The Skulls Of The Pagan Shrine

"There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion, even by the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.”

― Edgar Allan Poe

It is through my revelation that you will know, about the unsettling days that still haunt me daily. A reality that hitherto, is the sole provocation of my intimate nightmares. Nothing is incomparable to its unique nature, or is there anything that could supersede its brutality.

It is evoked by the death throes of the depth of an island's screams and pleas. I can hear within me at this exact hour its constant noise, and see the horrid images of the endless rows of human skulls and bones stacked, including those I had served with honourably. A myriad of souls that have perished and are forgotten by the lapse of time. Victims of a madness, whose name has only the evil of its appellation.

You the reader shall know, about the ineffable horror that I had witnessed, on that wretched island of the skulls of the pagan shrine. Upon the last week of our voyage in the Caribbean, our ship, the Yorkshire of the English Royal Navy had been damaged by an unforeseen hurricane.

Thus, we were shipwrecked and marooned, on an island that was called Montserrat. This island was a British colony that was part of the Leeward Islands. It was by sheer coincidence of our survival that we had reach this island. Our original destination was the Bahamas that was the intended route. We were far off from that course. There were 350 men on board of the crew that had once sailed off the English coast, and out of these men, only eight of us had survived the brutal hurricane.

Amongst the survivors were committed sailors, a Bahamian named Milus, and the captain, whose name was Henry Barnes. My name you may ask is James Chilcott, a sailor by occupation. What I shall disclose to the reader, is a horror that I was forced to confront in that frightening year of 1888.

I was awakened upon that busy morning of the shipwreck abruptly, by the natural sounds of colourful birds I had never heard nor seen ere. The waters off the coast were bluish as the sky, and the unique trees had retained, an aesthetic purity of green, but it was the towering cliffs that had arrested our attention.

Captain Barnes had instructed the surviving men to amass all the goods and other materials that were left. Unfortunately for us, there was hardly anything salvageable. Therefore, the only thing we could do was to seek and find urgent assistance amongst the islanders.

That would imply, having to enter the mass of uncertainty that had awaited us. We had a compass and a map, but nothing more to direct us, through the landscape of the island. Because the ship was beyond repair at the time, there was no sense in having any of the men remain behind to watch over it. Due to the fact as well that the island was under the behest of the British Empire, there was no fear of immediate threat, from hostile enemies roaming off the coast.

Nevertheless, we were cautious, as we had proceeded from the beach. From those who had severe injuries or mild ones, the worse to endure was one of the sailors, whose name was Private Neal. He had a visible wound to his left arm that was heavily wrapped. The island was tropical, warm and humid. It was enriched, with the invertebrate fauna and exotic coral reefs that had exposed its natural essence to the observer.

After several kilometres, we had reached a lone cavern. There we had entered to investigate its milieu. What was found inside were flapping bats, sidling lizards, and crawling tarantulas. None of which were to our liking. When we had stepped outside, we were confronted by a mysterious man that was standing before us. His name was George Barwick, but to us he would be known, as Mr Barwick.

He had welcomed us and had invited us to his home, after listening to our account of how we had survived the hurricane. Mr Barwick was impressed by what we had related to him and was he eager to have us as his temporary guests. He had genuinely appeared to be convivial in his demeanour. He had been living on the island of Montserrat, for some time.

We had reached his home that was spacious and opulent in magnitude. He had a sugar estate that was surrounded, by lime trees and lush and green fields of vegetation. It was clear to me that he was a powerful man on the island. He had servants to tend to him that were of African descent that spoke in a distinctive Creole language that has resembled other forms of speech in the region.

We were properly clothed and fed by him, and we were in debt to Mr Barwick for his kind hospitality. We had gathered around the dinner table to discuss the rough voyage and the hurricane. Mr Barwick was interested in knowing and hearing more about our testimonies. For a man that had possessed a great amount of property and luxury, it was ironic that he would be that fascinated with the travels of the sea. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was so isolated and aloof from British Society.

There was one thing that from afar I had descried that was truly bizarre, and it was the imposing volcanic mountain that had overshadowed the area. It was the first time I had seen imposing mountains that were volcanic in nature. Although I was not aware of the history of the island, I had the vague impression that it could erupt at any given moment, since it was only a matter of time, before it would awaken from its dormant state.

