An Island Called Moreau Read Free Page B

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 to charge at me; and a certain nervous shuffle in his step kept that doubt uppermost in my mind.
    â€œYou lead, I’ll follow, George.”
    I thought he was about to dash away into the bushes. I tried again.
    â€œAll right. I’ll go ahead and you can follow me.”
    I thought he was about to rush at me.
    â€œYou no drive me?”
    â€œI want to get to HQ, George. I must have water. There’s no danger, is there?”
    He shook his great head to and fro, saying, “Danger, yes. No. No stop on way, no cause any trouble. Go with him to Master.”
    I began to walk. He darted forward immediately and remained exactly one pace behind, his little piggy eyes glaring into mine whenever I turned my head. Had I not felt so exhausted, I should have been more frightened or more amused than I was.
    In my condition and in this company, I was not well equipped to appreciate scenery. It presented, however, an immediate solid impression to me, an impression formidable and silent. Underfoot was that broken marginal territory which marks the division between ocean and land, even so precarious a wedge of land as this. Just ahead were bleached rocks and the somber greens of palm and thorn bushes. The ocean was at its eternal stir; the foliage hung silent and waiting, and far from welcoming.
    The undergrowth came down close to the water’s edge. I saw a track leading among the trees, and took it.
    George had evidently summed me up by now, for he said, “He got Four Limbs Long. You got Four Limbs Long.”
    â€œThat’s how it happens to be with mankind,” I said sharply.
    George said, or rather chanted, “‘Four Limbs Long—Wrong Kind of Song!’”
    â€œWhere did you get that idea from?” I asked. But I did not stand and wait for his answer. I set off along the path, and he sprang to follow on my heels, one pace behind. It was a relief to be among trees again, in shade. After all the days in the boat, my walk was uncertain, although I felt strength returning as we proceeded.
    My mind was preoccupied with many things, not least with my weakness and the contrasting strength of the moronic brute behind me. I was also puzzled by what Maastricht—whom I took for a Netherlander from his name and his accent—had said: “Welcome to Moreau Island.” The name meant something to me, yet I could not place it at all. Moreau Island? Had some scandal been connected with it?
    Despite these preoccupations, I took care to keep alert to my surroundings, for there had been something threatening in Maastricht’s warning to George. What or whom were we likely to meet?
    This strip of the island had little to offer, apart from the singular virtue of being terra firma. The rock to our right hand, sculptured as if by water at some earlier period of history, harbored many scuttling things, though probably nothing more exotic than birds and lizards. Bamboos were all about us, growing from cavities in the rock and from the ground, which was littered with stones and large shells. They grew thickly enough to obstruct our passage,