
CHAPTER 13: The King of the Island
As our craft approached the island’s coast, the swelling sea grew rough. Every eye on board was wide watching the darkened beach. We rounded the bluff. The nervous crew began to perceive a stench from a yawning chasm in the hill that no night wind, no downpour could quench. The rain ceased. The moon came forth like noontide from behind her veil of cloud, bathing in ghostly light the seaside; and the night sky at last began to allow increasing illumination, no longer overcast. All on board could tell that a foul shadow, something sickly-sour, emanated from entrance of the hillside bower, and closer view of the pit forced even the captain and officers to admit that the hanging cadaver, head still bearing the crown, was the withered and rotting body of the clown. The crowd of sailors strained and jostled to see: in the moonlight, even from a distance, the clown’s face in its grimace appeared strangely proud . . .
We knew the members of the first mission were all gone now—no need to excavate the bodies in the cave. The purpose of the hanging corpse, to motivate us to abandon the encounter was successful. We anchored the vessel near the foot of the looming summit, and prepared to mount her.