Specimen & Other Stories by Alan Annand Read Free Book Online Page A

that for?” Peter said.
    “Snakes. Prisoners. The maid.”
    “Snakes?”
    “Boa constrictors. Sometimes they come into
the house, looking for mice.”
    Peter scanned the corners of the room.
“Prisoners?”
    “This is a penal colony,” Walter
reminded him.
    “And the maid?”
    “This is her room.”
    “Really?”
    Walter went to the door. “Good night.
Pleasant dreams.”
     
    ~~~
     
    They sat at the breakfast table. Walter was
finishing off a fairly large fish. Another fish, complete with
head, lay untouched on Peter’s plate. He toyed with a piece of
toast.
    “No appetite?” Walter gave him a glance.
“Did you sleep all right?”
    “Not really. I had a nightmare.”
    “Probably shouldn’t have eaten so much of
that goat cheese last night.”
    “A woman came into my room last night,
wearing only a grass skirt.”
    “Couldn’t have been Taiana. She never wears
anything after midnight.”
    “She sat on the edge of my bed and put her
fingers on my lips,” Peter said. “She told me I was in great
danger.”
    “You would be, if you ever let Taiana into
bed with you.”
    “She told me you had gone insane.”
    Walter snorted. “She’s a fine one to judge.
Once every month she runs off into the bush and lives in a
tree.”
    “She said that, every full moon, you go
insane and kill somebody.”
    Walter clucked his tongue. “Quite a
dream.”
    “It seemed so real.”
    Walter shook his head with amusement. “Look
outside. That is reality. The jungle waits for us. Beautiful
butterflies. What do you want to do, get out there and add them to
your collection, or sit here and relive some cheesy nightmare?”
     
    ~~~
     
    Peter, carrying a basket and a butterfly
net, walked with Walter, who had a small rucksack slung over his
shoulder. They passed through the prison compound, a square
courtyard bounded on three sides by long low sheds, and on the
fourth side by a wall. The doors of the sheds were closed, the
windows shuttered.
    “Where are all your prisoners?” Peter
asked.
    “They’ll be gone all week. My guards took
them to the other end of the island, harvesting pineapples. I
didn’t think you’d want to have them around while you’re here.”
    “Still, I was curious.”
    “If you really wanted, we could hike to the
other end of the island to see them. But it’s fifteen miles – a
full day’s journey. We’d have to camp overnight and come back the
next day.”
    “Sounds like an adventure.”
    “Wait and see how you fare today. This might
be as much adventure as you can handle.”
    Peter followed Walter along a jungle trail.
The trail was barely visible. Now and again Walter swung his
machete to clear away vines and undergrowth.
    “Aren’t we close yet?” Peter said. “We’ve
been walking for two hours.”
    “You want prize specimens, you’ve got to get
off the beaten path.”
    “Frankly, I can’t see a path at all.”
    They emerged into a large clearing on a
hillside. At the upper end of the clearing was a 20-foot cliff
separating them from higher ground above. In the middle of the
clearing was a huge stone head similar in size to those on Easter
Island.
    Peter stared in amazement. “What is
that?”
    “Piece of local art.”
    “It looks like me, without my glasses.”
    “It’s me – before I grew my beard.”
    “The natives regard you as a god?”
    “It was done by one of my prisoners.”
    “Why’d he make you look so sinister?”
    “Artistic license, I suppose. But then, the
prisoner never loves his jailer.”
    Walter walked to the base of the cliff,
where the sun cast a deep shadow, and slung his rucksack from
shoulder to ground. He stuck his machete in the ground and removed
his hat to wipe his face on his sleeve. Peter, still staring at the
stone head, followed him into the shade.
    “So this is it,” Walter said.
    “What?”
    “Your hunting ground. Take a look
around.”
    Peter set his basket down and began to walk
along the perimeter, where many flowers grew.