The Cannibals Page 13

  Boggis slept, snoring as loudly as the engine. Midgely leaned against the lady, who sat bolt upright on the stern seat, as far as she could be from Mr. Mullock and still be sitting there. Her arm was draped round Midgely.

  “The poor little dear,” she said. “He's not made for the sun and the heat.”

  She touched his cheeks. They were red and blistered, but I imagined mine were much the same, and maybe worse. As I put more wood in the box, I imagined my eyebrows were being singed away.

  “It's shocking,” she said. “We have to do something for him.”

  She set about it right then, turning the missionary's umbrella into a parasol for Midgely. She hoisted her skirts and tore away a bit of her petticoat—there seemed miles of it under there—and didn't Mr. Mullock's eyes grow wide? The biggest effort he made that morning was to drop his jaw and gape.

  The lady plucked the old bits of cloth from the umbrella wires. She let them flutter from her fingertips and drift away.

  “Was that the reverend's?” asked Mr. Mullock, who already knew that it was. “Did you say 'e was your husband, missus?”

  “Good gracious, no,” she said. “I'm Lucy Beans. Lucy Elizabeth Beans.”

  “A pleasure,” said Mr. Mullock, with a tip of his head.

  She ignored him. “I was the nanny. Until Mrs. Collins up and left, and took the children with her. Why, that was not a week ago. Fancy that, Mr. Mullock.”

  I'd thought Midgely was asleep, but he wasn't. He tipped up his head. “Why didn't you go with them, mum?”

  “And leave the reverend behind?” She patted him fondly. “The poor doddering fellow. If you'd met him, you wouldn't be asking that.”

  I wished I could change places with Midgely. She was the prettiest lady I'd ever seen.

  “I never cared for Mrs. Collins,” she said. “No surprise to me that she took the first chance to leave. When the ship came, she was on it in a streak.”

  “What ship was that?” I asked.

  “Oh, a big brown ship,” said she. “The captain was very kindly. I wish I knew his name.”

  “Was it Tin?” I asked. “Redman Tin?”

  Boggis frowned. “That's your name, Tom,” he said.

  “Huh!” barked Mr. Mullock. “So that's why you're so keen to meet this ship.”

  “Well, no wonder,” said Lucy Beans. She opened the umbrella. “But I'm sorry, Tom, I never heard the man's name. I only called him Captain, and I saw him only briefly. He had an errand in the islands, and didn't tarry long.”

  “What errand, miss?” I asked.

  “He was most mysterious about it.” She ran her fingers through the wires. “He had a talk with the reverend. Then he was off—quick as that. Oh, in a great hurry he was. Afraid he was too late already.”

  It had to have been my father; I was certain of it. He must have called at the mission, searching either for me or for the island where we'd agreed to find each other.

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  Mr. Mullock grunted. “Your fire wants tending, you muggins.”

  “Why, the boy's worn ragged,” said Lucy. “Why don't you tend the fire, Mr. Mullock?”

  “I would,” said he. “Hah! But I'm steering.”

  With a sigh, she put down the umbrella. “I shall tend it myself.”

  “I wouldn't 'ear of it,” said Mr. Mullock. There was a toothed strip of metal set into the back of the boat, and he fitted the tiller to that. Then he rolled himself from the seat, stood up, stretched, and promptly kicked Gaskin Boggis awake. He put him to work instead.

  I was happy to pass on the chores, happier still when Lucy Beans patted the seat and said, “Sit up beside me, dear.”

  Content as a cat, I settled there. The smoke puffed up from the engine and wafted over our heads. The sea went burbling past. “I like this boat,” I said. “It's beautiful.”

  “The reverend's pride and joy.” She picked up the umbrella and laid her petticoat across it. “He brought it out from England so that he might putter round the islands. The girls loved it too. Katy, the youngest, called it Chickadee.”

  It was a splendid name. The engine made just that sound. As I eased back, exhausted, I heard the name repeated over and over in the rattle of cranks, the sigh and puff of steam. Chickadee. Chuckatee. Chuckatee-chickadee. It lulled me into sleep.

  When I woke, all had changed. Midgely was steering, and Mr. Mullock—for once—was sitting like a proper person, his arm stretched behind Midgely. “Now, you're wandering again,” he said. “But for a blind boy you're doing rather well.”

