Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (14 page)

At each blow upon the drum the chanting ceased atop the Wall and throughout the village. The massed ranks on either side of the dais broke. With cries of mingled excitement and apprehension, a good portion of the tribesmen, and the women and children as well, raced toward the Wall. Others stayed in their huts and refused to watch.

“Tasko!” the king shouted.

Now the guards picked Ann up, dais and all, and rushed her through the opening gate. At either side a mass of spear-armed warriors joined them, trotting along with shields held ready, spears pointing forward, toward the dark forest.

“Watu!” the king shouted.

Instantly the gate tenders pushed, nearly closing the gate on the heels of the departing group, leaving a gap so narrow that no more than two men at a time could squeeze back through.

“Ndundo!” the king shouted again, and once more the drummer rolled thunder out to the black wilderness.

High on the Wall the islanders raised their torches, as if for a better view. In the uncertain light, Ann had a confused glimpse of the landscape beyond the Wall. For a space of perhaps thirty yards, the land had been kept clear of brush. In the center of this plain, fifty feet from the Wall, stood a stone altar that looked to Ann as ancient as the Wall it faced. Gray lichen spotted its worn steps. A layer of dark moss covered its platform and soaked up the torches' light. The bearers carried her up the steps, up perhaps twelve feet from the ground. Two worn pillars, splendidly carved, rose out of the platform a short arm's width apart.

“Tasko! Tasko!” the king shouted, urgency creeping into his deep voice.

Ann felt her guards lower her to the platform, and hands grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet. Without a word, the men moved her into position between the pillars. Two of them spread her arms while two more tied grass ropes to her wrists, cast loops around the pillars, and drew them tight. Dimly, Ann felt the bite of the ropes, but at a remove, as though she were sedated.

“Ndundo! Ndundo para Kong!” the king's voice exclaimed, and atop the Wall the drummer roused the deafening thunder once more. Ann had been tied facing the Wall, and by raising her head, she could glimpse the torchbearers standing there on the top. The crowd on the rampart swayed in an insane chant that assaulted Ann's ears. She had again that strange feeling of heightened senses, the sharp scent of the jungle mingling with the musky aroma of the burning torches.

Thirst abraded her throat. She moaned, helpless, hanging in the grip of her bonds. Her bearers leaped to the ground and, with fearful glances backward, fled. The gate closed so quickly it almost crushed the last one.

Ann stood alone, beyond help, beyond the protection of the Wall. In the dark, not far off, something moved. From the direction of the precipice came a deep, unreal roar which met the roll of the drum and threw it back against the Wall. Again the drum sounded, and louder the approaching roars answered.

The torch-illuminated mob upon the rampart burst into a great cry: “Kong! Kong! Kong!”

Ann had nearly lost consciousness, but some sense of impending fate lifted her eyelids. It was as if she had awakened from a nightmare, and for a moment, she stared about in bewilderment, uncertain of where she was. Now the pain of her bound arms broke on her, and she writhed, trying to ease the bite of the ropes.

Before her, she became conscious of the dark barrier that was the Wall, with its intricate carvings showing in the flickering light of the dancing torches that crowned it. It seemed to her for all the world like a living thing. Behind her she was eerily aware of a sort of emanating heat, and she heard an unutterably deep and gargled sound, like that of a volcano simmering before eruption. And then she saw the shadow. It came from nowhere, cast by moonlight. It spread over the altar, reached the Wall, and rose like a flood about to engulf it. The natives on the Wall suddenly became mute, as though something had overpowered them, something Ann could not see. She strained to turn her head, becoming suddenly, inexplicably lucid. Then, while her eyes widened, the shadow separated itself from the black cloak of the forest and became solidly real against the moonlight.

Enormous eyes blinked up at the packed Wall. Ann's mind reeled at the sheer size of them, at the size of this creature. Its cry of defiance was nothing short of an explosion; its black furred hands drummed a vast chest, heavily creased and scarred, as if in challenge. In the full glare of the torches, the creature hesitated, stopped, and as though reading the meaning of the thousand hands which gestured from the rampart, turned and looked down at the altar. At Ann.

