Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

PART 3: UNDER MONKEY ISLAND�

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It was soft sand. Quite soft sand. Soft enough for Guybrush to bury his head in completely as he landed, his legs kicking the air feebly. His clothes were on fire - something was on fire, at any rate.
A small grey/white monkey ambled along the beach toward Guybrush, sniffed him, and wandered around curiously. This newcomer looked interesting. "Oook ook ook eep eep eep!" greeted the monkey. There was no response from the struggling Guybrush. The monkey looked around, saw the banana tree nearby, and immediately lost interest.
As the monkey left, another figure approached. This one, certainly, was human. He might even be a pirate. Certainly the attire was right - black triangular hat, long white beard, white puffy shirt, brown leather vest, and a pair of worn leather boots that looked like something pigs had been shitting in for decades. There was just one crucial item missing - the pants. The brown, bony legs which occupied their place weren't much of a substitute.
"Hi!" greeted the figure earnestly as he approached. Guybrush tried to raise a hand in response. He kicked his legs wilder. "I'm Herman Toothrot!" continued Herman. He waited for a response from Guybrush.
Guybrush hadn't quite caught that last one - the sand in his ears was a bit of a worry.
"Don't bother to say hello," said Herman in aggrieved tones. "I've only been waiting twenty years to talk to someone civilised, I don't mind." He put his hands on his hips and looked at Guybrush, or rather at the visible portion of Guybrush. Again, nothing. "Fine," said Herman sharply. "By the way, you might want to think about putting that fire out. Somebody could get hurt." He stalked off into the jungle.
Guybrush planted his hands, and started heaving. Finally his head popped out of the sand, and he stood up. He patted out the last smouldering remnants of the fire and examined his surroundings.
Beach stretched away on either side. He seemed to be on something of a cape here. The interior of the island was thick jungle. He could here the high whine of insects. Guybrush looked at the banana tree nearby. There was a notice taped to the trunk. Guybrush drew nearer - were there other inhabitants on Monkey Island�?
He read the note:

NOTICE OF PUBLIC MEETING
There will be a meeting next Wednesday evening to discuss the recent occupation of the
Sacred Monkey Head by the ghost pirate LeChuck, and the subsequent impact
on the environment and tourist trade. All Monkey Island� cannibals are urged
to attend.

Guybrush swallowed - cannibals? That didn't sound too good. But at least he knew where LeChuck was - the Sacred Monkey Head. Now, to find the Sacred Monkey Head.
Guybrush looked at the beach one last time, and noted the presence of a rowboat. Unfortunately, there were no oars.
That was it then. Guybrush entered the jungle.

Several hours of wandering later, he had a much better picture of the general layout of Monkey Island�. The coastline drew away either side of his entry point, like the sides of a triangle. Before he had wandered much into the island, he found himself at a deep chasm. Peering down, he saw a pair of oars languishing on the floor of the chasm. There was no visible way down.
Guybrush wandered along the left side of the chasm, and was passing a dark glade of blue/green trees. The grey monkey was swinging through the branches here - it seemed to be his home. Guybrush pressed on. Looking at Stan's compass, he saw he was heading back toward Melee Island�. He decided to label this direction 'North'.
After much wandering, he found himself deep in the interior. But here, at last, his progress was halted by a high range of mountains. Trekking left and right, he soon found there was no way around them - they bisected Monkey Island� neatly in two. There was but one break point, which Guybrush finally discovered. He been walking around for what seemed like hours. The sun was a painfully bright copper disc in the sky, and those vultures wheeling around above were really starting to annoy.
The break point, which was soon revealed to be no break point at all, was a river which flowed through a deep cut in the mountains. There were no banks as such, just sheer rock walls. There would be no way to cross the mountains here. There was, however, a way to cross the river, this side at least. A shallow wooden bridge had been erected.
Guybrush took a drink from the river, sat down, and got his breath back. The rocks just here at the bridge looked unusual. On the right bank, a number of small boulders had been piled together, almost like a dam wall. And behind them, a small gully wound back into the jungle.
On the rock closest to the bridge, a piece of paper was held down by an interesting rock. Guybrush took them both. He read (it was printed on letterhead!):

To the Ghost Pirate LeChuck:
We must ask you once again to curtail your activities in the Sacred
Monkey Head area.
Decent people are trying to sleep. Kindly keep the noise level down.
-The Monkey Island� Cannibals.

