I fashioned a rough sort of sundial from a twig and a handful of pebbles. I watched our time pass in the swinging of a shadow; then down we went and Carrots took our place. He was followed by Benjamin Penny, and Penny by Weedle, and so the day passed into evening. And then we learned that the island wasn't quite as empty as Midgely had thought.
From a distance, we heard drumming.
It was not the sound of the headhunters' paddles, but a faster and wilder rhythm, a rattle inside of a thunder that must have come from fifty drums or more.
“Where's that coming from?” asked Midge. “There ain't a village for a hundred miles.”
“So much for your
book
,” said Mr. Mullock. “You prattling blind boy.”
“But it's true,” said Midge. “We seen the fleet of islands, didn't we? The galleon and all.” He frowned, then smiled and said, “Here, I know, Tom. There's Indians come from
all over to visit Koolamalinga. That must be right; it's a gathering.”
“Oh, it's a gathering all right,” said Mr. Mullock. “They're cannibals, you fool. Listen to the drums. That's a cannibal feast beginning.”
With the darkness came a glow of fires in the east, and voices along with the drums. They weren't much louder than the insects that clicked and hummed and whirred around us. But it was frightful to sit there listening, so our tattered group huddled closer together as the jungle also came alive with shrills and shrieks. The last lookout had come down from the ledge at dusk.
The water from the falls burbled and splashed. In its mist rose the moon, a silver ring above us. I could see Benjamin Penny pressed against the rock, as ugly as a gargoyle. He stared straight ahead, starting at the cries of the animals, and that dreadful drumming went on.
Even Gaskin Boggis looked scared. There was a tremble in his voice when he turned to Mr. Mullock and asked, “Will you tell us a story?”
“No,” answered Mr. Mullock.
Then Early Discall began to hum his plowing song. He held his arms around his knees and, rocking on the stone, hummed it loud and clear. What a relief it was to hear him. The song was lovely, like a hymn, and it echoed from the rocks and trees and drowned the sounds of drums. He reached the point where a man would answer, if he were really singing in the fields. And suddenly, into his song, came the deeper voice of Mr. Mullock.
He put words to the tune, and seemed to do it without thinking, for he sat as sullen as the rest of us.
Suddenly Early stopped. “Why, you're a plowman,” he said.
“What?” said Mr. Mullock. “What are you blathering about now, you simpleton?”
But even Weedle understood. “You was singing his song,” said he. “You're from the west country, ain't you? You're from the same place as 'im, Mr. Mullock.”
“Don't talk such rot,” said Mr. Mullock. “I'm a lord, haren't I? Hah! Do you see lords plowing fields, you miserable—”
“Here, I
knew
a Mullock,” said Early Discall. “Why, it was thick with Mullocks where I was.”
“Well, I don't know them,” said Mr. Mullock. “And furthermore, I don't care to listen to your prattle.”
“There was a Mullock three fields over from us,” said Early.
Mr. Mullock roared at him. “Are you deaf? Lord almighty, I wish that
I
was.”
“Yes, I remember now.” Early was scratching his head. “There was a story of a Mullock what went away to London. He—”
“Shut up, you pile of muck.” Mr. Mullock leapt to his feet. Three paces he took toward the boy, then three paces back. He whirled around. “Now remember
this
!” he cried. “I've seen things that would curl your teeth, my lad. Hah! I've seen more blood spilt than there's water in the sea. And two things I've learned: no man escapes 'is fate. And dead ones tell no tales.”
It was the second time that he'd talked about the silence of dead men. I understood no more about him now than I had the first time. I stared up, as astonished as everyone else, while he stood towering there in his silly turtle helmet, with his great black beard glistening in the moonlight. He pointed at Early.
“You get up on that ledge and don't move until morning. Do you hear me?” he said. “Now!”
Early did as he was told. We watched him slink into the darkness, and heard him scramble up the cliff. A scurry of pebbles came skittering down.
“Now who wanted a story?” said Mr. Mullock. “Well, I'll tell you one, boys. I'll tell you of a fellow who went from rags to riches, and back to rags again. I'll tell you 'ow the world wore 'im down like grain in a grindstone. Is that the one you'd like to 'ear? Is it, then?”
Gaskin blinked back at him. “I'd rather hear about the Mullock what went to London.”
