Priestess of the Serpent

James Abraham Carter

Chapter 1: The Bearer of Bad News

The midday sun beat down on the corrugated iron roof of Garth Hillman’s trade store with the relentless ferocity of a blacksmith’s hammer, turning the interior into a stifling oven of rice, kerosene, and tinned beef. Pangat was a British protectorate only in the most generous administrative sense; to the Colonial Office in London, it was a damp green smudge in the Indian Ocean. To Garth, however, it was simply home: a quiet, predictable place where the biggest daily crisis was usually a shortage of salt fish or an error in his worn, leather-bound ledger. The trade store was an inheritance, part of the estate of Jack, his late father, and the young man was still in the process of mastering the management of the business.

Then the bell above the door jingled, cutting sharply through the drone of the lazy ceiling fan that spun with tropical lethargy.

Ram Chandra, the island’s chief of police, stepped out of the blinding midday glare and into the dim interior of the store. He looked older than his fifty years; his khaki uniform was damp with sweat, and his moustache was twitching with nervous energy that instantly sent a chill premonition through the burly Englishman. The two men knew each other well, and from Chandra’s mannerisms, Garth realized that something was terribly amiss.

"Garth," Chandra said, bypassing the usual pleasantries. "I have news. Bad news."

Garth leaned against the scarred mahogany counter, wiping his hands on a rag, and bracing himself for whatever fate had in store for him. "It’s the cargo ship, isn’t it, Ram. Was it sunk in the gale off Imbu Island?"

"No," Chandra said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "It’s not a ship that’s in trouble; it’s a plane. A light aircraft on a joy-flight out of Mahé. According to the pilot’s last frantic radio transmission before his signal broke up, he was forced to ditch."

Garth felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "Where?"

"Bahma."

Garth flinched as if the name were a physical blow, hitting him with all the force of a heavyweight’s punch. Bahma was a jagged tooth of volcanic rock and dense jungle, barely thirty miles north. It was strictly off-limits, marked with danger symbols on all nautical charts. The indigenous population—fiercely isolated and untouched by the modern world—repelled all visitors with a relentless storm of streaking arrows and hurtling spears. Anthropologists had tried for decades to make contact with them; a few had made it ashore, but none had ever returned to tell the tale. The last attempt to end in disaster was thirty years ago.

"Who was on board?" Garth asked, his voice dropping an octave, and his terrible premonition growing like a whirling cyclone.

Chandra hesitated, looking away, knowing the effect the news would have. "The governor’s son, Alex Rothman. And a passenger." The chief sighed heavily. "Joan Barrington."

The world seemed to drop out from under Garth’s feet. The Englishman blanched. He gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white. Joan, twenty, bright, and beautiful. The woman who had filled his quiet evenings with laughter, the woman he loved, the woman he was supposed to marry before the callous hand of fate cruelly intervened.

Garth’s life had changed with the arrival of the new governor, John Rothman. It wasn’t the governor himself who had caused the trouble. Rather, it was his son, Alex, who was everything Garth wasn’t: smooth, wealthy, and possessing a reckless charisma that made sensible, steady men such as himself seem drab by comparison. At thirty, he was five years older than Garth, and he had swept Joan off her feet with promises of a glamorous life in the capital, leaving Garth slumped dejectedly in the wreckage of a broken engagement. Yet, standing there in the heat of the store, the Englishman realized with a dull ache that the old feelings had not completely died. They had merely burned low, like coals beneath the ash.

"They're on Bahma?" Garth whispered.

"They had to set down on the western beach," Chandra said grimly. "And the pilot... Alex Rothman is her fiancé now."

Chandra reached out and placed a sympathetic hand on Garth’s arm. "Bahma is outside our jurisdiction, Garth. It is in Indian territorial waters, and with Rothman’s son involved, it has become political. He has spoken to Indian government officials. But from what I’ve heard, he came across as arrogant and condescending, and somewhat racist, because they couldn’t come to the rescue immediately.

“I understand he is terribly worried about his son, but that attitude from an Englishman is what Indians endured under British colonialism, and it doesn’t go down at all well. Important people have been insulted and are now uncooperative. By the time they sort this out... well, you know what the islanders do to outsiders." The chief shook his head regretfully. "I’m sorry, Garth. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I felt you should know. Tragically, there is nothing we can do."

With a heavy tread, Chandra turned and walked out of the store, letting the door slam shut behind him. He hated this part of his job. Even after years of experience, it was never easy. And he wasn’t sure that he had ever handled it well.

