Rising Tides

CHAPTER 18

Yap Island (Shikarrak)

“ O kay,” Dennis Silva hissed, “don’t nobody move! There’s one o’ them shit-sacks plopped square on our path ahead.”

Instantly, the rest of the group ceased heaving on the boat and did their best to freeze in spite of the life-sapping heat. It was a good thing he hadn’t told them to be quiet, because they simply couldn’t have stopped their noisy gasping in the sodden air.

“Where?” Sandra Tucker wheezed, trying to clear the burning sweat from her eyes with the back of a grimy hand.

“Just ahead. Larry seen it first,” Dennis admitted. Lawrence was poised, still as a statue, staring straight ahead. “Little booger’s a good pointer. Make a swell bird dog someday.” He was slowly easing the Doom Whomper from his shoulder.

“I still don’t see it,” Sandra said anxiously.

“I do, now that my good eye’s turned thataway. Bastards is like camee-lee-ins. Blend right in. I never seen anything like it!” There was genuine admiration in his tone.

“My God!” Princess Rebecca exclaimed. “I see it! It’s quite close indeed!”

“I see it too,” Captain Lelaa commented. “It must have sensed our approach and positioned itself to intercept us. It takes them some time to blend in so well.”

In recent days they’d all learned far more about shiksaks than they’d ever cared to know. There were more of them all the time, and Lawrence was growing increasingly nervous and upset, urging them on whenever they stopped to rest or sleep a very few hours. The boat was repaired, but it was big and heavy and the move was slow going, even with all of them pushing, pulling, or placing rollers in its path. They’d almost reached the end of the bamboo jungle and the going would soon improve, but their progress thus far could be measured in yards and sometimes feet per hour.

“Nothin’ for it,” Silva groused. “Larry, it’s time for us to do our ‘trick’ again.” Lawrence twitched his growing bristly crest and then, as fluid as mercury, flowed into the thick bamboo beside the trail. Silva looked at Captain Rajendra. “You stay here. If that sumbitch hops thisaway, you better already be dead if any harm comes to any o’ these ladies, you hear?”

“I hear you, Mr. Silva,” he snarled. “Such a thing goes without saying!”

“I hope so, but I feel better with it said.” He was easing toward the trail Lawrence had already taken. “Whatever you do, though, don’t shoot at it!”

“Mr. Silva?” asked Abel Cook, rising from within the boat and grasping the gunwale with his bandaged hand. His face was flushed. In spite of the polta paste they’d almost exhausted on him, he still had a persistent infection since they’d cut off his finger. Sandra was sure they’d gotten all the kudzu stringers out, but suspected that tiny particles may have entered his bloodstream. So far, it didn’t look like they’d “taken root,” and she doubted they could, but they must be toxic in some way and they’d clearly initiated a major response by the boy’s immune system. “I would like to come,” he said. “I can help!”

“No, boy,” Silva replied in a gentler tone. “You and Mr. Brassey stay here and help protect the gals. I know ya’ll will.” With that, he was gone.

Lawrence could hear the thing breathing as he snaked through the bamboo or the strange cane alongside it. He’d never figured out whether the things had a well-developed sense of smell, either when he was here before or now, but he stayed downwind just in case. The breathing grew louder, more labored-sounding, the closer he came to the beast. With their immense bulk, shiksaks had to have a hard time sucking air during their annual venture upon dry land. He’d heard during his hatchlinghood and adolescent tutelage that the things sometimes ventured ashore on Tagran, his native isle, and were killed in a cooperative hunt, but here on the island that Silva called “Yap” was the only place they regularly did so. The others that occasionally menaced Tagran were probably lost or just old and wanted to lay their eggs in a place without so much competition for space and food.

