Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (7 page)

Before Jack could reply, a young sailor hurried up. “Mr. Driscoll, Mr. Denham, the skipper wants you on the bridge. He wanted me to tell Mr. Denham that we've reached the position he marked on the chart.”

“Right, Jimmy,” Driscoll growled. “Come on, then. I want to hear what you've got to say now.”

“For the love of Mike, that's good timing,” Denham said as they walked toward the bridge. “You wanted to know, and now I'm ready to spill it.”

They stepped onto the bridge. The helmsman glanced over at them, but Captain Englehorn stood leaning on a chart table and beckoned them over. He tapped a blunt finger on the chart. “Here you are, Denham. Our noon position was two south, ninety east. This is where you wanted to go. Now maybe you can tell us the rest of it.”

Denham flattened the chart with both hands and stooped close to it. “Way west of Sumatra,” he murmured. “That's right. Way west of Sumatra.”

“Way out of any waters I know,” Englehorn put in. “I know the East Indies like the back of my own hand, but I was never around this place before.”

Driscoll couldn't contain his impatience. “You said you were ready to spill it, so go ahead. Where do we go from here?”

Denham straightened up. “South by southwest.”

Englehorn glanced quickly at Driscoll, then back to Denham. “South by—? Why? It's empty ocean for thousands of miles. How far do you propose to go? How are we supposed to take on more food and water? What about coal? It goes fast when we keep a constant fourteen knots on the old ship.”

Denham grinned. “Ease off, Skipper. We're not going much farther. Not exactly around the corner, but not thousands of miles, either.” He laughed at Englehorn's expression, then took a wallet from his breast pocket, opened it, and from it took two worn, fragile-looking pieces of paper. He spread these carefully out on the chart table and rapped his knuckles on one of them. “This is the island we're looking for.”

Captain Englehorn muttered numbers to himself. “That position is—Mr. Driscoll, bring the big chart.”

Jack went to the chart locker and found the large-scale map that was needed. Denham picked up the two smaller pieces of paper to let him spread it out on the chart table. Driscoll pointed to the spot indicated by the latitude and longitude the captain had spoken aloud. “Nothing there, Denham. Nothing but ocean.”

“You won't find this island on any chart,” Denham said evenly. “Skipper, these two pieces of paper are all we have to go on. This picture and this statement of position. I got them from the captain of a Norwegian bark.”

“He must have sold you a bill of goods,” Driscoll said. “There's nothing there.”

“Listen!” Denham said, his eyes lighting up the way they did when he was coaching Ann through one of her screen tests. “More than thirty years ago, a canoe loaded with natives from this island and one African sailor was blown out to sea. When my Norwegian skipper picked them up, only one man was still alive, and he died before they reached port. But before he died, he gave the captain his map of the island and a pretty good idea of where it lies.”

“Where did you come in?” Driscoll asked suspiciously.

“A little more than two years ago, in the fall of 1930 in Singapore,” Denham shot back. “I'd known the Norwegian for years, even chartered his bark for one of my early silent films. I'd heard his yarn of having picked up the canoe full of men, and I'd offered to buy the papers six or seven times. For years he didn't want to sell, but the old man needed some quick cash that day in Singapore. I bought the position and the map from him at the price he asked.”

“And did he believe the story of the island, the Norwegian?” asked Englehorn.

Denham threw up his hands. “Who cares if he did or didn't? I do! Here, look at the map and tell me if you think a picture as detailed as this could grow entirely out of the imagination!”

He carefully unfolded the second piece of paper, and in spite of his doubts, Driscoll felt impressed by what he saw. It was a highly detailed map indeed, looking more like a European production than an islander's impression. It showed an island surrounded by reefs, through which a tortuous passage had been indicated. On one side of the island a long peninsula curved out, and at the base of the peninsula a steep precipice was sketched. Denham traced this with his fingers. “The Norwegian told me this cliff is hundreds of feet high. Once it levels off, jungle begins.”

The map had been sketched with some degree of care, including clear indications of latitude and longitude, and a complex of soundings indicating water depth.

