Written for the Reviews Lounge, Too 2015 Green Room Challenge.
Challenge 2: The Disney Challenge.
Inspired by "My Own Home" in The Jungle Book, the song at the end of the movie when Mowgli ventures to the village.
Drums...The first thing he is aware of as he slowly allows himself to regain consciousness. His head aches, and he coughs up a few spatters of blood, causing his chest to scream fire. His hands are tied securely behind his back with some form of vine, and further attempts at movement tells him that his elbows have also been tightly bound to his sides.
Head injury. Check.
Bruising to the ribs. Quite possibly broken.
Prognosis: Not good.
His body tries to relax to ease the pain, but he stiffens in shock as he remembers where he is.
He opens his eyes cautiously, greeted by the blinding sun reflecting off the river.
He is lying in the bottom of a wooden canoe, joined by two Po Hos paddling towards the shore. The sounds of excited chanting reach his ears as he becomes steadily more aware, his thoughts scattered and confused.
Po Hos.
Drina… Drina was worried about Amos.
Race? Did Race know what had happened?
Oh god, Jonny…
The victorious war canoes are greeted the moment they land, men and women running up, chanting, singing, straining to get just a glimpse of the red-haired, white man in the bottom of the boat. And they are upon him, stroking his blood-matted hair, reaching underneath his shirt to feel his chest, causing the bruises there to cry out in protest. He groans in spite of himself, trying to remove his thoughts from the present, but they are all over him, their chatter polluting his air, their hands invasive and covered in sweat.
It seems like an eternity before the men in his canoe scold the villagers and send them back to shore. He breathes in relief, but the breath is short-lived as they roughly grab him by his legs and bound elbows to drag him to shore. The jungle all around them sings, birds and insects coming together as though they were the ones victorious in all of this.
Small huts are scattered in a circle shape around the edges of what appears to be a small village. Thatched roofs offer what appears to be a surprisingly-efficient manner of keeping out the sun. Fire circles dot the shoreline, lit and burning wildly amongst the backdrop of the chanting natives.
The things you notice when you're a prisoner…
He is wet and bloody, muscles unable to listen to his commands, even if he'd been able to try to move them. Finally, they leave him propped up against a wooden fence constructed of thick tree trunks and vines. His legs are bound together after they drop him, finally leaving him alone for a second to collect himself.
The words of the Po Hos are still evading him, his brain too addled to translate. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe through everything…
Suppose it's too much to ask that this is all a dream…
The volume of the village begins to increase tenfold, and after a moment, he knows he has no choice but to open his eyes if he wants to live.
The drums have begun anew, beating out a message to not only the Po Hos themselves, but to Race and Drina back at the station.
We have him. He is ours.
The brown skin of the drummers gleams with dripping sweat and white paint that has smeared from hours of exertion. They beat at the instruments in their laps, chanting fervently as the men and women around them dance and clap fervently.
Rather unnerving when you know exactly what they plan to do to you…
But for the moment, the Po Hos leave him physically alone. He even gets the sense that they aren't watching him though he's aware of the fact that he's not in any position to try to escape anyway. All he can do is lean against the posts of the fence and try to collect himself…
It's not an easy task. His head still spins, and though his ribs have ceased burning, the ache is still impossible to ignore.
Maybe I'm lucky and they're only bruised.
Closing his eyes, he becomes aware of the fact that he's incredibly thirsty. It strikes him as odd, not because his body was subject to its own weaknesses, but simply because he had a fleeting moment where he imagined that they might take pity on him and give him something to drink.
You're growing soft, Quest.
As it was, the only thing he is really capable of is sitting and trying to loosen the bonds around any of his joints. After a short time, he knows very well that he is not going to be able to break himself loose, but there's not much else to occupy his racing thoughts. But soon enough, even that effort must be abandoned, for he knows that he must save what little strength he has for the show that was surely to come.
He leans back once again, trying to find a comfortable position that wouldn't aggravate the pain in his arms. Easier said than done.
"Lah?"