Slowly, he eased closer, until all that remained between him and the massive, camouflaged flank was a single sturdy stand of bamboo. He glanced directly downwind, hoping Silva had had enough time to get in position. He took a breath. With a sharp, fierce cry, he lunged forward with the musket he carried, burying the sharp triangular bayonet deep into the monster’s side. Twisting the blade and yanking it free, he fired the musket as directly into the gushing wound as he could, spattering the thin, slippery, almost watery blood all over himself and everything around him. Then he ran like hell.

With a thunderous, reverberating, outraged groank! the shiksak heaved its head and torso high and to the right. The bamboo splintered as the beast changed its direction and shifted its back legs to position them for a leap. The camouflage pattern rapidly drained away, replaced by a mottled greenish purple as the creature launched itself through the tall shoots. Lawrence was faster in a sprint than any human, but he nevertheless had to negotiate the rigid upright obstacles. All the shiksak had to do was smash them down. Still, he was clear before it landed with a crashing, earth-trembling grunt. He raced ahead, even as the beast gathered itself for another leap. A dense tangle of shoots appeared before him, and he reversed the musket, trying to use the butt to batter a way through. The bayonet end might have helped part the bamboo, but it might also get stuck. He had no choice. Lowering his head, he dug in with his claws and plowed forward. Behind him, he heard the crash of the shiksak’s next hop and knew it would be close this time.

It didn’t crush him, just barely, but the tall, heavy bamboo it knocked down fell across his legs and tail, pinning him to the ground. He struggled and squirmed, trying to slip out from under the trunks, but there were too many and they were too tangled. There was a gust of hot breath and he felt the strain building as the shiksak scrabbled quickly forward, keeping him pinned until it could seize him with its jaws.

“Hey, Larry,” came a calm voice. Just ahead. Lawrence saw a ragged pair of go-forwards with two big feet stuck in them. His view traveled up past the battered cut-off dungarees and latched onto Silva, standing there with his bronze muscles tensed, his once black eyepatch faded and stained white with sweat, the huge rifle aimed, muzzle bobbing slightly in time with the motion of the shiksak.

The lock “clatched” and a cloud of white smoke “fissed” and swirled from the pan, but the gun didn’t go off! Still, Silva continued aiming, steady as a rock. It probably took less than a second, but to Lawrence it seemed a lifetime. Suddenly an orange jet of flame gushed from the vent and a bigger jet vomited from the still gently bobbing muzzle amid a distinctive roar and gout of choking white smoke. In an instant, Lawrence felt himself grabbed by his proud new crest and dragged out from under the tangled bamboo. Silva was hauling him along the ground like a sack when Lawrence flailed at the hand and managed to scramble to his feet. Together, the big man and the smaller, ruffled Tagranesi bolted clear of the indiscriminate death throes of the mighty shiksak.

“Popped ’eem right in the noodle!” Silva chortled around great gulps of air as he and Lawrence finally wove their way to a stop. Behind them came the thundering, crashing, ground-shaking impacts of the thrashing, flopping-brainless-beast. They knew from experience that the shiksak might carry on like that for a quarter hour or so.

“I thought he had’e… I,” Lawrence admitted, gathering in his panting tongue to speak.

“Naw, ol’ Silva wouldn’t let that happen! You did good, you little scamp.” He swabbed the Doom Whomper, wiped the lock with a piece of his shirt he kept in his pouch, then reloaded. Lawrence did the same with his musket when his hands stopped shaking. Silva held his weapon out, examining it. “She kinda hung-fired on me, though. I never get a chance to really clean her right, an’ with all this moisture in the air, the fouling around the vent turns to soup.”

“How did you know it ’ould still… shoot?”

Silva cackled. “Yep, I guess that must’a gave you a turn! I heard it hissin’, see? I knew she’d go; I just had to hold her steady. Follow through.”

“You sa’ed me,” Lawrence said, a little resentfully. “Again.”