  Midgely was smiling. His face was all in shadow, for above it Lucy Beans was holding the umbrella, now turned to a delicate parasol.

  “Where are you heading?” I asked.

  “I don't even know, Tom,” he said. “But ain't it grand?”

  The compass was arranged so that only Mr. Mullock could see it. When I leaned over, he crossed his legs, blocking my view of the dial.

  “Lucy, how long did you live on the island?” he asked.

  “A year and a half,” said she. “It was an idyll, Mr. Mullock. There was a village nearby, just a handful of houses. Katy and Mae, they played with the Indian children.”

  “With the cannibals?” asked Mr. Mullock.

  She laughed. “Hardly. They were the sweetest people. Then those savages came. Just a few days ago, I think. They came in a huge canoe with a roof and—gracious!—I don't know how many rowers. They…” She put her hand to her eyes. “I can't bear to think of the horror.”

  “I knew the Indians here was friendly,” crowed Midgely. “That was in his book, mum.”

  “By chance, then,” she said. “That silly book. I called it his fairy tale.”

  Poor Midgely. His smile faded; his face collapsed. “It isn't true, mum?” he said.

  “How could it be? He wrote it in England.” She tilted the parasol. “He wrote down the tales of the vagabonds. He plied them with spirits, and they obliged with the wildest stories. But the poor dear took them to heart, and the day he finished that book he told us we were going to see the islands.”

  Midgely was crestfallen, but the news was worse for me. It meant I was seeking my father, and he seeking me, in a strange, invented land. I felt suddenly close to tears. “Is there no island that looks like an elephant?” I asked. “There must be one. I'm supposed to find my father there.”

  She smiled so kindly. “If it must be so, it's so,” she said.

  “Hah!” barked Mr. Mullock.

  “Hush, you!” she said. “The reverend didn't invent things wholly. If he wrote of an elephant island, it was because the vagabonds told him of one. It might not be where he said it is, but it's sure to be somewhere.”

  Precious good that did for me. I looked all around the horizon, but couldn't see a speck of land. Boggis, in his mindless way, was feeding wood to the fire, and the boat was carrying us on. I had no idea where we were, or whither we were going.

  I looked at Midgely steering blindly, at Mr. Mullock glancing at his compass. Then, in the varnished wood, I saw the dial reflected.

  “North!” I said. “You're going north again.”

  He looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I'm taking Miss Beans to Shanghai.”

  She repeated the name. “Shanghai? Could there be a place more wild and wicked?”

  “I fancy not,” said Mr. Mullock, with a grin.

  “No, not since Sodom and Gomorrah,” said she. “Why, I wouldn't go there if it were the last place on earth. What are you thinking, Mr. Mullock?”

  “I…,” he said, faltering. “I thought…I wanted… Well, you see…”

  “Where's this elephant island?” she asked.

  “More to the east,” I said.

  “Then steer to the east,” she commanded.

  Mr. Mullock didn't argue. He hauled on the tiller, and the bow swung around. The smoke streamed sideways for a moment, then fell in line again behind us. For nearly an hour I could loo
k back and see the sudden bend in its path. Slowly that dissolved, and there was nothing to show that we had ever being going anywhere but east. The horizon ahead was empty.

  twenty

  OUR ENCOUNTER WITH THE SAVAGES

  We burned through our wood at a staggering rate. Mr. Mullock said we could keep up our speed, or spare the wood, but not do both. “If we run 'er slowly we might go for days,” he said. “But isn't speed of the hessence 'ere?”

  “Indeed,” said Lucy Beans.

  In the afternoon, a group of islands appeared ahead. They slid toward us on the moving sea, and drew alongside in the evening. The lady made a game of trying to find their hidden shapes, making Midgely giggle with her guesses. “Is that a goose in a bowler hat?” she said. “And look. Isn't that Mr. Mullock? See his big nose?” She saw many things, but not an elephant, and her game lapsed into a dreary sadness.

