Rakasa (2 page)

T
he
kid says his name is actually David. At least I was close.

David says he comes from Ireland. “Born and bred,” he says
and he does so with pride. He told me his family name but I forgot it the
instant the name left his lips. It didn’t seem important to ask him to tell me
twice.

“The captain said I had talent,” David says. “He said I made
the best stew he ever had. And he had a lot of stew in his life, so that meant
something. He hired me then and there, took me from that kitchen Mr. Barton
owned. And I was glad to be out of there, you know? Mr. Barton was a mean drunk
with only one and a half legs, having lost one to cannon fire, but he was still
fond of kicking me around, both literally and otherwise.”

I was tempted to throw the kid overboard so that he may
focus on swimming as compared to rambling on and on. First, I tried a more
subtle approach.

I ask him, “Will you please shut up so that I might figure
out just where the hell we are?”

The kid closes his mouth and turns away from me.

I have no actual way of determining where we are. Of course
not. I’m no navigator. The navigator was dead down at the bottom of the ocean.
I just want the kid to stop talking.

I watch the waves and study how the fog makes love with the
wind.

I think of my lady Mary.

Everyone is entitled to one true love in their life and mine
is Mary Hankins.

Met Mary at a costume party down the way from a pub. She
comes from a rich family with ties to the Navy, but that doesn’t matter. She
was this golden thing, all feathers and flash. She didn’t dance with all the
men but all the men danced with her—I would beg you not to correct my meaning.

I didn’t have the money for a costume but the party had free
drink, so I would not be denied entrance. I smeared white and red paint on my
face, plucked the feather out of a chicken’s ass, and called myself a Cherokee.

The party guests treated me with scorn. I treated them to up-close
looks at my black and gold teeth.

Mary got passed to me by mistake in the hustle of a big
dance. She was in my arms and the drink was on the floor before I even knew
what was happening.

I remember seeing nothing but her eyes and her smile. That
was enough to know that our futures would be forever intertwined.

I took her closer and kissed her longingly. People gasped at
first, but they clapped when she wrapped her arms around me and returned the
kiss.

Doesn’t get much better than that, in my experience.

I think of her removing her mask and I frown.

I cannot recall her looks just now. I know that she is
beautiful, not just to me but to every man in town. I think she is like the
sun, vibrant and bright and charitable with her life. Her hair is blond. Her
bosom is considerable. Her character is charming and flirty.

Her face is but a blur…

The ghost who holds my heart troubles me, so I think on
something else: the lifeboat’s supplies.

In addition to my sword and flintlock pistol, the lifeboat
has a potato bag of supplies. I empty it onto the floor. There are three flasks
for water, all bone dry. There is rice but no means of cooking it. A trio of
apples, no longer fit for human consumption, now acts as the hosts for worms
and rot. I do, however, find a compass and telescope.

David is sniffling with his head hung low.

“Quit your bawling,” I say.

“Those poor animals,” David says. “First they get sick then
they burn and sink.”

“Hmm.”

“Do animals like lions go to heaven?”

“Fuck…”

The boy goes silent. I secretly thank him.

The compass says we are heading east. It’s not helpful,
considering we have no idea where we are, but I appreciate knowing
something
.

The telescope offers up a magnified view of the fog.
Useless. I put it aside for later.

At least it’s not hot, so we won’t need to drink. Not yet.

Don’t drink the ocean,
my Papa always told me,
you’ll
go mad with the phobias,
then
it’ll kill you.

The rippling waves didn’t look dangerous like Papa said.
Quite inviting, in fact. Still, I’ve always trusted Papa’s truths, as they’ve
not led my astray thus far.

“Look!” David shouts.

I follow his finger to the sky and beyond the fog there is a
gull riding the winds.

The only gulls in the middle of the ocean are dead gulls… or
ones near land.

We must be close to shore.

We might survive this yet.

I
awake chewing on sand.

It takes me a moment to figure out that it’s not a dream,
that I’m on the beach and that the surf is tickling my toes.

