The Lost Island

44

They put Gideon in the bottom of one of the canoes and Amy in the other. Gideon made sure to bring their drysacks with them. The men ran them into the water, leapt in, and began paddling like mad as the canoes shot out into the surf, bashing through the breaking waves. Gideon was instantly soaked and thoroughly terrified by the time they reached calmer water beyond the break.

Even beyond the breakers it was a nerve-racking journey. The sea was running high, the long canoe riding up and down the great swells while the men, their bare, muscled backs glistening with drops of water, paddled in unison to a rhythmic chant. The wind blew straight into their faces but the canoes moved fast, cutting through the water at five miles an hour. The early-morning sun rose over the distant islands, throwing a brilliant golden light over the sea, limning the mountain peaks in purple.

The landforms slowly rose up as they approached. Gideon could make out three of them. A massive, initial island thrust steeply out of the sea, rising more than a thousand feet into the clouds. A smaller but even steeper and taller island lay beyond it. Right in front of them was the twisted place: a volcanic sea stack or eroded plug that stuck up like a witch’s finger, a black, bent spire of rock.

They headed for the closer island, just behind the twisted stack. As they approached, Gideon could see the white cream of surf, and beyond it a narrow beach of black sand, ending in steep volcanic cliffs hung with vegetation and pierced by caves.

The two canoes raced into the surf and were carried through the breakers and into the calm water beyond before grounding on the sand. The men leapt out and hauled the canoes up beyond the high-water mark.

They had arrived. Gideon watched as Amy came over. The men were busy securing the canoes.

“Feels like the lost world,” said Amy, looking around.

The others approached, led by a strange, wizened old man whom Gideon hadn’t seen prior to the canoe journey. He was wearing only traditional garb, not the Western clothing of the others, and he carried a tall staff topped by a carved eagle and other, fanciful creatures. His fingers had multiple rings; a dozen heavy necklaces circled his neck. The other men treated him with great deference, casting their eyes to the ground as he walked past.

Now the man walked up to them and stopped, looking at them both. His wrinkled, craggy face, pendulous lips, and gleaming black eyes gave him the air of a man of mystery and power. This man, Gideon thought, must be a spiritual leader or head shaman.

After examining them intently, in dead silence, he gestured to iPhone, who seemed to have become their companion and general factotum. iPhone bustled over, and the man spoke to him.

iPhone turned toward Amy. Gesturing and pointing, and offering the odd Spanish word or two, he communicated that she was to stay with him — she would be separated from the rest. The ceremony was not for her.

Amy began to protest, but Gideon made a calming gesture. “Go with the flow,” he said. “We’ll have our chance to explore later.”

Glaring at him, she nodded. iPhone led her away down the beach, and they were soon gone.

In complete silence, the priest raised his staff as the other men fell in line. He positioned Gideon to walk directly behind him. They proceeded in solemn fashion down the beach for a few hundred yards until they came to a crevasse in the volcanic walls, with the faintest of trails heading up. The priest began to climb, Gideon following with the rest. For an old man the priest was remarkably spry, and Gideon had trouble keeping up with him.

As they gained altitude, tremendous vistas opened up — the great expanse of sea, the waves thundering on the beach far below, and the distant mainland, like a blue-green sea of its own, flat along the shore but rising into steep mountains farther inland. A pair of eagles, disturbed from some nesting place in the cliffs around them, wheeled about over their heads, their cries piercing the air.

Gideon looked everywhere but could see no plant that produced pods or buds that resembled the lotus. He wanted to ask about it but decided it was better to go slowly and see how things developed. He sensed the great solemnity of the moment and was intimidated by the silence of the men.

The trail grew steeper. The priest continued on, climbing with both hands, his staff now tied to his back. Gideon had to push back against his own fear of heights as dizzying spaces opened up below. Still the eagles circled and cried.

And then, abruptly, the trail came over the lip of a broad ledge. Gideon was so relieved to be away from the cliff that he almost collapsed in gratitude. The other men came up and the priest led them along the broad ledge, around a column of basalt — to the mouth of a large cave. Huge, ancient flowering bushes hung down from its ragged upper edge like so many green scalp locks, in some places almost obscuring the entrance.

But there was no more time for speculation, because the others were already silently filing in.