Garth stood alone in the dim quiet of the store. Rescue was days away. By then, the islanders would have killed Joan. Despite the betrayal, despite the humiliation of being cast aside for a wealthier, flashier man, Garth could not let her die. Something had to be done, and he decided to do it.

He locked the front door, flipped the sign to Closed, and walked briskly to the back room. He swiftly packed a waterproof canvas kit: his machete, a coil of nylon rope, a medical kit, tinned rations, and his two trusty pump-action shotguns with full bandoliers of cartridges.

An hour later, the low rumble of his motorboat’s outboard engine cut through the rhythmic wash of the surf as he slipped away from the Pangat docks, heading north into the brooding shadow of Bahma and all its hidden dangers.

Chapter 2: The Temple of the Serpent

An hour and a half later, the motorboat glided silently into a narrow, hidden lagoon on the leeward side of the forbidden island. The towering jungle canopy choked out the midday light, casting the black water in an eerie, emerald twilight. Garth shivered at the uncanny scene as he cut the engine, letting the momentum of the boat carry it gently against the narrow strip of sandy beach.

The Englishman shouldered his equipment with a grunt and looked at the second shotgun. He decided to leave it in the boat. It would be an additional weight with its bandolier of ammunition. He needed to move quickly and stealthily. When lives were at risk, speed was of the essence.

Stepping into the shallows, he hauled the boat onto the beach and anchored it in the sand. Then, drawing his machete, he plunged into the thick, suffocating greenery, which closed around him, trapping him in its fecund wildness. Every sensible instinct shouted at him to turn back, but he ignored his fear as the thought of Joan in mortal peril drove him onward. The greenery clawed at him with malice. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying vegetation, and the exotic scent of jungle blooms. In the canopy, bright and clamorous parrots held screeching competitions.

He moved with the ease of a man skilled in bushcraft, pushing through the dense tangle of ferns and hanging vines toward the interior, where anthropologists had spotted and photographed the native settlement from the safety of a low-flying aircraft. Garth’s eyes were alert, watching. But as he watched the jungle, so too did hidden eyes watch him.

Without a sound, shadows detached themselves from the foliage. Before Garth could react, a muscular warrior blocked his path, swiftly followed by ten others who materialized around him; their bodies were clad in bronze scale armor with gold highlights, and their heads were protected by conical helmets with flaring neck guards. Some carried powerful recurve bows; others were armed with short swords. One warrior lunged and caught the Englishman from behind in a crushing bear hug.

Garth quickly bent and twisted violently, swiftly flinging his assailant to the ground. The fellow’s companions converged on him in a rush. A wild fight of flying fists and feet erupted, but the brutal battle was uneven. Garth went down beneath the weight of numbers as his foes piled on him like gridiron players. He was pinned to the ground, completely helpless. A swift blow to the back of his head plunged him into darkness.

When Garth regained consciousness, he found that his hands had been bound securely behind his back and that he had been completely disarmed. His silent captors hauled him to his feet and, with rough hands, marched him through the jungle. The frightened Englishman cursed his luck. He had run right into a patrol. His mission had failed from the outset. But bitter self-recrimination would not save Joan. He wasn’t dead yet, and an opportunity to escape and rescue her might still arise. He clung fast to this frail hope.

Shortly, they came upon the substantial native settlement. The buildings were constructed in a huge clearing. They were not the homes of a Stone Age people. The buildings were made from timber resembling teak that had been worked with iron tools. Doors, windows, and veranda posts were all richly carved with stylized plants and animals, as were the pillars that raised the houses high off the ground. The thatched roofs were steep to shed tropical downpours. Each house had its own extensive vegetable garden and a grove of coconut palms.

Colourful chickens of an unknown breed wandered between the plants, pecking and scratching the soil as they foraged for food, while children and adults stared at Garth with wary curiosity from the gardens and the verandas of the houses. They wore a unisex garment - a simple length of embroidered cloth wrapped around their hips. The women were bare-breasted and unashamed.

Beyond the village, rose the impressive mass of what could only be an ancient temple. The building was a timber structure raised on a stone platform. It was long and rectangular, with an encircling colonnade whose teak pillars were carved with entwining serpents. Garth was forced up the stone stairs, and they entered the temple through its impressively carved doorway, inlaid with mother of pearl.

