The Lost Island (19 page)

T
HEY PUT GIDEON
in the bottom of one of the canoes and Amy in the other. Gideon made sure to bring their drysacks with them. The men ran them into the water, leapt in, and began paddling like mad as the canoes shot out into the surf, bashing through the breaking waves. Gideon was instantly soaked and thoroughly terrified by the time they reached calmer water beyond the break.

Even beyond the breakers it was a nerve-racking journey. The sea was running high, the long canoe riding up and down the great swells while the men, their bare, muscled backs glistening with drops of water, paddled in unison to a rhythmic chant. The wind blew straight into their faces but the canoes moved fast, cutting through the water at five miles an hour. The early-morning sun rose over the distant islands, throwing a brilliant golden light over the sea, limning the mountain peaks in purple.

The landforms slowly rose up as they approached. Gideon could make out three of them. A massive, initial island thrust steeply out of the sea, rising more than a thousand feet into the clouds. A smaller but even steeper and taller island lay beyond it. Right in front of them was the twisted place: a volcanic sea stack or eroded plug that stuck up like a witch’s finger, a black, bent spire of rock.

They headed for the closer island, just behind the twisted stack. As they approached, Gideon could see the white cream of surf, and beyond it a narrow beach of black sand, ending in steep volcanic cliffs hung with vegetation and pierced by caves.

The two canoes raced into the surf and were carried through the breakers and into the calm water beyond before grounding on the sand. The men leapt out and hauled the canoes up beyond the high-water mark.

They had arrived. Gideon watched as Amy came over. The men were busy securing the canoes.

“Feels like the lost world,” said Amy, looking around.

The others approached, led by a strange, wizened old man whom Gideon hadn’t seen prior to the canoe journey. He was wearing only traditional garb, not the Western clothing of the others, and he carried a tall staff topped by a carved eagle and other, fanciful creatures. His fingers had multiple rings; a dozen heavy necklaces circled his neck. The other men treated him with great deference, casting their eyes to the ground as he walked past.

Now the man walked up to them and stopped, looking at them both. His wrinkled, craggy face, pendulous lips, and gleaming black eyes gave him the air of a man of mystery and power. This man, Gideon thought, must be a spiritual leader or head shaman.

After examining them intently, in dead silence, he gestured to iPhone, who seemed to have become their companion and general factotum. iPhone bustled over, and the man spoke to him.

iPhone turned toward Amy. Gesturing and pointing, and offering the odd Spanish word or two, he communicated that she was to stay with him—she would be separated from the rest. The ceremony was not for her.

Amy began to protest, but Gideon made a calming gesture. “Go with the flow,” he said. “We’ll have our chance to explore later.”

Glaring at him, she nodded. iPhone led her away down the beach, and they were soon gone.

In complete silence, the priest raised his staff as the other men fell in line. He positioned Gideon to walk directly behind him. They proceeded in solemn fashion down the beach for a few hundred yards until they came to a crevasse in the volcanic walls, with the faintest of trails heading up. The priest began to climb, Gideon following with the rest. For an old man the priest was remarkably spry, and Gideon had trouble keeping up with him.

As they gained altitude, tremendous vistas opened up—the great expanse of sea, the waves thundering on the beach far below, and the distant mainland, like a blue-green sea of its own, flat along the shore but rising into steep mountains farther inland. A pair of eagles, disturbed from some nesting place in the cliffs around them, wheeled about over their heads, their cries piercing the air.

Gideon looked everywhere but could see no plant that produced pods or buds that resembled the lotus. He wanted to ask about it but decided it was better to go slowly and see how things developed. He sensed the great solemnity of the moment and was intimidated by the silence of the men.

The trail grew steeper. The priest continued on, climbing with both hands, his staff now tied to his back. Gideon had to push back against his own fear of heights as dizzying spaces opened up below. Still the eagles circled and cried.

And then, abruptly, the trail came over the lip of a broad ledge. Gideon was so relieved to be away from the cliff that he almost collapsed in gratitude. The other men came up and the priest led them along the broad ledge, around a column of basalt—to the mouth of a large cave. Huge, ancient flowering bushes hung down from its ragged upper edge like so many green scalp locks, in some places almost obscuring the entrance.

But there was no more time for speculation, because the others were already silently filing in.

