The red fetish

By Frank Belknap Long, Jr.
They writhed in the sun like wounded snakes.
Bill Cullen shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the empty skyline. His arms, as he stood in the glittering light, showed scraggy and emaciated and his features were pinched and black. There had been strong winds blowing and enormous seas thundering on the beach, and the ferocity of the elements had accentuated his helplessness. He turned to his companion with a gesture of despair.
Look here, he said, you know as well as I do that it is physically impossible for us to hang on without water. What do you say to a swim?
Bill's companion groaned and shook his head. He was a frightened, nervous little man with pointed fox-like ears, and people who knew him were prone to brand him a coward. His name, Wellington Van Wyck, did not raise him in the estimation of his friends.
Bill studied regretfully the thing that Van Wyck had become. It was not the lack of water that gave him discomfort. His sorrow lay in the fact that Van Wyck did not possess a capacity for blind enthusiasm.
It's only six miles, he urged.
There are cannibals on that island, replied Van Wyck. It's down on the chart.
Van Wyck was a little wild and he imagined that cannibals tore themselves to pieces over their ceremonies. Bill knew that cannibals were decent and clean and orderly; but there was no explaining that to Van Wyck. He dealt with him in another fashion.
You're as weak and flabby and spineless as a jelly-fish with rheumatism, said Bill. You're so unsavory that the cannibals wouldn't eat you. Why don't you kill yourself now, and be done with it? 'Twould be a good way to economize on food!
Van Wyck scowled and sat down upon the beach. His eyes narrowed. We are safer here, he said. His lips were swollen and cracked and he spoke in a thin, small voice. He assured Bill that he could survive without luxuries. He said that two men could go three days on one pint of water, and that in three or four days anything might happen.