The doorway opened into a cavernous room dominated by a huge idol of the finest jade. The image of the serpent god was carved in the likeness of a man, but with the flaring hood of a cobra and a quasi-human face. A huge cabochon ruby the size of a baseball was mounted in the statue’s chest, and it sat tailor-fashion on a large stone plinth on which a golden urn of smoking incense also stood. The idol’s gemstone gleamed malevolently, like the eye of a cyclops, in the lamplight. 

But it was the woman standing before the impressive idol who became the focus of Garth’s rapt gaze.

"Kneel before Sisumu, priestess of Nargan and ruler of the land,” she imperiously commanded.

The language was not too different from the Pangat dialect, in which Garth was fluent. Her voice was low, melodic, and possessed an innate authority that compelled obedience. Garth was forced to his knees by his captors, wincing at the ache in his skull, and gazing in wonder at the astonishing woman.

She was breathtaking. Young, probably no more than twenty, and stunningly beautiful, with dusky skin, high cheekbones, and long black tresses that fell in glossy waves over her naked breasts. Her ornaments were finely crafted from gold and glittering rubies. Her figure was full and sensuous, generating an aura of primal, dangerous vitality. Despite the cold terror of his situation, a jolt of raw attraction flared deep within Garth’s being.

The sudden rush of passion made him feel like a fool, considering that she was probably going to order his slow and painful death, but at the same time, his reaction was genuine and undeniable in its startling intensity.

By contrast, Sisumu regarded him with eyes as cold and dark as onyx. "Another trespasser,” she murmured, her voice a rich contralto that, under different circumstances, would have been seductive. "A metal bird landed upon our shores, and others like you were captured. Now you also come uninvited to the sacred island of Nargan, the Serpent God. For this sacrilege, you shall all die."

"Wait," Garth said, desperately trying to gain some control over the situation. "I didn't come to cause problems. I came to rescue the people who arrived in the metal bird. Something went wrong with it, and they had to land. They mean you no harm. I mean you no harm."

Sisumu’s lips curled in a scornful smile. "Pale foreigners always speak of peace before they bring ruin. Take him to the place of judgment."

The guards roughly seized Garth’s arms. His protests were ignored as they dragged him deeper into the temple complex. The warriors hauled the Englishman to the edge of a deep, stone-lined pit set into a shadowed courtyard, with flaming torches burning brightly at each corner of the void. His bonds were cut, and he was unceremoniously shoved over the edge and into its gloomy depth.

Garth yelled in fright. He plunged about fifteen feet, landing hard. Fortunately, his boots hit the stone floor rather than his head.

An angry voice rang out: "Watch it, you clumsy idiot! You could have fallen on us."

Garth muttered an oath. The fall had been jarring. He slowly straightened and looked up. Standing in the deep shadows of the pit were Joan and Alex. 

Joan looked pale and disheveled: one generous breast was exposed, for her blouse and jeans were badly torn and stained with mud, and her mascara was ruined by tears. When she saw Garth’s face in the torchlight flickering from above, her breath caught. "Garth? She whispered, horror and shame warring in her eyes for dominance.

She seemed somehow diminished. It wasn’t the mud or her ripped apparel. It was something deeper. Was it because they had been apart for several months and he could now see her in a more realistic light, untinged by rosiness?

Alex Rothman moved possessively in front of Joan before Garth could fully analyze his troubling feelings. Despite the humiliating dirt and the raw panic lingering in his eyes, Alex threw his shoulders back. Not wishing to appear weak in front of Garth, he attempted to cloak his terror in a veneer of swaggering bravado.

"Well, well," Alex sneered, stepping aggressively closer to the wary Englishman. "If it isn’t the local shopkeeper. Did you bring us a cup of tea and a biscuit, Hillman? Or did you just blunder in here in an attempt to play the hero, only to get yourself captured like a fool?" He derisively asked.

Garth ignored him, not wishing to sink to his level. There were far more important things to consider. his gaze locked onto Joan. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, stepping past Alex.

Joan couldn't meet his eyes, staring fixedly at the pit’s stone floor. The guilt of her betrayal hung heavily around her shoulders like a leaden cloak. She bit her lip, wondering what to say. The “Dear John” letter she had sent him had been easy. It wasn’t face to face.

Alex’s visage hardened. He strode angrily between them, shoving Garth squarely in the chest. "Don't look at her, you pathetic loser. She’s my fiancée now. You’re just the hapless relic she left behind months ago."

The insult was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, and Garth felt his temper rise like the bubbling magma in the throat of a volcano. But before he could vent his feelings—before the simmering anger and hurt of months could erupt into a violent fistfight—a resonant, trumpet-like noise cut through the air.