I sit up and gaze out at the ocean—it’s never looked so big
and unhappy to see me—then turn to see birds playing in palm trees behind me.

I stand and brush the sand out of my hair. The lifeboat is
tied to a tree, empty except for the oars.

David’s nowhere to be seen.

There are footprints in the sand and I follow them until
they reach the rocks. I’m a sailor, not a ranger. I can’t track shit.

My head hurts. There’s needles behind my eyes and I’d like a
drink—preferably rum—but I’d settle for water. Maybe there’s a pond somewhere.

But where am I?

Beyond the trees are rocky hills featuring very little
vegetation. I’m gonna climb one and get a lay of the land.

The birds hoot and holler at me when I pass the tree line
and leave the beach. I tip my hat to them, saviors that they are, but I’d beg
them to shut their beaks if they were smart enough to understand.

The foliage is thick. The ground is hard and brittle.
Doesn’t make sense. Being so close to the shore should make the dirt moist, but
this stuff is crumbling beneath my feet like we’re miles from the coast and in
the worst kind of drought. Further confounding matters is the fact that the
leaves are green on every tree. There is no drought here. So, why the brittle
soil, then?

The jungle is thick. It clings to me, blocks out the sun.
Feels like drowning in the deep. I look back and the bright beach is still
visible between the swaying fronds. It beckons to me. The ocean, however
unforgiving, seems willing to take me back.

I want to return to the beach and take my shoes off, feel the
sand between my toes. I like that feeling. I want it now more than ever.

I’m just about to turn away from the sand and keep moving on
when I notice that the birds have stopped their play.

I scan the trees until I spot one of them.

It’s this blue and yellow thing, just hanging out in the
branches above, and it’s staring down at me like I’m not from this earth or
something.

“What?” I ask the bird.

He doesn’t reply.

I find a rock and throw it at the bird’s head. He flies away
but he’s quickly replaced by two others. Then a third and a fourth.

They’re up there not making a sound, just watching me like I
got no right to be on their island, like I’m an intruder and they mean to tell
on me.

Fuck ’em.

I swat away leaves and push onward. The branches leave their
marks on my face and arms. I shrug it off. Got no time to worry about being
pretty.

The trees thin and I see a hill of dirt.

I reach the hill and start climbing. There are fewer trees
here, which means there’s less foliage, but there’s also fewer footholds and
the hill is steep.

I manage.

Rocks tumble away when I put my weight on them. They hit the
trees and send the birds flying. I reach the top of the hill. It’s not the
tallest hill on the island but it gives me a good vantage point.

The island isn’t big. I can see all its edges. There are no
signs of human life or any kind of encampment. No fields for veggies. No
livestock. Nothing but the birds above and a whole lot of green.

No sign of David, either.

I frown, realizing even the birds have fled.

I’m about to start my climb down when my foot pushes through
the brittle dirt and falls into a hole. I pull it out and look down.

The hole is deep, leading down into the dark of the
apparently hollow hill. I push a rock into the hole and listen as it knocks on
the walls before it plunks into liquid below.

Water.

I get down on my knees and widen the hole.

Can’t see nothing down there, but there’s no mistake there
must be some water of some kind. An underground lake? A flooded cave?

How do I get down there to drink it though?

I stand back up and look around—and then I notice the other
hills. They all got holes at their tops, too.

Strange. Like volcanoes. What, water volcanoes? I heard of
geysers, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t that.

My gaze falls from the hills and looks at the island below. The
soil looks strange even from far away. It’s brittle and light colored in the
shadow of the trees.

Takes me a moment to discern that it’s not just shadows I’m
seeing.

There are holes in the dirt. Holes in the jungle floor, too.

The holes are everywhere. Some of them even catch the light
of the sun, letting me know they go down deep.

It’s like the island has gone to rot and it’s falling apart.

A human scream breaks the silence.

I
f
David isn’t dead then I don’t know what to do for him. If he
is
dead,
then I’ll probably say a few words of remembrance. The uncertainty leaves me
feeling lost. Don’t like it.

I followed the screams to a hole.