Inside, the cave was low-ceilinged, with a smooth, sandy floor. They walked about a hundred feet in and paused. Gradually, as Gideon’s eyes became used to the darkness, he saw that strange pictographs in deep red and blue were painted on the walls. Several men now fetched brands from a pile leaning against the wall and, with an expert striking of flints, lit them ablaze. They continued deeper into the cave.

Gideon’s breath quickened when he saw, just ahead, a massive black rock that seemed to be some kind of altar—and painted on a slab behind it was an ancient pictograph, faded by time, depicting the grotesque figure of a monster being, covered with hair, with enormous muscled arms, jutting chin, huge knobby feet—and a single, gigantic eye in the center of its face, surmounted by a massive brow.

He turned to ask the priest a question about it, but the priest gave him a blazingly hostile gaze and made a gesture of silence before he could speak.

Brands burning, they approached the altar, the men fanning out. The priest walked up to it and—so suddenly it startled Gideon—broke out into a loud, nasal chant, which was answered by the men, repeated by the priest, and answered again, in a call and response. The cave echoed with the strange sounds of their half-singing, half-spoken voices. This, Gideon reasoned, must be the beginning of the ceremony of thanksgiving.

The men planted their brands to form a circle around the flat altar. Only then did Gideon notice that the altar was actually a box, with a stone lid. The men moved forward in unison and, still chanting, removed the lid.

A foul odor wafted out. Similar to the lotus, only much, much stronger.

The chanting accelerated as the priest reached in and removed what looked to Gideon like a bundle of small, black, twisted cheroot cigars. He counted out several, carried one to Gideon and placed it in his hand; the rest he solemnly distributed to the others, keeping the final one for himself.

Gideon stared at the thing. It looked like a dried root of some kind, or perhaps a fungus. The smell was fearful, like a combination of dirty feet and bitter almonds.

They retreated to the sand before the altar, sitting down cross-legged. The priest slid the stone lid back into place while several men fetched wood out of a stack in a corner of the cave and set up a bonfire. When it was done the priest set fire to it with his brand. The flames leapt up, filling the cave with flickering light.

In the firelight, Gideon could see things even more clearly. The altar was beautifully polished—gleaming like black ebony—the depiction of the creature behind disturbing in its detail, despite the stylized, geometric nature of the design.

One man went around, placing a polished, flat stone in front of each person, upon which he placed a mortar and pestle carved of lava, along with a stone cup full of water. The priest took up a position at the head of the circle, sitting on a raised stone, and lifted his implements as if to have them blessed. The others did likewise, and Gideon followed suit.

The head priest then poured a little water into the mortar, broke off a piece of the root, dropped it in, and began grinding it, all the while keeping up a rhythmic chant. The others did the same and so did Gideon, pounding and grinding, making a mush. A foul smell arose.

When the fungus-thing was completely turned into a kind of gruel, the priest lifted the stone cup to his lips and drank deeply. The others did the same and Gideon, hesitating, at last followed suit. It tasted hideous and it was all he could do to swallow it. Was this the real lotus? What they had given Amy back on the mainland seemed to be a pale comparison to this powerful-smelling root.

The chanting increased. Gideon wondered what effect the concoction might have. Frightful scenarios out of Carlos Castaneda came to mind. He tried to tell himself that everyone had taken it, so at least it wouldn’t kill him. In his wild youth he’d had more than a little experience with drugs, and he figured that, whatever was in store for him, he’d ride it out. He was reassured that this was a ceremony of thanking the gods. He’d been right after all.

In a few minutes, the queerest feeling began to creep over him—a dreamy sense of peace and well-being, a glow that encircled and surrounded him, growing stronger little by little, until he felt swaddled and cocooned, as if a babe in his mother’s arms again. He had never felt such peace, such acceptance. And then a strange thing happened. While he normally didn’t dwell on his troubles—his horrible childhood, his father’s murder, his loneliness, his terminal disease—he did nevertheless carry the burden of them always, unseen. But now, as the drug took hold, that burden was lifted. He forgot—or rather, ceased caring—about those things that blighted his life. With this burden lifted, he felt free, at peace, at home with himself in a way he never had before. It all dropped away, everything—his childhood, his long-gone father and mother, his cabin in the mountains of New Mexico, everything disappeared in a lambent sea of forgetfulness, and time seemed to cease altogether…

T
HE CHANTING SEEMED
to come and go, like the waves of a sea. Gideon lay back in the sand. He felt absolutely wonderful and fully alive. The firelight flickered warmly on the cave walls, burnishing them into gold riven with dancing shadows. The sand was soft and luxurious as he smoothed it with his hand, idly clutching it and feeling the tickling sensation as it ran through his fingers. There was a rich smell of stone and sand, overlaid with the perfume of wood smoke. The crackling and popping of the fire filled him with an overwhelming sense of warmth and reassurance. Most lovely of all, the glow of heat soaked into his skin and seemed to warm his very bones: a warmth more than mere heat; a warmth of spirit and of life itself.