It was a conch-shell horn sounding from above.

The captive trio looked up tensely. Sisumu stood at the rim of the pit; her golden ornaments gleamed in the wavering torchlight.

"Interlopers!" Sisumu’s voice rang out with theatrical affectation. "You have defiled the sacred soil of Bahma with your unclean presence. For your heinous crimes, you shall pay the ultimate price. You shall die in the crushing coils of Nargan, the Serpent God!"

Her hand swept up dramatically, and upon this grandiose signal, a small, cleverly concealed granite door near the floor of the pit rose with the rasping of stone upon stone.

From the darkness within, a low, ominous hiss vibrated through the pit. The air grew heavy, thick with the musky stench of a massive reptile. Slowly, terrifyingly, an enormous constrictor—easily thirty feet of glistening, muscle-sheathed scales—slithered sinisterly into the torchlight.

An emotional bomb exploded. Alex shrieked like a frightened child. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, and scrambled frantically against the stone wall like a trapped mouse, his staring eyes locked in horror upon the slithering monster. Joan, who had been standing right next to the door when it opened, ran off screaming, her face buried in her hands, as if, by blocking the encroaching reptile from her vision, she could somehow make it disappear.

But before the serpent could coil for a fatal strike, fate played its capricious hand.

Sisumu, eagerly leaning forward to watch the cruel execution, placed her foot on a section of ancient, weathered masonry near the edge. With a sickening crunch of crumbling mortar, the block gave way catastrophically.

With a gasping cry, Sisumu lost her footing. For a moment, she teetered on the edge, her arms frantically windmilling. A guard rushed to grab her hand. He was too slow, and the priestess plummeted from the ledge. She tumbled through the air and crashed heavily upon the giant serpent.

The creature reacted to the agonizing impact with primal fury. Abandoning its intended prey, the massive reptile swiftly flung its coils around the dazed priestess as she tried to rise, instantly ensnaring her in its crushing, bone-splintering grip. Sisumu cried out in agony, her face turning white as the scaly coils mercilessly tightened, like torturing bands of living iron.

Up above, the temple guards gasped, freezing in utter horror. They raised their spears, but none dared cast them upon the monster. They wanted to save Sisumu, but what they didn’t want was to harm the sacred serpent. To them, the giant constrictor was the living avatar of their god. To touch it, to harm it, was the ultimate sacrilege, punishable by the soul’s eternal banishment to the fiery realm of the underworld.

Garth wasn’t constrained by such beliefs. While the guards stood paralyzed and Alex cowered in a corner of the pit, Garth lunged bravely forward.

He vaulted across the writhing coils and drove his hands straight for the serpent’s massive head. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength and desperation, he jammed his thumbs deep into the creature’s sensitive eyes.

The serpent uttered a horrific, bubbling hiss and instantly loosened its crushing grip upon the swooning girl. Releasing Sisumu, the reptilian monster began thrashing wildly. Garth clung grimly to the creature’s head, fighting with every ounce of strength he possessed as the serpent frantically whipped from side to side in a desperate bid to free itself. A scaly coil struck Garth’s leg with bruising force, knocking him to the ground with the power of the fearsome blow.

The snake writhed frantically. Man and beast rolled across the floor. With a surge of power, the huge reptile flung off the clinging man. Unable to see, the monster zeroed in on him with its heat-sensing organs. It lunged, its powerful jaws horrifically agape. Garth slammed his boot heel against its snout. The constrictor recoiled, hissing in pain. Blinded and in agony, it had enough. Rather than press its attack against prey that was far more dangerous than it had anticipated, it retreated swiftly back into the dark recess from which it had emerged.

Silence descended upon the pit, save for the ragged breathing of the shaken survivors.

Sisumu lay sprawled on the stone floor, gasping for air, bruised and trembling, but otherwise uninjured. She slowly lifted her head, her dark eyes wide with astonishment as she looked up at Garth, who stood over her, breathing hard, his hands shaking from the strain of his frantic exertions.

He extended a hand to help her up, and she took it with significant gratitude.

Chapter 3: The Ruby Heart

An hour later, the atmosphere in the temple had been entirely transformed from hostility to benevolence.

Sisumu’s regal composure was restored, though her body still ached. She sat upon a cushioned stool in her sumptuous private rooms, which were decorated with bright, dynamic frescoes of mortals, gods, and demons in acts of war and lovemaking. She had commanded her guards to release the prisoners, and now a feast of tropical fruits, roasted meats, and cool spring water was laid out before the trio.

