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.
I reached camp, hobbling and scratched by thorns. Over the water, the sun touched the horizon.
Musa had built a fire and was roasting a rather meager bird he’d snared. He hurried toward me, summoning Father from his tent. Their faces were taut with concern upon seeing me alone.
I showed him the gun, which I’d tucked into my belt. I described what had happened in the jungle.
Father took the gun and looked into the jungle. “Two bullets left,” he said. “Let’s find Grendel.”
Musa began talking angrily, hands on hips. I translated for Father. “He says it will be dark in minutes. It would be suicide to go into the trees now.”
Father looked at me oddly. His face seemed to be glowing. I could not quite read the expression. “How do you know this?” he asked. “You are good with languages, but in this short time, with no studies, no time for comparison and context …?”
I shrugged, embarrassed to have my talents praised.
“I don’t know. I suppose my skills have rather improved.”
“Indeed they have.” Father cupped his hand affectionately on my shoulder. Then, placing the gun securely in his belt, he gazed over the treetops to the black mountain. “We will set off tomorrow at sunrise.”
We found a shoe. Just one.
In the clearing by the lagoon, the pool of blood had congealed and begun to flake. It was no longer green but black.
Musa had boldly led our morning trek, following Grendel’s blazes. He was an expert at animal noises, shouting back to the birds and monkeys and keeping our spirits up. Now his face was drawn. He said he had never seen blood like this. He was worried that we had only two bullets.
I translated as he spoke, but Father’s face was faraway, lost in thought. “We’ll head for the mountain,” he said.
Musa began to protest, but Father cut him off with a wave of the hand. “I know it’s risky,” he insisted, “but with Grendel gone we are in even greater danger. A signal sent from the top of the mountain will be seen much farther out to sea.”
As I translated for Musa, Father began trekking into the jungle. Musa looked at me pleadingly. Skeptically. Continuing to the mountain meant miles through the treacherous jungle, followed by a climb that would take hours. At the top it appeared to be solid rock. We had no climbing equipment. The plan, to Musa, seemed insane.
I could not disagree. But Father was dead set, and so we trudged after him. Around us, the chattering grew louder. I began seeing jeering grins, wide eyes. A hard brown nut hurtled through the air. Ring-tailed monkeys, fossas, and lemurs—all began swinging from limbs, throwing nuts, rocks, feces. There were thirty or forty of them.
I felt something hit the back of my head and I jumped. I saw it fall to the ground: Grendel’s scrimshaw necklace. Above us, the one-eyed monkey beat his chest, screaming.
“He is returning it,” Musa said in Malay, his voice trembling. “He knows what happened to Grendel.”
The leather strap was frayed and wet with monkey saliva. Nonetheless, I tied it around my neck, to honor our fallen comrade. I felt pity for his awful fate, but fear for our own. What manner of beast had killed him—and what if it came for us?
Ahead of us, Father seemed oblivious. He knelt by a rock formation, tearing vines from its surface. “Come!” he called. “Help me, Burt!”
My fingers shook as I helped him, but soon I became lost in the wonder of our discovery. It was a pile of ancient stone tablets—dozens!—etched with intricately carved images and symbols. Winged beasts with bodies like a lion. Giant warthoglike things. Flying monkeys. A complex round design that resembled a labyrinth. The etched symbols were tiny and impossibly neat, like hieroglyphics.
Father looked ecstatic. “This is it, Burt. All my life I’ve hoped these existed, and here they are! Look at these runes—influenced by ancient Egyptian … exhibiting elements of Asian pictographs and flourishes like a crude prototype of—”
“Altaic and Cyrillic script …” I said.
“We will camp here,” he said, taking a pencil and pad from his pack.
“Here, Father?” I said, unable to control my astonishment.
“I must make copies before we continue,” he replied. “Later you can help me decode these, Burt.”
As I translated, Musa glowered in astonishment. “He expects us to go all the way up the mountain—and
