Kanana

  KANANA: THE JUNGLE GIRL

  By Wesley Allison

  Smashwords Edition

  Kanana: The Jungle Girl

  Copyright © 2016 by Wesley Allison

  Revision 10-11-16

  All Rights Reserved. This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If sold, shared, or given away it is a violation of the copyright of this work. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Wesley Allison

  Cover Image Copyright © Andrey Kiselev | Dreamstime.com

  ISBN: 9781370605996

  For Vicki, Becky, & John

  Kanana: The Jungle Girl

  By Wesley Allison

  Introduction

  The lost civilizations and hidden mysteries of Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. Rider Haggard and others that dotted the unknown portions of our maps are gone. In a world where Google gives us a street view of every spot on our globe, where can the remnants of Atlantis or Lemuria or Mu still be found?

  This story takes place in a world like ours, with much of the same history, but with one very important difference. The world isn’t a little round blue ball. It is a great ring stretching around the sun—12,430 miles wide and 584 million miles in circumference. Far to the east, beyond China and Japan, lies the Shikoku Ocean. And beyond that, continent after continent. The same is true in the other direction. West across the Pacific lies the mysterious continent of Elizagaea. And beyond that? Who knows?

  Chapter One: Arriving in a New World

  We stood on the deck of the S.S. Louisa May and watched the coastline roll gently past. Beyond the flawless stretch of white sand overhanging with coconut trees was a thick growth of jungle brush and more exotic trees stretching up for the sky—big leaf mahogany trees, Brazil nut trees, giant kapoks, and massive capironas. Wisps of morning mist still hung in the air, undisturbed by any breeze. Buzzing through these vapors like airplanes dodging through the clouds were six-inch dragonflies. Except for the low chugging of the ship’s engine, there was no sound, until the air was suddenly rent by a deep throaty roar of some unknown creature inside that dark and haunting primeval forest. Colonel Roosevelt clapped a hand on my shoulder.

  “What do you think, my boy, of your first close-up view of a new world?”

  I looked at him and said something, I no longer remember what, but I turned immediately back to the emerald panorama gliding swiftly by. It had been a horrible series of events that had conspired to bring me to this distant spot, early this Monday morning April seventh, the year of our Lord 1913.

  I had fully expected that by my thirty-third year, that halfway point in a man’s life, I would be settled down with a pretty wife and two or three above average children. But providence did not see fit to make this easy for me. Becoming a man in the height of battle on the slopes of Kettle Hill created a burning desire for adventure in my heart that the brief conflict with the Empire of Spain failed to quench. I traveled to South America and saw much of that land, and then to Africa and even to Southeast Asia. I then spent five years in Europe, working for my keep as I toured the ancient lands of Greece and Rome and their successors. When I at last found my way back to the good old US of A, I was more than ready to settle down, to find that pretty wife, and to start that family. Luck was with me. I found a new job and a beautiful girl. For two years everything went my way. Then it all fell apart.

  “Henry… Henry.” The hand on my shoulder shook me back to the present.

  “I’m sorry sir. What was that?”

  “I was just saying that we should go aft and enjoy a cup of coffee.”

  I turned and followed him down the length of the ship. “I wanted to say Colonel, that I voted for you in November.”

  “I had no doubt.” He grinned. “A good many people did, but the electorate has spoken. That is not to say that I might not make a similar run sometime in the future. I am still fit as a bull moose.”

  “Indeed sir, you are the youngest former President that I have ever heard of.”

  “The secret to youth is a vigorous life. I have no need to tell you that. Look at you. You are a strapping man of heroic proportions. Why, I recall you as a rather scrawny boy when I think back to our days in Cuba. Private Henry Goode—no, he did not look at all promising.”

  “I can’t believe that you remembered me at all,” I said, thinking back to three weeks before, when I booked passage on the Louisa May in San Francisco.

  “I remember all the men of our volunteer regiment,” he replied sincerely, “and a good number of the Tenth’s Buffalo Soldiers as well. There is a bond forged in such situations that is not easily to be set aside.”

  A steward handed each of us a cup of coffee and we sat down in a couple of sturdy folding chairs. My eyes again sought the rainforest moving smoothly past us. Roosevelt leaned over, bringing my attention back to him.

  “It is quite an interesting coincidence that we both find ourselves on the same vessel sailing into foreign waters.” I started to protest, but he held up his hand. “I take you at your word that you didn’t know I was aboard, despite the fact that Kermit and I have hardly been secretive in our planning. No, what I want to know is why, if you are not planning on joining our quest, are you are on your way to Elizagaea.”

  “It’s… I can’t Colonel. It’s too raw. It will eat me up if I talk about it.”

  “Say no more then. We won’t discuss it.” He leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. “We will discuss something else. What shall we speak on? Politics? Religion? I am versed on more than a few topics.”

  “That,” I said, pointing at the shoreline.

  “That is the great unknown. Its very existence as the enigma it is has drawn to its edge Kermit and me, and presumably you.”

  “Yes sir, but what do we know of Elizagaea?”

