The Call of the Thunder Dragon (37 page)

He’d been told by German sailors
in the Purdy Islands once, that cannibalism was on the increase on
account of the increased choice ‘on the menu’; the arrival of more
westerners actually resulted in more headhunting and
cannibalism!

They continued to drift towards
the group, which grew in number as more hunters arrived.

“Do you think they’re just
curious about us? I mean the pile of skulls could mean anything
right?” Falstaff throttled down and stood up so he could see
better.

Zam answered with surprising
calm. “Folk only pile head bone of monkey’s like that after eating
I think?”

Close up the tribesmen were short
and incredibly hairy. Falstaff squinted, frowning trying to make
out the faces that were covered with hair almost to their noses;
under their chins hung long beards, seemed to interweaved with
their hairy chests. Falstaff flinched as the realised the face he
was studying was definitely female judging by her pendulous
breasts. As they drifted nearer, they could see the tribesmen were
naked, not wearing furs. On their heads they wore headdresses of
black or gold monkey fur.

Falstaff pointed. “They’ve caught
a few of those gold furred monkeys already, - maybe we’ll be
okay?”

The question was answered
swiftly. Arrows started plopping in the water around them. A spear
flew up into the air and over the cockpit, missing them by inches.
Visions of arrows and spears puncturing the wings filled Falstaff’s
mind. He fired two or three shots towards the shore, then dropped
into his seat.

“They’re cannibals alright! Get
down!” He yelled, warning Zam as he revved up the engine.

Pushing the engines to the
maximum, he put the rudder hard over and started the Starboard
engine. The Caproni spud sharply around. Falstaff let the aircraft
dance around on its two floats, turning until the tail faced the
shore. He revved up, putting on a turn to starboard to counter act
the unbalanced engines and so they moved forward towards the south
bank once more.

On the bank, the tribesman had
stopped throwing spears and the bowmen retreated away from the
spraying water and the noisy roar of the engine. Falstaff shut down
only when they were back in the middle of the lake. Looking back,
he believed he saw men being carried away. He’d hit at least two he
thought.

“I do believe that we upset them
somehow?” Falstaff grinned.

Zam timidly shrugged at
Falstaff’s bravado. “What will we do now?”

“You said it girl! Can I fix the
engine? I’ll give it a go!” He climbed out of the cockpit, over the
top, back into the nacelle.

“I hope this anchor line is long
enough?” He shouted as he threw the small anchor out. The anchor
was no more than a long metal hook nearly afoot in length, with a
small flat blade about the size of Zam’s flat palm.

They waited as the Caproni
started to drift once more towards the waterfall.

“I don’t think it is?” Zam said,
watching the water run past underneath them. “We’re still
moving!”

Falstaff pulled the line back up,
hand over hand dripping back onto the bow. Falstaff untied it from
the bow and, re-attached it to the sinker line; throwing both
overboard. The sinker weight fell rapidly, dragging the anchor line
away, momentarily Falstaff cast out the anchor to follow the
weight. The line quickly went tight. The Caproni drifted slowly,
then swung around to face the opposite way, the current slowly drew
leaves and driftwood past them, but they reminded fixed in
place.

“That’s it, the anchor’s fixed!
That’s sixty meters of line?” Falstaff called out. “That’s pretty
deep!”

Zam pointed towards the opposite
direction. “We are too close now?”

Falstaff looked up from the water
below, he saw movement, then shook his head, probably just sediment
or mud stirred up by the anchor or drawn along by the slight
current. They were fifteen meters away from the nearest shore and
twenty meters from the waterfall.

“I hope the anchor holds,”
Falstaff said. “Look I’m sorry, Zam, it’s not your fault, I was as
keen on this trip as you were?”

Zam, still wrapped in layers of
woollen coats, squeezed her arms around him. “I know! It’s your
fault! You fixed the engine last time didn’t you?” She smiled
looking into his eyes intent on making him feel as guilty as
possible. “You broke it again, now fix it!”

Falstaff was about to speak when
he sensed Zam shift her hold around his waist as her hand dropped
and he felt a sharp grip on his loins.

