The Lost Island

55

They returned to the dwelling cave later that day. The Cyclops built up the fire in the cave and then disappeared out the door, carrying his spear, leaving Amiko and Gideon behind. It was the first time they’d had a chance to talk since seeing the Cyclopes’ necropolis. Even though they doubted the Cyclops could understand any English, they had both been reluctant to discuss their situation in front of him.

Amiko spoke first, the words pouring out. “My God, Gideon. Do you realize what that necropolis means? These Cyclopes — they aren’t just a bunch of cavemen. They have a culture. A history. A sense of the afterlife. Religion. That art — it indicates a symbolic understanding. In other words, they have something we might call civilization. And they’ve been here a very, very long time.”

“And that single eye,” said Gideon. “It’s an adaptation to darkness.”

“Exactly. This island is riddled with caves. This is their homeland. In a way, like Homo floresiensis, the ‘hobbits’ in Indonesia. This group of islands is where they evolved. And he may well be the last of his kind. I think he’s been alone for a long time — maybe hundreds of years.”

“Kept alive by the lotus.”

“We’ve got an obligation to protect him,” Amiko said. “Otherwise, he’ll end up in a zoo or a lab…or worse. Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll get some of those dried lotus and bring them back. That was the mission Glinn tasked us with. But we’ll keep secret the existence of the Cyclops and the location of the island. Nobody needs to know that. Mycologists might be able to cultivate the lotus, or perhaps chemists will be able to isolate and synthesize the active ingredients.”

“That may be difficult,” said Gideon. “The compounds in the lotus must be incredibly complex to have such a profound effect on the human body.”

“If that’s so, we’ve really got a problem on our hands.”

“And then there’s Glinn. He knows about the Cyclops. And he knows our general location.”

“He has no idea we found a live Cyclops. And he doesn’t know the location of the island. We’ll lie. We’ll make up a cover story, say we were on another island. Say we only saw bones — old bones.”

“Glinn’s a hard man to deceive,” said Gideon.

“Then we won’t deceive him. We just won’t tell him. We’ll keep silent. And if he insists on the details, we’ll be vague. We were sick, the details are fuzzy. I mean, how many times has Glinn kept us in the dark? Turnabout’s fair play, right?”

“So what now?” Gideon asked after a moment.

“We’re done here. We need to get back to civilization. With the lotus.”

“Easier said than done,” Gideon said. “We’re stuck on a volcanic peak walled in by sheer cliffs, in the middle of the sea, with no boat and no phone. Not to mention a mainland populated by people who are seriously pissed off at us.”

They fell silent, the fire burning low, casting flickering shadows about the walls of the cave. Beyond the entrance, the afternoon sun streamed through the vegetation, and the faint calls of birds and frogs could be heard drifting back. Gideon could feel the spell of the moment enveloping him as he thought back on what they’d seen and experienced: the lost-world magic of the island; the ancient Cyclops, apparently the last of his kind; the crystal mausoleum hidden in the cliffs; the ancient petroglyphs of the Greek ships. It was all so fantastical, so otherworldly. He looked at Amiko, her face, pale and beautiful, staring into the dying fire, the faint, earthy smell of the lotus lingering in the air like a musky perfume. Gideon extended a hand to her, and she turned her face toward him. He gently drew her toward him and their lips met. This time, he could feel the willingness, the eagerness of the contact. They kissed quietly, slowly. He pulled her closer, felt her breasts against him, and their kisses became faster, more urgent—

Suddenly a shadow fell over them and they sprang apart. The Cyclops stood in the entrance to the cave, a bloody howler monkey hanging from a stick. His single eye stared at them, black brow furrowed in displeasure. Slinging the dead monkey aside, he advanced at Gideon with a growl.

Gideon stood up, facing the creature and realizing what a colossal mistake they had made. He could feel the air congeal with tension.

The Cyclops halted a few feet from him, staring him down with his single, bloodshot eye. He was gigantic, towering over Gideon by a good three feet. Gideon could smell the creature: the sweat and dirt, the crushed jungle foliage. He could see that the Cyclops was flushed, the skin under his coarse hair mottled red, the muscles of his long arms jumping with nervous tautness. He sensed he was moments from being torn apart. But he stood his ground, feeling intuitively that to turn and run, or try to talk his way out of it, would only set off the explosion he still hoped to avoid. The Cyclops, although clearly enraged, his veins pulsing with anger and jealousy, seemed uncertain what to do next.

Gideon waited for a sign, a signal, some sort of indication how to defuse the situation. But he could think of nothing.

Amiko tried to speak — a few halting words of ancient Greek — but the Cyclops silenced her with a terrifying roar, brown teeth snapping.

Slowly, a hand rose up and closed around Gideon’s throat. Gideon grasped the wrist with both hands and tried to tug it away. But the Cyclops was unbelievably strong, the wrist like a steel bar.

“Don’t. Please.” He glanced over at his bag. The gun was in there. Amiko could use it. She followed his eyes and seemed to understand.

The grip tightened.

In a smooth and easy motion, Amiko reached out, grasped the bag, removed the gun, and pointed it at the Cyclops.

He ignored her, the fist tightening. Gideon could feel his air being cut off, the blood thrumming through constricted arteries.

Amiko spoke again in Greek, but the Cyclops didn’t appear to hear, so focused was he on Gideon. Still grasping Gideon by the neck, the creature lifted him off the ground.

Gideon could no longer breathe. He felt himself starting to black out and struggled to cry out to Amiko. She had to shoot. Now.

The ground suddenly shook. A faint rumble like thunder rolled through the forest. The Cyclops jerked, startled, dropping Gideon and staring about wildly.

Coughing, tugging at his neck, Gideon scrambled to his feet and backed away. Amiko was still pointing the gun, but the Cyclops was ignoring both of them, completely focused on the sound. Another rumble, the ground shaking. This was clearly something the Cyclops had never heard before, and he was becoming more agitated than they’d ever seen him. In a flash he loped to the entrance of the cave and peered out with his huge yellow eye, surveying the jungle.

“Thunder?” Amiko asked.

“No,” Gideon replied in a strangled voice.

Now another sound reached them: the thwap-thwap of chopper blades. In an instant the Cyclops vanished into the forest. Gideon exited the cave with Amiko and stared up in time to see a shape passing over them: a large single-engine helicopter, which Gideon recognized as a Sikorsky S-70, was passing over the trees. A column of smoke was rising into the pristine sky from the far end of the island-top. Even as they looked, there was the roar of another explosion, along with a wash of overpressure that lashed the jungle canopy. Another ball of fire rose into the sky, billowing into black smoke.

“What the hell?” Amiko cried.

“Napalm!” yelled Gideon, over the roar. “They’re clearing a landing zone!”

“They? Who?”

As the S-70 passed overhead, Gideon could see no identifying logos or marks — only a call number. But even as he watched, the chopper slowed and the cargo door slid open. Just before the chopper disappeared over the trees, Gideon could have sworn that the man standing in the door, wearing plain jungle camo, was Manuel Garza.