Be No Evil

August 3, 2011 at 3:40 pm · Filed under Dark Side, Mostly fiction, Stories, Weird stuff ·Tagged author, banana, beach, Charles L. Mashburn, coconut, http://bluebellbooks.blogspot.com/2011/08/thursday-short-story-slam-week-7.html, jungle, monkey, story, toy, writer

“>The white sands of the beach glistened like diamonds as the early morning sun rose slowly over the vast blue ocean. Waves rushed in, gently roaring then hissing as they seemed to magically disappear into the sparkling white shore. A few hundred feet beyond the water’s edge, the dense jungle was dark, the sun unable to penetrate the thick leaves and vines that grew unabated. If you were to look closely and be at exactly the right angle, a path could be seen; an opening that would take you into the hidden depths.

A place where no man had ever trod, yet a civilization of sorts thrived; a place where bananas grew on trees tall and slender; the weight of the huge clusters of them causing the trees to bend to the ground, allowing the inhabitants to easily pick them. Coconuts ripened and fell, often causing injury—even death—to unsuspecting wanderers of the peaceful tribe. Most of them, however, had learned that during ripening time you did not walk beneath the swaying coconut palms.

On this particular morning, a small brown dot rode in on a wave; bobbing, vanishing beneath the water, then reappearing. At times the brown dot was gone and in its place red and white stripes appeared. Occasionally a flash of bright yellow blinked like a faulty caution light. With a final whoosh of wave the object washed upon the shore and lay still, its round flat hands of brass glinting among the sparkling sands. It appeared to be made in the image of the island’s inhabitants; a symbolic thing they would tell the story of for years to come when this dark day was finally over.

From out of the opening, they came marching, slowly in single file, lockstep, until they were as close as they dared be to the lifeless object. Then the dozen—or was it thirteen—monkeys formed a semi-circle around the tiny toy figure on the sand. One had a banana and approached shyly, almost reverently, and when it was within a few feet—its courage drained—tossed the banana toward the tiny figure then scampered back to its place in the half circle, where it crouched, making crying sounds and trembling in fear.

The rest of the monkeys began to hoot and howl, their voices to them a mystical music they hoped would drive the strange object away. Moving as one, closer to the still and silent thing the gods had sent to their island, they sang louder and louder, until the roar and hiss of the waves was buried in their shouts. When they were within a few feet of it, their nervous noise now a roaring cacophony, the object stirred ever so slightly. Howls of anger turned to shrieks of fear as the tribe fled back into the dark safety of the dense jungle, where they hid and watched the tiny being at the water’s edge.

On the beach, the tiny monkey, clad in red and white striped pants and a yellow vest with red buttons, whirred and rose slowly to a sitting position. Its arms were spread wide, and its black eyes glared without seeing toward its living likenesses cowering in the jungle.

Suddenly it brought its two brass hands together, and above the roar of the ocean a sound was heard that echoed across the sand and sent the frightened monkeys running—tumbling one over the other—shrieking in abject terror. A sound that would forever cause them to skitter sideways at the least unexpected noise, and reverberate in their dreams, causing them to awaken shrieking and trembling:

“tink”

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