The Select and The Orphan. Peter Lerangis

      Schwenk. Coopersmith. Martins. Vizeu. Pappalas. Roark. Llewellyn. Finney. Gennaro. Caswell …

      Grendel recited the sailors’ names, placing for each a perfect seashell on a mound of sand. Reciting a prayer, he touched the white scrimshaw that hung around his neck on a leather strip: a crucifix carved into the cross section of a whale’s tooth.

      The battered Enigma lay anchored out to sea, tilted to starboard. It rocked on gentle swells, its timbers groaning in ghastly rhythm to Grendel’s prayers. I felt the heat of the pink-yellow sand through the soles of my shoes. Behind us, a thick scrim of jungle greenery stretched in both directions. Animals cawed and screeched, unseen. A great mountain loomed in the distance, black and ominous, as if the storm itself had gathered to the spot and magically solidified.

      Earlier we had managed to reach the shore via rowboat. All morning and into the afternoon we had traveled to and from our wounded ship, salvaging kerosene, sailcloth, wood, a small amount of salt beef and hardtack, a leather pack, a sopping wet blanket, and Father’s revolver— the only firearm that had not been submerged in seawater and damaged. Miraculously I also found this journal, relatively dry and not yet used, which I put directly into my pocket—and a pencil. Everything else had either washed away or been ruined.

      I had helped Musa and Grendel build four small tent huts, then briefly explored the jungle, finding a flat stone into which I scratched my name. Father had just unloaded and cleaned the gun, and he gave me a lesson in its use. He’d been unable to find extra ammunition, so we had only five bullets for hunting and protection. Accuracy would be essential. I was skittish about shooting, but Father scoffed. “Your aim was excellent when you were spitting wadded-up papers at your schoolmates!” he reminded me.

      Now, as Grendel prayed, I bowed my head. But I could not concentrate due to a prickly sensation at the nape of my neck. I had the feeling I was being watched. I turned.

      A shadow slipped from the trees toward Grendel.

      “Behind you!” I cried out.

      The little creature was swift, a scraggily monkey with one eye missing and a wicked grin. It snatched the scrimshaw from Grendel’s neck, scooting back into the jungle with a triumphant, chattering cry.

      Grendel bellowed a string of words I was not supposed to know. Grabbing the gun, he added, “I understand monkey meat’s a grand delicacy, and I’m hungry. Who’s coming with me?”

      Father eyed him warily. “Can you shoot? We have too few bullets to waste on revenge.”

      “Marksman, highest level in the army,” Grendel replied. “And I ain’t planning to go far. Let me bring the boy. He’ll learn something. And I’ll return him safe and happy.”

      Father gave a firm no, but I reminded him I was no longer a child. That I would need to hunt, gather, and trap while we were here. I promised I would graduate from spitballs.

      He softened at that, and instructed Grendel to exercise exceeding caution.

      Off we went.

      The jungle was oddly dark, its dense tree canopies blocking the afternoon sun. Grendel proved to be an expert tracker, using a pocketknife to carve blazes on trees. Before long we came to a glade, festooned with wildflowers. Just beyond it was a clear lagoon that bubbled fresh water. As I got closer, I saw fat golden fish swimming. They were meaty and beautiful. “We need a spear, not a gun,” I said to Grendel, looking for a stick I could sharpen.

      But Grendel’s response was a forceful shove. I fell beside a thick tree. He ducked behind another. “Be invisible!” he warned.

      Within moments, the bushes on the other side of the glade began to rustle. I saw a blur of brown gray and heard a snuffling, piglike sound. Then the lapping of water. I peeked around the tree. The animal’s body was blocked by the brush, but its woolly haunches were enormous.

      Grendel shot. I jumped away at the sound.

      A bellowing cry rang out across the lagoon like nothing I’d ever heard—deep like an elephant’s bleat, coarse like a lion’s roar. “Blast it!” Grendel cried. “Shoddy firearms! He’s getting away!”

      I followed as he ran toward the lagoon. But the animal was gone. Not a sign.

      Grendel stooped over a dark pool of blood and dipped his left hand into it. His fingers came up dripping.

      Green.

      “What the—?” With an abrupt cry, he plunged his hand into the lagoon. The water let out a sharp sizzle. His face twisted in pain, he pulled out his fingers and examined them in astonishment.

      The skin was burned.

      Balling his left hand into a fist, he secured the gun in his belt and pulled me away from the pool of green blood with his good hand.

      What had we just seen? I shook as we walked deeper into the jungle. “It will be angry,” I pointed out.

      “That beast ain’t natural,” he said. “It could kill us all if we don’t get it first.”

      Grendel stomped through the brush at a rapid clip, scowling. He had stopped marking blazes now. His injured hand was wrapped in his neckerchief, but I could tell from his grimace that it still hurt badly.

      Through a break in the trees, I caught a glimpse of the black mountain. It was closer now, and taller than I’d thought.

      Caws and screeches echoed in the thick foliage around us. Growing louder. The animals were warning one another, alarmed by the shot and the noise of our passage. I felt as if they were surrounding us, trying to scare us off.

      But within that deafening din of alarm, I could hear another sound. Not an animal noise at all but a strange buzzing melody, made by instruments that sounded as if they used neither breath nor strings. It was barely audible, yet it cut through the wild animal cries as if plucking the very sinews of my body, vibrating the folds of my brain. “Do you hear that, Grendel?” I said. “The music?”

      “Them beasts ain’t music to me!” he said.

      After another few minutes, though, Grendel’s rage seemed to dim. The brush was too dense, and there was no sign of the injured beast. With a few choice curses, he announced we would return to camp. As we began to backtrack, Grendel held tightly to his burned hand. He wound through the jungle, pausing every few moments as if sniffing for a trail. His ways were a mystery to me, but within moments he was pointing to one of his earlier markings on a tree. “Blaze,” he said.

      We picked up speed. Glancing skyward, I noted with some alarm that the sun was low in the west. Night would be upon us soon, and I had no desire to be in this maze when darkness came.

      We quickly passed the lagoon again, steering wide of the toxic blood. But at the edge, Grendel dropped unexpectedly to his knees.

      On the other side of the clearing, the one-eyed monkey was jeering at us, swinging the scrimshaw like a chalice. “Me mum gave me that,” Grendel growled.

      He took aim and fired. I flinched. Grendel’s aim looked to be true, but the monkey jerked aside as if it had predicted the bullet’s path. It swung up into a tree and vanished into the darkness, jabbering.

      Grendel ran after the creature. I scrambled to follow, but my foot caught on a root and I tumbled into a thicket of vines. I shouted Grendel’s name.

      For a moment I heard nothing. Then, from the direction where Grendel had gone, came a savage, saliva-choked animal roar.

      Another shot rang out. Followed by Grendel’s scream.

      I ran to the sound. Vines tangled around me like witches’ fingers but I ripped my way through.

      I emerged into a small clearing. At the far edge lay the revolver on a bed of vines. A thick smear of green liquid led into the surrounding jungle.

      Mixed with red.