An Island Called Moreau Read Online Free Page A

tiger cage in a zoo. The trees and bushes thinned, the sun beat down more strongly, and we came to the native village.
    Near the first houses, a rock on my right hand rose in a high wall. Climbers and vines, some brilliantly flowering, hung down the rock face, and among them fell a slender waterfall, splashing from shelf to shelf of the rock. It filled a small pool, where it had been muddied and fouled. But I ran to the rock, and let the blessed stuff fall direct onto my face, my lips, my parched tongue, my throat! Ah, that moment! In truth, the waterfall was not much more than a drip, but Niagara itself could not have been more welcome!
    After a while, I had to rest dizzily against the rock, letting the water patter on the back of my neck. I could hear the natives stealthily gather about me. But I offered a prayer of thanks for my deliverance before I turned to face them.
    Their ungainly bodies were hidden under the same coveralls that George wore; many an unseemly bulk was thus concealed from the world. One or two of them wore boots; most went barefoot. Some had made barbaric attempts to decorate themselves with shells or bits of bone in their hair or round their necks. Only later did I realize that these were the females of this wonderfully miscegenous tribe.
    Fascinated as I was with them, I believe they were far more fascinated with me.
    â€œHe laps water,” one said, sidling up and addressing me without meeting my gaze.
    â€œI drink water, as I guess you must,” I said. I was torn between curiosity and apprehension, not knowing whether to try to establish communication or make a break for it, but at least this creature who came forward looked as harmless as any of them. George resembled an outré blend of boar and hyena; this creature looked like a kind of dog. He had the fawning aspect of a mongrel which one sometimes notices in human beings even in more favored parts of the world.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked, pointing at him to get the message home.
    He slunk back a pace. “‘The Master’s is the Hand that Maims. The Master’s is the Voice that Names.…’”
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    He touched his pouting chest humbly. “Your name Bernie, Good man, good boy.”
    â€œYes, you’re a good man, Bernie.” Weakness and a touch of hysteria overcame me. To find a Bernie here in this miserable patch of jungle on some forgotten rock in the Pacific—a Bernie looking so much like a stray pooch—was suddenly funny. Why, I thought, Bernie as in Saint Bernard! I began helplessly to laugh, collapsing against the rock. I still laughed when I found myself sitting in the mud. When they clustered nearer to me, staring down in a bovine way, I covered my face and laughed and wept.
    I scarcely heard the whistle blow.
    They heard. “The Master Knows! The Master Blows!” They milled about uneasily. I looked up, afraid of being trampled on. Then one started to run and they all followed, stampeding as if they were a herd of cattle. George stood till last, looking at me with a great puzzlement from under his hat, muttering to himself. Then he too attempted to flee.
    He was too late. The Master appeared. George sank to the ground, covering his head with humble slavish gesture. A whip cracked across his shoulders and then the Master passed him and strode toward me.
    Climbing slowly to my feet, I stood with my back to the rock. I was tempted to imitate the natives and take to my heels.
    The so-called Master was tremendously tall! I reckoned he was at least three meters high, impossibly tall for a human being.
    I could see him among the trees and huts, marching along a wide track, and not much more than fifty meters from me. I had a glimpse of tranquil waters behind him, but all my attention was concentrated on him.
    He carried a carbine in the alert position, ready to fire. It was aimed at me in a negligent sort of way. His stride was one of