Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas: An Underwater Tour of the World by Verne (beach books .txt) đ
- Author: Verne
Book online «Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas: An Underwater Tour of the World by Verne (beach books .txt) đ». Author Verne
The next day, January 6: nothing new on board. Not a sound inside, not a sign of life. The skiff stayed alongside in the same place we had left it. We decided to return to Gueboroa Island. Ned Land hoped for better luck in his hunting than on the day before, and he wanted to visit a different part of the forest.
By sunrise we were off. Carried by an inbound current, the longboat reached the island in a matter of moments.
We disembarked, and thinking it best to abide by the Canadianâs instincts, we followed Ned Land, whose long legs threatened to outpace us.
Ned Land went westward up the coast; then, fording some stream beds, he reached open plains that were bordered by wonderful forests. Some kingfishers lurked along the watercourses, but they didnât let us approach. Their cautious behavior proved to me that these winged creatures knew where they stood on bipeds of our species, and I concluded that if this island wasnât inhabited, at least human beings paid it frequent visits.
After crossing a pretty lush prairie, we arrived on the outskirts of a small wood, enlivened by the singing and soaring of a large number of birds.
âStill, theyâre merely birds,â Conseil said.
âBut some are edible,â the harpooner replied.
âWrong, Ned my friend,â Conseil answered, âbecause I see only ordinary parrots here.â
âConseil my friend,â Ned replied in all seriousness, âparrots are like pheasant to people with nothing else on their plates.â
âAnd I might add,â I said, âthat when these birds are properly cooked, theyâre at least worth a stab of the fork.â
Indeed, under the dense foliage of this wood, a whole host of parrots fluttered from branch to branch, needing only the proper upbringing to speak human dialects. At present they were cackling in chorus with parakeets of every color, with solemn cockatoos that seemed to be pondering some philosophical problem, while bright red lories passed by like pieces of bunting borne on the breeze, in the midst of kalao parrots raucously on the wing, Papuan lories painted the subtlest shades of azure, and a whole variety of delightful winged creatures, none terribly edible.
However, one bird unique to these shores, which never passes beyond the boundaries of the Aru and Papuan Islands, was missing from this collection. But I was given a chance to marvel at it soon enough.
After crossing through a moderately dense thicket, we again found some plains obstructed by bushes. There I saw some magnificent birds soaring aloft, the arrangement of their long feathers causing them to head into the wind. Their undulating flight, the grace of their aerial curves, and the play of their colors allured and delighted the eye. I had no trouble identifying them.
âBirds of paradise!â I exclaimed.
âOrder Passeriforma, division Clystomora,â Conseil replied.
âPartridge family?â Ned Land asked.
âI doubt it, Mr. Land. Nevertheless, Iâm counting on your dexterity to catch me one of these delightful representatives of tropical nature!â
âIâll give it a try, professor, though Iâm handier with a harpoon than a rifle.â
Malaysians, who do a booming business in these birds with the Chinese, have various methods for catching them that we couldnât use. Sometimes they set snares on the tops of the tall trees that the bird of paradise prefers to inhabit. At other times they capture it with a tenacious glue that paralyzes its movements. They will even go so far as to poison the springs where these fowl habitually drink. But in our case, all we could do was fire at them on the wing, which left us little chance of getting one. And in truth, we used up a good part of our ammunition in vain.
Near eleven oâclock in the morning, we cleared the lower slopes of the mountains that form the islandâs center, and we still hadnât bagged a thing. Hunger spurred us on. The hunters had counted on consuming the proceeds of their hunting, and they had miscalculated. Luckily, and much to his surprise, Conseil pulled off a right-and-left shot and insured our breakfast. He brought down a white pigeon and a ringdove, which were briskly plucked, hung from a spit, and roasted over a blazing fire of deadwood. While these fascinating animals were cooking, Ned prepared some bread from the artocarpus. Then the pigeon and ringdove were devoured to the bones and declared excellent. Nutmeg, on which these birds habitually gorge themselves, sweetens their flesh and makes it delicious eating.
âThey taste like chicken stuffed with truffles,â Conseil said.
âAll right, Ned,â I asked the Canadian, ânow what do you need?â
âGame with four paws, Professor Aronnax,â Ned Land replied. âAll these pigeons are only appetizers, snacks. So till Iâve bagged an animal with cutlets, I wonât be happy!â
âNor I, Ned, until Iâve caught a bird of paradise.â
âThen letâs keep hunting,â Conseil replied, âbut while heading back to the sea. Weâve arrived at the foothills of these mountains, and I think weâll do better if we return to the forest regions.â
It was good advice and we took it. After an hourâs walk we reached a genuine sago palm forest. A few harmless snakes fled underfoot. Birds of paradise stole off at our approach, and I was in real despair of catching one when Conseil, walking in the lead, stooped suddenly, gave a triumphant shout, and came back to me, carrying a magnificent bird of paradise.
âOh bravo, Conseil!â I exclaimed.
âMaster is too kind,â Conseil replied.