  “Ah, well if it is a history lesson you desire Henry, you shall have it. But we must go back half a millennium to start, long before it was common knowledge that the world is shaped like a great ring around the sun. Back then, prevailing wisdom was that the world was round. In 1492, Columbus set out to prove it. He was proven spectacularly wrong when he bumped into the continent of America. Twenty-seven years later, not yet convinced of either the shape of the world or its vastness, Ferdinand Magellan sailed around South America to cross the great Pacific Ocean. He eventually reached the Kiyeng Kuan islands, where he was killed for his trouble. By then Vasco da Gama, sailing in the other direction, had reached India and his successors sailed on to China, Indonesia, and Japan, discovering the Shikoku Ocean beyond Asia. For a while both Portugal and Spain were content to reap (or rape) the lands that they had found, but there were sturdy adventurers who traveled beyond.

  “In 1595 Sir Francis Drake sailed beyond the Kiyeng Kuans to discover the continent he named Elizagaea. Just as Drake was planting his flag in the distant west, William Parramaribo, had set off to the distant east to discover Nytlandvit, though it would be three years before he returned with the news. You know the rest: how Spain’s and Portugal’s fortunes waned and how others rose to take their place, how Britain and France vied for the west and out of that struggle new nations were born, and how the Dutch became rich from the distant eastern trade routes. You know of the rise of the United States and its struggle through civil war, and you know of the spirit of independence in South America, Africa, and Asia. You know how Perry and Cook discovered continents beyond Elizagaea. You know how Lazerev and Wilkes found lands beyond Nytlandvit. All this we all know, and yet these distant lands remain largely unexplored.”

  “Colonel, just how large is the world?”

  “Scientists tell us that if we set off walking east from New York, we would walk five hundred
eighty-five million miles before we made it back from the west.”

  “That’s a long way.”

  “Indeed it is. There may well be tens of thousands of continents beyond Elizagaea and Nytlandvit—enough that our descendants will be exploring them for a thousand generations. But Kermit and I will put our names on this continent for this generation.”

  “I wish you luck, Colonel.”

  “And I ask you just one last time, are you sure you won’t join our enterprise?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  He stood up and stretched out his hand. I stood too and took it.

  “We’ll be docking at Abbyport this afternoon. There’s much to do, so I may not see you again today. I’m sure we’ll meet later in town though.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I watched the old Rough Rider step inside the starboard hatch, and then sat back down to watch the jungle again. What was I going to do? What was I doing here? God only knew. I certainly didn’t. I was just running—running as far away as I could get from pain, humiliation, and a woman’s scorn.

  I sat on the deck for another hour or so, and then I returned to my cabin. By the time I had my clothing and necessities packed I could feel that we were approaching what passed for civilization in these parts. Returning to the bow of the ship, I could smell it—the smell of wood fires, of drying fish, and of human filth.

  Abbyport was the largest settlement in this part of Elizagaea. As far as I knew at the time, it was the largest town anywhere on that continent. It consisted of twenty or thirty small business buildings in a single row leading up to the docks. Beyond those were two dozen colonial style homes built by the English, and around those were several hundred huts of the natives.

  As the ship approached the dockside, I got my first good look at the natives. They were a copper-skinned people with universally black hair, and were in feature and dress very similar to those early Indian tribes of the southeastern United States, before they were pushed west or wiped out. They wore simple clothing, mostly fashioned of broad-leafed plants but with an occasional leather component, and a few wore various pieces of civilized clothing. They were a tall and graceful people, well proportioned and handsome.

  It was already getting quite hot, as the Louisa May’s porters delivered my luggage to the dockside and I joined it. A native boy of about twelve or thirteen approached me. He was barefoot but wore an old pair of dungarees and a shirt that was too large for him but which was tied at the waist and had the sleeves rolled up.

  “You need help to the hotel?” he asked pointing.

  I had to laugh. I did indeed need help to get anywhere. When I had found myself in San Francisco with a ticket to the mysterious west, I had gone to the famous Canary and Son Outfitters to buy everything that I might need for such a journey, from firearms to tents to boots. They had supplied me with everything I needed, for just about as much money as I was still in possession of, and to carry it all in, they had given me luggage. My gear was stowed carefully away in six massive steamer trunks, each seventy inches long, thirty-six inches wide and forty inches deep. They were watertight and had a compartment for everything that could be imagined. They would not be easily moved however, since each was roughly large enough to carry four or five bodies.

  “What is your name?”

  “Saral.”

  “Well Saral, if you can get my luggage to the hotel safely you shall be rewarded.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, which I tossed to him. “More on the completion of your task.”

  I started up the dirt street toward the only building that looked large enough to be the hotel, a sign at the top of the square brick structure proving me correct. Outside, though it was already hot, at least there was a cool breeze blowing in from the sea. Inside it was stuffy and smelly, and the heat was dissipated by the slowly moving ceiling fans not one jot. I stepped up to the desk and rang the small bell on the counter. A middle aged European appeared through a door in back. He was wearing a white suit and a panama hat, had a three-day growth of beard, and was missing his two front teeth. He simply looked at me.

