The Naked Jungle Read online

  They drifted.

  He didn’t sleep. The winds rose and the waves swelled, rocking the raft, and Fran rolled against him. He could tell by her breathing she was asleep.

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at Krayer. He saw him huddled nearby, his thin shoulders pulled around, his head swiveling painfully, slowly, as he scanned the horizon. Webb told himself he should be a man like Krayer with one thing in his mind: survival.

  Webb couldn’t help being what he was. His mind was on survival more keenly than Krayer’s. But his mind was on the reason he wanted to survive.

  Krayer reached over, shook him. “I figure it’s about midnight, Millar. Take over. Stay awake. There might be a boat, even in these God-forsaken waters.”

  Webb pulled himself up. Fran stirred, disturbed in her fevered sleep. Webb stared across the water, for a moment sure he saw a light on the horizon. His heart slugged. He sat up, squinting. It was a star.

  Fran burrowed deeper in her sleep, resting against him. The raft rolled her on him and he felt the heated swell of her femininity against him, outlined clearly and resiliently.

  The breath quickened across his lips. The waves grew, rolling the raft, pressing Fran against him again and again. He grew tense with the raft climbing and falling, continually working her against him.

  It was no good trying to think about anything else, to search sea or sky. There was no life anywhere; nothing existed except Fran, her knee resting on his hipbone, the waves moving her against him in a strange rhythm unlike anything he’d ever known.

  His taut throat ached. But now there was water; he didn’t want water. He held his breath, wondering when Krayer would sleep and snore? Maybe he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Wasn’t it a fact that emotions like his own set up tensions in the atmosphere? He certainly felt the electric charge generated between Fran and himself. Was Krayer aware of it, too?

  Fran’s arm toppled over Webb’s ankle. She closed his foot within the circle of her arm. Her body was pressed against him: its softness, its firmness, its fullness. He told himself she was only steadying herself against the pitch and roll of the raft in the night wind.

  He heard Krayer breathing, heard the odd snicking sound of his mild snore.

  Webb’s whole body ached. He could no longer maintain his position. Nothing would relieve him except to turn toward Fran and let the roll of the waves thrust them together.

  He turned toward her, heard Krayer stir when he moved, and stopped, tense. The sweat was on his forehead worse than at noon. He swallowed. The fires of hell are blazing tonight, kid.

  Krayer’s snorting snore began again. Webb turned more, rested his weight on his right hip and pushed himself against her as hard as he could. And now he was sure there was a compassionate God up in that heaven. Fran lifted her leg higher, resting it over him. Her arms closed tightly about his ankles. She pressed herself back against him as hard as she could press. The raft rolled and they rolled with it. It was wrong, crazy, nightmarish. She was faced one way and he the other, but they pressed as close as they could. It was all the hunger and all the thirst in the world, and to be together was the only answer to it.

  Never had there been such torment, such heaven and hell, tossed together by rising wind and rolling waves.

  The torment twisted his insides. She could lie against him, he could hold her; but they mustn’t move, they musn’t speak. Two people looking for heaven, he thought bitterly, getting lost and winding up in the torture chamber of hell.

  She turned around, moving so lightly and quickly Webb hardly felt her accomplish it. She lay against him, pressing her head against his throat. His arms closed around her and she sighed. He pressed his face against her hair, smelling it. She pressed her mouth against his chest and then he felt her deep, regular breathing. How would he explain this one when Krayer’s mental alarm went off?

  He let his hands move over her slowly, caressing her, learning her. His heart would not slow down. He moved his gaze along the horizon; the sea was dark, the sky pale and splattered with stars.

  The sudden whisper made him tremble.

  He sat up, tense. He felt Fran stir in his arms but she didn’t waken. The whispering went on. He felt sick in his guts, sure what that sound had to be, a leak in the raft. The fish hook. While he tried to make love to Krayer’s wife, the fish hook drifted….

  Oh, God, he thought, we’ve hell enough. Don’t put us through any more. He tried to close his ears to that whispering sound. There was no way to do it. He sat up and Fran still half-asleep turned and moved away. He sat still, wanting to know what that whispering sound was, dreading to know….