While Joan picked nervously at a mango and Alex sat in brooding silence, Sisumu leaned forward, her dark eyes fixed entirely and intently on Garth. She plied him with questions about the outside world—cities made of glass, metal birds that flew across oceans, and lands where men did not worship the serpent god. Garth answered patiently, his deep voice carrying a quiet cadence that clearly fascinated the priestess. Occasionally, he provided translations to Joan and Alex out of courtesy, as they could not speak the language of their host.

Across the low table, Alex watched them with a sour expression; his mind was calculating as he thought about the jade idol of the serpent god and the baseball-sized gemstone in its chest. But it wasn’t the statue’s fine artistry that he was contemplating.

Alex leaned close to Joan, his voice a low, urgent hiss that conveyed the essence of his dark desire.

"You remember the idol when we were first brought before the priestess. Did you see the huge gemstone in its chest?" he whispered, gesturing subtly toward the location of the statue. "That’s a ruby, Joan. It must be at least as large as the priceless Maharlika Star Ruby, which weighs in at a massive 10,820 carats. Do you have any idea what that’s worth on the black market?”

Joan frowned, looking away from Garth and Sisumu. "Alex, what are you talking about? We're prisoners here. We need to find a way off this island, not go treasure hunting."

"This is more than just a treasure hunt. Its my salvation," Alex muttered, his eyes gleaming with desperation and unvarnished greed. He had kept his mounting financial ruin a secret from Joan until now, but the truth was terrifying: he had borrowed heavily from the Tongs—a ruthless Chinese criminal syndicate operating out of the southern ports—and his time was up. If he didn't pay, they would skin him alive. "That stone can clear every debt I have and set us up for life in Tangier or Rio. I'm going to take it. I don’t have time to fix the biplane, but we can escape in Hillman’s boat."

"Are you insane?" Joan hissed back. "Garth saved our lives! And the priestess—she’ll have us killed by slow torture if we touch their holy relic. That ruby - it’s the heart of the idol."

"Garth is a fool," Alex spat. "And the priestess is just a stupid superstitious savage. As for Hillman... if he tries to stop us, we’ll leave him behind. He can rot on this godforsaken rock for all I care."

Joan hesitated. She had betrayed Garth when she had abandoned him for Alex, and this was a second act of treachery. Morality and the glittering allure of fantastic wealth warred inside her. She looked at Alex—his handsome, desperate face—and then glanced across the room at Garth, who was smiling at something Sisumu had said. Garth was steady, reliable, and utterly ordinary - safe but boring. Alex, by contrast, offered a dangerous, thrilling escape from mundanity.

Slowly, Joan abandoned morality and allowed her suppressed ruthlessness to come to the fore. She had known the poverty of being born into a destitute family and the abuse of a drunken father. She’d worked hard as a night club singer, but despite her efforts she hadn’t made it big. The world was a harsh place, and you had to grab what you could from it. She would be a fool to let this golden opportunity slip through her fingers, as if it were worthless sand. 

Joan nodded. "Alright,” she whispered. "Just... be careful."

Night fell swiftly over Bahma, veiling the jungle in velvet blackness, broken only by the soft light of the full moon and the faint radiance of the dusky firmament’s myriad twinkling stars. Within the temple, lit by the warm glow of oil lamps, Sisumu graciously offered chambers for her guests to sleep in until morning, assigning them adjacent rooms down a dimly lit, pillared hallway.

Before retiring, Alex cornered Garth in the corridor. "Hey, Hillman," he said smoothly, masking his tension. "Where did you leave your motorboat? We're going to need to make a quick exit at dawn, just in case these capricious heathens change their mercurial minds."

Garth narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the sudden camaraderie and put off by his rival’s racism. But wanting to keep the peace and ensure Joan’s safety, he answered politely, "It’s beached in the small lagoon on the island’s lee side. Don’t worry, I’ve anchored it securely."

"Right. Got it," Alex said, clapping Garth on the shoulder with false heartiness. "Get some sleep, hero."

They retired to their respective rooms and were soon slumbering from the exhaustion of the day. But Garth, a man accustomed to the quiet of his bachelorhood, was a notoriously light sleeper and was easily woken.

Hours later, a faint scraping sound broke the silence in the dark hallway.

Garth’s eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Someone had passed by his room, but who could it be at this late hour? Suspicious, he rose silently from his sleeping platform, carefully eased the brass-bound door open a crack, and cautiously peered out into the corridor.