When I had mentioned the mountain to Mr Barwick, he had explained to me in words that were comprehensive. He told me that the mountain had not released a volcano in decades. That was not reassuring to know. I had heard of harrowing accounts of volcanoes devouring a whole island in the Pacific Ocean.

'Don't worry old boy, there is still life left to see on this island, before that mountain gushes its flood of bloody ashes and lava', Mr Barwick had said.

'I would hope so, for not only your sake Mr Barwick, but for the other inhabitants on this wondrous island'.

''Montserrat will never perish Mr Chilcott. It has been here for centuries. I can't imagine life, without this beautiful paradise that is this place that you behold'.

'Pardon my intrusive nature, but how many years have you been here sir?'

'That is a good question, sailor. I have been here approximately for about ten years. I came here upon a visit one day, when I was much younger than I am today. I can trace my lineage back to the days of the old plantations, when my ancestors once governed the area and grew sugar and rum'.

'You mean, when there was slavery?'

He chuckled then replied, 'Indeed. It was the common practice, between the colonists and loyalists. The ending of slavery had brought the harsh times for our families, due to the falling prices of sugar. If it was not for the introduction of the lime tree orchards, I don't know what my forefathers, or other rich plantation owners would have done to survive'.

'This is remarkable what you have inherited and built here, Mr. Barwick'.

The others had joined the conversation, with the exception of private Neal. He was reposing still from his agonising wound. Thankfully, Mr Barwick had a doctor come and examine him. Apparently, his wound was presumed to be not serious enough to be amputated, but he had to be observed in case of an infection. Captain Barnes had spoken to Mr Barwick about places, where he could send a telegraph to alert the Navy in the Bahamas, about our exact whereabouts.

He wanted to find material to build a new ship also, since it was impossible to know, when a nearby ship would be passing us by in our vicinity. Plymouth was the closest town that could have that necessary material. The hostile weather and hurricane season were not propitious to send any ships, at that time. In the meantime, we simply waited for any possible news at Mr Barwick's estate.

That night we had spent talking about our extensive voyages and experiences upon the sea to Mr Barwick, who was the proud grandson of a seaman. Everything that we related to him, including the exotic places we had visited before, he was eagerly intrigued by them all. I had never seen such excitement stirred within the eyes of a man that was not a man of the sea. He had been to England several times and the surrounding islands, but he had never travelled to the farthest edges of the sea, as we had.

I could tell that was he deeply envious of our experiences related. All the fortune that he had amassed, he would have traded it for a day of adventure upon the swashing seas. When I retired to my room that night, I had noticed from a distance a strange man leaving the estate. I was not certain who the vague stranger was, and I could not identify him so easily. I was too weary to concentrate on him and to wonder what he was doing at that hour during the night?

He could have been a local only seeking shelter or someone practising some ancient African ritual. It was not uncommon in modern time, for former slaves or their descendants to continue their unremitting reverence to pagan gods. The majority of the people on this island were of African descent.

After several minutes, I had decided to rest. As I was resting, I had heard an obstreperous scream. It had startled me at first. Immediately I had reacted, but the howling of the wind had caused me to belief that it was nothing of a serious nature worth investigating.

Thus, I fell asleep in my bed, until I awoke the next morning. Once more I was awakened in the morning, by the spry melodies of the island birds. Anxiety was a common factor for a seaman daily upon the seas. A seaman was accustomed to seeing many things and hearing many things foreign to the eyes and ears of ordinary men. Captain Barnes and the other men were already awakened and had gathered at the breakfast table. I had joined them, with the fresh memory of the scream I heard the prior night.

I would be horrified to learn upon my entrance that Private Neal had suddenly died. It was not expected that he would succumb to his wound. How did this happen? We had become intimate brothers, and he was like an older brother to me. Captain Barnes would reveal to me that he had a rapid infection that was consuming him, within a profound fever the was incurable. He had a sullen look in his eyes that was contagious, as he made that confession.

I queried about the doctor's erroneous diagnosis, and Mr Barwick had interjected by saying that he did not die exactly from the infection, he had committed suicide. This was something I categorically rejected, since I knew Private Neal. He would then explain that they had found his body missing his wounded limb. It was presumed that he cut his own arm off, hoping to prevent the spread of the infection.

Once more, this was not of his character, but I could not prove that he did not do this, out of an act of desperation. His body was then buried in a proper interment, nearby the estate. Mr Barwick had granted us permission to bury him there. We did not have the proper accoutrements, or the instruments to give him a proper ceremony, nonetheless, he was given a Christian burial.