Silva rubbed Lawrence’s crest, then patted it down. “Hell, you saved me. All of us, likely.” He pointed at his ruined eye. “Sometimes a fella don’t notice as much when one o’ his peepers is busted. I never saw the damn thing to start with. I prob’ly would’a marched straight down its throat if you didn’t hit on it.” He shrugged. “Let’s get back. Them gals’ll be worryin’. ’Bout you, anyway.”

Lawrence was looking down, scratching the dirt with his toeclaws. Finally he exhaled noisily and looked up at Dennis. “This ’ill not ’urk,” he said at last. “Us see too ’any shiksaks. They are here in. .. lots. Us take too long to go.”

“Sure,” Silva agreed, “we’re seein’ more o’ them devils every day-most we don’t have to fight with, thank God. I figger we can dodge ’em a few more days till we can get the boat in the water, though.”

“No!” Lawrence said adamantly. “I… should not tell you this, ’ut I ha’ to. ’Ecky and Lieutenant Tucker are at stake.” He paused. “There lots shiksaks here, ’ut not near all. They all get here, that is all there is.”

“Sure, that’s why we need to get off this bump.”

“No. Too late. This… lots o’ shiksaks on land, there hundreds-thousands? In sea near here, they get ready to co…” He shook his head irritably. “To get on land. No ’oat get out on sea until they are gone. Too late.”

“Say,” said Dennis thoughtfully. “You’re probably right about that. Damn.” He was silent a moment, thoughtful.

“Only thing to do, ‘gals’ get in trees, ’ig, tall trees. Us try to devend gals as long as us can. ’Orget ’oat. It no good. Us get gals in trees.”

“You said everything else that can will get in the trees too. They might need a heap of defendin’.”

“True. No choice.”

Silva was scratching his beard. “Maybe not. Maybe so.” He grinned. “I just had me a squirrelly notion. Maybe we can save the boat and everybody else too. Won’t be easy, but nothin’ else has been, so why whine about it? Maybe if all we save in the end is the gals, they’re still gonna need that damn boat. I figger it’s both, or what’s the point?”

“You really ha’ a ‘notion’?” Lawrence asked.

“I always got notions. Some are better than others, I’ll admit, but this just might work.” He slung the Doom Whomper and started back through the forest of bamboo. “C’mon. You’re gonna hafta help me sell this scheme. ’Sides, we still got a ways to heave that damn boat and time’s a’wastin’!”

“I keep saying that!” Lawrence complained.

Silva’s “scheme” almost killed them all. First, when he detailed it, it resulted in yet another near-violent confrontation with Rajendra and his remaining Imperials. Rajendra in particular thought it was insane, and almost had Princess Rebecca believing him this time. She’d thought their island ordeal was almost over, and she so wanted off the dreadful place. Young Brassey didn’t remain silent this time, but openly sided with Silva and ultimately Sandra and the princess as Lawrence’s clear certainty finally convinced them that, wild as it was, Silva’s plan was their only hope. It was unquestionably Abel Cook’s only hope, and Brassey had grown very protective of his injured friend. He knew Rajendra and the other Imperials considered the boy expendable, but he didn’t, and he was beginning to suspect his princess didn’t either. With Brassey, and eventually even carpenter Hersh, on Silva’s side, that left only Rajendra, his engineer, and a single Imperial Marine objecting. There was no question of a democratic resolution, but the three holdouts doubted they could handle the “Mad American” by themselves, much less the rest of the heavily armed party. When Rebecca reluctantly decided to endorse the plan, the specter of treason reentered the dispute and open resistance melted away.

