The Lost Island

45

The 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…