It was a damnable cruelty that after surviving the hurricane at sea that he would falter suddenly to the grievous effects of his injury. The captain had spoken to me personally, since I was the closest to Private Neil. We had grown up in the same city of Birmingham, as young boys. I knew his family well, and how much he had enjoyed being a dedicated sailor of the English Royal Navy. There were few in earnest that were braver and daring, as he was.

After the funeral, we had returned to the area of the ship to discover that the remnants of it had disappeared. They were either destroyed, and the wood was dismantled and taken away to some place, or they had washed away into the depth of the sea.

It was too ironic to believe in the latter and too unthinkable to believe that anyone would want to destroy a ship that was already shattered from the hurricane. It did not make any plausible sense to me, yet it did transpire. We were all amazed by this occurrence, and Captain Barnes began to become suspicious of what was developing. First, the mysterious death of Private Neil, and second, our destroyed ship had vanished, without a single clue.

The problem that had surfaced was, where were we men to go then? Our two options were only back to the estate of Mr Barwick, or have him escort us to Plymouth. The captain had opted for us to advance on to Plymouth. Therefore, we returned to the estate and had asked Mr Barwick the proprietor to take us to Plymouth or have one of his servants take us there. Mr Barwick had told us that he did not have enough horses for the rest of us to reach Plymouth. He instead suggested that half of us go on one day, then the others the next day.

We were not overtly keen on that idea of his, but it was without a doubt, the only choice we had to select. We had to confide in his knowledge of the island.

Matthews, Gray and Palmer would escort the captain, whilst Butler, the Bahamian Minus and I would remain behind to wait our turn. Mr Barwick had told us it was best to leave in the early morning, when the sun was more visible and less intense.

The captain had concurred with that idea, and for the remainder of the day, we spent our time making the preparations for the trip. For the first time as well, I had met, a young, beautiful woman that was enchanting in appearance. Her name was Samantha, named after her deceased mother.

She was not a servant. She was the daughter of Mr Barwick. She was half-black and half-white, and she was born on the island. She had radiant Sapphire eyes that were like precious stones, and she was slender, but shaped with sensual contours.

I tried to be discreet with my singular gaze, knowing that she was the daughter of the man that had invited us to his estate, as his guests. It was difficult to not want to be mesmerised, by her inherent beauty. Much to my surprise, she had offered me a stroll with her inside the estate, and I naturally could not resist her exquisite charm. The others were busied with the journey to Plymouth or were occupied with other matters at hand. It was not a distant jaunt we would take, and Mr Barwick had consented.

He saw in me I had the feeling, a son that he never had. The estate was remarkable in its essence and grandeur, but it was a life of pure isolation and solitude. Upon our casual stroll I had learnt that Mrs Barwick the mother of Samantha had passed away regrettably ten years ago, upon a voyage to England. She had succumbed to the dreaded contagion of the island fever that she had been afflicted, from the initial start of the voyage. Samantha had grown up essentially, without a mother.

Her father Mr Barwick was the only authoritative figure that she had in her adolescence. I knew that feeling all too well, for I too had grown up, without a parent. In my case, my father. It was ironic that we had shared, such tragic circumstances in our lives.

This I had felt would bond us more. The more we had conversed with each other, the more we found we had much more in common with each other. Once back at the house, we had joined the others that were preparing for their midday meal. At the table, the topic of the trip to Plymouth was mostly discussed, yet there was another topic that was introduced, and that was an offer made by Mr Barwick to any of us survivors of the wreck to permanently stay and work for him at his estate. This tiding of an offer had surprised us.

Not one of us had even thought of remaining on the estate. We were all grateful for the offer, but the men along with the captain had kindly rejected the offer given. They were established seamen and a part of the Royal Navy. They did not know anything, about running a plantation or its daily tasks. I was the only one that had hesitated and not rejected the gracious offer.

Perhaps, it was because I had grown a bit weary of the travelling, or it was because I had begun to fall under the sudden spell of Samantha. Whatever it was, I had told Mr Barwick that I would meditate his offer in my privacy. In the meantime, I had spent the night once more with the others in the parlour chatting. Once I was in my room, I could not help but think, about my old friend Private Neil. It was still hard to believe that he was no longer living. His death was lingering in my mind, even after several hours of his unusual passing. I would have preferred that his body would have reached England, for the sake of his family. That was not for me to decide in the end.