The second thing that almost destroyed them, despite the fact that they were molested by no more of the growing number of land-weary, lethargic shiksaks they saw, was the blistering, killing, physical pace Silva set beneath the murderous sun. The newly arrived shiksaks that had ventured so far from shore-probably staking an early claim to an ultimately less-crowded nesting area-would recover their “land legs” in time. They had to be finished by then. As the day wore on and they heaved the boat down the mild, much appreciated slope into the narrow savannah that Silva called the “kudzu patch,” the apparent tension of the island itself began to grow. Lizard birds squawked querulously and the strange little birds in the clearing swarmed erratically from place to place, or burst their formations completely into chaotically buzzing individuals. The odd, purplish flowers of the kudzu seemed to dance and sway with the breeze, as though imitating live creatures grazing about. The prickly thorns, so small and difficult to see when the group had passed this way before, were now larger and more erect on the vines. They carefully gave them a wide berth, laying the wooden rollers to clear the menacing patches of the weed.

Odd, hoarse cries resonated from the tall trees ahead that separated them from the beach, and they saw many small-and not so small-creatures beginning to gather there. Shrieks exploded as fights broke out between different species. Lawrence warned that the fights would become general among individuals eventually, as the furry, gourd-like fruits in the trees were exhausted. Saying he had an idea, he sprinted back the way they’d come. A smallish shiksak thundered ashore, bellowing its arrival, beyond the massive trees ahead that they’d chosen for their size. It thumped and thudded directly beneath them, headed toward the boat at first, but then steered hungrily toward the coyly twitching kudzu flowers, crashing into the patch with a triumphantly gaping maw. It snapped voraciously at the flowers for several moments, but then seemed to grow sleepy, as if sated and now torpid. A little unsteady, it groped its way out of the kudzu in the direction of a distant shiksak that was still resting from its arrival.

“Young bull,” Silva opined through gritted teeth as he reslung his weapon and took up his rope again. “Bet he don’t get to be an old bull. Kinda sets a fella back, thinkin’ ’bout all the times he’s acted the same damn way.” He gasped and heaved in time with the others. “Whoo-ee! Liber-tee! Where’s the grub? Where’s the broads?”

The raucous sounds of wildlife grew, birds erupted from the grass, the trees, everywhere, swirling madly and densely enough to create a kind of shade. Small shapes scampered in all directions to the extent that tripping became a concern. It was as if they somehow knew the full infestation was finally at hand. Even Rajendra quieted his objections and laid to with a will. It was late afternoon when, exhausted, panting, they finally placed the boat between the two trees they’d chosen, more by size, direction, and proximity than anything else. They rested briefly, gulping the rum-tinged water Brassey shared out with a tin cup. They’d already laid in plenty of water, and most of Silva’s surviving “prize” rum he’d taken during their escape from Billingsley had gone to purify it into a kind of grog. Most, but not all. There were still medicinal purposes to consider. They didn’t have a moment to lose, but they had to rest a little before they attempted their next pair of tasks. A misstep now or a mishandled line would doom them all.

“Are you ready for this?” Sandra finally asked.

Captain Lelaa nodded, looking at the trees, ears twitching appraisal. “I have been climbing masts since I was born,” she said confidently. “These ‘trunks’ will be simpler.”

“Them double-block falls are kinda heavy-an’ you gotta make sure they don’t get tangled up,” Silva fussed. When they’d escaped, they unhooked the falls, thinking at least the rope might be handy. Now the heavy block-and-tackle arrangement might prove their salvation. They never could have built a set in time.

Lelaa practically sneered at Silva. “Mind your own business. Just keep those creatures up there away from me,” she said. The creatures in question, a wild variety perched high in the tree’s broad canopy above, had stopped squalling and now peered sullenly down at them.

Silva nodded, and setting down the Doom Whomper, he selected a loaded musket from within the boat. “You got it, Cap’n.”

“What can I do to help?” Sister Audry asked, still somewhat breathless.

“Nothin’ right now. Might not have to do anything a’tall ’til you climb aboard,” Dennis answered, “unless you want to try your hand at shootin’?”

Sister Audry shook her head. She had no experience with firearms of any sort. She still looked concerned. “But the boat is so heavy! How will we lift it up there?”