He jumps at the sound of the soft, female voice that suddenly appears next to his head. Whipping around, he realizes that the Po Hos had largely migrated towards the far side of the camp, presumably in preparation for something or other. And next to him squats a very young woman, not much older perhaps than Jonny and Hadji, holding a small bowl of water.
She's dressed very simply in a garment resembling a tunic made of large, fresh leaves from the jungle around them. Her dark hair covers her face, but he glimpses her sparkling eyes, just for a moment, and he stares back at the child. Her face, unlike her elders, is not painted, and she doesn't yet show the nose piercings of the women in the tribe. Truly, a girl, not a woman, as he had thought.
She speaks softly to him in her own language, and he's able to finally wrap his brain around the words, making sense of them.
"Please, drink," she says, holding the bowl close to his face. She does not smile, but her eyes are kind and sincere as he looks uncertainly at her.
He glances over her shoulder as the other Po Hos begin to chant loudly again, ducking inside a hut. She looks back too, and her manner becomes more urgent as she pushes the bowl towards his face again, biting her lip.
"Please."
And he doesn't object, allowing her to tip the water into his mouth, drinking greedily until the bowl was empty. It was not nearly enough to quench his thirst, but he sighs in relief, so grateful for the gesture.
"Thank you," he manages in her language, gasping after having drunk too quickly and losing his breath. "Thank you so much."
She does smile now, holding the bowl behind her back. The noises are approaching again, and she leans in, kissing him fondly on the nose, and whispering in his ear, "How glad I am that you are mine."
Then she jumps to her feet and ducks into the nearest hut as her elders begin to troop back towards them, pulling a blonde-haired man after them.
"Amos!"
He stares in astonishment at the bloodied, beaten figure of his friend, who is then deposited against the fence line with him. The younger man struggles into a sitting position, Dr. Quest offering as much help as he can.
"Good to see you, Quest," Amos pants, finally giving up in a slumped over position. "I take it Drina contacted you?"
"She's very worried about you," replies the doctor, cursing his lack of ability to help his friend.
Amos laughs humorlessly. "Well, I'm sorry that you've ended up in the same boat. Wouldn't wish this on anybody. Now we're really sunk."
Dr. Quest shakes his head, eyeing the Po Hos, who are once again growing excited and gathering a disturbing number of sharpened spears. "Not to worry, Amos," he says, "I've brought Race Bannon along with me. He'll get us out of this."
All in a moment, the natives are at their sides again, forcing the two men into standing positions against the fence before retreating back to their fellows.
"I do hope you're right," murmurs Amos nervously. "I'm not sure how many more of these I can take."
Dr. Quest doesn't have to ask what he meant, as he straightens his back and faces the Po Hos, who brandish their spears eagerly.
"Here it comes, Quest," says Amos, his eyes going impressively calm. "A test of nerves."
The first spear flies, striking inches from the head of the younger man, quivering ominously where it strikes.
"Pretty close," observes Dr. Quest dryly, as a second spear strikes just above his own head. He twists his head, just slightly, pursing his lips.
"Don't move," urges Amos, "They're tipped with deadly poison. One scratch…" Another spear flies.
"I know," says Dr. Quest. "And we're dead."
He observes a particularly large Po Ho, painted all in white, nose pierced with a stick that protruded from both nostrils. He holds his spear tightly, pointing his finger angrily at the two men before letting another spear fly.
And it pierces the doctor's shirt before it attaches to the wall, far too close to his shoulder for comfort.
The natives erupt. They drum and dance and cry out, apparently very impressed with the two men as the spears fly again and again. The mark is always hit with deadly accuracy, inches away from exposed flesh. One move...
Well, if you can't join them…
Amos looks nervously at Dr. Quest as the spears finally stop. The two men can hardly see each other through the forest of spears surrounding their heads. "Well, I think we're really in for it now, Quest."
But Dr. Quest pauses; he's seen someone in the forest. A flash of white hair, two eyes, a rustling of bushes. And he smiles.