“Whatever you do, though, don’t shoot at it!”
“Mr. Silva?” asked Abel Cook, rising from within the boat and grasping the gunwale with his bandaged hand. His face was flushed. In spite of the polta paste they’d almost exhausted on him, he still had a persistent infection since they’d cut off his finger. Sandra was sure they’d gotten all the kudzu stringers out, but suspected that tiny particles may have entered his bloodstream. So far, it didn’t look like they’d “taken root,” and she doubted they could, but they must be toxic in some way and they’d clearly initiated a major response by the boy’s immune system. “I would like to come,” he said. “I can help!”
“No, boy,” Silva replied in a gentler tone. “You and Mr. Brassey stay here and help protect the gals. I know ya’ll will.” With that, he was gone.
Lawrence could hear the thing breathing as he snaked through the bamboo or the strange cane alongside it. He’d never figured out whether the things had a well-developed sense of smell, either when he was here before or now, but he stayed downwind just in case. The breathing grew louder, more labored-sounding, the closer he came to the beast. With their immense bulk, shiksaks had to have a hard time sucking air during their annual venture upon dry land. He’d heard during his hatchlinghood and adolescent tutelage that the things sometimes ventured ashore on Tagran, his native isle, and were killed in a cooperative hunt, but here on the island that Silva called “Yap” was the only place they regularly did so. The others that occasionally menaced Tagran were probably lost or just old and wanted to lay their eggs in a place without so much competition for space and food.
Slowly, he eased closer, until all that remained between him and the massive, camouflaged flank was a single sturdy stand of bamboo. He glanced directly downwind, hoping Silva had had enough time to get in position. He took a breath. With a sharp, fierce cry, he lunged forward with the musket he carried, burying the sharp triangular bayonet deep into the monster’s side. Twisting the blade and yanking it free, he fired the musket as directly into the gushing wound as he could, spattering the thin, slippery, almost watery blood all over himself and everything around him. Then he ran like hell.
With a thunderous, reverberating, outraged groank! the shiksak heaved its head and torso high and to the right. The bamboo splintered as the beast changed its direction and shifted its back legs to position them for a leap. The camouflage pattern rapidly drained away, replaced by a mottled greenish purple as the creature launched itself through the tall shoots. Lawrence was faster in a sprint than any human, but he nevertheless had to negotiate the rigid upright obstacles. All the shiksak had to do was smash them down. Still, he was clear before it landed with a crashing, earth-trembling grunt. He raced ahead, even as the beast gathered itself for another leap. A dense tangle of shoots appeared before him, and he reversed the musket, trying to use the butt to batter a way through. The bayonet end might have helped part the bamboo, but it might also get stuck. He had no choice. Lowering his head, he dug in with his claws and plowed forward. Behind him, he heard the crash of the shiksak’s next hop and knew it would be close this time.
It didn’t crush him, just barely, but the tall, heavy bamboo it knocked down fell across his legs and tail, pinning him to the ground. He struggled and squirmed, trying to slip out from under the trunks, but there were too many and they were too tangled. There was a gust of hot breath and he felt the strain building as the shiksak scrabbled quickly forward, keeping him pinned until it could seize him with its jaws.
“Hey, Larry,” came a calm voice. Just ahead. Lawrence saw a ragged pair of go-forwards with two big feet stuck in them. His view traveled up past the battered cut-off dungarees and latched onto Silva, standing there with his bronze muscles tensed, his once black eyepatch faded and stained white with sweat, the huge rifle aimed, muzzle bobbing slightly in time with the motion of the shiksak.
The lock “clatched” and a cloud of white smoke “fissed” and swirled from the pan, but the gun didn’t go off! Still, Silva continued aiming, steady as a rock. It probably took less than a second, but to Lawrence it seemed a lifetime. Suddenly an orange jet of flame gushed from the vent and a bigger jet vomited from the still gently bobbing muzzle amid a distinctive roar and gout of choking white smoke. In an instant, Lawrence felt himself grabbed by his proud new crest and dragged out from under the tangled bamboo. Silva was hauling him along the ground like a sack when Lawrence flailed at the hand and managed to scramble to his feet. Together, the big man and the smaller, ruffled Tagranesi bolted clear of the indiscriminate death throes of the mighty shiksak.