P.S. We saw you taking that woman with the scarf down there!

Guybrush's heart quickened. She was here! But he still hadn't found the Monkey Head.
Guybrush folded away the note and looked at the rock. It had very sharp edges - in fact, although he was no geologist, judging by the conchoidal fractures this was a piece of flint! It might come in handy.
Guybrush crossed the bridge, which was firm under his feet, and sniffed the air for new pastures. That was strange - on the sheer rock wall on his right which was the edge of the fearsome mountain range, were carved small shallow ledges, forming a makeshift ladder to a ledge several scores of feet above. Intrigued, Guybrush started climbing.
Reaching the top, he found a ledge large enough for dirt to have settled and allow small undergrowth to get hold. One half of the ledge was taken up by the second biggest boulder he'd ever seen. The other held a curious arrangement of wood and stone that looked a little like a seesaw. It's either an incisive representation of the futility of man, thought Guybrush, or it's a log and a couple of rocks. There was a paper note at the foot of the pivot. Guybrush read it.

To the Monkey Island� Cannibals:
Please stop moving this. It is delicately balanced.
- Herman Toothrot

Guybrush looked at the mechanism again. A large stone, certainly bigger than his head, rested on one side of the seesaw, the one resting on the ground (obviously). Now that he looked at it, the arrangement looked like a very primitive slingshot.
Behind the slingshot, more footholds were set into the sheer rock face. Guybrush climbed further.

He emerged on a large flat plateau. Behind him, the mountains stretched still higher so there would be no help in that direction, but in front, he had an unsurpassed view of the bottom half of the island. It stretched out below him like a misshapen, rancid pizza. Looking left - east - he saw the coastline taper to a small peninsula, which was strangely shaded. Looking right - west - the river flowed into a swampy delta. The mountain range continued on strong as ever, until finally splitting in two and forming a ring around some unseen hollow. It looked a little like the rim of a volcano.
Floating beyond the southern end of the island was the good ship Sea Monkey. Guybrush wished something vaguely dangerous would happen to it and its occupants. He heard footfalls behind him and turned to see Herman approaching, smiling a gap toothed smile.
"I never get tired of this view," said Herman. "Even if I have been looking at it for twenty years now. Even if it is the only view on the island."
"Yes, it is a nice view," agreed Guybrush.
They looked at it for a little longer. "Um," said Herman finally, "I'm afraid I must be going now. Pressing business, you know." He chuckled to himself, and quickly hared off down the footholds. Guybrush watched him go, a little confused, and looked down again. Here, at the very edge of the plateau, he could see straight below the primitive slingshot. Following its line he saw it was aimed directly at the ship.
Guybrush quickly got up, saw a pile of rocks on one side, and brought one over. It would be too much to hope of trying to hit the ship, but maybe he could give them a little fright.
Guybrush pushed the rock over the edge. After the initial scrape, there was a sudden timeless silence as it fell unstoppably toward the slingshot. Guybrush drew back from the edge, suddenly attacked by vertigo.
From below, there was a mighty crash and now the boulder was being hurled out to sea with lethal force. It reached its apex somewhere about the beach, quickly fell, and hit the main deck of the Sea Monkey squarely. From his removed vantage position Guybrush saw an explosion of wooden shards, followed by the masts falling off and the ship sinking below the surface.
"Whoops," said Guybrush. He looked around guiltily, then started climbing down again.