  We chuffed along until dark, then didn't really land at all. We found a place where the shore was steep and wooded, then tethered the boat to a branch. Mr. Mullock opened the firebox and took out the burning wood. There was a pair of tongs for that purpose, and with those he plunged each stick into the sea. It steamed and hissed, and the water bubbled. Then he lifted the blackened bit—still wet and smoking—and set it in a bucket. The wood had a curious smell, quite tart and strong, that reminded me of gunpowder.

  We slept in the boat, in a horde of insects that swarmed below the trees. Mr. Mullock said there might be pythons, and that we should be on our guard. “They like to drop down and stun you,” he said.

  “Mercy me,” said Lucy. “But you'll stand watch through the night, won't you, Mr.… What's your Christian name, Mr. Mullock?”

  “Ernie,” he said simply.

  In his dark clothes, with his white shirt underneath, a pale strip was all I could see of him. He was standing when I fell asleep, but not when I woke in the morning, and it was soon plain to all that he hadn't kept a very long watch. He was more rested than anyone, and eager to be off.

  We stoked the fire and steamed along the shore, to a beach where tall palms were growing. Mr. Mullock reversed the engine to keep us off the shore. “You and you,” he said to Boggis and me. “Hop out and get some wood.”

  It was easier said than done. We rummaged through the undergrowth, but found only soft and rotted wood. In the end, Mr. Mullock had to come and help us—for Lucy Beans made him do it. He waded ashore with a long, two-handled saw. The boat sat still in the water, under a thin plume of smoke, the hull reflecting all the colors of the sea.

  Mr. Mullock hefted the saw. “Might as well kill two birds with a stone, as my mother would say.”

  We felled one of the palms. Boggis and I did the sawing, and we did the bucking too, while Mr. Mullock went chasing the coconuts that rolled on the sand. But to give him his due, he didn't shirk. He carried the coconuts out to the boat, then carried the wood as we cut it. Back and forth he trudged, looking all the time along the beach and up to the trees. “Hurry, lads,” he said. “There'll be junglies about.”

  When the tree was cut and stowed, and there'd been no sign of savages, we felled another. It crashed to the sand, bounced and crashed back. Boggis and I began sawing.

  We'd gone halfway up the trunk when the savages arrived. They were suddenly on the beach, a silent group armed with spears, twenty and two in their cloths and feathers. But one wore a brown shirt, and another brown trousers, and from the neck of a third—as though a strange trophy—hung an old leather shoe on a string.

  I knew convict clothes when I saw them. These seemed too big for Weedle or Carrots or Penny, but I couldn't be certain. I had no doubt, though, what fate had befallen the poor convict who'd once been inside them. He was now inside their new owner.

  “Keep away, you damned junglies!” shouted Mr. Mullock. “Come no closer now, you hear?” Like a peahen, he seemed to believe that loudness made him frightening. “Face them, lads. Ease back toward me.”

  We did as he said. Boggis held the saw, and together we stepped down the sand. As we closed together, the savages spread apart. They formed a line, a curve that stretched past us on either side. We hurried backward, and barely gained the water before the curve could become a circle that enclosed us. The savages milled closer. One pointed at Mr. Mullock and jabbered away in his strange tongue.

  “No understandee!” shouted Mr. Mullock, shaking his head furiously.

  The savage tugged his breastplate and, pointing again at Mr. Mullock, babbled even louder.

  “No understandee!” said Mr. Mullock again. “Me speakee English, you thick-wit!”

  From the boat, Lucy Beans called out. “If you think you're speaking his tongue, you're mistaken, Mr. Mullock. He's saying he likes your clothing. He admires your coat and vest, and says he'll trade his for yours.”

  “He does, does he? Hah!” Mr. Mullock waved his hands. “Lookee; no tradee!” he shouted at the savage. “Understandee? No tradee!”

  “Please,” I said. “Give him your coat.”

  “Not on your life,” said Mr. Mullock. “Give him that, it will be my heart and liver next. Back, lads. A step back.”

  We splashed into the water. The savages came closer. The talking one shook his spear, then hammered the shaft against his breastplate. All the little bones and things he wore rattled at his chest.

  “We'll dash for it, lads. On my word,” said Mr. Mullock. I could hear his breaths. “Now!”