The potato bag of supplies was ripped open and scattered all
around the hole’s edges. I found blood, too. It was fresh. I know it’s human
because I recognize the smell. It’s probably David’s but I’m not going down the
hole to check for verification.

Been standing next to that hole for the better part of an
hour, tracking the sun’s descent on the horizon. Got my sword out. It’s shaky
in my hand as my arm grows tired.

I stopped asking if David could hear me some time ago. It’s
obvious he won’t be answering.

What’s got me worried is how many more holes there are on
this island. I stuck my foot down one of them earlier in the day—even thought
for a moment about jumping in for a drink. That was stupid.

Feeling outnumbered. Feeling unprepared.

Feeling vulnerable.

The birds are still up in the branches, watching me like
they know something they’re not telling.

Got one shot for my gun. I consider using it on the bird
I’ve determined to be their leader—he’s a proud little asshole of a parrot with
a bad head bobbing habit—but I stop myself, thinking it would be a terrible
waste.

I’m not tired, not really, but my body begs me to sleep. I
know what that means. I’m shutting down. Don’t got the sustenance that’s
required. Gonna die soon if I don’t drink something, but I don’t feel
comfortable turning my back on the hole that David disappeared into.

Maybe it’s my imagination but I don’t think the birds are
the only ones watching.

I think there’s something down that hole staring up at me.
It’s quiet, whatever it is, because I don’t hear its breathing and there’s not
much else to distract my ears but the wind in the trees.

Must investigate.

With one hand aiming the pistol at the hole, I slowly stab
my sword into the darkness.

Nothing happens.

Just a hole.

If there’s anything down deep, I don’t have the reach to cut
it and it doesn’t have the reach to cut me.

I call a truce with the darkness and put my sword back in
the scabbard, then I grab up the supplies that I can use and walk away.

Walk away, yes, don’t run, but get away from the hole just
the same. Watch your step. Holes are everywhere. Don’t flee from one only to
trip and fall into another.

I walk back to the beach and the birds follow my progress,
flitting from one tree to the next. My constant companions.

The tide has risen since I awoke in the sand. The sun calls
it quits and does its suicide dive into the ocean. The moon’s no replacement;
its white glow only makes me feel cold.

I sit on the rocks and watch the waves rolling in. Behind me,
the birds are chirping happily, proud of me for following their advice and
escaping the jungle alive, I guess.

I keep my back to the trees. I let the holes know I don’t
care. If they’re watching me, whatever they are, I hope they know what they’re
signing up for by messing with me.

Thinking about David. Or was it Daniel? Anyway…

Good kid, I guess. Never thought so highly of his cooking
like the captain seemed to, but what can I say? I got discerning tastes. The
captain, on the other hand, was a fool prone to losing his way. He’s dead now.
I’m not. So it goes.

I do wish there was a body, not just blood. Can’t bury
blood. But then, I guess he
is
beneath the ground, so that’s a burial in
a way, yes?

Yes.

What happened to poor little David? The more I ponder the
question the more certain I am that he was taken—that there is something down
those holes—that something really was looking up and watching me.

I heard tales of cannibals in the lost islands of the world.

They’ll abduct a woman or a child and do ’em up like a roast
boar. They care for nothing. They wear bones of the people they killed, bones
and scalps ripped from the heads of the dead. They’re more demons than man and
worse than any shark or tiger or bear.

I figure there’s some truth to the stories, but mostly
sailors just like to talk about what scares them in hopes that it might scare
other people, too. It’s their way of justifying their fears and remaining men,
I think—it’s a great comfort knowing that countless others fear the same
monsters that you do.

Truth is, I fear them, too.

Naturally, I think, we should fear the monsters that look
like us.

I’d rather be eaten by wolves than have a man that looked a little
like my cousin tear into my calf muscle with a fork and knife.

All the same, I’m not scared of the holes and the things I
am certain live within them. I’m wary of whatever took poor David, but I’m not
scared. I take this to mean that deep down I know I’m not dealing with
cannibals or anything human.

This island is host to something else entirely.