Guybrush, feeling less conspicuous now he was off the plateau, looked both ways before deciding to follow the dry riverbed. At least it'd make his progress easier.
It wound left and right, roughly paralleling the mountain ridge as it went east, until finally coming to a large, dry pond. Surrounded by thick vegetation on all sides, the dry earth supported two huge trees, through which intertwined lurid green vines.
A corpse was hanging from one of the branches. It was prevented from falling into the pond bed by the rope around its neck which, once curling over the branch it was suspended from, trailed down to a large log which nestled in the lowest depression of the pond. The hanging corpse didn't look that good. He might have looked better twenty years ago.
There was another piece of paper on the log. Guybrush read it:

To the Monkey Island� Cannibals:
I don't mind you worshipping in front of the Sacred Monkey Idol which
doubles as my home and secret base of operations, but could you please refrain from
leaving messy sacrifices on my front porch, Also, please do not enter the Monkey Head.

- G.P. LeChuck

There were more footfalls behind him, and lo and behold Herman had appeared. "This is an old friend of mine," said Herman, pointing to the corpse, "the one I sailed here with. He's lost weight. Never looked better."
Guybrush looked at the corpse. "He looks pretty bad," said Guybrush uncertainly.
"You should have seen him when he was alive!" said Herman emphatically.
"What happened to him?"
"Oh, nasty accident. He was trying to put up a swing."
"Are you some kind of castaway?" asked Guybrush.
"What do I look like, the caretaker? Listen to this guy: 'Am I some kind of castaway?' Heh." This mockery of Guybrush's speech was addressed to a point somewhere in the sky as Herman turned his head.
"Who are you talking to?" asked Guybrush, who was being ignored.
"Why, the people watching, of course!"
Guybrush tried to follow Herman's line of vision. "Um... right. I thought this island was uninhabited!"
"Well, you thought wrong," said Herman, somewhat unnecessarily. "My name's Toothrot. Herman Toothrot. I live here. Well, not right here. In the fort on the volcano."
"Were you stranded?" asked Guybrush.
"You think I stay here for my health? Hoo boy." Herman shook his head, and left the way he'd came - whatever that happened to be. Guybrush looked once more at the hanging corpse, and the coil of rope still held in its skeletal hand, and momentarily wished there was a way he could get it. Then he crossed the pond bed, and started pushing further east through the jungle.
A not very long time later, he emerged on the beach. Guybrush started left. The mountains were getting closer as the beach suddenly turned into an isthmus. Unfortunately, he couldn't cross around here either. On the right side of the narrow neck of land, it was nice smooth sand, but to the left jagged outcrops of rock loomed uncrossably. Guybrush sighed and started crossing the isthmus, the wind shallow but bracingly fresh.
On the far side was a small circular island, or what would have been an island if it hadn't been connected to Monkey Island� by an isthmus like the penumbra between two shadows. It rose to a small peak in the centre.
Guybrush, still crossing the isthmus, saw a green bottle washed up on the shore. Coming closer, he saw a small scroll of paper inside. A message! Excited, Guybrush drew it out and read it. It was a memo:

To: Herman Toothrot.
From: Yammer, Hem and Haw, attorneys at law.
Re: Suit against cannibal tribe over malicious tossing of your oars into a chasm.
I think we have a case here. We can probably soak them for emotional distress
and possibly punitive damages as well.