  “I need a room for a week.”

  “Twenty quid,” he replied. His accent was neither British nor American.

  “American gold,” I said, slapping down a double eagle.

  He just nodded and slid the coin toward him. “No luggage?”

  “I hired a boy to bring it from the dock.”

  He formed his face into a smile that looked like the snarling face of a dog. “Then you’ll never see it again.”

  “Come along. Come along. This way. This way.” At that moment, Saral entered leading my steamer trunks into the hotel, each carried by four full-grown men. “Mister, Mister, where do we put them?”

  “My room number?” I asked over my shoulder to the European.

  His face really was a snarl now. He slapped down a large key before retreating to the back room. Attached to the key by a string was a small wooden circle bearing the numeral four.

  “Room four, Saral.”

  The room wasn’t very large and seemed considerably smaller once my trunks were present. When I asked Saral how much money he needed to pay for the carriers, he surprised me by telling me that he had already received all the money needed to pay the debt. I gave him another dollar anyway and asked him to return the following day.

  Once I was alone, I popped open the trunk filled with clothing and changed into suitable garb for this new world—khaki jungle clothes, sturdy hiking boots, and a pith helmet. I belted on a Colt M1911 pistol and set out to look over Abbyport.

  Chapter Two: Into the Primeval Jungle

  Abbeyport was made up of some twenty-five or twenty-six businesses, and as far as I could tell fifteen of them were saloons of some sort. Among the few others, besides the single hotel, were a couple of general stores, at least two launderers, and an import/export office. All the others were trading posts specializing in selling to the natives, using a barter system with which they could purchase European or American goods. There were none of the sorts of shops I had seen in cities like New York or San Francisco, which catered to the finer things in life. The streets were all simple packed dirt affairs and one couldn’t help but kick up a great deal of dust just walking from here to there. The large colonial style homes sitting around these clapboard stores and saloons looked totally out of place, with their carefully tended gardens, white picket fences, and brightly painted verandas. Some of the inhabitants sat in chairs or beneath the shade fanning themselves and drinking cool beverages; the men dressed in white suits and the ladies in long dark dresses and white long-sleeved blouses, their hair piled high in carefully constructed stacks.

  I didn’t stray too far beyond these houses, examining the native dwellings without wandering out among them. They were square constructions made by carefully intertwining twigs together and then topping the home off with very large leaves. I can only assume the roofs had to be replaced fairly often because most of them were still quite green.

  Wandering back to the hotel, I hadn’t taken nearly as much time as I had expected to make an entire circuit of the area. When I stepped into my room, I was surprised to find a native man bent over one of my steamer trunks, which had been laid flat on the floor. I gave a shout as he plowed into me on his way out the door. I didn’t try too hard to stop him, and doubt if I could easily have done so, because he was quite a large fellow. I resolved then that I wouldn’t leave my possessions unguarded if I could help it. The thief had been unable to gain access to my belongings due to a complex locking mechanism that required not only a four-digit combination, but also the throwing of two secret switches hidden on either side of the luggage.

  I went to what passed for the dining room in the hotel only long enough to grab a bowl of soup and a couple of slices of bread. Then I retired to my room and went to bed at an early hour, though darkness had firmly settled before I did.

  That night the dream returned for the first time since
I had left the United States, though before that it had plagued me for many nights. I found myself outside the door of my home in Boston. I turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and entered. Though I tried to move quickly, I felt as if the air was thick syrup. I stepped through the foyer and heard the voices coming from the parlor beyond. In my dream I couldn’t recognize the voices, though my waking self knew who they were.

  In the morning, I had just washed, shaved, and dressed when the native boy, Saral, arrived at my door.

  “Someone tried to break into my things yesterday.”

  “Yes, there are many thieves. Not to worry. I will see your room guarded.”

  “It has to be someone capable. This fellow was bigger than I am.”

  “Not to worry. I will get my cousin Asika to guard your room.”

  “As you think best,” I said, handing him another dollar. “Who can I see about arranging an expedition into the wilderness? I need bearers and… well, I don’t know what you call them here. Men with guns.”

  “Guards yes? I can take care of all this for you. It will not be easy to find all the men you need. The great Roosevelt expedition has hired two hundred men.”

  “Two hundred? I shan’t need more than thirty, I don’t think.”

  “Where are you going? Are you looking for animals to shoot or are you trying to find the lost Kingdom of Mu?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you want to shoot the big animals, because there is no Mu.”

  “Well, bring your cousin to guard my things, because I would like to be able to get out and look around.”

  Saral left, promising to return, and I sat down to think. I wondered, and not for the first or last time, what was I doing here? I had come to Elizagaea with nothing more on my mind than to get as far from Boston and from her as possible. I had of course heard of the lost Kingdom of Mu and knew that it was nothing but hogwash. Legends such as this appeared in empty places on the map, just as they had in North America when it was first visited. The Kingdom of Mu was no more real than the seven cities of Cibola.