Deep within the Caribbean,
Monkey Island.....
Not such an unusual island, when you think about it. It had a large central mountain range covered in jungle, with a tiny river bisecting it–-it had miles of coastline-–it had its share of wildlife in the form of (of course) monkeys. And two castaways, but more about them later.
It also had a small shrine to some long-forgotten monkey-god-–an enormous head, half buried in the sand, with mammothine ears to match. Its mouth was wide open, nearly splitting its stone skull in two, and its stone tongue lolled out, touching the ground. Even rows of stone teeth completed the effect.
For two days now, that gaping mouth had been singing.
It carolled out a single-note song...sometimes low, sometimes loudly...so deep and powerfully that the earth trembled. It vibrated in the very bones of the island–in ways, it was the island, singing a low, low song as old as the Caribbean. The song swelled and ebbed just as ceaselessly as the transparent waters, and every being of the island was just as attuned to it. The song was just as much a part of them now as it was part of the island.
A tiny, jarring disturbance to the flow of the single-note song came stumping dejectedly along the coastline. His name was Horace. His teeth were clenched in half-conscious resistance to the tidal-pull of the deep music, but he was nonetheless making his meandering way towards the Monkey Head. He was a sad sight: His once-proud velvet overcoat was sand-covered rags, with a double-breasted grass-stain to match. The long red-gold locks that had been his pride and joy were burned off raggedly and what remained of them was nearly hopelessly wind-tangled. He was the picture of pitiful dejection as he made his way along, feeling the song resonate in his very bones, but still trying to deny the powerful lure it held for him. Up ahead he saw, like a condemned man his gallows, the spit of land upon which rested the Monkey Head.
Just then, another man struggled out of the thick jungle and into full daylight, blinking like an owl. Not such a bad comparison, for he was bent nearly double, with a prominent and beaky nose and tiny, searching black eyes. His hair might have been black, though since he was tangled in every jungle plant known to monkey, it was impossible to tell.
Eyes accustomed to light, he squinted at Horace and demanded, "Who're you?"
Horace gathered up the remains of his dignity and stood up as tall as he could. "I am Deadeyes, Captain of General LeChuck's navy."
"You? Ha!"
That wasn't quite the reaction Horace had been expecting. "I am!"
"Oh, yeah.." derisive snort "..like LeChuck would give anyone that much power. I oughta know." The squat figure came lumbering up in a deceptively fast gait. "Look, I know. LeChuck never shares his power with anyone."
Surprised despite the tremble of the song in his veins, Horace frowned suspiciously at the man. "And just how do you know?"
"Because I used to be LeChuck's right-hand man." The grating tone wasn't precisely proud of this revelation, but it wasn't ashamed of it, either. "The name's Largo. Largo LaGrande."
Another deep swell of song....so powerful and low that it set him trembling. Horace temporarily forgot how to breathe. The Singer in the Monkey Head put more feeling into a single note than most singers could express in an entire song. But when he looked up, he saw that Largo seemed equally shaken.
"You hear it, too?" He instinctively kept his voice to a whisper.
Horace actually looked ashen as he nodded.
From that instant, there was no more need for words. The two turned as one and walked, unwillingly, to the Monkey Head.
At the actual Mouth, both of them stopped. They weren't especially brave men, and they sensed instinctively that to go in was to see something that neither wanted to see. But the Song was flowing like tidal currents around their feet now...there was no resisting. Down into the darkness they went.
Deep inside, it was all warm darkness–a real mouth, or possibly a womb. They couldn't see, but the Song tugged at their feet, insistent as a puppy, drawing them deeper in, until they could see their own hands again and realized that they were coming upon a place which glowed faintly, dull red. It reminded them of nothing quite so much as a large heart, slowly beating out the single-note Song.
As they crept tremblingly closer, it moved. Physically pulsed. The two luckless castaways scrabbled backwards until their backs encountered a stone wall, and there they stayed as some.....thing....erupted from the rock floor. With a liquid slarp of molten stone on molten stone, it burst into sight from the blackened rock around it, throwing its 'head' back and its 'arms' out to each side, spraying a thin splash of red magma around it. For an instant it remained motionless, gleaming wetly, and Horace and Largo had the sudden impression that they had just witnessed the birth of something terrible.