The language quickly degenerated into legalese. Guybrush returned the memo to its green and shiny home.
More footfalls. Guybrush turned to see none other than Herman Toothrot appearing behind him. Was he being tailed?
Herman had a question. "Did you come in the ship I saw out there? You're braver than you look. Actually, it looks a lot like a ship I used to own."
"I got taken by a guy named Stan," said Guybrush regretfully, wondering what Herman meant about 'braver than you look'.
The name registered with Herman. "Stan of Stan's Used Ships? On Melee Island�?" He started chuckling. "Heh heh heh heh!"
Guybrush coughed. He had a few questions of his own. "What happened to your pants?" he asked politely.
"What pants?"
Guybrush sighed, and let the matter go. After all, the vest and shirt were long enough ... barely. "You're the only one on the island?" he asked, hoping to clear up this 'cannibals' nonsense.
"I'm the only civilised person on the island," corrected Herman. "There's a native tribe of hunter/gatherers-"
That doesn't sound too bad, thought Guybrush.
"-well, headhunter/gatherers, actually-"
Gulp! thought Guybrush.
"-but I don't talk to them," finished Herman, as if talking about the slummy people living on Lower Main. "They are cannibals, but they're not dangerous... unless you lend them something."
"Did you lend something to the cannibals?"
"I lent my banana picker to them, but they never gave it back," said Herman, sounding annoyed. "As collateral, they gave me this enormous cotton swab. It opens the big monkey head idol they worship over there." He pointed to the small peninsula. "Not like I ever need to go into the monkey head," continued Herman, "but if they want it, they've got to give my picker back first! It's a matter of pride, you know?"
Slowly, haltingly, Guybrush asked, "Why don't you just give me the key to the Monkey Head?"
"No, I need it to get back my banana picker."
Nuts, thought Guybrush. He jumped as a wave came in nearly to his shoes. "How did you get stranded here?" he asked.
Herman was only too happy to explain. "Well, I sailed here with a friend of mine twenty years ago. We hoped to discover the Secret of Monkey Island�."
What is the secret? thought Guybrush.
"But," continued Herman, "my friend met with a horrifying and tragic accident which claimed his life, and I couldn't sail the ship back myself. I trained a bunch of chimps to crew the ship and sail it back to Monkey Island�. They were supposed to get help and come back for me - something must have happened."
Guybrush didn't understand. "How come you didn't just go back with the chimps?"
"Weeks on a boat full of monkeys," said Herman sarcastically. "Oh, joy."
"I'm Guybrush," said Guybrush. "I'm here to rescue someone."
"Well, here I am," said Herman. "Glad you came to rescue me, although you might have been a little earlier. The fine on that overdue library book will be pretty large by now. Let's go!"
"Er..." said Guybrush. He didn't want to disappoint Herman, but... "That's not exactly what I meant. I sailed here in pursuit of the Governor of Melee Island�, who's been kidnapped by a ghost."
"Oh fine. Don't rescue me then," said Herman even more sarcastically. "I like it here. The rain on my head, the wind at my back, the bugs on my plate..." He glared at Guybrush.
"Um... well, maybe I could take you back too... but first I've got to rescue the Governor. I think she's on that ghost ship underground."
Herman accepted this. "Oh, OK. I told you about them taking my banana picker and not returning it, right?"
Yes, you did, thought Guybrush. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the time. "Excuse me, I've got pressing business to attend to," he said apologetically.
"Yes, me too," agreed Herman. He chuckled in a low voice, and returned along the isthmus to Monkey Island�.
Guybrush continued along the isthmus, and was soon walking uphill through thick jungle. Rather than continuing to a bare hill, however, the land continued upward to a lip before going down into a dark hollow. It was quiet here, too.
At the lip, a wooden sign was wedged amongst a clump of boulders. Guybrush read it.

PRIVATE PROPERTY. Worshipping is permitted, but please DO NOT ENTER
the Monkey Head.
- G.P. LeChuck

