The Lost Island

52

Three days had passed. Three strange days. They had gone by in a dream-like fugue state, as Gideon passed in and out of consciousness. Fragments of it came back to him later: the Cyclops growling and prodding him hard; the Cyclops stretched out in the sand, sleeping by the fire; Amiko feeding him a cup of foul gruel, similar to what he’d tasted at the ceremony, while the Cyclops looked on, scowling. He remembered anew that wondrous feeling of peace and contentment he had experienced before, followed by a second vicious hangover.

And then, when his head cleared at last, he felt better. Much better. He was still weak, and in some pain, but incredibly enough the broken bones appeared to be well on their way to knitting, the cuts were healing, and his head no longer hurt. The restorative power of the root was truly remarkable.

For the first time, Gideon felt a wave of actual hope. Real hope instead of hopeless speculation. He might have a future after all. For all he knew, the vein of Galen defect in his brain might be healing up along with his broken bones. But then…it wasn’t an injury. It was a congenital defect. It might be beyond the reach of even the lotus.

The only problem was that they were still prisoners of the Cyclops.

Gideon lay by the fire, watching Amiko grill the carcass of some small animal — evidently a rat — a string of which the Cyclops had brought back to the cave and hung on the wall.

“Yum,” said Gideon, looking at the roasting, popping rat, its little claws flaming into stumps, dripping fat into the fire.

“Almost done. You’re going to love it.”

“I actually think I will. I’m starving.”

Amiko removed the rodent from the fire and propped it on its improvised stake to cool. After a few minutes she pulled apart the roasted animal with her hands, laying a piece for Gideon on a large banana leaf. He tucked into it.

“You realize, Gideon, we now have all the proof we need. Both of us, cured by the lotus. We’ve got to identify the plant — and the Cyclops is the key to that.”

“How?”

“You’re the one who’s good at social engineering. Think about how we might persuade the Cyclops to show us the plant.”

“The last time I tried social-engineering a Cyclops, it ended badly. Do you know why he’s keeping us?”

“Fear,” Amiko said. “I believe he’s terrified of humans and thinks that if he lets us go, we might come back with more of our kind.”

“He’s probably right.”

“I’m serious about the social engineering, Gideon. I’ve tried everything. I can’t break through his suspicion. And you know…” She gave a little laugh. “He’s kind of dumb, actually. In a sweet way. He might be easily manipulated — if you could just find the right way to do it.”

Gideon sat back, thinking. Successful social engineering always exploited a basic need. Odysseus had gotten Polyphemus drunk and put out his eye. Aside from the fact they had no wine, hurting the creature was out of the question. The Cyclops had injured them — but it had also saved both their lives. They had not gained its trust, however…only its forbearance. And that was a tenuous thing indeed.

They needed to make friends.

The Cyclops was gone for the present, the rock rolled over the mouth of the cave. Gideon noticed that their drysacks had been thrown into one corner. Crawling over to his, he rummaged through it, then finally dumped the contents onto the sand. Knife, gun, miscellaneous junk. Friendship started with an exchange of gifts. He couldn’t give away the gun; besides, the creature wouldn’t know how to use it. The knife? He needed that, too. And he’d noticed that the Cyclops already had an array of beautifully made stone knives with bone handles.

“If you’re looking for a gift,” Amiko said, “I thought of that. We don’t have anything he would want. We forgot the beads and mirrors.”

“One of the headlamps?”

“He seems to see perfectly well in the dark.”

Gideon thought for a while. Social engineering always began with understanding the target’s deepest needs and desires. What were a Cyclops’s basic needs? Food, water, sex, shelter, fire…

Gideon suddenly had an idea. He explained it to Amiko.

She thought for a moment and said, “Worth a try.”

“Fetch one of those spears and climb on my shoulders.”

Amiko grabbed a spear and climbed up. Unsteadily, ignoring the pain, he managed to raise her. Taking the butt end of the spear, she reached upward, jammed it into a crack in the ceiling, and started prying.

“Don’t start a cave-in.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“When a rock comes loose, give a shout.”

She pried back and forth with the pole, loosening a chunk of lava from the ceiling. Suddenly she gave a shout and jumped off his shoulders; he threw himself sideways as a large chunk of lava came down with a crash, landing with a thud in the sand near the fire, showering them with smaller rocks, one of which glanced off his forehead, leaving a nasty cut.

Gideon wasted no time. He gathered up some of the smaller rocks and artfully dumped them on the fire, scattering a few around, adding some sand. They then rolled the big rock on top, effectively putting out the fire. They brushed away marks in the sand around the fire, hiding the evidence of what they had done and arranging it to look like a small, natural cave-in. Smoke came trickling up from around the rocks for a few minutes, and then stopped.