“Tricky to navigate,” Englehorn muttered. “You say this comes from more than thirty years ago? We may have worse problems if any shoals have built up in that time.”

“You can do it, Skipper,” Denham said.

Englehorn did not reply, but his blunt finger reached down and tapped at the map. At one end of the island lay an extensive peninsula, and across the neck of it the mapmaker had drawn a thick, heavy line. “What's this?”

“It's supposed to be a wall. A barrier to keep something out,” Denham said carefully.

“A wall,” Englehorn echoed thoughtfully.

“And what a wall!” exclaimed Denham. “Built hundreds, thousands of years ago! So long ago that the natives of the island, the descendants of the builders, have slipped back into savagery. They've completely forgotten the ancient civilization they came from, the one that built the wall that protects them. But the wall's as strong today as it was ages ago. The natives can't build anything like it today, but they keep that wall in good repair. They need it.”

Driscoll felt his breath tighten in his chest. “Need it for what?”

Denham wouldn't meet his gaze. “Because there's something on the other side, something they fear.”

Englehorn absently took his pipe from his pocket and fingered it. “An enemy tribe, I suppose.”

Denham looked sideways at the skipper, his brown eyes flashing. Then he pushed up from the table, paced away, and abruptly turned back again. “Did you, either of you, ever hear of …
Kong
?”

Driscoll shook his head, but Englehorn tapped his teeth with his pipe stem. “Kong? Why, yes. It's some kind of Malay superstition, isn't it? Some kind of god, or devil, or something?”

Denham leaned forward. “Something, all right. Neither man nor beast. Something monstrous. All powerful. Not a spirit, something alive. Whatever Kong is, it holds that island in the grip of a deadly fear. It's the same fear that drove the natives' ancestors to build that huge wall.”

Englehorn didn't respond. Driscoll gazed from the map to Denham, then back again, shaking his head. “Pretty tall story.”

“It's not a story,” Denham insisted. “I tell you, there's something on that island. Something that no white man has ever seen. You might call it a legend, but every legend has a foundation of truth, and that's what I'm after.”

“Kong,” Englehorn repeated softly. “Whatever Kong is, you're going to photograph it.”

“Whatever is there. You bet I'll photograph it!”

Driscoll leaned back from the table and crossed his arms. “Suppose,” he asked drily, “that it doesn't want its picture taken?”

Denham threw his head back and laughed. “Suppose it doesn't? Why do you think I brought that big crate of gas bombs?”

He walked forward and stood gazing ahead, to the southwest. Englehorn and Driscoll joined him, and Driscoll could not help staring, too. Part of him doubted the tale of the map and the mysterious island, but skeptical as he was, anxious about Ann as he was, he felt rising within him a reckless excitement. Englehorn turned back to the table, made a mark on it with a pencil at the supposed position of the island.

Driscoll turned to watch. The old man was a crack navigator. He clenched the empty pipe in his teeth and hummed to himself as he picked up a pair of dividers and calmly began to lay in the final leg of the voyage, the leg that might—just might, Driscoll thought—lead to an unknown and mysterious island. To
Kong.

5

SOMEWHERE IN THE INDIAN OCEAN
MARCH 11, 1933

“Don't look down, now.”

“I won't,” Ann gasped, clinging to the rungs with desperate strength. Why had she asked Jack to take her up here? She swallowed hard and took another step up, and another.

Above her, Driscoll pushed up the floor plate of the crow's nest and clambered through. A moment later he bent back down, extending an arm. “That's a girl. Come on. Not much farther now. Don't give up on me.”

“Who's giving up?” Ann demanded. She pulled herself up another two rungs, and then his brown hand closed over her slender wrist firmly, deliberately. He raised her up as if she weighed no more than a bag of potatoes, and then he kicked the trapdoor closed and set her down.

Ann gasped as she swayed to the roll of the
Wanderer
. The peeling, sunbaked deck lay far below, and all around the ship sparkled a glorious expanse of ocean. Ann pushed her golden hair back over her ears, enjoying the cooling breeze. Beside her, Driscoll wiped his damp forehead and beamed his approval. “Looks good. You ought to wear it back like that.”