  He was first to run. Before I'd turned to follow, the savages were upon us. They grabbed; they pulled and pushed. Mr. Mullock was hauled down, and with six around him he floundered in the water. Boggis and I tried to help.

  “Stop that!” cried Lucy Beans. She put a hand up to the engine, and with a gout of steam there came a piercing shriek of a sound. It loosed a mad chorus from the island, and shocked the savages into silence. Then, in a voice just as piercing, Lucy cried out in the same tongue as theirs. On and on she went, and like a lot of sheepish boys they hung their heads. They eased away. I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd picked up our wood and loaded it into the steamboat. But it didn't go as far as that. One answered with a few clipped words, then all trotted together into the forest.

  Mr. Mullock rose from the sea, looking half drowned and white as death. His splendid new hat was floating upside down, rocking like a small coracle. He picked it up and put it on. “Leave the wood,” he said. “We're clearing off.”

  Lucy helped us into the boat. She fussed with Mr. Mullock, who was certainly the wettest of us all, but she saved her warmest smile for me. “That Indian.” She nodded toward the land. “He said your elephant island is three days to the east.”

  “He did? He told you that?” I looked into her eyes, surprised by the color—a green as bright as grass. “That's wonderful, miss.”

  “Hah!” barked Mr. Mullock. “Now they know where we're going. Damned junglies. They'll be waiting.”

  “Oh, Ernie, no.” She turned back to him. His hat had gotten a bit crushed, and she took it from his head to smooth the puckers in the crown. “They only fancied your clothes.”

  “And my skin, and my 'ead.”

  “They didn't,” she said with a laugh. “If they'd fancied that handsome head, you wouldn't be standing here with it now, I'll tell you that. What they want, they take.” She returned his hat, tipping it at a rakish slant. “But not all the Indians are savages, Ernie. They're quite nice people, most of them. It's only the headhunters and cannibals you have to fear. And the pirates, of course. They're much worse.”

  Midgely had been listening. “There weren't no pirates in the reverend's book, mum,” he said.

  “No vagabonds ever spoke of them, that's why,” said Lucy Beans. “No one who has met the pirates has ever lived to speak again.”

  It was a frightening thought, made more frightening by the way she said it—with her voice low and her green eyes darting. Seeing how she'd scared us, she forced a laugh. “But don't worry, boys. In a year and a half I've yet to see a pira
te. I'm sorry I spoke.”

  So was I. With a glance at the sea, a glance at the land, I bent down and shoved wood in the firebox. I got the engine pouring smoke, its little valves chattering, and when Mr. Mullock threw the lever, we bounded off with the paddle wheels churning.

  We steamed through the islands at top speed. The boat left a long streak of foam on the water, another streak of smoke in the air, and the two merged behind us. The sound of the engine was a steady roar, now a chuckatee-chickadeechuckateechickadee. It meant that we went through our stacks of wood the way a fat lady goes through a box of chocolates, but I didn't mind. I stuffed one stick after another into the firebox, and the engine gobbled them up, and the door was rarely closed.

  At night we slowed down, but didn't stop. Two of us were always awake, one steering and watching, the other caring for the boat. It was like a living thing that had to be fed and watered.

  But it had to be rested too, and that became clear in the morning. There was steam jetting out where it hadn't before. Along with the hiss and huff and thump was a rattling ping that grew louder. Boggis, who'd been sitting quite close to the engine, moved as far as he could into the bow. I began to feed the thing as I might a crocodile—chucking the wood from a distance—for it suddenly seemed dangerous to be near it.

  We ran the boat slowly as we searched for a place to land. When we saw bright beaches of sand, we turned away. We sought, instead, the darker places, and found the perfect island when we came to one that had no beach at all. Twice we circled it. Twice we headed toward the low cliff that formed its entire shore, and waited to see what emerged from the jungle.

  The only thing to show its face was a small monkey. With tiny hands it spread the branches. With enormous eyes it peered at us, looking like a lost and lonely child.

  Again we steamed around the island. That little monkey came with us, swinging now by his hands and now by his tail, keeping up a constant chatter. When we found a place of overhanging branches, and put the boat against the cliff, the monkey leapt straight down. It made right for Mr. Mullock, bounded up the back of his trousers, and clung tightly to his neck.