Tales From the Graveyard Page 4

  His heart leapt. If this was a reef, this might be a lagoon, and if that was so, there would be an island near.

  There was no sign of any of the rest of the crew. In a few seconds, the ship would keel over, and he knew she was already breaking up. He must get away from the suction of the sinking haul as quickly as possible.

  He struck out across the smoother water. He hoped the others had found it too. The storm was passing fast, and there were breaks in the clouds. The wind had gone screaming on its way.

  As the scene cleared, he saw waving palms, and a stretch of golden beach. It was an island after all! With his remaining strength, he swam towards it. He did not even stop to think whether it was inhabited or not. It was a relief to feel the sand beneath his feet. He looked back and saw that the ship had completely disappeared. He plunged his way into some undergrowth and lay still.

  When Skipper Dunn awoke, the sun was shining, and the whole scene looked peaceful: blue sea, blue sky and green palms. He shook down a coconut and refreshed himself with the milk. Then he heard voices. At first he thought they were native, but as he crept closer the words became intelligible. It was English, and he recognised that they belonged to his mate, "skinny Jenkins" (because he was a bony, wiry, little fellow) and big Jim Larkin, the giant of the crew, notable for his red hair.

  ‘Be quiet, you fools,’ Dunn said to them, and they jumped to see his face break through the undergrowth. ‘We don't yet know if this island is inhabited or not - and if it is, whether the natives are friendly. They might even be cannibals!’

  ‘Aw,’ answered big Jim with a lofty wave of his hand. ‘Cannibals only belong to fairy stories. This is an educated world.’

  ‘Education might not have got as far as these parts,’ Dunn retorted. ‘In any case, we'd better be careful. Are any of the others here?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Haven't seen anyone! Those who went first were swept into the sea. Don't think they noticed the lagoon.’

  They decided to make the best of their good fortune in being saved, and set to work to make some kind of shelter. They went down to the beach at low tide and searched among the driftwood for anything that had been washed up from the wreck. They were overjoyed to find tins of provisions, and even a watertight box with revolvers and ammunition. They took one a piece and felt happier that they had some means of defence apart from their knives. Happier? - because it was then they had a suspicion that they were being watched. They were aware of dark forms on the foliage. A face would peer down and then was gone!

  As it would turn out, they wouldn’t have long to worry. During the night they decided watch must be kept, so one stayed awake every two hours. Awake and alert, too. It was hard for any of them to sleep properly. There was a constant rustling and shuffling in the undergrowth, a breathing and whispering. As whoever it was, was so reluctant to show themselves it was likely that they were afraid. But it was hard to tell. The three men were more than thankful for their revolvers, although they had decided not to shoot unless they were quite sure that these people meant harm.

  As it happened, they were not given the chance. Suddenly, silently, hordes of dark beings set upon them, dropping from the trees, and being a moonless night, the seamen were powerless against an enemy who blended with the darkness. They yelled, but there was no one to hear them. The sound of their voices only unleashed howls and whoops from the natives.

  Jim Larkin was the one on watch, and he had his revolver knocked out of his hand when the first native dropped on him, with no chance to retrieve it. Dunn shouted to Jenkins not to shoot, but to hang on to his revolver if he could. There were too many natives, and even though the action was not friendly, the position might be worsened by any fight on the part of the seamen.

  Dunn stored his revolver in his pocket before the natives bound him and advised Jenkins to do the same. They could talk easily among themselves, certain that their captors did not understand a word.

  When dawn came they were marched across the island, their hands tied behind their backs, escorted by some fifty of the savages, who were dressed only in skirts of dry grass and carried spears, who did a kind of war- dance in circles around them.

  The island seemed to be quite small, as they crossed it to the opposite shore in less than an hour and their progress was not fast. They emerged from the trees onto a hill, which looked down upon a beach similar to the one on the other side of the island, except that it was more open and was crowned by an enormous stone figure, obviously the god of these people, and similar to such effigies which are found on many Pacific Islands. It was carved from a single piece of stone, about 20 feet high; the face was grotesque and the body decorated with strange symbols.

  Dunn and his companions noticed that a fire had been newly lit a short distance in front of the figure, and over it was a large tripod with three stakes hanging down.

  ‘Do you think these fellows are going to kill us?’ Jenkins asked timidly.

  ‘So it seems,’ Dunn replied, though he was thinking hard about any chance of escape, and felt pretty dismal about it. ‘And eat us as well!’

  ‘Who said cannibals were only in fairy stories?’ wailed Jenkins.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ growled big Jim, ‘just let me get my hands free, and I'll show a few of them a real knockout blow.’ Big Jim had once been a boxer.

  ‘No good if you could,’ said Dunn. ‘There are too many of them, better keep quiet and see what happens. No use getting panicky, anyway. Show them how to die like good white men.’

  A native who was bigger and fatter than the rest, sat on a stone opposite to the god. Presumably he was their chief or king, as he had a circle of flowers on his head. This opinion was soon confirmed. The prisoners were led up to him, and the guards forced them to their knees. Big Jim cursed them under his breath, but Dunn tried to be pleasant. Perhaps, this man could save them. If only they could make him understand.