“Damn cave-in,” Gideon said with a smirk. “It put out the fire. Wonder what our friend’s going to do about it?”

A few hours later they heard the Cyclops return, rolling the rock away with much grunting and then entering, two enormous, gutted iguanas over his shoulder. He walked in and stopped, staring at the fire. Then he looked up at the ceiling, looked back down, and hastily began pulling the rocks and sweeping the sand from the fire. Fetching some small twigs, he placed them in the dead coals and knelt, blowing steadily. Nothing happened. The fire was dead.

He stood up with a roar of anger, staring at them and gesturing toward the fire. Amiko shrugged. Another roar, the spittle flying from his lips. He gestured again at the fire, staring fiercely at Gideon, as if it was his fault.

Gideon shrugged.

Another roar of frustration.

Gideon took the lighter from his pocket and offered it to the Cyclops. The creature came over, stared at it, took it, smelled it, and then tossed it aside with an irritated growl.

With a smile, Gideon retrieved the lighter. The Cyclops watched him with deep suspicion. With an elaborate flourish, and making sure the Cyclops was paying attention, Gideon flicked it on. The little yellow flame jumped into life.

The Cyclops’s single eye flew wide, his hairy brow arching up. He issued a sharp grunt, hesitated, took a step forward and poked his finger at the flame, pulling it out when he appeared satisfied it was really fire.

Now Gideon, slowly and with exaggerated motion, picked up the bundle of twigs on the dead fire and applied the lighter; they crackled to life. He laid them back down, added larger sticks from the nearby pile, and in a few minutes the fire was burning merrily.

The creature stared, amazed.

Gideon offered the lighter to him again. Cautiously, the Cyclops reached out and took it, tried to flick it on, but his hands were clumsy and it slipped from his grasp and fell. Gideon picked it up, flicked it on a few times while the Cyclops watched, and then placed it in his hands and, modeling his fingers, showed him how to scratch the wheel to make fire. After half a dozen fumbling tries he got it going, his saucer-like eye growing large with wonder.

Gideon turned to Amiko. “Tell him it’s a gift.”

Amiko spoke a few words in Greek. The Cyclops flicked it on a few times, and then reverently placed it inside his leather bag. He sat down at the fire, grunting softly to himself and glancing from time to time at Gideon.

Amiko turned to Gideon. “Okay, I’m curious. How did you figure out he didn’t know how to make fire?”

“I watched him. He tended that fire like a baby. It never went out. He carefully banked the coals at night and lit a new fire from them in the morning. I never saw him use any fire-making tools — and there aren’t any in his supplies.”

“You think his kind has been tending the same fire for thousands of years?”

“Perhaps.”

“Nice work, Prometheus.”

“The gift of fire. Greatest gift to mankind. And Cyclops-kind.”

Amiko hesitated. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he’s lonely. We haven’t seen any other Cyclops. Maybe he’s the last of his kind. And that could be another reason he’s keeping us here — for companionship.”

“And we haven’t introduced ourselves. You know: me Tarzan, you Jane.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Amiko. “Do you think he even has a name?”

“Only one way to find out.” Gideon stood up and, swallowing his apprehension, stepped toward the creature. It raised its shaggy head and stared at him with that frightening eye.

Gideon put his hands on his chest. “Gideon,” he said loudly.

The creature stared.

“Gideon.” Then he turned and placed a hand on Amiko. “Amiko.” Back to himself. “Gideon.”

Then, with a certain trepidation, he opened his hands and pointed toward the Cyclops.

The creature merely stared.

Gideon went through the whole elaborate charade again, but the Cyclops greeted this fresh round with a puzzled growl and either didn’t appear to understand or found the whole thing annoying.

“Wait. Let me try.” Amiko stood up and, walking over to the Cyclops, reached out and touched it. She said something to it in ancient Greek.

The reaction of the creature was striking. It seemed to cease all motion, cease breathing. Its eye widened slowly, slowly, as if a memory was returning to it after a long absence.

Amiko repeated the word.

The eye opened wider. The Cyclops looked almost comical in his expression of astonishment. A great stillness fell. And then the creature reached out a trembling hand and touched her shoulder. It repeated the word in a deep, rumbling, awkward, and tentative voice.

Good God, it can speak, Gideon thought in astonishment.

She said the word a third time, and the creature repeated it again. And then an extraordinary thing happened. The great, horrible, saucer-like eye glistened and welled up, and a large tear coursed down its ragged face.

And then it spoke another word. Another tear came, and another, and then the creature placed its hairy, broken hands over its face, and wept.

“What did you say?” Gideon whispered.

“I spoke the name Polyphemus.”

“And what did it say in reply?”

“An archaic Greek word that means ‘begetter,’ ‘ancestor.’ Or more like ‘father of all.’”