  SEVEN

  “IT’S LAND,” Alfred said.

  Web caught his breath, awed. Krayer was awake and had been lying there, hearing that whisper. Webb pulled himself up.

  “No use looking now,” Krayer said. “But that’s what it is. That whispering noise woke me. Breakers on a reef.”

  “We may drift by it.”

  “Chance we have to take. Nothing but chance that we got this near it. Maybe in daylight we can tell. There’ll be gulls. If there are trees or high places, we might glimpse it.”

  They sat silently, awaiting dawn. The sun took its time rising. It tossed glittering flecks of light across the water and cracked anaemic fissures in the darkened sky.

  Krayer said, “A bird. Off to the right there.” His voice was cold. “A bird doesn’t always mean land. They fly hellish distances over water.”

  Webb got on his knees, moved his gaze slowly. He started with the sun behind him and searched the horizon. He made the complete circle. The whisper was there, the bird was there. But there was no sight of land.

  Krayer stood up, moving deliberately. He stared a long time. “It’s there,” he said. “A shapeless blob from here. North of us.”

  “Sit down,” Webb said. “We’ll try to paddle toward it.”

  Carefully, Krayer sat down. “You any idea how far that land is?”

  “I only know it’s land.”

  “We can’t row against the wind and ocean currents. We couldn’t paddle in this sun even if we were well fed and well watered.”

  “You’ve had your say,” Webb said. “I’m going to paddle north as long as I can. That’s my choice.”

  “I’ll help you.” Fran said.

  Webb met her gaze and felt fever flare in him. Her brown eyes softened and she gave him the barest smile. Webb slipped a paddle grip over his wrist; it was small, slightly wider than his arm. Fran picked up the other paddle and worked on the opposite side of the raft.

  “The sun is barely up now,” Krayer said. “Only thing will keep you from killing yourselves is that you won’t last until you get sunstroke.”

  Webb saw the waves were rising and breaking with a roll toward the north. He rowed up with the rise of the wave, gliding with it as it eased out. Krayer watched him. He knew Krayer was computing their chances of using the waves like that. But now the wind was dying and the waves were leveling out into a flat calm sea.

  In less than two hours the sea was becalmed — a blistered bowl, a steaming mirror of the sun. The sweat poured out of Webb and Krayer watched, waiting for him to give up.

  Fran dropped her paddle between her knees. She buried her face against the heels of her hands. She was too tired to speak.

  “Sunstroke will kill you,” Krayer told him.

  Webb didn’t answer. As long as he lived he had to lift that paddle and shove it against the water. He lost track of time, kept his distended gaze fixed on nothing to the north of them.

  “It’s going to rain.” He heard Fran through the whirring noises inside his brain.

  He looked over his shoulder. South, clouds were banked up from the horizon like mammoth black boulders. Above, the sun remained metallic. But the sea was turning as black as the clouds, streaked with gray where the sun touched it. There was a breeze stiff and cool from the south. It blotted the sweat across Webb’s forehead.

  Kray
er had turned and was staring at those clouds. Then he looked down at the tarp. Suddenly he unsnapped it and ripped it free on the south side of the raft. He zipped it closed, leaving it attached on the north side.

  “Fran,” Krayer’s voice crackled. “Get under this tarp and hold it as high as you can. Millar, do the same. Move carefully now. Sit with your backs into it. Don’t try to hold your hands over your heads. Sit as tall as you can, let your heads support the tarp.”

  Webb dropped the paddle, turned slowly and sat as tall as he could, supporting the tarp. A sudden gust of wind filled it, snapping it out, swollen and full. The raft moved, driven by the new forming waves, propelled by the wind in the tarpaulin.

  Krayer smiling, nodded to himself. He got on his knees, holding the paddle over the south side of the raft as rudder.

  It was cooler under the tarp with the wind on him. Some of the panic in Webb eased and even the water blown into the raft felt good….