Inside, the cave was low-ceilinged, with a smooth, sandy floor. They walked about a hundred feet in and paused. Gradually, as Gideon’s eyes became used to the darkness, he saw that strange pictographs in deep red and blue were painted on the walls. Several men now fetched brands from a pile leaning against the wall and, with an expert striking of flints, lit them ablaze. They continued deeper into the cave.

Gideon’s breath quickened when he saw, just ahead, a massive black rock that seemed to be some kind of altar — and painted on a slab behind it was an ancient pictograph, faded by time, depicting the grotesque figure of a monster being, covered with hair, with enormous muscled arms, jutting chin, huge knobby feet — and a single, gigantic eye in the center of its face, surmounted by a massive brow.

He turned to ask the priest a question about it, but the priest gave him a blazingly hostile gaze and made a gesture of silence before he could speak.

Brands burning, they approached the altar, the men fanning out. The priest walked up to it and — so suddenly it startled Gideon — broke out into a loud, nasal chant, which was answered by the men, repeated by the priest, and answered again, in a call and response. The cave echoed with the strange sounds of their half-singing, half-spoken voices. This, Gideon reasoned, must be the beginning of the ceremony of thanksgiving.

The men planted their brands to form a circle around the flat altar. Only then did Gideon notice that the altar was actually a box, with a stone lid. The men moved forward in unison and, still chanting, removed the lid.

A foul odor wafted out. Similar to the lotus, only much, much stronger.

The chanting accelerated as the priest reached in and removed what looked to Gideon like a bundle of small, black, twisted cheroot cigars. He counted out several, carried one to Gideon and placed it in his hand; the rest he solemnly distributed to the others, keeping the final one for himself.

Gideon stared at the thing. It looked like a dried root of some kind, or perhaps a fungus. The smell was fearful, like a combination of dirty feet and bitter almonds.

They retreated to the sand before the altar, sitting down cross-legged. The priest slid the stone lid back into place while several men fetched wood out of a stack in a corner of the cave and set up a bonfire. When it was done the priest set fire to it with his brand. The flames leapt up, filling the cave with flickering light.

In the firelight, Gideon could see things even more clearly. The altar was beautifully polished — gleaming like black ebony — the depiction of the creature behind disturbing in its detail, despite the stylized, geometric nature of the design.

One man went around, placing a polished, flat stone in front of each person, upon which he placed a mortar and pestle carved of lava, along with a stone cup full of water. The priest took up a position at the head of the circle, sitting on a raised stone, and lifted his implements as if to have them blessed. The others did likewise, and Gideon followed suit.

The head priest then poured a little water into the mortar, broke off a piece of the root, dropped it in, and began grinding it, all the while keeping up a rhythmic chant. The others did the same and so did Gideon, pounding and grinding, making a mush. A foul smell arose.

When the fungus-thing was completely turned into a kind of gruel, the priest lifted the stone cup to his lips and drank deeply. The others did the same and Gideon, hesitating, at last followed suit. It tasted hideous and it was all he could do to swallow it. Was this the real lotus? What they had given Amy back on the mainland seemed to be a pale comparison to this powerful-smelling root.

The chanting increased. Gideon wondered what effect the concoction might have. Frightful scenarios out of Carlos Castaneda came to mind. He tried to tell himself that everyone had taken it, so at least it wouldn’t kill him. In his wild youth he’d had more than a little experience with drugs, and he figured that, whatever was in store for him, he’d ride it out. He was reassured that this was a ceremony of thanking the gods. He’d been right after all.

In a few minutes, the queerest feeling began to creep over him — a dreamy sense of peace and well-being, a glow that encircled and surrounded him, growing stronger little by little, until he felt swaddled and cocooned, as if a babe in his mother’s arms again. He had never felt such peace, such acceptance. And then a strange thing happened. While he normally didn’t dwell on his troubles — his horrible childhood, his father’s murder, his loneliness, his terminal disease — he did nevertheless carry the burden of them always, unseen. But now, as the drug took hold, that burden was lifted. He forgot — or rather, ceased caring — about those things that blighted his life. With this burden lifted, he felt free, at peace, at home with himself in a way he never had before. It all dropped away, everything — his childhood, his long-gone father and mother, his cabin in the mountains of New Mexico, everything disappeared in a lambent sea of forgetfulness, and time seemed to cease altogether…