“I’ve already fixed this and now
you fix the engine and get me home!” Zam shifted her gaze away,
maybe from embarrassment, she wasn’t sure herself. She hadn’t meant
it to sound like it had.

Falstaff’s jaw dropped. “It
wasn’t entirely clear that was the arrangement?”

Zam pulled open one layer of her
coats, sitting on the edge of the cockpit, she leaned back against
the fuel tanks, she let her head fall backward and gazed up at the
wings, the crossing wires and the blue sky beyond.

“Did you want to make a new
arrangement?” Zam pouted.

Falstaff looked at Zam, rubbing
the milky skin of her neck, tugging at the coats and shirt
underneath.

“I think the arrangement, we had
before, was just fine.” Falstaff smiled at Zam, glancing nervously
around at the dark shadowy line along the tree crowded shore.

“Really?” Zam’s face fell, then
she blushed and smiled. “Oh, really? That’s good isn’t it? Then
let’s get going! Fix the engine!”

Less than an hour later, the
engine was fixed. Falstaff had stripped down and pulled off his
boots and walked out tentatively onto the fabric and wood wing. The
engine was easily accessible after removing the few pieces of doped
canvas stretched around the frame. He’d inspected the engine and
found the ignition lead to the plug with damaged socket was
missing. Checking the plug itself, he found it to be loose. It was
the work of a few moments to tighten it again and reattach the
loose wire. Falstaff fussed over the errant plug checking it over
and over. Firing the engine up, it started perfectly. After
checking it three times over and coming up with no way to secure
the plug or lock it in place, he shrugged and accepted that the fix
was good enough.

Zam handed him a bowl of rice and
the last of the tea supplied by doctor back in China. After the
short refreshment, Falstaff climbed out over the fuselage to pull
the anchor up.

After two or three minutes of
tugging at the line he gave up.

“Damn, that anchor must be jammed
in the rocks or something?” Falstaff scratched his head.

“Can we go now?” Zam pointed
nervously at movement on both the west and the eastern bank, either
side of the waterfall. “They’re moving up the bank?”

Falstaff squinted at the trees
trying to see into the shadows. “It’s all right it’s only monkeys.
Look there, on my left? Monkeys with golden hair?”

“I’m sorry, it’s okay isn’t it?”
Zam apologised.

“Don’t worry, just keep on eye on
things. I’m going to try something?” Falstaff said uncertainly.

He let out the small amount of
line he’d pulled up and started the engines, gently moving up
towards the north until the anchor was slack. As he stopped the
engines he jumped over the top onto the bow, where to his surprise
the line was beginning to tighten again already.

He pulled up the line, which came
up easily at first, then began to get heavier and heavier. Falstaff
found himself sweating and his arms aching before too long. He tied
off the line and rested. He turned to look at Zam.

“It must be caught on
something?”

Zam was seated back in the
cockpit, pointing behind Falstaff. “Look boats!”

He looked around and saw two
boats edging along the shore, they seemed to be keeping their
distance for now. Falstaff scrambled down onto the float nearest
the anchor line and looked into the clear water.

“I can see the sinker, I’ve
pulled up more than half the line already!”

Reaching out, keeping both feet
secure on the float, he started pulling the rope up hand over hand.
Shortly he stopped again to rest.

“What’s wrong?” Zam called down
to him.

“Nothing!” Falstaff he shouted
stubbornly as he carried on. Determined not to be out done by a
simple anchor. Once the sinker weight was pulled in it would be
easier he told himself.

He struggled more than before.
Tying off the line, he finally managed to pull up the sinker weight
and remove it from the anchor line. He threw it up to Zam.

“Stow this, I’ll just be a
minute!”

Five minutes later, he tied off
the line again, breathing hard. “I need to rest. My ribs are
hurting me now!”

“Why don’t you cut it?” Zam
shouted down. “We’re tipping over!”

“Just a minute!” he called back
impatiently, yanking harder than ever on the line.

Kneeling, stretching out his
arms, his shoulder braced against the upright of the undercarriage
and float he angrily hauled in another two meters. Then the line
suddenly went slack. Falling backwards he thrashed falling back
into the water.