  But no! The chief grinned and it was not a kindly grin. He showed a row of white teeth and was obviously thinking about his dinner. He signed to the guards, and in spite of Dunn's appeals to him that he wanted to talk, they dragged them away, and tied them to the foot of the god. All the while they kept piling more wood onto the fire and then started a festival dance around the prisoners. Although the seamen did not know, this was a day when they worshipped together, and usually sacrificed one of themselves. Today they believed the god had sent these men for that purpose.

  Dunn leaned back against the base of the statue. He felt the stone against his hands and against the ropes, made of creepers, which bound him. The stone was rough! Feverishly, he began to rub. It would be easy to free his hands. If only he could get to the revolver in his pocket! At least he would have the satisfaction of shooting a few before they killed him. Big Jim have been right after all. They should have thought. It was useless to hope people like these would be friendly.

  On went the dance. Dunn worked hard with his hands. He whispered to the others, and they were rubbing too. Big Jim had his revolver, planned to knock out the nearest guard and seize his spear.

  ‘Do you see anything on the horizon?’ asked Jenkins suddenly.

  Dunn looked hard.

  ‘Yes, I do! It's a ship! Oh boy! If only they'll look at this island!’

  At that moment his rope broke, but he had to wait for the others.

  The movement had to be perfectly timed.

  ‘I shall aim for the chief,’ said Dunn. ‘Chief or no chief, he condemned us to death are you ready?’

  In unison the hands went to the revolvers. Dunn levelled at the chief before the natives realised anything was happening. There was a report, and the fat man rolled over. Some natives ran to him. They howled and shivered. Then they pointed to the prisoners who were still standing by the foot of the god.

  Dunn and his companions had decided amongst themselves that they had a point of advantage with their backs to the stone as they were watching that ship.

  The nat
ives held a conference over the dead chief. Contrary to expectations, they seemed frightened. Then one tall fellow gave a snort, as if trying to rally their spirits. He took a spear, and posing it in mid air, aimed at Dunn.

  Dunn was not taking any risks. He fired again before the native could throw. The spear dropped harmlessly to the ground. The cannibal staggered and fell.

  That was enough for the rest of the company. A howl went through them. They were mystified and frightened. Death that came like that was unknown to them. They no longer chattered, but turned and fled down the hill and into the undergrowth.

  Dunn and Jenkins still stood at the foot of the god, with their revolvers ready for the change of mind. But it did not happen.

  ‘Climb up this figure and wave your shirt,’ Dunn commanded Big Jim. ‘It is probably the ship who answered our S.O.S before we struck the reef. If so, they are looking for us.’

  Big Jim stuck his toes into the carving and went up speedily. Off came his shirt, and he waved and yelled with all his might.

  The reward was not long. ‘They've seen us!’ he shouted down to Dunn and Jenkins. ‘They've dropped anchor and are lowering a boat! We're going to be saved!’

  Mr. Strange’s Christmas Dream

  (from Graveyard Rendezvous 14)

  With Christmas came a nightmare, a mysterious stranger, and a premonition of death.

  The leaden grey sky, which held the promise, or threat, of snow, finally released the first few fluffy flakes, allowing them to drift earthwards with a casualness which had first belied the heavy fall which was to follow. The last minute Christmas shoppers, hustling through the crowded High Street, laden with gaily wrapped parcels, looked skywards, and increased their pace. Another couple of hours, and everywhere would be deserted. They would be able to draw up their chairs in front of blazing log fires, or the electrical equivalent, and Christmas would have really begun.

  Alexander Strange was the modern counterpart of Charles Dickens's Scrooge. His bent and wizened, gnome-like figure was a source of amusement to the town’s youngsters, particularly, during the festive season. The street urchins would shout after him as he walked from the small insurance office, where he worked, to his house, only a couple of streets away. Tonight was no exception but, over the years, he had become immune to such ignorance and rudeness so that their catcalls fell on deaf ears.

  Soon he was home, the dilapidated door of his suburban terraced house shut, and a gas fire lit. Automatically, he began preparing his evening meal, not the frugal repast which one would have expected from the famous character from fiction, but a good wholesome steak and kidney pie with apple tart to follow. He would eat this over the next three or four days, not rationing himself by any means, yet refusing to purchase those extra few luxuries which would have made his usual routine just that little bit different.

  Mr. Strange hummed a tune to himself while he waited for his pie to warm through. This was most unusual, he even admitted this fact to himself, yet it was almost caused by a celebration. Almost... but not quite. There would be no point in wasting money unnecessarily he reflected. Furthermore, it had nothing to do with Christmas it was all on account of that dream which he had had a fortnight ago. Dream? He shivered at the very thought of it, nightmare, was more like it! Automatically his mind recalled the events of that terrible Tuesday night. It could only have been a dream, he consoled himself for it was too late now for it come true anyway. All the same, he had lived in sheer terror for the past couple of weeks, but at long last he could relax. It had probably all stemmed from the extra portion of stilton which he had had before retiring. It had been nothing but the figment of a slumber troubled by indigestion.