  Krayer said, “I can see trees now. The island is taking shape. But the wind can still drive us beyond it.”

  Webb pulled himself up. Over the tarp he saw the island. It sat alone, white and green in an endless expanse of black water.

  The whispering had become a roar. Breakers made a white reef before the island. “Coral reef.”

  The wind whipped the waves, churning the waves up a dangy white. The breakers were frantic against the reef and the raft lurched crazily, and not even the high wind carried it in a straight line any more.

  “Put down the tarp,” Krayer ordered. “We must ride the waves from here. Try to keep this thing balanced or we’re going over.”

  Webb secured the paddles, snapped closed the pockets along the inner lining. The raft lunged upward suddenly, trembled and hung there a moment. Webb grabbed at Fran as they went over. Waves drove them together toward the reef.

  They surfaced and Fran clung to him. A few feet away, Krayer was clutching the side ropes of the raft. They swam toward him, waves thrusting them upward and tossing them over the reef.

  Webb felt jagged coral tear at his clothing. Another wave lifted them and they were in the comparative calm inside the reef. Fran caught the rope ladder and Webb pushed her over the raft wall.

  Krayer said. “We’ll hang on and kick the rest of the way in. Watch for sharks, Fran. Sometimes these water swarm with them.”

  Fran sat on her knees, her gaze fixed on the choppy water. Krayer and Webb kicked their legs, and the waves carried them inboard swiftly.

  Krayer spat water. “For the second time, Millar, you’ve been a damned fool. Better let Fran look out for herself. This raft can save our life. Lose it and we can kiss everything good-bye.”

  Webb didn’t answer. He kicked and his feet struck bottom. A groan struggled out of him. He stood up, clinging to the raft, legs trembling under him.

  Fran stood up and leaped out of the raft. She splashed in the water and then she was moving through it, falling, getting up, wading through the breakers at the shoreline. She ran out of the water and up on the beach, stood barefooted, legs apart, wind whipping the dress about her.

  She stood still a moment and then sank to her knees and toppled forward, digging her hands into the wet sand. Webb knew she was crying, sobbing her heart out. He felt tears choking his throat. He waded out of the water, feeling the earth reeling unsteadily beneath him. He fell on his knees beside Fran.

  Alfred’s voice stabbed at him in the high wind. “All right, Millar. Let’s take care of this raft. Getting it in a safe place is the most important thing we’ve got to do.”

  EIGHT

  WEBB TURNED and stared at Krayer, who was standing knee-deep in the waves, legs spread to brace himself. He clung to the side ropes of the bobbling raft.

  “Coral can puncture this thing,” Krayer said. “Let’s get it out of this water.”

  Webb nodded. Krayer was right again, showing good judgment. It was just that it was hard to conceive of a man so unemotional, unmoved by the fact that they were alive and standing on solid ground. To Webb, this event called for throwing his head back and bellowing at the rising wind that had driven them here. Anyhow, at least it called for a moment to be damned happy; practical matters could go hang that long.

  Still unsteady and weak in the knees he walked back into the water. He picked up one side of the raft. Krayer carried the other, and they moved past Fran to dry white sand.

  “We can put it down here for the moment. I’ll find a safe place for it,” Krayer said. They placed the raft carefully in the sand, but the wind swept down and almost hurled it away from them. “Sit on it, Millar. I’ll find a place where it’ll be protected.”

  Webb sat on the side of the raft, while Krayer stalked off into the grove of evergreens that grew down to the rim of the beach. For a moment Webb watched him. Krayer marched into the thickets; he was a man with one idea. Webb’s gaze moved from the small trees to the coconut palms that curved upward against the darkening sky. He listened to the wind rustling the palm fronds and felt like a man who’d come home.

  He turned his head, looking at Fran down on the beach, at the white caps churning on the reef and the black wall of rain beyond.

  Fran got up and slowly walked toward him. Her dress was slicked against her body, outlining it. Her legs and feet were bare and her hair was uncombed, matted about her face. She was as unconcerned about her appearance as the first woman must have been. She was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

  She stopped beside him, looking down at him. “We’re alive,” she said.

