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 natives 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