Then the figure shook itself, sending droplets of the magma everywhere. It paused, then settled and reformed into a humanoid figure, though it remained entirely molten rock within the form. It turned and rested its glowing yellow eyes at the two figures on the cave floor.
Horace blanched. "No.... No. You're dead," said Largo faintly.
LeChuck was standing
in the center of the ragged-edged pool of molten rock.
Tension built–neither remembered to breathe. But then, to their extreme disgruntlement, the enormous figure started laughing. It covered its stomach with its arms and roaring with amusement for several minutes–long enough for Horace and Largo to forget their fright and actually become annoyed with the lava-being who copied human features and mannerisms.
"Well then, who are ya?" snapped out Largo.
The lava-beast regarded them piercingly. "Who am I? I am the arcane power behind this island," he boomed out in a grainy baritone. "I am Monkey Island personified!"
Horace and Largo waited in puzzled silence. The lava figure did something that might have been a sigh. "I am Big Whoop!" it finally announced.
"Big Whoop?!" chorused the two.
"None other." The figure drew itself up tall and looked faintly gratified.
"But you're not alive!" cried Largo.
"But then why do you look like General LeChuck?" ventured Horace at the same moment.
Big Whoop looked directly at LaGrande, who shivered at whatever he saw in those yellow eyes. "All magic is alive. Ask anyone who practices voodoo, and they will tell you that they never 'own' any of their power. They make bargains with it, persuade it. Those who try to 'use' magic will eventually be consumed by it. It steals their lives, their personalities, their very souls."
Largo looked blank, but Horace, who had passed through Big Whoop, felt the truth in that statement in his heart and soul. Big Whoop continued.
"I am magic. I was 'used' for many years, lastly by LeChuck, but first by many, many others. And I stole parts of their souls as my price. I have memories, a personality, feelings. I can be hurt–and I was hurt!" Big Whoop's tone shifted to something close to a wail. The cave walls trembled with his anger. "A great shining thing came into me and when I tried to take it, it hurt me! And I am going to get that thing that hurt me!"
The creature threw back its head and opened its molten mouth, not to shriek, but to sing. It sang out a song that was tangled chaos, eight- and ten-part harmonies that held true for fleeting instants, breathtakingly beautiful, and then clashed into unbearable chords. Bits of small rock fell from the ceiling, pelting the two pirates (who were rooted to the spot by the force of the song). The earth shook with a bass rumble, adding yet another dimension to the harmonics.
Then, out of the pool of lava, skeletal figures staggered up, preserved intact somehow within the molten rock. Some of them even wore pirate clothes and carried swords. Eyes alight with a yellow glow, they arrayed themselves in ranks before Big Whoop and the two castaways.
Nor was this all. From the mouth of the cave, and even out of the sea, skeletons were coming to life. They staggered up, got to their bony feet, walked without concern across the ocean floor, Monkey Island their ultimate destination. The inner cave was beginning to fill with them before Big Whoop faded back into the one-note Song, which seemed inaudible compared to the earlier flood of music.
The earth stilled. The two pirates discovered that they could still breathe.
"What was that?" Horace gasped.
"That is the Song of Calling," responded Big Whoop, looking pleased. "With this song, I call in all who have passed through me, living or dead–or undead" he added, gesturing at the skeletons. "When my army is assembled, I will have my revenge on the ones who hurt me."
He turned to the skeletons. "Go out and find for me a woman who wears an item of magic called the Necromancer's Amulet," he ordered. "When you find her, bring her to me alive...I mean to watch her suffer before she dies. Her name is Chariset Threepwood."
Something in his tone chilled Horace to the marrow, even as the skeletons marched out to carry out the order. He had no love for his former Captain, but neither did he want to watch her tortured because of a piece of molten lava's temper tantrum.
Big Whoop turned around "And as for you two, I have a special mission LeChuck left just for you....."
Horace and Largo both swallowed hard.
"I want to seek out and bring back here to me Guybrush and Elaine Threepwood. The three who defied me together will die together. Now listen..."
The plan was worthy
of LeChuck's evil genius, but for some reason the prospect of immediate
success only made Horace feel small and alone as Big Whoop detailed his
evil intentions. For the first time (but not the last), he
began to wonder what exactly he and Largo had unleashed upon the Caribbean.