Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [35]
The others said nothing, grimly quiet as the canoe nosed in towards the dock, its dilapidated motor silenced. Great bubbles of volcanic disturbance broke the surface of the lake here and there, as if a giant were releasing his last gasps of air from below, drowning on the lake bed.
The prow bumped against the pier and Wayun looked up again involuntarily. There was a recently decapitated head banging directly above him, the ripped neck stump shoved rudely on top of the stake like a bloody glove puppet. The eyes locked with his, and he was staring into the face of his brother, Tumal.
He could hear the sound of swamp Kroons, he could hear the gentle lapping of water against the wooden sides of the canoe. He could hear the clatter as the men rose to climb out of the vessel. He could hear it all, but understood none of it.
Nobody spoke to him. He felt the light pressure of a hand on his arm, but that meant nothing to him either. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but there was no need. Tumal answered it for him, although Wayun was sure his brother’s mouth didn’t move. Maybe it was the unblinking stare of his brother that had communicated to him, telling him in a dead man’s language all he needed to know.
Wayun rose to his feet, the canoe swaying madly. The others were waiting for him on the landing pier, their faces guarded, saying nothing. He stepped onto the pier, and one of his friends caught him as he nearly fell. Wayun stared at the man as if he had never seen him before. More guerrillas were approaching them along the pier, having emerged from the curtain of palms behind the primitive dock. One of them was watching Wayun carefully. He stopped in front of the guerrilla, his courage faltering at the last moment, his gaze falling away. Wayun reached out a hand, cupped the man’s chin, lifted it until the rebel was forced to look him in the eye again. There was no need to ask anything.
‘He opposed the Krallik, Wayun,’ the man said slowly.
Wayun cocked his head slightly, saying... nothing.
‘He protested most strongly about the Krallik’s tactics.
You know his orders: all tribes along the south coast must be tortured or killed if they do not concede to the Krallik’s will and deliver Indoni traders to him. Tumal...’ he hesitated, fidgeted with the machete in the belt of his khaki trousers.
‘Tumal said he was a tyrant, no better sometimes than Sabit himself.’ A great convulsion of water from out in the lake as some unseen beast threshed in battle. Then silence again.
‘He believes in purity. There is no room in his philosophy for weakness. This is war, Wayun. We have to be as strong as Sabit to stand any chance of winning. There is a virus in our land, and to remove it, we must be pure in our savagery... he looked away again. ‘That’s the reply I received to my questions about Tumal. And Wayun... his eyes were almost beseeching now, ‘I did ask. You must believe none of us wanted this. Tumal objected to the torture of an Indoni fisherman captured last week. The Krallik was inflamed. He referred to your brother as being a part of the virus weakening and killing his people. His voice was so very loud in our heads.
Wayun said nothing. His eyes never left those of the man who had spoken. Now another guerrilla intervened, placing a hand on Wayun’s shoulder. ‘The Krallik may be a little mad,’
he said slowly. ‘But he will secure freedom for all our people.
We have suffered, and will suffer more. But the Krallik will give us back our land if we stand together.’
Wayun walked away down the pier, ignoring them all. He passed through the fringe of palms, and there was the temple ahead of him, in a jungle clearing on the island. He stopped, gazing at the temple as if seeing it for the first time, although since joining the OPG, he had been here on at least a dozen occasions.
The temple was higher than the tallest palm