The path wound deeper into the hollow. As he walked slowly past, Guybrush could see long, sharp spears thrust into the ground on either side. What made them notable was that each spear had impaled a human corpse, or a kebab of white skulls. The corpses hung at painful, awkward angles - their faces a mask of agony.
Guybrush swallowed. He hoped the cannibals weren't around.
He was just coming to the last of the skeletal remains when it loomed out in front.
A huge, green, baleful monkey head squatted on the ground several feet away, separated from him only by a tall bamboo fence. It was larger than a house. Red lines, reminiscent of blood, streamed from its eyes, over its jutting lip and imposing teeth, and under its chin. The huge, wax smooth ears on either side were wider than he was tall.
It was huge. It was immense. It was the second largest monkey's head he'd ever seen. And somehow, the pink/purple hue of the light that streamed around its circumference like a corona only enhanced the impression.
Herman appeared at Guybrush's side. "That Monkey Head's some piece of work, eh?" he said, elbowing Guybrush in a conspiratorial manner. "Nasty case of yellow waxy buildup, though. It'd be a great tourist attraction - if anyone could find the island, that is."
Guybrush had had enough of this wizened old idiot. "Leave me alone, would you?" he said forcibly.
"Don't be a jerk," said Herman, and started back up the path. Guybrush returned his attention to the head.
The bamboo fence surrounding it did just that - surround it. With no gates. And the individual spears of bamboo were also that - spear. Very sharp. Guybrush had no intention of trying to climb them.
On closer inspection, however, a gate did reveal itself - several of the bamboo poles had extra rolls of twine binding them, and looked roughly gatelike. Pushing or pulling them, however, did nothing.
On the either side of the path leading to the gate were two totem poles. They weren't much to write home about. For a start, rather than the impressive flat chiselled look of most totem pole figures, the faces on these had long, pointy, elongated, Pinocchio on a bad day noses. The one on the left was identified as being made by Red Skull - on the right, by Sharptooth. Red Skull's totem pole was particularly notable for the length of the wooden dowels which sprouted from the middle of each face. Guybrush couldn't resist reaching up and giving one a pull.
Soundlessly, the gate disappeared into the earth. Guybrush, looking at the gap, blinked and let go of the nose. Just as quickly as it had left, the gate was back.
Guybrush sighed. It looked like he'd need some cooperation to get into the Monkey Head. If only he hadn't told Herman off... Guybrush sighed again.
He brightened. Herman had told him where he lived, hadn't he? In the fort on the volcano. It happened to be on the other side of the island, but it was okay. He needed the exercise.

An hour later, Guybrush decided he perhaps didn't need that much exercise. This must have been some volcano.
In the middle of what must have once been the crater, now lay a gigantic deep blue lake. It poured out one side of the volcano in a torrent that led eventually to the swampy delta. The actual rim of the volcano was several kilometres long, and almost completely barren except for a small patch on the far side. This patch on the far side was where Herman's fort was.
As he reached it Guybrush found out it really was a fort. There were no storage cabinets or beds to be seen. All there was was a small square fortified with sandbags, surrounded by palm trees, which looked out over the ocean and the small green patch of land leading toward it. Herman was nowhere in sight.
Guybrush spent a little while looking out over the land below, the gentle hills with the slight purplish tinge, the lazy blue sea, and the thin strip of yellow that somehow fitted perfectly in between. He wasn't sure what Herman was on about - this was a pretty good view.
Herman was continuing to fail to turn up. Bored, Guybrush looked around the fort at Herman's possessions. They numbered a coil of rope, a spyglass, and a cannon.
Normally, Guybrush wasn't the type to steal. But Elaine was in trouble, he was a pirate, and sometimes a pirate had to do what a man had to do. Guybrush took the coil of rope - he might need it. In fact, quickly glancing into the future, Guybrush was sure he'd need it. Ditto the spyglass, which quickly disappeared into Guybrush's cavernous tights. That left the cannon. Guybrush looked at it and scratched his head. He'd seen a number of these before, and its very presence told him it would somehow be useful, but how? Guybrush tapped the cannon experimentally.
The front support collapsed. The mouth of the cannon thumped into the ground. Out of it rolled the cannonball with a loud cranking sound, followed by a stream of gunpowder. Of course - gunpowder! Guybrush scooped it up and dumped it into his pockets.
It was at this juncture that Herman finally appeared. Guybrush whirled around guiltily, and tried to edge away from the damaged cannon.
"Hey, nice spyglass," complimented Herman, looking at the tip of the spyglass protruding from his pockets. "Looks just like - say, just where is my spyglass?" Fortunately for Guybrush, at that point Herman noticed the fallen cannon. "Oh, perfect. I'm gone five minutes and somebody comes in here and dumps gunpowder all over the floor. Naturally I don't think you had anything to do with it. I'm sure it's just a coincidence that you came in here to prowl around right after some mysterious person dirtied up my nice clean floor." Herman looked at him.
"I saw a monkey leaving here," offered Guybrush. "He must have done it."
"You don't fool me, sonny," said Herman.
Guybrush thought of something to say, failed, and left. He was going to ask Herman to join him back to the Monkey Head, but Herman didn't look much in the mood anymore. Besides, reasoned Guybrush as he made his way around the rim, who's want to spend an hour listening to Herman? Satisfied things really had gone for the best, Guybrush started walking faster.