  Yet, his nocturnal visitor had seemed too real. Ghostly, was the word, for he swore that he was able to see the old Victorian chest of drawers through the apparition! The ghost of Christmas future! The figure was so ordinary in appearance, though, that it might well have been the butcher's assistant from the shop down the road, clad in an ill fitting suit.

  ‘What do you want?’ Quaking Alexander Strange, pulled up the sheets until only the top half of his face was visible. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name does not matter,’ the other’s voice seemed unreal, like the finale of a crescendo of echoes in a mountain pass. ‘I am merely a messenger. I have been sent to speak with you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To tell you that you will be in your grave 'ere Christmas has passed!’

  Mr. Strange could not remember whether he had fallen asleep then, or whether he’d fainted. Whichever it was, when he woke the grey light of a winter's morning was streaming through the chinks in the curtains, and of his midnight visitor there was no sign. It must have been a dream!

  However, the elderly insurance clerk was taking no chances, and up until he returned home from the office on Christmas Eve he had lived a life of even greater monotony than usual. He took a roundabout route to and from the office each day, avoiding the busy main streets as far as possible, just in case a speeding vehicle happened to mount the pavement! He had his sandwiches at his desk, fearful to venture out of doors at lunchtime, and in the evenings he retired to bed early. As the yuletide season approached he became both apprehensive and relieved. Apprehensive, because if anything was going to happen it would have to be fairly soon now, and he was relieved as he survived each succeeding day. Each night he slept with his bedside light on.

  He also took care to eat no more stilton cheese!

  As Christmas Eve came, he had only one night left! Alexander Strange congratulated himself as he ate heartily of his evening meal. It was too late for him to be buried until after Boxing Day now. It did call for a celebration of some sort, he decided, as he finished his last mouthful of apple pie. Something not too lavish, though! Then, an idea struck him. He would attend midnight mass at the church just up the road. It wouldn't be far to go, and he need not put anything more on the collection plate than a pence piece! It would be an outing at any rate. Yes, he would go to church.

  It was snowing heavily when Mr. Strange walked down the dimly lit street towards the lighted and gaily decorated church. Blizzarding would be a better word, he mused to himself, for the flakes were becoming larger and faster than ever causing him to pull up the collar of his shabby overcoat in order to protect himself from the whipping, stinging snow.

  It was as he walked up the snow-covered path towards the church door, that a sudden feeling of pity, something which he had never experienced before, came over him. There, close to the track was a huge mound of soil and an oblong hole, boarded over for safety, denoted a newly dug grave. Mr. Strange shuddered. That would be for old Mr. Russell, he told himself. They're burying him the day after Boxing Day. He had had a good innings at eighty-seven. Alexander Strange shivered again. It could have been himself that grave had been dug for. He almost knew what it felt like to be dead!

  The service followed much the same pattern as most midnight communions. In spite of the weather almost every pew was full, and he had to be content with a chair and a cushion beside the verger's seat. The congregation were in a joyous mood, the Christmas spirit being evident in their lusty singing of "O, come all ye faithful". Even Mr. Strange felt his melancholy thawing a little.

  The vicar, a robust man with a ruddy face and a bald head, gave the final address. He almost faltered in the blessing as his eyes came to rest on the hunched, praying figure of the miser. Yet another sheep had returned to the fold!

  The blizzard was heavy as the congregation filed out into the night, receiving hearty handshakes from the jolly clergyman at the doorway. Mr. Strange was one of the first to leave, being nearest to the exit.

  ‘How nice to see you, Mr. Strange!’ The vicar pumped the other's bony, gnarled hand, heartily. ‘I do hope we shall see you again soon. Sunday, perhaps…? Ah, Mrs. Watson, how is your dear mother progressing?’

  Alexander Strange stepped out into the driving snow. Somehow, he felt more at peace with the world, calmer perhaps. Y
es, it would be a good idea to attend matins on Sunday. A very good idea. He might even put two pence in the offertory plate this time!

  Suddenly, he felt his feet slipping in the snow. He attempted to regain his balance, but the slippery surface offered no chance of a secure foothold. His legs shot from beneath him, and there was an ear splitting crack of bone on tarmac as his head met with the pathway. Somebody screamed as the huddled, lifeless figure of the old miser gathered momentum on the steep incline. Faster and faster it slid, until it finally hit the concrete kerbstone and shot into the air. It seemed to hang, suspended in space, and then there was a terrific splinter of wood, a rumbling of soil and stone, finally terminating in a shocked silence among the horrified onlookers.

  The plump vicar was the first on the scene, producing a small pocket torch from the beneath his flowing robes, and shining the beam down through the splintered planks into the yawning grave beneath. In a yellow circle of light he saw the huddled form of Alexander Strange lying there, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, half buried beneath the pile of excavated soil which his falling body had brought down with it.

  Perhaps it was an illusion, a figment of an imagination fired by the horrific scene which lay below him, but the vicar fancied that he saw a figure standing on the opposite side of the grave, a very ordinary man dressed in an ill fitting suit who smiled and nodded his head in a satisfied manner. However, when the clergyman shone his torch in that direction again there was nothing to be seen except softly falling snowflakes, and an impenetrable blackness beyond.

  The Case of the Ostrich Slasher