“Popped ’eem right in the noodle!” Silva chortled around great gulps of air as he and Lawrence finally wove their way to a stop. Behind them came the thundering, crashing, ground-shaking impacts of the thrashing, flopping-brainless-beast. They knew from experience that the shiksak might carry on like that for a quarter hour or so.
“I thought he had’e… I,” Lawrence admitted, gathering in his panting tongue to speak.
“Naw, ol’ Silva wouldn’t let that happen! You did good, you little scamp.” He swabbed the Doom Whomper, wiped the lock with a piece of his shirt he kept in his pouch, then reloaded. Lawrence did the same with his musket when his hands stopped shaking. Silva held his weapon out, examining it. “She kinda hung-fired on me, though. I never get a chance to really clean her right, an’ with all this moisture in the air, the fouling around the vent turns to soup.”
“How did you know it ’ould still… shoot?”
Silva cackled. “Yep, I guess that must’a gave you a turn! I heard it hissin’, see? I knew she’d go; I just had to hold her steady. Follow through.”
“You sa’ed me,” Lawrence said, a little resentfully. “Again.”
Silva rubbed Lawrence’s crest, then patted it down. “Hell, you saved me. All of us, likely.” He pointed at his ruined eye. “Sometimes a fella don’t notice as much when one o’ his peepers is busted. I never saw the damn thing to start with. I prob’ly would’a marched straight down its throat if you didn’t hit on it.” He shrugged. “Let’s get back. Them gals’ll be worryin’. ’Bout you, anyway.”
Lawrence was looking down, scratching the dirt with his toeclaws. Finally he exhaled noisily and looked up at Dennis. “This ’ill not ’urk,” he said at last. “Us see too ’any shiksaks. They are here in. .. lots. Us take too long to go.”
“Sure,” Silva agreed, “we’re seein’ more o’ them devils every day-most we don’t have to fight with, thank God. I figger we can dodge ’em a few more days till we can get the boat in the water, though.”
“No!” Lawrence said adamantly. “I… should not tell you this, ’ut I ha’ to. ’Ecky and Lieutenant Tucker are at stake.” He paused. “There lots shiksaks here, ’ut not near all. They all get here, that is all there is.”
“Sure, that’s why we need to get off this bump.”
“No. Too late. This… lots o’ shiksaks on land, there hundreds-thousands? In sea near here, they get ready to co…” He shook his head irritably. “To get on land. No ’oat get out on sea until they are gone. Too late.”
“Say,” said Dennis thoughtfully. “You’re probably right about that. Damn.” He was silent a moment, thoughtful.
“Only thing to do, ‘gals’ get in trees, ’ig, tall trees. Us try to devend gals as long as us can. ’Orget ’oat. It no good. Us get gals in trees.”
“You said everything else that can will get in the trees too. They might need a heap of defendin’.”
“True. No choice.”
Silva was scratching his beard. “Maybe not. Maybe so.” He grinned. “I just had me a squirrelly notion. Maybe we can save the boat and everybody else too. Won’t be easy, but nothin’ else has been, so why whine about it? Maybe if all we save in the end is the gals, they’re still gonna need that damn boat. I figger it’s both, or what’s the point?”
“You really ha’ a ‘notion’?” Lawrence asked.
“I always got notions. Some are better than others, I’ll admit, but this just might work.” He slung the Doom Whomper and started back through the forest of bamboo. “C’mon. You’re gonna hafta help me sell this scheme. ’Sides, we still got a ways to heave that damn boat and time’s a’wastin’!”
“I keep saying that!” Lawrence complained.
Silva’s “scheme” almost killed them all. First, when he detailed it, it resulted in yet another near-violent confrontation with Rajendra and his remaining Imperials. Rajendra in particular thought it was insane, and almost had Princess Rebecca believing him this time. She’d thought their island ordeal was almost over, and she so wanted off the dreadful place. Young Brassey didn’t remain silent this time, but openly sided with Silva and ultimately Sandra and the princess as Lawrence’s clear certainty finally convinced them that, wild as it was, Silva’s plan was their only hope. It was unquestionably Abel Cook’s only hope, and Brassey had grown very protective of his injured