“Hah!” Mr. Mullock buried his fist in his beard. He tugged hard, as though trying to wrench the hair from his chin. Then his arm fell to his side and he said, “Oh, what's the use? Am I to be a wet nurse to the lot of you?”
He sat again, in his place. He took his axe from his belt and curled up on his side. The drumming went on in the distance, and the cannibals' fires glowed through the trees like tiny, watchful eyes. Soon a chink and grind of metal started up and I saw that Mr. Mullock was honing his axe on the stone.
“If you've any sense you'll sleep,” he said. “It's in the twittering hour that the junglies come.”
His blade scraped back and forth. His breaths were heavy sighs. I nodded off, snapped awake, then wouldn't allow myself to sleep again. All through the night, Mr. Mullock ground his axe. At the first sign of dawn he stopped, flicked his thumb across the blade, then stood. His feet straddled Benjamin Penny, who lay more twisted than ever. Midgely was sleeping beside me. I could hear the drums still beating in the east, like a faint heartbeat of the island itself.
Mr. Mullock stepped from the rock to the grass.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He drew in a short and startled breath. It was the only sign that I'd surprised him. “Up to the cliff,” he said, without looking back. “I'll take the morning watch.”
I trailed him with my eyes until he passed out of sight around the corner of the cliff. There were no sounds of animals, no cries from the jungle. A heavy stillness seemed to smother the island, and it took a moment for me to realize that the drumming had finally stopped.
The sun came up, a bright slash to the east, and every bird greeted it with a song. It was a cheery chorus that twittered back and forth and all around. I shifted to the side of the pool and took a drink from the clear water. I scooped it to my mouth, splashed another handful on my face, and walked down into the glade.
Up the cliff I looked. Neither Mr. Mullock nor Early was there. The ledge was empty.
My first thought was that Mr. Mullock had gone for the boat. I imagined him racing through the jungle, whipped by branches and vines, hurtling down to the river. I looked all around. I shouted, “Mr. Mullock!”
Then out from the trees came an abominable shriek, and Early Discall cried out, “God save me!” He screamed again. He shouted, “No!”
There came a crashing of branches. “Help!” cried Early. “Oh, God, won't somebody help me?”
On the rocks by the pool, every boy leapt to his feet. Midgely grabbed my arm. “What is it, Tom?” he asked. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” I said. The jungle was a dense wall. A parrot soared up from the midst of it, flapping crazily to the south.
“Is it the junglies?” he asked.
Nobody moved. We could hear poor Early thrashing. He called once more for help, but the plea ended in the most horrible scream. It sent more birds flurrying from the trees.
I saw Benjamin Penny touch his tongue to his lips. His eyes were gleaming bright, his cheeks flushed. He seemed excited, even happy.
Bushes moved at the edge of the glade. The ferns parted, and out came Mr. Mullock. He came at a trot, his hair and his beard streaming back. In one hand he carried his axe, and from the other swung Early Discall's shoes. Halfway across the glade he stopped, threw down the shoes and kicked off his own. “Look lively, lads,” he said. “There's not a moment to spare.”
“Where's Early?” I said.
“Never mind
'im
.” Mr. Mullock knelt to pull on his new shoes. “There's no 'elp now; it's too late.”
“You killed him,” I said.
“Are you mad?” Mr. Mullock looked from face to face.
“Why would I kill the boy? For his bleeding, blasted
shoes
? Is that what you think?”
“No, not for shoes,” said I. “He was starting to remember things. He was coming close to your secrets.”
“Hah! What secrets are those?”
“I don't know them all,” I said. “But I know about Botany Bay and the priest you murdered there. You've been a busy man with that axe, Mr. Mullock. How many is it now?”
The look he gave me might have melted stone. He came to his feet, encircled now by the boys. I said to them, “He's a convict. He's a killer and a convict, and I say we leave him here.”
“Maroon him?” Midgely said.
“Hah! You
are
mad. The whole lot of you,” said Mr. Mullock. He was turning in his place, looking to Weedle, to Gaskin, to Carrots, to Midgely. “You're crackers. You're moonstruck. And you're the worst of all, Tom Tin,” he said, coming round to me again. “I knew from the start that you were the one. It was you—”
“The priest was the first.” I guessed at the truth from what I had seen in the caves. “You chopped the boat in two so no one could leave the island, and you killed the others one by one.”