As he lay there, he saw that the men around him had risen, unsteadily, smiling blissfully like him. But they seemed to have some kind of purpose, these wonderful friends of his. They came over to him and he felt himself being lifted up, carried, their strong, muscled arms bearing him along—deeper into the cave.

The warmth of the fire began to fade, as did the firelight, but Gideon didn’t care: it was all good, whatever they were doing. A clammy, wet sensation wafted over his limbs as they proceeded, their progress lit by a single brand, but the wonderful thing about it was that Gideon still knew that wherever they were going, all was good. The dark mystery of the cave thrilled him, and he knew he would be taken care of by these good, kind people.

The men began to chant, a low, soft, mournful chant that touched him in his very soul with its primordial beauty.

The cave tunnel broadened into a somewhat larger chamber. Gideon wondered if it was real or a dream. Maybe the whole thing was a dream. But no: it was far too powerful to be a dream, far too deep an experience to be in his mind. Despite the sluggishness of his limbs, the delicious sense of somnolence, he nevertheless felt a clarity of mind and a curiosity about what would happen next.

The men laid him down on a raised stone slab, almost like a bed. The mournful chanting increased. Another fire was built, which chased away the clammy damp and threw a welcome warmth about the cavern. The high priest appeared above him with a clay jar, which he dipped his hand into, perfumed oil dribbling down his fingers—and then Gideon was anointed with it. The other men gathered around and Gideon felt the deep honor of their attention, felt their concern and kindness toward him, thankful and gratified by their consideration.

He looked around at the chanting men, now slowly revolving in a sort of slow dance, their hands moving strangely, winding around the cavern and into a dark recess. Then from that dark recess was borne a wooden pallet, carried by eight men on two thick timbers, and on the pallet rested something large and white: a skull. A strange skull, massive like a gorilla, only bigger—with a single, dark, vacant eyehole under a thick ridge of bone.

Gideon stared. Was this some kind of sculpture? But no, this was a real skull—very old, worn, cracked, and almost human. Except for that mysterious, single eye socket. It was the same creature as the pictograph, a one-eyed giant. How interesting…How fascinating…This creature had once existed…The lotus had taken over his being, and he had gladly yielded…He stared at the skull, mesmerized.

Lotus. Lotus Eaters. Odysseus. And then, even in his drugged state, the connection came to him like a bolt of lightning. He thought back to what happened to Odysseus right after he left the land of the Lotus Eaters. On the next island, he came to the land of the Cyclops.

Cyclops.

He was staring at a Cyclops skull. The Cyclops of the
Odyssey
had once actually existed. And here was the proof of it, right here in front of him—in this skull that the natives treasured, preserved, and worshipped.

The ancient skull of a Cyclops.

Gideon stared, transfixed. How beautiful, how fascinating, was this huge skull, with its immense jaw, long interlocking canines, and massive bony crest. And what a tremendous discovery this was for science. Gideon lay back. Science? It didn’t seem important now. He didn’t care.

And now the skull was taken down from the pallet and placed on a stone plinth, and the chanting morphed into a kind of spoken song, like wind moaning about a forest. The old priest approached and, from a wooden trencher, plucked up an armful of pods—dried lotus pods—which he scattered about and on top of Gideon, followed by drops of shaken oil. And now the priest was kneeling close, and a long, beautifully flaked obsidian blade had appeared in his hand and was hovering over Gideon’s face, coruscating in the firelight.

Gideon tried to make sense of it, tried to find his voice, but could not. Never mind: it was all good, whatever it was they were doing, his lovely friends. More wood was thrown on the fire and it leapt up, sparks ascending into the darkness, the crackling of the wood echoing in the chamber.

The blade descended, touched his neck where it met the base of one ear.

A small, very small part of Gideon’s brain seemed to be sounding a distant alarm. Strange that he felt no pain, even as the blade began to bite, even as he felt the warm trickle of blood…