Free The Cannibals by Iain Lawrence

urged us on, but kept pausing himself to listen, then to ask, “Did you hear that, lads?” He imagined paddles in the surf, drums in the undertow, and chanting voices in the creaks of the longboat's planks.
    Each time the sunlight caught his axe I cringed, for I imagined that very blade felling the Gypsy in a cloud of birds, or splitting the skulls that lay in their row in his cave. I worked as hard as he, for I was afraid to look idle. Yet I feared the moment when the work would be done, for then he might find our usefulness at an end.
    “I've seen the 'eadhunters once,” he said. “Eighty men at eighty paddles in a double-decked canoe. A 'undred warriors in feathers and plumes, and hevery one the most fiercesome thing. Oh, Lord.” He hammered faster for a moment, his axea blur. “Paint on their faces. Bones in their noses. A dozen 'uman 'eads swinging from poles—all 'anging in the breeze like the devil's own coconut shy.”
    He hammered quickly, then exploded into a blast of oaths, all aimed at me. “You had to come,” he said. “You chump of wood. You mallet-headed mullet. Why couldn't you keep away?”
    He struck the hull so furiously that he nearly drove the axe right through it. One of our patches popped loose from the bottom, clattering to the stones. He kicked it and swore, but after that he only muttered to his bat, which had taken shelter in the sweaty warmth beneath his shirt.
    In the evening the birds came back to the island. In waves that covered the sky, they converged from all directions. Some low to the ground, others high above, they came with their cries and their whistling wings. It was an amazing sight, but only Early Discall stopped to watch it. Bent over the boat, I heard them pass, and felt the air shiver from their flight. The ones we'd displaced with the longboat squawked their way amongst the others, and Mr. Mullock grew angry at the noise.
    “Can't 'ear a thing but birds,” he said. “What if the junglies are coming now?”
    “Perhaps they are,” I said, not daring to look him in the eye. I hoped that he would go up to the summit to check himself, and that I might have a chance to tell Midgely what I'd seen. “They might be landing this very minute.”
    “Hah!” he said. “Why, we've nothing to fear. Dead men tell no tales, but the birds will watch out for us, won't they? If the junglies come, the birds will rise.”
    We labored into twilight, and toiled as the moon came up. Mr. Mullock set out his lamps, the turtle-shell bowls, and we worked in the glow of the burning oil.
    “When we get to sea, first thing we'll 'oist the sail,” said Mr. Mullock. “It'll be Midgely in the bow, and the stupid boy to tend the snotter. Tom, you'll 'and the sheet.”
    I neither knew nor cared what a snotter might be, or what it meant to hand a sheet. But it pleased me to know that Mr. Mullock wasn't thinking of sailing off alone.
    “Next thing, lads, we'll run to the east,” said he. “A good sea mile or two, that's all. Then we'll lie ahull till the moon goes down, set all sail and steer a long reach to those islands.”
    This thrilled Midgely to no end. But it wasn't the idea that we'd be going right where he wanted that made him grin in the dark. It was the sudden string of salty phrases. “You're a sailor, aren't you, Mr. Mullock?”
    “I'm sure I'd say I am. Ask me quick and I'll tell you so. My young friend, I'm a yachtsman.”
    “Oooh, a yachtsman,” chirped Midgely. “Is that how you fetched up here, Mr. Mullock? Was your own yacht—”
    “Hush!” snapped Mr. Mullock. He held up a hand for silence. “Did you 'ear that, lads? You must 'ave 'eard that.”
    The rustle and mewl of the birds had been a steady whisper all the night. But now it was loud enough to hide the surf 's rumble. Something had disturbed them.
    We heard stones clatter and click. We whirled around to stare into the darkness.

ten

MR. MULLOCK'S GREATEST FEAR
    Out of the night came a quavering