An Island Called Moreau Read Free

seawater out of me.
    When I had recovered slightly, I heaved myself into a sitting position. I was confronted by as frightful a countenance as I have ever seen in my life. At close quarters, its brutishness was overwhelming, so that I half believed I was delirious.
    Under a floppy leather hat was no brow, simply a great swelling face covered with stubble. The jaw was prognathous with no chin. A mighty mouth swept back, its corners almost vanishing into the absurd hat, its fleshy lips hardly fleshy enough to conceal large incisors in the lower jaw. Above this formidable mouth was a snout-like nose, wrinkled in a sneer like a hyena’s, and two almost lidless eyes. These eyes regarded me now—fixed themselves on me with a dull red glare. I pulled myself back from them in shock. But still I had to stare into them.
    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 black man was struck on the back by his companion, who roared, “Get 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 gray work overalls.
    When I turned my attention to the other man, my first impressions were scarcely more favorable. 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 color 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 unfavorable—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 military carbine slung over one shoulder and clutched a bottle in his left hand.
    When he saw me regarding him, he held out the bottle before him, not looking straight at me, and said mockingly, “You look as if you could have 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.
    â€œPalm wine for the morning. Fresh vintage. Do you plenty good!”
    â€œI need water.”
    â€œSuit 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.
    â€œWhat is this place?” I asked.
    He looked me over again, half between pity and contempt, his eyes sliding round me.
    â€œWelcome 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 kilometers 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 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