Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

senses and took off into the jungle. Tuck followed close behind, nearly clotheslining himself a couple of times on branches that the young Vincent ran right under. The coral gravel on the path tore at Tuck’s feet as he ran.

When they emerged from the jungle, Tuck could see a light coming out of Sarapul’s hut, which Tuck recognized from his day in the cannibal tree. He turned to young Vincent, who was terrified. He had charged the dragon, but had made the mistake of stopping to think about it.

“Kimi’s with the cannibal?”

Young Vincent nodded rapidly while bouncing from foot to foot, looking like he would wet himself any second.

“Go on,” Tuck said. “Go tell Malink to come here. And have a drink. You’re wigging out.”

Vincent nodded and ran off.

Tuck approached the door slowly, creeping up until he could see the old man crouched over Kimi, trying to pour something into his mouth from a coconut cup.

“Hey,” Tuck said, “how’s he doing?”

Sarapul looked around and gestured for Tuck to enter the house. Tuck had to bend to get through the low door, but once inside the ceiling opened to a fifteen-foot peak. Tuck knelt by Kimi. The navigator’s eyes were closed, and even in the orange light of Sarapul’s oil lamp, he looked pale. He was uncovered and a bandage was wrapped around his middle.

“Did you do this?” Tuck asked Sarapul.

The old cannibal nodded. “They shoot him in water. I pull him in.”

“How many times?”

Sarapu held up a long bent finger.

“Both sides? Did it go through?” Tuck gestured with his fingers on either side of his hip.

“Yes,” Sarapul said.

“Let me see.”

The old cannibal nodded and unwrapped Kimi’s bandage. Tuck rolled the navigator gently on his side. Kimi groaned, but didn’t wake. The bullet had hit him about two inches above the hip and about an inch in. It had passed right though, going in the size of a pencil and exiting the size of a quarter. Tuck was amazed that he hadn’t bled to death. The old cannibal had done a good job.

“Don’t take him to the Sorcerer,” Sarapul said. “The Sorcerer will kill him. He is the only navigator.” The old cannibal was pleading while trying to remain fierce. A sob betrayed him. “He is my friend.”

Tuck studied the wound to give the old cannibal a chance to gather himself. He couldn’t remember any vital organs being in that area. But the wounds would have to be stiched shut. Tuck wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it, but Sarapul was right. He couldn’t take Kimi to Curtis.

“Do you guys have anything you use to kill pain?”

The cannibal looked at him quizzically. Tuck pinched him and he yelped. “Pain. Do you have anything to stop pain?”

“Yes. Don’t do that anymore.”

“No, for Kimi.”

Sarapul nodded and went out into the dark. He returned a few seconds later with a glass jug half-full of milky liquid. He handed it to Tuck. “Kava,” he said. “It make you no ouch.”

Tuck uncapped the bottle and a smell like cooking cabbage assaulted his nostrils. He held his breath and took a big slug of the stuff, suppressed a gag, and swallowed. His mouth was immediately numb. “Wow, this ought to do it. I need a needle and some thread and some hot water. And some alcohol or peroxide if you have it.”

Sarapul nodded. “I put Neosporin on him.”

“You know about that? Why am I doing this?”

Sarapul shrugged and left the house. Evidently, he didn’t keep anything inside but his skinny old ass.

Kimi moaned and Tuck rolled him over. The navigator’s eyes fluttered open.

“Boss, that dog fucker shot me.”

“Curtis? The older white guy?”

“No. Japanese dog fucker.” Kimi drew his finger across his scalp in a line and Tuck knew exactly who he meant.

“What were you doing, Kimi? I told you that I’d check on Sepie and meet you.” Tuck felt a pleasant numbness moving into his limbs. This kava stuff would definitely do the trick.

“You didn’t come. I worry for her.”

“I had to fly.”

“Sarapul say those people very bad. You should come live here, boss.”

“Be quiet. Drink this.” He held the jug to Kimi’s lips and tipped it up. The navigator took a sip and Tuck let him rest before administering another dose.

“That stuff nasty,” Kimi said.

“I’m going to stitch you up.”

The navigator’s eyes went wide. He took the jug from Tuck and gulped from it until Tuck ripped it out of his hands. “It won’t be that bad.”

“Not for you.”

Tuck grinned. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve been sent here by Vincent.”

“That what Sarapul say. He say he don’t believe in Vincent until we come, but now he do.”

“Really?”

Sarapul came through the door with an armload of supplies. “I don’t say that. This dog fucker lies.”

Tuck shook his head. “You guys were made for each other.”

Sarapul set down a sewing kit and a bottle of peroxide, then crouched over the navigator and looked up at Tuck. “Can you fix him?”

Tuck grinned and grabbed the old cannibal by the cheek. “Yum,” Tuck said.

“Sorry,” Sarapul said.

“I’ll fix him,” Tuck said. Silently he asked for help from Vincent.

“I can’t feel my arms,” Kimi said. “My legs, where are my legs? I’m dying.”

Sarapul looked at Tuck. “Good,” he said. “More kava.”

Tuck picked up the jug, now only a quarter full. “This is great stuff.”

“I’m dying,” Kimi said.

Tuck rolled the navigator over on his side. “Kimi, did I tell you I saw Roberto?”

“See, I didn’t eat him,” Sarapul said.

“Where?” Kimi asked.

“He came to my house. He talked to me.”

“You lie. He only speak Filipino.”

“He learned English. Can you feel that?”

“Feel what? I am dying?”

“Good,” Tuck said and he laid his first stitch.

“What Roberto say? He mad at me?”

“No, he said you’re dying.”

“I’m dying, I’m dying,” Kimi wailed.

“Just kidding. He didn’t say that. He said you’re probably dying.” Tuck kept Kimi talking, and before long the navigator was so convinced of his approaching death he didn’t notice that Tucker Case, self-taught incompetent, had completely stitched and dressed his wounds.

He was sleeping, dreaming of flying, but not in a plane. He was soaring over the warm Pacific above a pod of hump-back whales. He swooped in close to the waves and one of the whales breached, winked at him with a football-sized eye, and said, “You da man.” Then the whale smiled and blew the dream all to hell, for while Tuck knew himself to indeed “be da man” and while he didn’t mind being told so, he also knew that whales couldn’t smile and that bit of illogic above all the others broke the dream’s back. He woke up. There was music playing in his bungalow.

“Dance with me, Tucker,” she said. “Dance with me in the moonlight.”

The smooth muted horns of “Moonlight Serenade” filled the room from a portable boom box on his coffee table. Beth Curtis, wearing a sequined evening gown and high-heeled sandals, danced an imaginary partner around the room. “Oh, dance with me, Tucker. Please.”

She glided over to the bed and held her hand out to him. He gave her the coconut man’s head, rolled over, and ducked under the sheet. “Go away. I’m tired and you’re insane.”

She sat on the bed with a bounce. “You old stick in the mud.” A pouty voice now. “You never want to have any romance.”

Tuck feigned sleep. Pretty well, he thought.

“I brought champagne and candles. And I made cookies.”