Falstaff felt the cold grip of
water flush over him. He’d just been able to take a breath of air
before he went under. One hand gripped the wire bracing the floats.
A thought went through his head, Zam will be laughing up there,
better get back up and laugh it off. He pulled with his arm,
gripping the wire harder then something snapped down firmly onto
his calf, squeezing still harder. It snapped at him again gripping
higher up his leg almost up to the knee.

Everything went blank, he was
moving in slow motion, all focus shifted to his naked toes on the
leg gripped in the vice like grip. While his body felt cold and
wet, his foot felt relatively warm. Then he felt something soft and
squishy clamp shut around his foot.

Zam stared, screaming at the
water. She could see the tail of something thrashing out of the
water as the mystery creature rolled around. Falstaff’s hand still
doggedly gripped the wire that was being stretched down into the
water pulling the toe of the plane’s float down. Zam gaped in
horror looking around. The Tribes men had turned their boats
towards them and were now getting closer. They neither rushed in to
help or attack, for the moment they just watched. They seemed to be
curious, gawking in anticipation. Likewise, the monkeys up in the
trees were hopping up and down on their branches hooting in
excitement.

Falstaff was filled with
revulsion, realising his foot must be down the gullet of some
monstrous fish. His terror gave himself the strength to pull
himself out of the water. Gasping for breath he lunged forward to
grab the upright bracing the float. Wrapping one arm around it he
locked his other hand onto his wrist to take the weight of the
unknown force dragging him down. It was agony. He thought his arm
would break.

He could see the face of the fish
below him now. A monster, an enormous grey-brown catfish, with a
mouth like a bathtub. The weird barbels undulated in the water
stretching as far as he could see through the murky deeps. The fish
tried to turn, its tail flicking around, screwing in the water.
Falstaff found his face down in the water again, but he hadn’t let
go yet. Somehow, he realised, the fish had pulled the float right
under the surface.

The Caproni reacted, bobbing up
violently the hollow buoyant floats refusing to go under. Falstaff
twisted as the float came bouncing out of the water, throwing one
leg on to the float.

He screamed in agony, the
Catfish’s flat bony, barbed lips and mouth were still clamped to
his leg as the fish flexed and swished tugging at his knee. He felt
the knee joint give, triggering a massive kick of pain as the nerve
through the joint was tweaked.

Breathlessly he hung onto the
float, a leg either side; he looked down into the tiny beady eyes
of the monster. He could feel himself slipping away into
unconsciousness. He let go of the support and fumbled with his
holster, he pulled out his pistol just as the cat fish turned
again, screwing its tail in the water. Dragging him down to the
depths.

Zam stared, her scream stopped in
her mouth. She was alone she realised as the Caproni rocked to a
halt. She was drifting towards the water fall again. The tribes men
were shouting and pointing with glee. A cold shudder swept over her
as she crouched down in the cockpit waiting for the inevitable tug
of the water that would pull them over the edge of the waterfall to
her death. She’d rather that than be eaten.

Abruptly Falstaff’s head and
shoulders burst to the surface, with a roar. He spun around trying
get his bearings, then lunged for the anchor line now hanging slack
from the bow. He wrapped his arms around it and leaned on it while
he gasped for breath. Passing up his revolver he climbed eagerly
aboard. Scrambling on the wires up into the cockpit. He frantically
grabbed the gun from Zam and pointed it over the side pulling the
trigger again and again without effect. He suddenly stopped and
slumped to the floor inside the bow gasping for air before he
passed out.

Zam looked from Falstaff to the
tribesmen now getting closer. They seemed to be even more agitated
and angry, shouting up at her as if they were upset at Falstaff’s
escape. She chanced a glance over the bow and saw the dead Catfish
floating on its side, bleeding a dark slick onto the surface of the
water. The dead fish was as long as the floats supporting the
Caproni and then some, more than seven metres. Its tail curled
around twitching slightly. It rolled over mouthing at the sky, its
tiny black spot eyes staring. Its dead mouth filled with water and
it slipped under the surface drawn away by the current.

The Golden Langur whooped from
the tree at the victory. The Tribesmen, sat down, taking up oars
they rowed towards the Caproni with shouts of anger.