“A double-block rig’ll let you lift four times the weight as usual. I can hoist a thousand pounds easy as peein’ with that rig.. . if you’ll ’scuse me for sayin’ so.” He paused. “Just take my word for it. Five big fellas, two strong ladies-countin’ the squirt-a ’Cat that’s prob’ly stronger than me, and a fuzzy, stripey lizard-I figger we can lift close to twice what that damn boat weighs. We oughta be able to manage without you and Mr. Cook.” He looked around. “Say, where’s that stripey lizard, anyway?”

Lawrence reappeared, trotting carefully around the kudzu with something almost as large as he was slung on his back. As he drew near, Sister Audry wrinkled her nose and Rebecca scolded, “What is that vile, revolting stench?”

Lawrence flung his burden down unapologetically, and Silva stooped to examine it.

“Yuk,” Dennis said. “What the hell’s that?”

“The scent glands o’ that shiksak us killed,” he said. There was a little blood around his mouth-he’d apparently paused long enough for a quick meal while he hacked the reeking things off with his cutlass.

“Aggh, they stink!” Silva exclaimed as the full force of the stench hit him. The glands were little more than pebbly, scaly slits in two large, dark patches of skin. “How’s that work?” he wondered aloud. “I seen deer tarsals an’ such, but you’d think a sea monster wouldn’t do that.”

“They aren’t sea ’onsters on land,” Lawrence pointed out.

“Well… what are you gonna do with ’em? Roll around on ’em an’ pretend to be one?”

Lawrence actually seemed to consider it before shaking his head. “He’ig ’ull,” he said.

“Bull?”

“Yess. His scent keeph others a’ay. I tie these to trees, other ’ulls, at least, stay a’ay.”

That made sense. Dennis had been a little worried about that. Big as these trees were, their roots weren’t all that deep. He figured a really big shiksak might knock one over if he decided to whack on it.

“Good thinkin’, twerp. Course, now you got that stink all over you, where are you gonna stay?”

“He can stay with us,” Lelaa snapped, starting her climb. “If I can stand your stink, I can learn to put up with his.”

For the first time since they’d been marooned on Yap Island, Dennis Silva heard Rebecca’s sweet, unfettered laugh. He grinned. “I guess I am gettin’ a little ripe,” he confessed, “but with mucho respecto, Cap’n, you smell kinda’ like a hard-used hairball.”

Lelaa snorted and scampered up the tree. About forty feet up, still short of the lower canopy, she stopped and began expertly rigging a seizing around the trunk. Something quick and leathery, with what looked like gliding wings stretched between its front and back legs, lunged down at her. Rajendra’s musket flared, and light, fleshy bark sprayed at the creature’s face. Never stopping, it leaped over their heads with a shrill cry, arrested its gliding fall on their other tree about fifty feet away, then raced into its darkening bower of leaves.

“Missed!” Silva said grandly, laying his musket against the boat and retrieving the Doom Whomper in case anything large chose to investigate the noise of the shot.

“So?” Rajendra said hotly. “I did my job!”

“Yeah,” Dennis replied, looking back at the clearing, “about as well as usual. Half-assed. Spoiled my shot.”

“Boys!” Sandra insisted, steel in her voice. “You will stop baiting each other and cooperate!” She knew she wasn’t being quite fair to Rajendra. Silva had started it-as usual-but erratic as Silva sometimes was, he was a lot steadier than Rajendra. For Rebecca’s sake, she wouldn’t single him out. She was “playing favorites” and knew it, but Rajendra had proven time and again, once that very day, that her control over him was tenuous. He might be loyal to the princess, but not to the group, and his judgment had always been questionable. Silva couldn’t be controlled at all, except through his loyalty to her and Rebecca, but the group as a whole was “under his protection,” as he saw it. Also, his survival judgment might sometimes be extreme and disproportionate, but it had a good record of success. The last thing they needed right then was for him to go into one of his infamous sulks.

