The Island of Doctor Moreau - H. G. Wells (little readers txt) 📗

monster,

swathed in lint and with red-stained bandages fluttering about it,

leapt over me and passed. I rolled over and over down the beach,

tried to sit up, and collapsed upon my broken arm. Then Moreau appeared,

his massive white face all the more terrible for the blood that

trickled from his forehead. He carried a revolver in one hand.

He scarcely glanced at me, but rushed off at once in pursuit of

the puma.

 

I tried the other arm and sat up. The muffled figure in front ran

in great striding leaps along the beach, and Moreau followed her.

She turned her head and saw him, then doubling abruptly made

for the bushes. She gained upon him at every stride. I saw her

plunge into them, and Moreau, running slantingly to intercept her,

fired and missed as she disappeared. Then he too vanished

in the green confusion. I stared after them, and then the pain

in my arm flamed up, and with a groan I staggered to my feet.

Montgomery appeared in the doorway, dressed, and with his revolver in

his hand.

 

“Great God, Prendick!” he said, not noticing that I was hurt,

“that brute’s loose! Tore the fetter out of the wall!

Have you seen them?” Then sharply, seeing I gripped my arm,

“What’s the matter?”

 

“I was standing in the doorway,” said I.

 

He came forward and took my arm. “Blood on the sleeve,”

said he, and rolled back the flannel. He pocketed his weapon,

felt my arm about painfully, and led me inside. “Your arm

is broken,” he said, and then, “Tell me exactly how it happened—

what happened?”

 

I told him what I had seen; told him in broken sentences,

with gasps of pain between them, and very dexterously and swiftly

he bound my arm meanwhile. He slung it from my shoulder,

stood back and looked at me.

 

“You’ll do,” he said. “And now?”

 

He thought. Then he went out and locked the gates of the enclosure.

He was absent some time.

 

I was chiefly concerned about my arm. The incident seemed merely

one more of many horrible things. I sat down in the deck chair,

and I must admit swore heartily at the island. The first dull

feeling of injury in my arm had already given way to a burning pain

when Montgomery reappeared. His face was rather pale, and he showed

more of his lower gums than ever.

 

“I can neither see nor hear anything of him,” he said.

“I’ve been thinking he may want my help.” He stared at me with

his expressionless eyes. “That was a strong brute,” he said.

“It simply wrenched its fetter out of the wall.” He went to the window,

then to the door, and there turned to me. “I shall go after him,”

he said. “There’s another revolver I can leave with you.

To tell you the truth, I feel anxious somehow.”

 

He obtained the weapon, and put it ready to my hand on the table;

then went out, leaving a restless contagion in the air.

I did not sit long after he left, but took the revolver in hand and went

to the doorway.

 

The morning was as still as death. Not a whisper of wind was stirring;

the sea was like polished glass, the sky empty, the beach desolate.

In my half-excited, half-feverish state, this stillness of things

oppressed me. I tried to whistle, and the tune died away.

I swore again,—the second time that morning. Then I went to the corner

of the enclosure and stared inland at the green bush that had

swallowed up Moreau and Montgomery. When would they return, and how?

Then far away up the beach a little grey Beast Man appeared,

ran down to the water’s edge and began splashing about.

I strolled back to the doorway, then to the corner again,

and so began pacing to and fro like a sentinel upon duty.

Once I was arrested by the distant voice of Montgomery bawling,

“Coo-ee—Moreau!” My arm became less painful, but very hot.

I got feverish and thirsty. My shadow grew shorter.

I watched the distant figure until it went away again. Would Moreau

and Montgomery never return? Three sea-birds began fighting for some

stranded treasure.

 

Then from far away behind the enclosure I heard a pistol-shot. A

long silence, and then came another. Then a yelling cry nearer,

and another dismal gap of silence. My unfortunate imagination

set to work to torment me. Then suddenly a shot close by.

I went to the corner, startled, and saw Montgomery,—his face scarlet,

his hair disordered, and the knee of his trousers torn.

His face expressed profound consternation. Behind him slouched

the Beast Man, M’ling, and round M’ling’s jaws were some queer

dark stains.

 

“Has he come?” said Montgomery.

 

“Moreau?” said I. “No.”

 

“My God!” The man was panting, almost sobbing. “Go back in,” he said,

taking my arm. “They’re mad. They’re all rushing about mad. What can

have happened? I don’t know. I’ll tell you, when my breath comes.

Where’s some brandy?”

 

Montgomery limped before me into the room and sat down in the deck chair.

M’ling flung himself down just outside the doorway and began

panting like a dog. I got Montgomery some brandy-and-water. He

sat staring in front of him at nothing, recovering his breath.

After some minutes he began to tell me what had happened.

 

He had followed their track for some way. It was plain enough at

first on account of the crushed and broken bushes, white rags torn

from the puma’s bandages, and occasional smears of blood on the leaves

of the shrubs and undergrowth. He lost the track, however, on the stony

ground beyond the stream where I had seen the Beast Man drinking,

and went wandering aimlessly westward shouting Moreau’s name.

Then M’ling had come to him carrying a light hatchet. M’ling had seen

nothing of the puma affair; had been felling wood, and heard him calling.