Ann didn't reply. She felt lost in the circle of intense blue ocean, with a clear blue sky overhead. The ship's wake was a white V etched onto the face of the sea, and its motion, noticeable on the deck, was far greater at this height. Ann didn't feel the least touch of seasickness, though. It was exhilarating, almost like flying. She turned in a complete circle and wound up facing forward, facing more or less south. The one interruption in the blank horizon lay in that direction, a low, fleecy cloud lying right on the surface, or so it seemed.

“This is wonderful,” Ann said, reaching for Jack's hand. “Why didn't you bring me up here before? I feel like an explorer.”

Jack squeezed her hand. “Well, let's see. If an explorer is someone who gets there first, I guess you are. You're the first woman ever to set foot up here.”

“And we're going to an island where no one else has ever gone,” Ann replied thoughtfully. “It's exciting. When should we get there?”

Jack studied her face solemnly, his expression unreadable. At last he gave her an indulgent smile. “If there really is any such place, we ought to find it by tomorrow at this time. We're certainly no more than twenty-four hours away from the position Denham gave the captain.”

Ann looked down at the deck. “Carl's really worked up about it. There he is, pacing back and forth again. I don't think he went to bed at all last night.”

Jack slipped an arm around her waist. “Yeah, you're right. I guess I'm kind of worked up myself.”

She leaned against him and glanced sideways at his suntanned face. “You? Why, you said you don't even believe there is an island!”

“I hope there isn't,” Jack muttered.

Ann laughed. “And you're the one who ran away from home to find a life of adventure! I'd be ashamed of myself, Jack!”

Driscoll took his arm from around her and grasped her shoulders. “Don't you know why I'm worked up? It's not because of any fool island, but because of you, Ann. Denham's blind to risks. What will he expect you to do?”

Ann gazed into his brown eyes and raised a hand to give his cheek a gentle touch. “After what he's done for me, I'll do whatever he says. You're sweet to worry, Jack, but you know you wouldn't really want me to do anything else.”

Driscoll shook her very gently. “Yes I would, Ann. There's a limit. Denham's a great guy, but he doesn't think of safety when there's a picture at stake. He doesn't care what happens, who gets hurt, as long as he gets the shot he's after. No, don't interrupt me. I know what you're going to say—that he'd never ask us to do what he wouldn't do, and that's true, and that's okay as far as men are concerned. But with you it's different.”

Ann pulled away from him and turned to contemplate the low cloud on the distant horizon. “Well, you don't have to worry yet. And maybe there isn't any island, as you said.”

“Maybe not, but—” Driscoll broke off, pounded his fist on the rail of the crow's nest. “Still, I—this is hard for me to—Ann, look at me, all right?”

Ann felt something in her shrink from the request. Instead of looking, she turned partly away from Jack, gazing down at the sea far below. “Jack, I—”

She felt his hand on her arm. “Look at me, Ann. You know why I'm worried. I love you.”

Ann felt herself blushing, knew that her face was glowing pink. She bit her lip and could not speak for a moment.

Driscoll put his hands back on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. He pulled her into an embrace. “Ann, that's why I worry,” he said in a stifled voice. “I'm scared for you, and I'm scared of you, and we don't have much time. I love you, Ann.”

Ann felt tears stinging her eyes, but she lifted a smiling face to Driscoll, and when he leaned toward her, she returned his kiss. After a moment that seemed to go on forever, she forced herself to push away from him. “Oh, Jack.”

“Don't say anything,” Driscoll said. “Just—just remember what I said.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the west, where the sun had sunk down to the horizon. “There's an albatross.”

Ann felt a foolish smile on her face. “He's so beautiful,” she whispered, but she hardly gave the magnificent wheeling bird a second glance. She leaned back against Jack, and he put his arms around her. “It's all so beautiful,” she murmured, feeling warm and safe.

The western sky was ablaze with pink, with indigo, with saffron, peach, and yellow as the sun sank with the swiftness of the tropics. Against the brilliant display, the albatross swung in great arcs, enormous wings outstretched.