The altar stood twelve feet above ground level, but the enormous eyes looked
down
at her. With a questioning grunt, the great beast bent over her. High up on the Wall the islanders fell silent, their pointing arms again motionless. The torches seemed frozen, no longer wavering. And then the world moved again, and Ann's terrified screams spread piercingly into the dead silence. Again and again they rang out as she struggled mightily against her bonds. And then, with a gasping echo that the darkness swiftly swallowed, they fell silent.

Kong jerked back a half step and rumbled angrily. The deep lines and scars about his enormous, hideous face revealed a surprisingly expressive countenance. Although he looked as old as time, his features had an unusual expression of youthful desire. Kong tilted his head, and his great hand reached out tentatively, as though with a will of its own, to touch Ann's golden crest. His fingers stopped within inches of Ann's head, and suddenly he reared back, his massive head swiveling to stare up at the Wall in what seemed like deep suspicion. He rose up to his full height and beat his chest with the sound of thunder and claimed his dominance with a deafening roar, as though challenging anyone or anything that dared oppose him. When the crowded natives and all the surroundings remained in subservient silence, and with no sound or further movement from the figure now drooping between the pillars, he renewed his investigation. Ann could stand no more. She felt consciousness fading, and she slipped into a faint.

*   *   *

Kong's interest had been aroused by the unusual look of this sacrifice. In clothing, in appearance, she was unlike anything else on the island. From experience, he knew that he could not simply pluck Ann from her bonds without hurting her. The ropes, however, offered no difficulty. The loops about the pillars were knotted in such a way that with a sharp tug they became undone. Once he had pulled them, the strands fell away from Ann's wrists, and she would have fallen had Kong not supported her with his hand.

Kong frowned, examining the amazing being he lifted from the altar. Shining hair, petal cheeks, tissue garments, puzzling footgear—his giant fingers discovered endless mystery. In intense preoccupation he began to rumble to himself as he gently turned the figure over, this way and that, much in the manner that a human child might curiously turn and inspect a limp, unconscious bird.

When the crowd shouted again, he did not even look up, not even when new voices joined the clamor. With a last, intent look at the pale countenance in his hand, he shifted Ann's form to the crook of one arm and started slowly back into the forest. The heavy creak of the opening gate drew no sign from his receding back. And when a tiny figure plunged through and cried out loudly in challenge, Kong did not hear him. Nor did he hear the shot, or feel something whistle past his ear. He could only think of the jewel he carried as he pushed into the dark, welcoming wilderness.

11

SKULL ISLAND
MARCH 13, 1933

Driscoll's first sight of Kong stunned him. But a glimpse of Ann quickly steeled his nerve, and he yelled out in frustration before attempting to put a bullet in Kong's head. In the darkness the shot went wild.

Denham had taken charge as he raced the rescue boats away from the
Wanderer
and deployed the sailors for the breathless run to the village. But from the moment the crew had hauled the great gate open, Driscoll had seized command. Rushing back through the gate, he immediately set to work organizing the pursuit.

“Jack—” Denham began.

Driscoll turned on him with a snarl of rage. “This is my job, Denham. If you tag along, you'll look to me for orders.”

Denham nodded. “We do it together, then. But you call the shots.”

“I need a dozen men,” Jack shouted. “Who's coming?”

Old Lumpy said, “I'll go!”

Driscoll shook his head. “You stay here and take command of the guard party. I need someone with experience to keep these savages in check. Don't start anything, but don't let them push you around, see?”

“Got it.”

Driscoll's finger stabbed out. “I'll take you, and you, and you—”

“Who's got the bombs?” Denham yelled as Driscoll chose his last man.

Jimmy stepped forward, a crate hoisted to his shoulder. “Here!” One of the twelve volunteers reached to take them, but he pulled away. “Mr. Denham, I've carried 'em so far. Take me with you.”

“Okay, kid. Skipper, you and Lumpy hold this gate. We're going to need to get through in a hurry when we come back.”

“All right, Denham. I'm old for that kind of a run. Don't worry. We'll be here when you need us.”

