The Monsters of VooDoo Isle by John Peter Drummond

Book Details

The deaths of Ki-Gor’s wife Helene, and his friend, Masai chieftain Tembu George, send him into despair in The Monsters of VooDoo Isle. This full length novel is from the pages of Jungle Stories from Spring, 1946.

A death-trail lured Ki-Gor to The Isle of Mists, and a god of weird powers welcomed him. His golden mate had already fallen prey to this strange Master —and now the Jungle Lord would share her fate . . . become a slavering, mindless creature whose great hands would kill for evil.

John Peter Drummond was a “house name” for Jungle Stories magazine.

The Monsters of VooDoo Isle has 6 illustrations.

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1. JPDrummond-MonstersOfVooDooIsle.epub

Excerpt: The Monsters of VooDoo Isle

Chapter I

ABOUT the tall, lean white man and the squat, thick-bodied black who trailed at his heels there was an air of urgency and a certain furtive watchfulness.

With his carefully tailored clothes, his precise grooming, the white man at first glance was out of place against the wild, primeval backdrop of the Congo. Yet despite the clearly discernible anxiety that drove him forward, he moved with practiced assurance along the winding game trail.

The squat native who served him gave scant attention to the track they followed. Even a white man could follow a spoor as plain as the one they stalked. The black, however, was as tense and wary as his master. His hard eyes endlessly combed the jungle walls about them. The least shift in the forest’s raucous noise pattern brought him up listening.

Plainly, the two men hunted, but they were not hunters in the usual sense. Likewise, though their tense watchfulness revealed fear of discovery, it was not discovery by their quarry, but by other men that they so anxiously sought to avoid.

Where the jungle trail sloped down to a stream crossing, they stopped. The air from the hollow rose sweet with the scent of unnumbered blossoms along the water’s edge. Scarlet, yellow and purple flowers massed in a riot of color.

The two men’s eyes focused on a spot where the blossoms lay crushed and trampled. They studied intently two huge imprints in the soft mud of the bank. The footprints were of a size to bring gasps of amazement from any sportsman.

But the white man’s only reaction was a bitter twist of his lips, a dart of anger in his black, unblinking eyes. He glanced accusingly at the native and the black flinched as though a lash touched him. His eyes belied his suave, patrician look, betrayed the thing that linked him in close brotherhood with the Congo. In the staring, seething blackness of his eyes was revealed his blood kinship with this cruel, green world, a oneness with the ruthless killer beasts who stalked the Congo trails.

“He cannot be far ahead,” he snapped. “When we come on him, this time keep your head.” His voice was harsh, threatening.

“Yes, doktor,” hastily answered the native, his guttural pronunciation of “doctor” being uttered with a tinge of awe and fear. The title was voiced like the name of a deity.

Branches snapped and rustled across the stream. A troop of baboons, coughing and barking among themselves, swung along upwind from the two men. They headed through the trees, paralleling the trail and soon moved from view. The ill-tempered tree tribe was out of sight hardly a minute when their voices, harsh with anger rose in violent, stacatto barks.

The white man listened to the clamor, turned inquiringly to the squat native.

“Some one comes,” the black replied to the unspoken question. The native knew from experience only sight of a man aroused the ugly-tempered baboons to such violence.

“He must not see us,” warned the doctor. The warrior nodded. His right hand reached almost too eagerly for the bow hung across his shoulder.

“One quiet arrow,” he promised, “and he will see nothing.”

“No,” the white man decided, leading the native swiftly behind a concealing growth of shrubs. “We must not attract attention. By killing him we might bring searchers.”

THE two men squatted in hiding, suppressing the urge to slap away the vicious gnats swarming in the foliage. They saw a small sturdy figure come up to the stream at a soundless trot. He was a pygmy, one of the strange, savage, little, people who drifted like ghosts through the jungle, a people ruthless in war, feared and respected for their bravery and cunning.

Muscles rippled smoothly in his arms and shoulders as the little man bent to drink. There was a regal grace in his movements, hidden power in his taut, hard body. The careless manner in which he held his blow gun showed he did not suspect the presence of the hidden men.

The pygmy crouched long by the stream, slowly drinking the cool water. Directly across from him, pressed deep in the soft mud, were the two immense footprints. They were prints to excite any native, especially an ever-curious pygmy. The small man rose, however, trotted through the water and passed the unusual spoor without so much as a glance.

When the slight figure disappeared, the white man stood up, slapping the stinging gnats away from his face and hands. The black rose, too, expelled his breath with a sigh.

“It is good we did not slay him,” he told his master. “I recognize the small one. He is N’Geeso, chief of the pygmies. His men would comb the forest to find his killers.”

The doctor made no reply. For just such reason he had forbidden an arrow from ambush. He stared at the monster tracks squashed deep in the mud.

“Odd,” he said, half to himself. “He ran right by the tracks without noticing them.” Then he shrugged his shoulders as though it were of no consequence and plunged forward, his long legs endeavoring to make up the time lost.

His hard-faced companion did not dismiss so easily the memory of the pygmy chieftain’s action, but he kept his thoughts to himself, knowing they would anger his master. Experience had taught him an immense respect for the pygmies. He knew it was second nature for the keen-eyed N’Geeso to read every sign on the trail. The fact that the little man gave no attention to the giant tracks only proved he was already familiar with them and with the means of their origin.

And a secret in the hands of a pygmy was no longer a secret. Yet the black man held his tongue. Perhaps they could finish their mission and get away before N’Geeso could act. In any case, he dared not give any additional bad news to the doctor.

Excerpt From: John Peter Drummond. “The Monsters of VooDoo Isle.”