By the guttering light of a dying oil lamp, he saw two figures gliding stealthily toward the main sanctum. It was Alex and Joan.

The Englishman grimaced and suppressed an oath. Alex was a reckless fool. He was up to something no good, and was dragging Joan into the mess he was about to create. Garth quickly dressed. He slipped out of his room, carefully trailing them at a distance. He rounded the corner and stepped into the inner sanctum just in time to see Alex standing on the idol’s plinth, using the sturdy blade of his pocketknife to ruthlessly pry the giant ruby from the idol’s chest.

"Alex, stop!" Garth’s voice cracked, angry and whip-like, through the sacred chamber.

Alex spun around, the heavy gemstone clenched in his thieving hand; its crimson smoothness gleamed sinisterly. "Stay back, Hillman!"

"You fool!" Garth strode forward, his face dark with fury. "Sisumu spared our lives! She trusted us! You steal from her temple, and you doom us all!"

"She’s a savage!" Alex snarled dismissively, brandishing the pocket knife. "She doesn't matter. But this stone matters. It buys my freedom—our freedom!"

Before Garth could close the distance, Alex leapt swiftly from the plinth and lunged, slashing wildly with the knife. Garth sidestepped the clumsy strike and quickly delivered a powerful kick to his assailant’s wrist. Alex swore. The knife flew from his bruised hand and rang harmlessly against the marble floor.

What followed was a brutal, vicious brawl with no holds barred. Striking out with fists and feet, the two men crashed together in wild fury. Alex fought with the cornered desperation of a man running out of time, but Garth’s raw strength and skill, honed by years of dealing with ruffians on the docks of Pangat, soon began to give him the upper hand.

The savage commotion echoed down the ornate corridors. Within moments, heavy footsteps pounded against the marble floor.

Just as Garth knocked Alex to the floor with a smashing body blow, Sisumu burst wildly into the chamber, flanked by a dozen burly guards armed with glinting spears.

"Seize them!" Sisumu commanded, her voice ringing with incandescent rage as she saw the desecrated idol.

The warriors swarmed forward. Before Garth or Alex could land another blow, strong hands violently grabbed them, wrenching their arms behind their backs and pinning them to the floor.

Joan, seeing the guards completely distracted by having to subdue the two fighting men, made a split-second, desperate calculation. Moving like a striking cat, she lunged behind Sisumu, swiftly wrapping her arm around the priestess’s slender throat in a vicious choke-hold.

"Don't move!" Joan screamed, tightening her grip on the struggling priestess. "Let Alex go, or I swear I'll break her neck!"

The guards released the two men. They couldn’t speak English, but they didn’t need language skills to understand the threat.

Garth stared in absolute horror as he stood. "Joan, have you lost your mind? Release Sisumu! You're only making things worse!"

Joan’s eyes were wild, her face flushed with adrenaline and unyielding resolve. "Shut up, Garth! I've gone too far to turn back now! Alex can give me a life you could never dream of. We're leaving!"

Alex scrambled to his feet, snatching the gemstone and his pocket knife from the floor.

“All right,” he said. “We’ve got what we need. Let’s away.”

Together, as Alex kept the blade pressed firmly against Sisumu’s neck, using her as a human shield, they backed away from the idol and its guardians, retreating toward the temple exit and into the darkness of the tropical night.

Garth moved forward, but the guards, sensing that he had been abandoned by the felons, swiftly pounced. The Englishman struggled against the warriors holding him, shouting in despair as the woman he had come to rescue once again abandoned him, cruelly dragging his vivacious host into the jungle’s night-time labyrinth of shadowed danger.

Chapter 4: The Lagoon

Varaman, the formidable commander of the temple guards and Sisumu’s older brother, stood before Garth in the lamp-lit chamber of the idol, his spear point hovering mere inches from the Englishman’s wildly beating heart. The air was so thick with tension that you could have cut it with a knife; the warriors were eager for blood, ready to strike down the outsider as he stood helpless in their iron grip.

“I Varaman, “ announced the commander, “will take great pleasure in killing you for the evil you have brought upon us - the kidnapping of my sister and the desecration of the idol of our god.”

Garth managed to control his rising fear. His voice was calm and steady when he spoke, which was not at all a reflection of how he actually felt. "Varaman, listen to me. They took your sister, true. But if you pursue them blindly through the jungle, they will kill her if cornered. However, I know where they are going. Return my weapons to me. Let me help you rescue her."