The morning had brought a certain measure of anticipation of reaching Plymouth. After the men had taken an early breakfast, they had departed on horseback. They were guided by one of the male servants of Mr Barwick. I along with the other men that had remained behind had seen them depart, into the thick rows of trees. Captain Barnes was confident that once at Plymouth, he could summon for assistance, through a direct telegraph to the Bahamas.

Unbeknownst to me, he as well as the other men travelling with him would never reach their final destination. What I did not know at that time was the terrible nature of their untimely deaths, at the hands of a murderous obsession. I had spent the day with Samantha in her company, telling her stories about my incredible adventures upon the sea, whilst the other three men had spent it with Mr Barwick at the sugar fields.

The more that I spent time with her, the more that I had learnt about her life and the wonders of living there. We had gone to the beach also for a bit, staring out at the depth of the waters that had surrounded the island. I had the feeling that she had enjoyed the beach, as much as I had.

She was very much enthusiastic to know more about the places I had visited or seen. She was a refreshing company to share my time. Life in the seas was often too predictable and too lonesome for a sailor. Whilst we were at the beach, I had discovered ancient skulls and figures that had appeared to be idols of creatures of unearthly guises and shapes. I had showed them to Samantha, and she was also stunned by my discovery. For how long had these idols been buried or existed? Had they belonged to the original inhabitants of the island? Who were these archaic creatures? Were they gods that were revered and preserved?

Their mystery was enough for me to want to return. I had buried them again, with the exception of one of the strange idols. Samantha had wanted me to grab them and take them back to the estate to show her father. We had returned just in time for the midday meal to share with the others. I was eager to know of any tidings from the others that had left for Plymouth in the morning. There were no tidings that were revealed. Thus, we had to wait.

Perhaps the captain was occupied with finding a place to stay, or something had happened to them that we were unaware of its circumstance. I spoke to Mr Barwick about that ominous possibility. He had expressed to me no concern whatsoever. Instead, he had assured me that shortly we would have tidings of their whereabouts. I wanted to believe him and trust his intuition. Something was instinctively alarming me.

I had shown him the idol I had uncovered at the beach, and his reaction was of immediate curiosity and interest. This I could perceive in his gesticulation. He had examined it with his eyes, then he had asked me, where I had found the object. I had told him at the beach.

He then said that the island was full of ancient artifacts. He did not elaborate on the history of the idols, nor what they had represented. He could only explain their meaning. According to him, they were created and worshipped by the original inhabitants of the island, as I had suspected. There were still abundant mysteries about Montserrat that even he was unable to unravel.

In the late afternoon, Butler and Minus had gone with Mr Barwick on an errand, but they would not return. Mr Barwick had returned alone. He would inform me that the men had perished. When I asked him how, he said that they were ambushed by two armed men. I was stunned to hear his words, and to know that my fellow companions had died. The only consolation that I had was Samantha. She had comforted me during my discomfort and anguish.

Until I had known the eventual fate of the captain and the others that went with him, I could not allow myself to relax and enjoy my time on the island. The evening and night were unbearable. The worse was yet to come. The night was restless and, in the morning, when I awoke I could bear no more. I had to find out what had happened to the others, including the men that had accompanied the captain?

Without informing Mr Barwick, I had taken one of the horses. Samantha had seen me get on to the horse and had asked me, where I was going. I had told her that I was going to search for the captain and the men. She had asked me, if she could go with me. I was reluctant at first, but I did not have time to waste on useless explanations.

We had left the sugar estate and had headed, towards the vicinity of the road that led to Plymouth. I did not know the road or did Samantha. We were lost, and the only road accessible to us had led us to a cavern that was nigh. Something was compelling me to enter, and we both did. The cavern was infested with bats and had tunnels that I was not aware of their existence. I had chosen one of them for us to pass through, as I held my pistol firmly.

At the end of the tunnel, what we had discovered would be utterly shocking and disturbing in nature. The tunnel had led into a dungeon of the countless rows of putrid bones and skulls amassed. What was more revelatory was the fact that there was a tall, grey pagan shrine of a monstrous god that I could discern.

It had large, oval eyes that had a film of red, a black skin and long, protruding horns, and giant, sprawling tentacles. It had resembled the idols we had found at the beach. The most disconcerting thing was that amongst the bones and skulls were the decapitated heads of all of the crewmen of my ship, including the captain. Samantha was aghast and had led out a loud scream.