“Did I?” said Mr. Mullock. “Hah! What a tale.”
“The Gypsy was the last. But you didn't quite kill him, Mr. Mullock,” I said.
There was still a wildness in his eyes. But he managed to gather himself, and took on some of what I thought was the dignity of his imagined lordship. “There's not a word of truth
ever came from the Gypsy,” he said. “Provising he spoke a word at all to you, that is. I'm of the hopinion that 'e didn't.”
“If I want your opinion I'll ask,” I said, mocking his words.
He looked as though he might explode with anger. But he kept his voice calm. “If you don't believe me about Early, Tom,” he said, “why don't you go and look in the jungle?”
A sound came from there, just then. It was a slither and snap that might have been anything.
“Well?” said Mr. Mullock. “Go and see what 'appened, why don't you?”
I hesitated too long. Weedle laughed. “He's scared,” he said.
“As he should be. As he should be,” said Mr. Mullock, holding up a hand. “I'll tell you lads, what it was that got your friend. I tried to save 'im, but I couldn't. There were too many.”
“Too many what?” asked Midgely.
“Dragons,” said Mr. Mullock. “That's what it was, lads. There's dragons out there.”
Midgely gasped. “There ain't no dragons, are there?”
“Of course there's not,” I said. “Is that the best you can do, Mr. Mullock?
Dragons?
”
“Hah!” He brushed bits of grass from his sleeve. “Off you go then, Tom. Myself, I'm for leaving the island before the junglies come. So what will it be, lads? Who's with me, and who's with Tom?”
I wasn't surprised by the outcome. When Mr. Mullock headed down to the river, down to the waiting boat, everyone but Midgely went with him. Even Midge himself might have gone, if he'd had eyes.
“Oh, Tom,” he said. “What do we do?”
There was another slithering sound from the jungle. It seemed to be passing the glade, moving in the same direction that Mr. Mullock had taken. I wanted very badly to see for myself what had happened, but I feared being left behind on the island. I heard in my mind Early's terrible cries and knew that, for whatever reason, Mr. Mullock was right that he wasn't alive any longer. Feeling very much the coward, I told Midgely, “It's true; we can't save him.” I took my friend and pulled him away, and together we raced for the boat.
Through the ferns and through the bushes, round the trees we ran. I didn't look back, or to either side. I paused once, to listen for the river, then started off again.
We came to a trail and turned along it. The ground was soft, broken by the footprints of all the boys and Mr. Mullock. Midgley stumbled and fell. I pulled him up. “Hurry,” I said, dragging him on.
As we came to a bend in the trail I heard a shout from Mr. Mullock. Branches snapped; he swore and cursed. A moment later we rounded the corner, and I saw with astonishment that he was dangling head down from the trees.
Like a toy man on a string, he swung there, writhing and twisting. A loop of rope encircled his ankles, and his little turtle helmet was rolling on the ground. Curses and oaths poured from his mouth one after the other.
Gaskin Boggis was standing below him. “It snatched him up,” he said. “He was running ahead, and all of a sudden he was swinging in the air.”
“It's a man trap,” I said.
Midgely snorted. “That ain't no man trap.” He was squinting at what must have been a great black shadow dangling above him. “The people here are friendly, Tom. You know that; you read the book.”
“Never mind your bloody book,” said Mr. Mullock. “Get me down, you loonies.”
He was high enough that his reaching hands couldn't quite touch us. They were turning very red, and I imagined his face was the same. But his beard had fallen across it, and he sputtered now to spit the whiskers from his mouth.
“Get me down!” he cried again. “You can't leave me like this.”
The thought hadn't really occurred to me. But now that
he'd said it I could imagine doing just that. It would be a pleasure to go on our way without Mr. Mullock.
He kicked in the noose, and set himself swinging so violently that he crashed against a tree. The noose tightened, the rope popping at his ankles. I could see that it was Early's shoes that held him, and that without those his feet might have slipped right through the loop.
“Look,” he said. “Please. If you want me to beg, I'll beg. Just don't leave me here for the junglies.”
“Tell us the truth,” I said. It hurt my neck to look up at him. “You killed Early. Say it's true.”
“I didn't,” he said. “It was dragons, I told you.”
Back and forth he went, a green and hairy bell.