Moreau’s Other Island

The monster regarded me with the strangest expression, at once aggressive and shrinking, as though it was on the point of either throwing itself upon me or leaping out of my way.

Only for a moment did we stare at each other so closely. Only for a moment was that strange ambiguity of gaze between us. Then the strange black man was struck on the back by his companion, who roared, ‘Get back to the helm, George! None of your tricks!’

Black George leaped back to his station with a frantic scuffle, quite devoid of dignity. He was a big burly fellow, with tremendous shoulders on him, but short in the shank. He was encased in an all-enveloping pair of grey work-overalls.

When I turned my attention to the other man, my first impressions were scarcely more favourable. A fine place I had come to, I thought! This specimen was recognizably Caucasian, and with no visible deformities, but he was also a great hulking brute. His face was fat and pasty; it bore a besotted, sullen expression. His eyes seemed to be the same pasty colour as his skin; they looked directly into mine once, for an instant, then away, in such a furtive manner that I was as disconcerted as by George’s savage stare. He always avoided a direct gaze.

Although everything about him appeared totally unfavourable – apart from the cardinal fact that he had rescued me from the sea – I gained an impression that he was an intelligent, even sensitive, man who was trying to bury some dreadful knowledge within him: and that the effort had brutalized him.

His hair was tawny and uncared for, and he had a straggling yellowy-brown beard. He carried a riot-gun slung over one shoulder and clutched a bottle in his left hand.

When he saw me regarding him he held out the bottle before me, not looking straight at me, and said mockingly, ‘You look as if you could have a use for a drink, hero!’

I said, ‘I need water.’

My voice was a croak. His was thick and had a curious accent. It took a while before I realized English was not his native language.

‘Palm wine for the morning. Fresh vintage. Do you plenty good!’

‘I need water.’

‘Suit yourself. You must wait till we are on the shore.’

George was now swinging the craft in between island and terminal islet, hunched with a kind of careful ferocity over the wheel. I could see a strip of beach beyond. The blond man yelled to George to go more steadily.

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

He looked me over again, torn between pity and contempt, his eyes sliding round me.

‘Welcome to Moreau Island, hero,’ he said. He took another swig at his bottle.

2

Some Company Ashore

The landing-craft ran into a narrow channel with rock on the left and island on the right. Open sea ahead indicated that although the island was several kilometres long, it was considerably less in width, at least at this western end. The beach was a slender strip of sand, bracketed in rocks and stones and encroached on by scrub. George brought us swinging broadside on to this strip, hunching himself by the wheel and awaiting further instructions while he eyed me with distrust.

‘Are you fit enough to walk?’ the blond man asked me.

‘I can try,’ I said.

‘You’re going to have to try, hero. This is where you get out! No ambulances here. I’ve got the fishing nets to see to, and that’s trouble enough to do. George here will take you along to HQ. Get that?’

Involuntarily I looked at George with suspicion.

‘He won’t hurt you,’ the blond man said. ‘If you drifted through the minefields OK then you will be safe by George.’

‘What sort of a place am I getting to? Are there other – white men there? I don’t even know your name.’

The blond man looked down at the deck and rubbed his soiled deck shoes against each other

‘You aren’t welcome here, hero, you ought better to face that fact. Moreau Island is not geared exactly to cater to the tourist trade. But we can maybe find a use for you.’

‘My work is elsewhere,’ I said sharply. ‘A lot of people will be looking for me right now. The ASASC shuttle I was in crashed in the Pacific some way from here. My name is Calvert Madle Roberts, and I hold down an important government post. What’s your name? You still haven’t told me.’

‘It’s not any damned business of yours, is it? My name is Hans Maastricht and I’m not ashamed of it. Now, get on shore. I have work to do or I will be into trouble.’

He turned to George, slapping the riot-gun over his shoulder to emphasize his words. ‘You take this man straight to HQ, get that? You go with him to Master. You no stop on the way, you no cause any trouble. OK? You no let other People cause any trouble, savvy?’

George looked at him, then at me, then back to the other man, swinging his head in a confused way.

‘Does he speak English?’ I aked.

‘This is what he savvies best,’ Maastricht said, slapping the riot-gun again. ‘Hurry it up, George. Help this man to HQ. I’ll be back when I’ve checked the fishing nets.’

‘Savvy,’ said George. ‘Hurry it up. Help this man HQ, come back when I check the nets.’

‘You just get him safe to HQ,’ Maastricht said, clouting him across the shoulders.

The hulking fellow jumped down into shallow water and put out a hand to help me. I say hand – it was a black leathery deformed thing he extended to me. There was nothing to do but take it. I had to jump down and fell practically into his arms, leaning for a moment against his barrel-chest. Again I felt in him the same revulsion as struggled in myself. He moved back a pace in one hop, catching me off balance, so that I fell on my hands and knees in the shallow waters.

‘Sort yourselves out!’ Maastricht shouted, with a laugh. Swinging the riot-gun round on its sling, he fired one shot into the air, presumably as a warning, then headed the landing-craft towards where the channel widened.

George watched him go, then turned to me almost timorously. His gaze probed mine; being nearly neckless, he hunched his shoulders to do so, as if he were short-sighted. At the same time he extended that maimed hand to me. I was still on my knees in the water. There was something poignant in the fellow’s gesture. I took his arm and drew myself up.

‘Thank you, George.’

‘Me George. You no call George?’

‘My name is Calvert Roberts – I’m glad of your help.’

‘You got Four Limbs Long. You glad of your help.’ He put his paw to his head as if trying to cope with concepts beyond his ability. ‘You glad me help. You glad George help.’

‘Yes. I’m feeling kind of shaky.’

He gestured towards the open water. ‘You – find in water, yes?’

It was as if he was striving to visualize something that happened long ago.

‘Which way to your HQ, George?’

‘HQ, yes, we go, no trouble. No stop on way, no cause any trouble.’ His voice held a curious clotted quality. We stood on the stony beach, with a fringe of palm trees and scrub to landward, while a comedy of misdirected intentions developed – or it might have been a comedy if I had had the strength to find the situation funny. George did not know whether he should walk before me or behind me or beside me. His shuffling movements suggested that he was reluctant to adopt any of the alternatives.

The surface amiability of our conversation (if it can be dignified by that word) in no way calmed my fear of George. He was monstrous, and his close physical presence remained abhorrent. Something in his posture inspired distrust. That jackal sneer on his face seemed at war all the time with a boarish element in his composition, so that I was in permanent doubt as to whether he was going to turn round and run away or charge at me; and a certain nervous shuffle in his step kept that doubt uppermost in my mind.

‘You lead, I’ll follow, George.’

I thought he was about to dash away into the bushes. I tried again.