âNot at all, my boy. That was a stroke of genius, catching one of these live birds with your bare hands!â
âIf master will examine it closely, heâll see that I deserve no great praise.â
âAnd why not, Conseil?â
âBecause this bird is as drunk as a lord.â
âDrunk?â
âYes, master, drunk from the nutmegs it was devouring under that nutmeg tree where I caught it. See, Ned my friend, see the monstrous results of intemperance!â
âDamnation!â the Canadian shot back. âConsidering the amount of gin Iâve had these past two months, youâve got nothing to complain about!â
Meanwhile I was examining this unusual bird. Conseil was not mistaken. Tipsy from that potent juice, our bird of paradise had been reduced to helplessness. It was unable to fly. It was barely able to walk. But this didnât alarm me, and I just let it sleep off its nutmeg.
This bird belonged to the finest of the eight species credited to Papua and its neighboring islands. It was a âgreat emerald,â one of the rarest birds of paradise. It measured three decimeters long. Its head was comparatively small, and its eyes, placed near the opening of its beak, were also small. But it offered a wonderful mixture of hues: a yellow beak, brown feet and claws, hazel wings with purple tips, pale yellow head and scruff of the neck, emerald throat, the belly and chest maroon to brown. Two strands, made of a horn substance covered with down, rose over its tail, which was lengthened by long, very light feathers of wonderful fineness, and they completed the costume of this marvelous bird that the islanders have poetically named âthe sun bird.â
How I wished I could take this superb bird of paradise back to Paris, to make a gift of it to the zoo at the Botanical Gardens, which doesnât own a single live specimen.
âSo it must be a rarity or something?â the Canadian asked, in the tone of a hunter who, from the viewpoint of his art, gives the game a pretty low rating.
âA great rarity, my gallant comrade, and above all very hard to capture alive. And even after theyâre dead, thereâs still a major market for these birds. So the natives have figured out how to create fake ones, like people create fake pearls or diamonds.â
âWhat!â Conseil exclaimed. âThey make counterfeit birds of paradise?â
âYes, Conseil.â
âAnd is master familiar with how the islanders go about it?â
âPerfectly familiar. During the easterly monsoon season, birds of paradise lose the magnificent feathers around their tails that naturalists call âbelow-the-wingâ feathers. These feathers are gathered by the fowl forgers and skillfully fitted onto some poor previously mutilated parakeet. Then they paint over the suture, varnish the bird, and ship the fruits of their unique labors to museums and collectors in Europe.â
âGood enough!â Ned Land put in. âIf it isnât the right bird, itâs still the right feathers, and so long as the merchandise isnât meant to be eaten, I see no great harm!â
But if my desires were fulfilled by the capture of this bird of paradise, those of our Canadian huntsman remained unsatisfied. Luckily, near two oâclock Ned Land brought down a magnificent wild pig of the type the natives call âbari-outang.â This animal came in the nick of time for us to bag some real quadruped meat, and it was warmly welcomed. Ned Land proved himself quite gloriously with his gunshot. Hit by an electric bullet, the pig dropped dead on the spot.
The Canadian properly skinned and cleaned it, after removing half a dozen cutlets destined to serve as the grilled meat course of our evening meal. Then the hunt was on again, and once more would be marked by the exploits of Ned and Conseil.
In essence, beating the bushes, the two friends flushed a herd of kangaroos that fled by bounding away on their elastic paws. But these animals didnât flee so swiftly that our electric capsules couldnât catch up with them.
âOh, professor!â shouted Ned Land, whose hunting fever had gone to his brain. âWhat excellent game, especially in a stew! What a supply for the Nautilus! Two, three, five down! And just think how weâll devour all this meat ourselves, while those numbskulls on board wonât get a shred!â
In his uncontrollable glee, I think the Canadian might have slaughtered the whole horde, if he hadnât been so busy talking! But he was content with a dozen of these fascinating marsupials, which make up the first order of aplacental mammals, as Conseil just had to tell us.
These animals were small in stature. They were a species of those ârabbit kangaroosâ that usually dwell in the hollows of trees and are tremendously fast; but although of moderate dimensions, they at least furnish a meat thatâs highly prized.
We were thoroughly satisfied with the results of our hunting. A gleeful Ned proposed that we return the next day to this magic island, which he planned to depopulate of its every edible quadruped. But he was reckoning without events.
By six oâclock in the evening, we were back on the beach. The skiff was aground in its usual place. The Nautilus, looking like a long reef, emerged from the waves two miles offshore.
Without further ado, Ned Land got down to the important business of dinner. He came wonderfully to terms with its entire cooking. Grilling over the coals, those cutlets from the âbari-outangâ soon gave off a succulent aroma that perfumed the air.
But I catch myself following in the Canadianâs footsteps. Look at meâin ecstasy over freshly grilled pork! Please grant me a pardon as Iâve already granted one to Mr. Land, and on the same grounds!
In short, dinner was excellent. Two ringdoves rounded out this extraordinary menu. Sago pasta, bread from the artocarpus, mangoes, half a dozen pineapples, and the fermented liquor from certain coconuts heightened our glee. I suspect that my two fine companions werenât quite as clearheaded as one could wish.
âWhat if we donât return to the Nautilus this evening?â Conseil said.
âWhat if we never return to it?â Ned Land added.
Just then a stone whizzed toward us, landed at our feet, and cut short the harpoonerâs proposition.
CHAPTER 22The Lightning Bolts of Captain Nemo
WITHOUT STANDING UP, we stared in the direction of the forest, my hand stopping halfway to my mouth, Ned Landâs completing its assignment.
âStones donât fall from the sky,â Conseil said, âor else they deserve to be
Comments (0)