The warmth of the fire began to fade, as did the firelight, but Gideon didn’t care: it was all good, whatever they were doing. A clammy, wet sensation wafted over his limbs as they proceeded, their progress lit by a single brand, but the wonderful thing about it was that Gideon still knew that wherever they were going, all was good. The dark mystery of the cave thrilled him, and he knew he would be taken care of by these good, kind people.
The men began to chant, a low, soft, mournful chant that touched him in his very soul with its primordial beauty.
The cave tunnel broadened into a somewhat larger chamber. Gideon wondered if it was real or a dream. Maybe the whole thing was a dream. But no: it was far too powerful to be a dream, far too deep an experience to be in his mind. Despite the sluggishness of his limbs, the delicious sense of somnolence, he nevertheless felt a clarity of mind and a curiosity about what would happen next.
The men laid him down on a raised stone slab, almost like a bed. The mournful chanting increased. Another fire was built, which chased away the clammy damp and threw a welcome warmth about the cavern. The high priest appeared above him with a clay jar, which he dipped his hand into, perfumed oil dribbling down his fingers — and then Gideon was anointed with it. The other men gathered around and Gideon felt the deep honor of their attention, felt their concern and kindness toward him, thankful and gratified by their consideration.
He looked around at the chanting men, now slowly revolving in a sort of slow dance, their hands moving strangely, winding around the cavern and into a dark recess. Then from that dark recess was borne a wooden pallet, carried by eight men on two thick timbers, and on the pallet rested something large and white: a skull. A strange skull, massive like a gorilla, only bigger — with a single, dark, vacant eyehole under a thick ridge of bone.
Gideon stared. Was this some kind of sculpture? But no, this was a real skull — very old, worn, cracked, and almost human. Except for that mysterious, single eye socket. It was the same creature as the pictograph, a one-eyed giant. How interesting…How fascinating…This creature had once existed…The lotus had taken over his being, and he had gladly yielded…He stared at the skull, mesmerized.
Lotus. Lotus Eaters. Odysseus. And then, even in his drugged state, the connection came to him like a bolt of lightning. He thought back to what happened to Odysseus right after he left the land of the Lotus Eaters. On the next island, he came to the land of the Cyclops.
Cyclops.
He was staring at a Cyclops skull. The Cyclops of the Odyssey had once actually existed. And here was the proof of it, right here in front of him — in this skull that the natives treasured, preserved, and worshipped.
The ancient skull of a Cyclops.
Gideon stared, transfixed. How beautiful, how fascinating, was this huge skull, with its immense jaw, long interlocking canines, and massive bony crest. And what a tremendous discovery this was for science. Gideon lay back. Science? It didn’t seem important now. He didn’t care.
And now the skull was taken down from the pallet and placed on a stone plinth, and the chanting morphed into a kind of spoken song, like wind moaning about a forest. The old priest approached and, from a wooden trencher, plucked up an armful of pods — dried lotus pods — which he scattered about and on top of Gideon, followed by drops of shaken oil. And now the priest was kneeling close, and a long, beautifully flaked obsidian blade had appeared in his hand and was hovering over Gideon’s face, coruscating in the firelight.
Gideon tried to make sense of it, tried to find his voice, but could not. Never mind: it was all good, whatever it was they were doing, his lovely friends. More wood was thrown on the fire and it leapt up, sparks ascending into the darkness, the crackling of the wood echoing in the chamber.
The blade descended, touched his neck where it met the base of one ear.
A small, very small part of Gideon’s brain seemed to be sounding a distant alarm. Strange that he felt no pain, even as the blade began to bite, even as he felt the warm trickle of blood…
46
Suddenly an explosion went off in the cave, impossibly loud. A voice screamed out: “Get away from him!”
The knife froze in place. The voice was distantly familiar. A woman. Who was it, and why was she interrupting this fine ceremony?
Another thunderous explosion. The singing had stopped. The knife remained poised. And then a figure came bursting in, ramming the high priest aside, his obsidian knife flying. A recognizable face came into Gideon’s field of view: short black wild hair, flashing eyes. He knew this woman.
She seized him roughly. “Get up!”
When he tried to pull away, she slapped him viciously across the face, first once, then again. Why was she being so mean? The men, his dear friends, had backed away and were raising their hands in the air, angry, yelling.
He feebly tried to fend her off, to return to the peace that he craved, but now her arm was around his neck and she hauled him to his feet. A gun was clutched in her other hand.
“Stay back!” she cried, the gun bucking with another loud explosion. “Gideon, for God’s sake, wake up and help me!”
He stood, confused and unsteady. He still couldn’t speak and was surprised he had the ability to stand.
“Move your goddamn feet!”
Gripping his arm, she backed up out of the cave, pulling him along with her. She seized a burning brand from its rude sconce and continued on. He tried to mumble a protest but she ignored him. Now they had turned a corner in the stone tunnel and she dropped behind, shoving him ahead. “Run, damn it!”
He tried to run, stumbled. She caught him, grabbed him by the hair, and hauled him up, giving him another slap across the face.
“Move!”
He ran, slowly, his mind full of regret, terrible regret and loss, a longing to return to that beautiful place. “Did you see—?” he began.
“Faster!” This was accompanied by another hard shove.
A moment later he could smell fresh air, hear the ocean, and they came out on the broad ledge. It was night; the sea rumbled below. The fresh air revived him somewhat, began to clear his head. But his vision was abruptly arrested by the starry night sky. “My God, how beautiful…”
Another hard shove reminded him that the angry woman was still there. He had a recollection, a distant memory, of this woman. What was her name? “But look at the stars…”
“Forget the stars. Keep going!”
He stumbled forward and came to the edge of the trail, which started down through a cleft. He swayed, looking at the white edge of surf below, the dark ocean, the cliffs hanging with vegetation. Now he recalled the trail, their ascent. He had to go back the way he had come. How unfortunate.
“Pay attention! Face out, go slow.”
Gideon began heading down the trail, placing one foot gingerly in front of the other. After a few steps, he halted. “Let’s go back…”
This was answered with another whack across the top of the head. “Down!”
It seemed easier to obey than to argue, and he continued. He stopped to enjoy the cool, fresh night air flowing up from the sea, and was struck again on the top of the head, so he continued climbing down. Finally, the trail reached the black beach and Gideon fell to his knees, running his hands through the sand. Even this small pleasure was rudely interrupted by the woman, who grasped his hair again and pulled him up.
“To the canoe.”
He stumbled down the beach. She grabbed their drysacks from the beach and threw them in.