undulating millipedes longer than many snakes. Whenever anything with wings whisked by, they started, freezing in their tracks, thinking of Dyak darts.

The heat of the day was mounting and it made the going arduous in its way. They kept close to the riverbank, beside which cattails and tall thistles waved lazily.

“Is this channel dignified by a name?” asked Captain Savage.

“We call it the River of No Return,” Stormalong replied.

Captain Savage grunted, “A fitting, but unfortunate name.”

“It flows down from Mount Skull. I have often thought of it as a modern River Styx, just as I have sometimes imagined Kong to be a primitive Zeus holding sway over his fearful domain like the Monarch of the Gods looking down from lofty Mount Olympus.”

Hearing this fanciful account, Doc and his father exchanged concerned glances.

They began wondering if Kong was real, after all….

Coming to the savannah-like plain, they turned toward the water. In the distance, a line of giant turtles was making its ponderous way. Doc and his father were struck by the enormous parrot-like beaks that made their jaws resemble powerful ploughs.

“You say that the war party of Sea Dyaks is in search of Kong?” asked Stormalong Savage of his son.

“Indeed. They seem fixated upon him.”

“Then they are mad. Kong is too mighty for any man to best. He is a veritable Titan of old. Elemental as Thor, the thunderer.”

“I would like to take the measure of this gorilla with my own eyes,” Captain Savage said with a trace of skepticism.

Stormalong grinned in his bushy beard. “Oh, Kong is no gorilla. He is much too intelligent. Nor is he built along the lines of an African gorilla, especially. For one thing, his legs are too long. For another, he walks upright much of the time.”

Captain Savage grunted. “Then I am doubly interested in this beast. I have been taught that man alone walks upright.”

“Kong is unlike anything man—civilized man—has ever encountered. I believe him to be the last of his race. He has no mate, nor any prospects of one. His passing would be a tragedy of the highest order.”

Doc interposed, “You speak of Kong as if he were human.”

Old Stormy smiled thinly. “Kong and I spent many long years in each other’s company. A bond was formed. We have looked into one another’s souls. Such things do not fade. If I did not believe in his supreme might, I would be leading the charge to his rescue. But Kong does not need our puny assistance. He can handle the Sea Dyaks himself. I would stake my life upon it.”

“You make him sound like a virtual demi-god…” Captain Savage asserted.

“He is. Kong is the absolute monarch of all that you see about you.”

Passing safely through the grassland, they came to the ring of bamboo and palm forest that edged this side of Skull Island. It was impossibly green, sunlight picking out innumerable shades of verdigris.

“What is that smoke?” asked Captain Savage, his sharp golden eyes going to Skull Mountain’s stern summit.

Doc spoke up. “The Dyaks have torched the lair of Kong, in the hope of denying him refuge.”

Old Stormy shook his white head. “In that they are truly mad. For they will only enrage him. The braincase—if you will—of Mount Skull is a hollow chamber in which Kong keeps those things dear to him. His keepsakes.”

“Such as?”

“The bodies of the maidens that have been sacrificed to him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He does not kill or eat them, although they perish in time.”

“Yet he spared you?” said Doc.

“And the reason for that, as I have told you, is a thing you will realize should the fateful encounter ever come,” pronounced Old Stormy loftily.