They went on shouting together. Two Beast Men came crouching

and peering at them through the undergrowth, with gestures and a

furtive carriage that alarmed Montgomery by their strangeness.

He hailed them, and they fled guiltily. He stopped shouting

after that, and after wandering some time farther in an undecided way,

determined to visit the huts.

 

He found the ravine deserted.

 

Growing more alarmed every minute, he began to retrace his steps.

Then it was he encountered the two Swine-men I had seen dancing

on the night of my arrival; blood-stained they were about the mouth,

and intensely excited. They came crashing through the ferns,

and stopped with fierce faces when they saw him. He cracked his whip

in some trepidation, and forthwith they rushed at him. Never before

had a Beast Man dared to do that. One he shot through the head;

M’ling flung himself upon the other, and the two rolled grappling.

M’ling got his brute under and with his teeth in its throat,

and Montgomery shot that too as it struggled in M’ling’s grip.

He had some difficulty in inducing M’ling to come on with him.

Thence they had hurried back to me. On the way, M’ling had suddenly

rushed into a thicket and driven out an under-sized Ocelot-man,

also blood-stained, and lame through a wound in the foot.

This brute had run a little way and then turned savagely at bay,

and Montgomery—with a certain wantonness, I thought—had shot

him.

 

“What does it all mean?” said I.

 

He shook his head, and turned once more to the brandy.

 

XVIII. THE FINDING OF MOREAU.

 

WHEN I saw Montgomery swallow a third dose of brandy, I took it

upon myself to interfere. He was already more than half fuddled.

I told him that some serious thing must have happened to

Moreau by this time, or he would have returned before this,

and that it behoved us to ascertain what that catastrophe was.

Montgomery raised some feeble objections, and at last agreed.

We had some food, and then all three of us started.

 

It is possibly due to the tension of my mind, at the time,

but even now that start into the hot stillness of the tropical

afternoon is a singularly vivid impression. M’ling went first,

his shoulder hunched, his strange black head moving with quick

starts as he peered first on this side of the way and then on that.

He was unarmed; his axe he had dropped when he encountered

the Swine-man. Teeth were his weapons, when it came to fighting.

Montgomery followed with stumbling footsteps, his hands in his pockets,

his face downcast; he was in a state of muddled sullenness

with me on account of the brandy. My left arm was in a sling

(it was lucky it was my left), and I carried my revolver in my right.

Soon we traced a narrow path through the wild luxuriance of

the island, going northwestward; and presently M’ling stopped,

and became rigid with watchfulness. Montgomery almost staggered

into him, and then stopped too. Then, listening intently,

we heard coming through the trees the sound of voices and footsteps

approaching us.

 

“He is dead,” said a deep, vibrating voice.

 

“He is not dead; he is not dead,” jabbered another.

 

“We saw, we saw,” said several voices.

 

“Hullo!” suddenly shouted Montgomery, “Hullo, there!”

 

“Confound you!” said I, and gripped my pistol.

 

There was a silence, then a crashing among the interlacing vegetation,

first here, then there, and then half-a-dozen faces appeared,—

strange faces, lit by a strange light. M’ling made a growling

noise in his throat. I recognised the Ape-man: I had indeed

already identified his voice, and two of the white-swathed

brown-featured creatures I had seen in Montgomery’s boat.

With these were the two dappled brutes and that grey, horribly crooked

creature who said the Law, with grey hair streaming down its cheeks,

heavy grey eyebrows, and grey locks pouring off from a central

parting upon its sloping forehead,—a heavy, faceless thing,

with strange red eyes, looking at us curiously from amidst

the green.

 

For a space no one spoke. Then Montgomery hiccoughed, “Who—said

he was dead?”

 

The Monkey-man looked guiltily at the hairy-grey Thing. “He is dead,”

said this monster. “They saw.”

 

There was nothing threatening about this detachment, at any rate.

They seemed awestricken and puzzled.

 

“Where is he?” said Montgomery.

 

“Beyond,” and the grey creature pointed.

 

“Is there a Law now?” asked the Monkey-man. “Is it still to be this

and that? Is he dead indeed?”

 

“Is there a Law?” repeated the man in white. “Is there a Law,

thou Other with the Whip?”

 

“He is dead,” said the hairy-grey Thing. And they all stood

watching us.

 

“Prendick,” said Montgomery, turning his dull eyes to me.

“He’s dead, evidently.”

 

I had been standing behind him during this colloquy.

I began to see how things lay with them. I suddenly stepped in front

of Montgomery and lifted up my voice:—“Children of the Law,”

I said, “he is not dead!” M’ling turned his sharp eyes on me.

“He has changed his shape; he has changed his body,” I went on.

“For a time you will not see him. He is—there,” I pointed upward,

“where he can watch you. You cannot see him, but he can see you.

Fear the Law!”

 

I looked at them squarely. They flinched.

 

“He is great, he is good,” said the Ape-man, peering fearfully

upward among the dense trees.

 

“And the other Thing?” I demanded.

 

“The Thing that bled, and ran screaming and sobbing,—that is dead too,”

said the grey Thing, still regarding me.

 

“That’s well,” grunted Montgomery.

 

“The Other with the Whip—” began the grey Thing.

 

“Well?” said I.

 

“Said he was dead.”

 

But Montgomery