Varaman glared at him, his jaw clenched in a tight knot of fury. For a long, agonizing moment, the balance hung on a knife-edge. Then, lowering his spear slightly, Varaman growled, “If she is harmed, you will die slowly, screaming in agony. Now, reveal their destination to me."

**********

Moving with silent, vengeful determination, Varaman led his squad of elite warriors through the black, tangled paths of the jungle toward the lagoon where Garth had come ashore. They bypassed the longer trails, cutting through a steep ravine that brought them out onto the edge of the western lagoon just as the pale moon broke through the cloud cover.

Down on the sandy beach, the unsettling scene lay laid out before them.

Alex was hurriedly shoving the motorboat off the beach and into the shallows, while Joan stood a few yards away near the jungle’s edge, where it met the narrow belt of sand. She was holding Sisumu tightly by the arm and keeping the pocket knife pressed dangerously against her jugular.

Garth spoke quietly to Varaman. “I’ll rescue Sisumu. The moment she is free, you can rush Alex.”

Varaman gave him a hard look. “You have been truthful so far. But if you betray me…”

Garth didn’t bother to reply. His weapons hadn’t been returned. Varaman didn’t trust him that far, but his actions would speak louder than words. As soon as Varaman gave the order for his men to hold back, the Englishman dropped low and moved stealthily toward the two women, using the cover of the jungle to conceal his careful approach. Soon, he was mere feet from them, his lurking presence hidden by a bush. The Englishman sweated. Without a gun, he was at a considerable disadvantage. He waited tensely, carefully judging the time to pounce. The margin for error was frighteningly nonexistent. Then the moment came.

Joan glanced toward the water to check on Alex, and in that moment of distraction, Garth burst from the shadows.

His darting hand grabbed Joan’s wrist and safely jerked the blade away from Sisumu’s throat. The priestess fled. Joan, who wasn’t helpless, didn’t. She swiftly kicked Garth’s shin with bruising force. The Englishman swore in pain. Joan, her face a mask of feral rage, came at Garth; her love for him, a distant thing, now replaced by utter ruthlessness. They grappled fiercely; her desperate strength was shocking.

At the water’s edge, Alex heard the wild commotion. He spun around, releasing the vessel as it drifted into the shallows. His eyes widened in panic as he saw Garth wrestling furiously with Joan. Alex quickly turned and lunged for the boat. Grabbing the pump-action shotgun Garth had left secured in the hull, Alex pumped a round into the chamber and took aim at his vigorous adversary.

"Get away from her!" Alex screamed, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Seeing that Sisumu had been freed, Varaman and the temple guards burst from the treeline, charging down the beach with blood-curdling war cries.

Their shouts distracted Alex. He swore, took aim at the rushing foe, and squeezed the trigger.

The shotgun blasts shattered the night, spraying deadly buckshot at the racing men. A warrior spun and fell, half his head splattered to gory ruin. The rest swiftly scattered. Sisumu screamed, waving her arms frantically, shouting in her native tongue for her men to withdraw. "Retreat! Into the trees!"

Varaman and the surviving warriors sprinted for the jungle. They pulled back further into the dense foliage as more shotgun blasts spewed hot lead all around them, shredding the vegetation with whining buckshot.

On the beach, chaos reigned freely. Sisumu, her fury eclipsing her fear, lunged at Joan, lending her strength to subdue the madwoman Garth was wrestling with. The priestess leapt upon her foe as she broke free. The two girls crashed onto the sand in a vicious, tearing catfight, clawing and striking at each other with unbridled rage.

Garth saw Alex pumping more rounds into the undergrowth. There would be a massacre if he wasn’t stopped. Spotting a smooth, heavy stone half-buried in the sand, the Englishman swiftly scooped it up. Ripping off his sturdy leather belt in one fluid motion, he looped it around the stone to create a makeshift Roman sling. Whirling it over his head with lethal momentum, Garth let fly the projectile just as Alex turned toward him.

Alex’s face was twisted into a devilish mask of murderous intent. "This ends now, Hillman."

And indeed it did, but not the way the heartless felon had intended.

Before he could squeeze the trigger, the heavy stone struck Alex squarely in the temple with lethal force.

Alex’s eyes rolled back. The shotgun slipped from his limp fingers, and he pitched forward into the shallow, dark water of the lagoon, to float face down and unmoving in the brine.