I knew then, that they were brutally murdered. Quickly I had realised that I was the only survivor to remain alive. The question was, who had murdered them? Whoever had been performing these sadistic rituals was worse than the grotesque monster that was venerated. There were also goblets dispersed on the ground full of spilt blood everywhere. I could only assume that its essence was human blood. The gorge of the feast of a demented mind that had deliciated in the dripping drops of sanguinolency.

I did not recognise the god, but its semblance was terrifying and unnameable. What human being could be the sole cause of this atrocity? From what I could surmise, the dungeon was a secret place of torture and despair. Whatever calamity befell upon the poor souls that were the victims of this macabre succession, nothing was comparable to their agony and suffering. I took Samantha by the hands and led her back into the tunnel and out of the dreaded cavern. We had returned to the estate.

Along the way, the images of the decapitated heads of my fellow companions were still fresh on my mind. Mr Barwick was waiting for us. He was standing outside watching us arrive. He had asked me, where I had gone with his daughter. Immediately, I had disclosed to him what I had seen back at the dungeon of the cavern. I had noticed that his reaction was indifferent, and he did not seem to be surprised by my discovery.

His odd behaviour was beginning to unnerve me. He was not infuriated that I had taken one of his horses, without permission nor his daughter. Little would I know, he was the perturbed mastermind, behind the murders of the crewmen. Unbeknownst to us, whilst we were talking, a volcano was erupting.

'I tell you Mr Barwick, what I saw and found in that bloody cavern was beyond any evil act I have ever seen before'.

'I would have preferred that you did not find what you found, Mr. Chilcott. Now that you have, I must regret that you must keep this a secret between us'.

'What are you saying, Mr Barwick? Do you know who killed these men?'

'If I told you, Mr Chilcott would it matter?'

'Of course!' I had ejaculated.

He told Samantha to leave us alone, so that we could speak in privacy. She had obeyed, and we had continued with the conversation.

'Now that we are alone Mr Chilcott, I shall tell you everything'.

'What do you mean by that?'

'You see Mr Chilcott. What I have failed to say with my admission, is the fact that I belong to a secret cult that worships the native god on this island'.

'What are you talking about? Are bloody insane?'

'Allow me to explain. I was once grievously ill and a witch doctor had cured me. I was in debt to him, and I had promised to worship his god'.

'By killing people and offering skulls to a pagan shrine'.

I grabbed my pistol from my pocket and had pointed at him, 'Today it stops here. There will be no more killing Mr Barwick. I shall report you to the authorities'.

Samantha had overheard the severity of our conversation. She was dismayed by what her father had dared to uttered so candidly. She had stepped back for a moment. She could not believe his brash words. Despite that, she had pleaded with me to put the pistol down. My heart had told me to acquiesce, but my mind could not comprehend the horror that her wode father had committed audaciously, in the name of his pagan god.

As we stood facing each other, the eruption of the volcano could be heard and the volcanic ashes that had sent pyroclastic flows down several sides of the mountain were approaching the estate. Mr Barwick was more occupied, with saving the prestige of his sugar estate then his life.

I had grabbed Samantha by the hand, and we fled towards the beach, hoping to be saved from the volcano's ire. Her father had remained behind. Samantha did not want to leave him, but I did not let her stay. We had reached the edge of the beach, where there was a boat that had belonged to Mr Barwick. We had managed to unfasten it in time, before the volcanic ashes and lava had reached us.

We were both horrified, by the incredible image of the activity of the eruption and what had pursued thereafter. Without any general direction, we had continued onwards. The volcano had swallowed half of the island by then, covering it. The sugar estate of Mr Barwick would be destroyed, and Mr Barwick's body would ultimately be discovered dead and burnt, under the molten lava.

The cavern of the pagan shrine would crumble, and the mass of bones, skulls and decapitated heads were lost in the lava. The unthinkable horror of the island of Montserrat had met the same tragic fate, as its unwilling occupants. At sea, Samantha and I would be rescued, by a passing ship that had spotted us drifting. We were then taken to the Bahamas, where we were given shelter and food. I was racked with irrepressible guilt that

I had survived, and the others had not. I did not regret that Mr Barwick had perished under the lava. After what he had done to my fellow companions, he had deserved his just retribution. I am not God to pass judgement on to no man, but there is an evil in man that is worse than the god he professes to so blindly and it consumes him in depravity.

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