Dennis Silva actually thrived on adversity and Sandra suddenly realized that in that sense he was a lot like Matt. Silva was over the top, where Matt was thoughtful-unless he lost his temper-but like it or not, their survival depended on the big gunner’s mate, and for all their sakes, even Rajendra’s, “over the top” was okay with Sandra.

Lelaa finished her knot and hooked on, then slid down the trunk, straightening the tackle as she went. On the ground, she hooked the bottom block onto the eyebolt at the boat’s bow, leaving the fall rope dangling. She scooped up the second tackle and went up the next tree.

“Oh, please do hurry,” Rebecca pleaded. “The sun is almost set!” It was true. The sun was falling rapidly now, as usual, and the trees and the clearing behind them were filling with gloom. Menacing shapes crashed about, and other creatures, much like bats-maybe they were bats-had joined the swirling birds.

“I shall, Your Highness,” Lelaa assured her patiently. As before, she quickly finished her chore, with no distractions from above this time, and scrabbled her way to the ground.

“How we gonna do this, Cap’n?” Silva asked. “One end at a time, or climb in and try to lift her from inside?”

Lelaa glanced at Abel, alert and listening, but virtually helpless in the boat. “It will be dangerous either way, and from within, it will be more so. That is how it must be done, however. We will add weight that we must also lift, but some cannot climb. Besides, if we remove the provisions from the boat-which we must to lift it one end at a time-we will then have to hoist them aboard as well.” She looked around at the twilight. “We must risk a quick ascent or we will be at this for hours. I do not think we have the time.”

“That’s it, then,” Silva said. “Ever’body aboard!”

“This is madness!” Rajendra stated. “We would all be safer to lift from the ground!”

“Captain Rajendra,” Lelaa said ominously, “we have worked together despite our differences, but do not imagine those differences do not still exist. You really must cease your constant objections and observe the obvious. Add to my earlier argument that we cannot secure the down-hauls within the boat if we raise it from the ground. Where would you have us secure them? To the trees here at this level, where any passing creature might gnaw them in two? All aboard.”

Rajendra couldn’t fault Lelaa’s logic, and whereas Silva had promised not to “hurt” him, Lelaa had made no such pledge. She had simply swallowed her anger and done as she had to. Her reminder of a possible reckoning was probably more intimidating than Silva’s harangues because it was the first she’d made in a long time, and she also had a more untainted claim on his honor as far as he was concerned. Besides, he harbored a real, secret… racial… fear of the physically diminutive but powerful-alien-Lemurian captain. He made no more objections.

Working together creditably enough-despite their differences, most of the “muscle” were seamen after all-they slowly, carefully hoisted the battered longboat into the sky between the two trees. There was a bizarre unreality about the whole situation that escaped none of them, but it was indeed their only chance. As the final rays of the sun surrendered to the sea, they saw the water beyond the trees, within the breakers, almost working with humping, splashing shapes, eerily void of color until they gained the shore, and then only briefly until they absorbed the darkening shades of their new surroundings. About thirty feet above the ground-high enough, they hoped-they secured the down-hauls to cleats on the boat’s gunwales. Then they sat quietly, staring at the starlit transformation of the island they’d learned to hate but of necessity called home.

“God a’mighty,” Silva whispered. “It’s like you threw the manhole cover off a sewer an’ looked down on a million man-eatin’ pollywogs swarmin’ in there.”

As usual, he was exaggerating, but not by much. Lawrence had been right. Evidently, they’d made it just in time. They never would have survived another night on the ground. The shiksaks had come to Yap.

“It’s a kind of hell,” Rebecca said, and Sister Audry drew her close.

“How long will it last, Lawrence?” Sandra asked, also whispering. It seemed appropriate. All the creatures on the island, in the trees, had gone silent except for the bellowing, grunting, roaring shiksaks themselves.

“I don’t recall,” Lawrence hissed back. “I stayed in the trees, hungry, thirsty… I don’t know. Long days and nights.”