From the corner of her eye, Joan saw her lover’s end. With a wild scream of rage, she punched Sisumu in the jaw, knocking her to the sand. Garth cursed. He ran to Sisumu. Joan, her apparel shredded, and her naked breasts heaving, scrambled to her feet and sprinted past Garth, who was solely focused on the injured priestess. The crazed woman plunged into the lagoon. Pausing only briefly, she ruthlessly snatched the giant ruby from the corpse’s sodden jacket, then quickly hauled herself over the gunwale of the motorboat, a triumphant expression on her face.

The grinning woman leapt to the outboard. The engine roared to life, kicking up a rooster tail of white spray as the boat swiftly surged away from the shore, cutting across the dark waters of the lagoon and heading out into the open freedom of the ocean.

Garth helped Sisumu stand. Fortunately, the girl’s only injuries were scratches and bruises. As Sisumu began brushing sand from her arms and her naked, heaving breasts, the Englishman looked toward the water’s edge. But it was too late to stop the escapee. The boat was already a fading shadow, vanishing into the vast, dark horizon. Together, they stood in silence, watching the empty ocean where the motorboat had disappeared into its immensity.

"She’s gone," Garth murmured, a deep sense of lingering sadness in his voice. "And to think that I once loved that woman. I’m sorry I couldn’t get the gemstone back. You may never see it again. Oh, what a fool I am."

Sisumu turned to him, a slow, knowing smile curving the corners of her full lips. She reached out and lightly touched his arm.

"Do not mourn her, Garth," Sisumu said softly. "And do not worry about the stone."

Garth blinked, looking down at her, quite confused. "What do you mean?” He asked incredulously, “Alex stole it, and Joan has now escaped with it."

Sisumu’s smile widened into a gentle, amused laugh. "All their scheming was for naught. They stole a masterwork of colored glass. The true gemstone—the sacred heart of our god—is kept in a deep, secret vault beneath the temple, far from the eyes of mortals and their avaricious hands. It is only placed in the idol during the highest of our sacred ceremonies.”

Garth let out a long, slow breath, a mixture of amazement and profound relief washing over him. He looked down at the beautiful, fierce woman standing beside him, realizing just how strange fate could be. He came to rescue one woman and had found another. Joan’s betrayal had proved to be a boon.

Epilogue: The Lucky Bastard

Several months had passed.

In the capital of Mahé, the local newspapers had been filled with a scandal of international proportions: a British woman named Joan Barrington had been arrested in a dingy hotel, screaming hysterically while trying to fence a worthless piece of colored glass to a local antiquities dealer. Her criminality was exposed; her fiancé, the governor’s son, was at the bottom of the Bahma lagoon; and her grand plans had ended in a prison sentence.

Garth had been found to have acted in self-defense when he killed Alex. Sisumu, as ruler of Bahma, had acted within the laws of the island, which was outside British jurisdiction, and the government of India was content to let the matter rest. As for the governor, heartbroken by the death of his son, he had resigned from his position and returned to England.

Back on Pangat, the trade store was doing a brisk business. But Garth Hillman spent less and less time behind the counter, leaving the running of the business to Chen Lee, his new employee.

The island of Bahma was no longer terra incognita on the charts. A tentative, respectful trade had been established between Pangat and her people, brokered by a priestess who had learned that not all outsiders carried evil in their hearts.

Late one afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the horizon in a blaze of crimson and gold, Garth stood on the veranda of his new trade store on Bahma, looking out over the sparkling lagoon where he had first landed.

Footsteps approached behind him, light and rhythmic.

A pair of soft, dusky arms wrapped around his waist, and a chin rested comfortably against his back.

"You are quiet today, trader," Sisumu murmured, her voice a warm melody in the evening breeze.

Garth turned in her embrace, looking down into her dark, captivating eyes. He smiled, pulling her close against his chest.

"I was just thinking," Garth said softly, resting his chin on the top of her long, black hair. "I used to think I was a pretty ordinary man running a very small store at the edge of the world. Now I realize I am the luckiest bastard in the entire Indian Ocean."

Sisumu tilted her head up, a playful spark dancing in her eyes. "Is that so?"

"It is," Garth said, his smile turning serious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple band of hammered gold—crafted by local artisans. "Which is why I have a question to ask you. And before you answer, you should know that, as a priestess, you are entirely free to marry whomever you choose."

Sisumu looked down at the gold ring, then up into his steady, loving eyes. The proud, fierce priestess of the Serpent God smiled, her heart entirely captured.

"Then my answer," Sisumu whispered, pulling him down for a kiss, "is yes."

The End