Driscoll couldn't wait. “Single file, all,” he ordered. “And don't lose sight of the man in front of you. Come on, follow me.”

He set off at a trot, but instead of following, Denham paced him, just beside him. They reached the altar, and Denham sprinted up, holding a flashlight. “No blood, thank God,” he said, leaping down again. Driscoll measured the height of the pillars with his eyes, and then looked at Denham incredulously. “Tell me I'm not dreaming. You got a glimpse of him too, didn't you?”

Denham nodded.

Driscoll shook his head as they started off again. “I still can't believe it. I got a fair look. I saw that thing from only the knees up because he was standing on the downside of that slope. Its head was squarely in line with the top of those pillars, and that's twenty feet above the ground if it's an inch.” He shivered. “Kong is the size of a small mountain. He must have left a trail we can follow. Look for broken branches, footprints, anything.” Immediately he set off with the others following behind, their flashlights scanning the surroundings.

They plunged into the brush, and before long they reached the sheer rise of the precipice. “There's no climbing this,” Denham said.

Driscoll gestured. “Listen, off to the left.”

“Sounds like water,” Denham grunted. “Come on, it may be a break in this cliff.”

Driscoll led the way, and in a few dozen steps they found a stream. To the left it flowed in the general direction of the Wall, but it had worn its way through the rock of the cliff off to the right. It tumbled down a steep ravine, the rush of the water drowning out every other sound.

“Kong must have come through here,” Driscoll said. “It's the only way, unless he climbed down from the plateau.”

“Yeah,” Denham said. “But he could wade it without getting his ankles wet. That white water would sweep us off our feet.”

“Look around,” Driscoll ordered. “See if there's a way up.”

Denham plunged off on his own, and after a few minutes, Driscoll heard him call out, “Over here! I've found a track!”

Driscoll jogged over and turned his flashlight on the mark. It was fresh. The moist ground preserved the imprint of an apelike foot so large that even Driscoll stared in unbelief. The imprint marked the base of another cleft in the rock face, this one broader and drier. “It's the old streambed,” he said. “It parallels the river. Come on. We can climb it. Move!”

The darkness made the climb cruel going. The brush grew so dense at times that each man had trouble seeing the one in front of him. A cracked shin, a bruising stumble, and the head-jarring impact of unseen branches snapping back from all directions marked nearly every yard of the way. Once a man slipped from the ledge into the swift water and shot down a hundred feet before he found an outcrop to cling to.

“I kept my gun,” he gasped cheerfully as they pulled him out.

The last hundred yards became a steep crawl up the shattered face of an ancient landslide, but at last Driscoll stood erect and looked back behind him. A half mile away, the torches on the Wall gleamed like so many fireflies. “Come on,” Driscoll said. They had reached the great plateau, but from the very outset they plunged into jungle: enormous trees, and at their base a lush tangle of undergrowth. The stream had widened, leading back into rising country.

“Hard to believe we're on an island,” Denham panted. “This place looks like a world all its own.”

Driscoll didn't respond, but said, “My guess is we'll find that this plateau slopes gradually back to Skull Mountain. That's a long way off.”

They saw no sign of a track. “Look for those prints again,” Driscoll ordered the men. “I want to estimate how long his stride is. I'd guess about fifteen feet at least. Use that as a rough guide and look for the logical place the next footprint might be. Fan out in all directions from the last footprint to increase our chances. Make sure you stay in shouting distance, though!”

“Hey, here's a broken bush,” one of the sailors yelled. In the beam of his flashlight, the breaks showed fresh white pith contrasting with dark gray bark.

A moment later, another one found a second footprint. The track was in a clear space beyond the broken brush, and once more it pointed upstream. It was clue enough, and as the party converged, Driscoll led the way as fast as he could in the darkness.

Driscoll became aware that the jungle thrummed with life, shrieks and chatters and screeches. Insects, he thought, and birds.

As if catching the thought, Denham said, “Sounds like the whole country's loaded with birds. Birds and bugs. Hey, that means dawn's coming on. Now we'll catch a break, Jack!”