  Krayer’s voice called from the rim of the thicket. “Millar. You and Fran bring the raft. I’ve found a safe spot.”

  Webb stood up. “The master’s voice,” he said.

  She lifted one side of the raft. “You just don’t know. But if we stay here very long, you’ll find out.”

  For a moment he looked at her across the raft. “I’m willing to stay here,” he said.

  She shivered. “Oh God, no.”

  Krayer shouted. “Come on. Let’s get that raft taken care of.”

  Large drops of rain pelted them as they crossed the beach and followed Krayer through the thicket. He pointed to a spot where a palm had fallen and over which thick vine had spread, forming a heavy matted roofing.

  “I’ve cleaned out under there,” Krayer said. “The raft will be protected from the sun and from anything else. It’ll be safe here until we want to use it again.”

  “I’ll never want to use it again,” Fran said.

  Krayer glanced at her. “I think I know you pretty well, my dear. You may want to use it a lot sooner than you think now.”

  The rain rattled on the huge leaves and came upon them with sudden driving force. Webb pushed the raft as far under the tree as possible and they huddled under a canopy of bushes.

  “Why don’t we catch as much of the rain as we can in the raft?” Fran said. “We may need that water.”

  “Very good idea,” Krayer said. Carefully, they lifted the raft out into the open and then huddled under the hood of vines. “But I promise you. I’ll find fresh water on this island, even if we don’t find much else. Plants never grew this verdantly without plenty of fresh water.”

  The rain beat at the vines and dripped through. Suddenly, Fran slid out into the open and lay down in the grass beside the raft. She opened her mouth and laughed when the rain splashed from her face.

  Webb sat as though hypnotized. He supposed he was. The rain struck her body, bouncing off it in full round drops, plastering that dress into every crease and fold. He clenched his fists. He wanted to throw himself beside her, lie with her, roll with her, let the rain pound them together. He forgot everything except the rain on her body.

  From a great distance he heard Krayer’s sharp cold voice. “That’s a fine way to catch pneumonia, Fran. Tonight may be freezing. You don’t have dry clothes.”

  ‘Oh, God, Webb thought.

  • • •

  Years before, Webb had watched native boys c
limb the coconut palms; skinning up them like monkeys. But memory didn’t help him now. He went up slowly, imitating their methods of climbing as best he could, walking on hands and knees.

  The tree was still wet and slippery from the rain, and the climb wouldn’t have been easy on a dry day. Twice he lost his balance, and slipped all the way around the trunk.

  At the top of the tree, he cut loose three large coconuts.

  “Better get three more,” Krayer said. “Climbing those trees doesn’t look easy.”

  Webb threw down three more coconuts and then slid back to the ground.

  Krayer reamed out holes in the tops of the coconuts and then they all sat at the base of the tree and drank the milk.

  Fran went down to the beach and lay in the sun. Webb figured it was late afternoon, but the sun blazed down, making the whole island steaming and muggy after the rain.

  “We better look for help now,” Krayer said.

  Fran looked up. “You mean there may be people on this island?”

  “We’ll walk around it and find out.”

  “Must we? Right now?”

  “I think we better,” he said….

  They walked slowly, following the shoreline. Birds flew up from the foliage inland and crabs skittered into the water.

  “People or not,” Webb said, “we’ll eat. I’m just trying to remember how crabs taste best.”

  “Cooked,” Fran said.

  “We’ll have a fire,” Krayer told her. “It may be hellish getting the first one started. But when we do, we’ll keep it going.”

  Webb said, “You don’t sound as if you think there’s going to be anyone on this island.”

  Krayer said, “I’m almost sure of it. We’ve walked almost a mile. In a moment we’ll start back around the other side. That’s the lee side. There may be people, but I doubt it.”

  Fran and Krayer talked quietly and with long intervals of silence. Webb didn’t even listen to them. None of them was steady yet; Webb felt as though the sea were still rolling beneath him. But there was something else, an excitement that was building up inside him.