He was walking aimlessly alongside the mountains, until finally he reached the bridge over the river. Crossing it, he took a drink as he reached the far side. It just seemed to be getting hotter. Perhaps that was because it was getting toward noon now.
Now he had the time to examine it more closely, Guybrush took out the spyglass. It was a pale yellow, at least where the paint hadn't chipped. About one foot long, thin, with a dirty eyepiece. It wasn't such a good spyglass after all. Moving his hands over the metal, he inadvertently hit a small catch. There was a sudden, echoing click, and the outer metal shell fell apart in his hands, revealing a small glass lens encased within. Guybrush took it out. Immediately the grass beneath it began to smoke as the concentrated rays of the sun struck. Guybrush marvelled, and pocketed the lens. This might be even more useful.
Guybrush looked at the small collection of rocks damming the river. Suddenly, he had a great idea.
He took the gunpowder from his pockets and shook it into a small pile on the dam. Then, taking the lens, he carefully focussed the sunlight onto this small pile.
The gunpowder exploded with a sudden bang. A rock the size of Guybrush's head flew just past his ear. Guybrush instinctively ducked.
Following the rock, through the gap came a high velocity stream of water. The dam began to collapse...

Guybrush was picked up by the torrent of unpleasantly warm water and carried along the dry river bed. At high speed they rocketed past tree and fen, bush and gully, until they came to the pond. As the water lost some of its energy Guybrush picked himself up and drew to the bank, watching as more water poured in.
An amazing thing was occurring - as the water level rose in the pond, the log began to rise. And the corpse, hanging from the rope, began slowly to descend. In a manner of minutes its feet were dangling in the water. Guybrush reached over and pulled him to the bank. Now that he could get a closer look at the rope held by the corpse, it appeared to be a very long, group sized jump rope.
Guybrush took the rope - his plan had worked. Now he had two ropes. And what else would you do with two ropes but use them to descend into a chasm? Guybrush waited a few minutes till he was dry, then set off south for the chasm.
It didn't take long. Somehow, Guybrush had an innate sense of direction. He even managed to pass the small shaded hollow where the monkey was playing. Apart from it and Herman, Guybrush hadn't seen anything else even moving on Monkey Island�.
Maybe that might be important. Guybrush watched as the monkey swung around the branches. It seemed to be looking for something.
Guybrush left. Maybe later he'd think of a use for the monkey. Finally, he was at the chasm. Wasting no time, Guybrush expertly tied Herman's rope to a sturdy branch on the lip of the chasm (the Boy Scouts hadn't been for nothing), and quickly rappelled down the chasm wall to a small ledge, which was as far as the rope reached. Here, he was about five metres above the chasm floor. Guybrush tied the jump rope to a sturdy stump, descended further, and with little fuss was at last on the chasm floor.
The oars were arranged in an X - they were thin, but looked sturdy. Guybrush picked them up, crossed to the rope, and started to climb.
A couple of minutes effort saw him at the top. Barely pausing for breath, Guybrush was off again.

Standing on the south beach, Guybrush allowed himself a small moment of inaction. Here, the rowboat was beached under a small banana tree. Two bananas lay forlornly on the ground. Guybrush looked around for his crew, but they were nowhere in sight. Good job too. The banana tree was puzzling, though. Why wasn't the monkey here, plucking the juicy, succulent bananas? Something about this niggled at Guybrush, but he dismissed it and tried the rowboat. It wasn't leaking anywhere, at least, nowhere he could see. Something else strange - the rowboat was labelled as the Sea Monkey. Oh well. Guybrush got in, fixed the oars in their holders, and was about to push out to sea when he noticed a note in the bottom of the boat.

To Herman:
Please return our key to the Monkey Head.
- the Cannibals.

Yet more of the complex interethnic relationships of Monkey Island� were coming to light. Guybrush pushed out to sea.
Now this was it. He might not be able to cross the mountains on land, but he could certainly bypass them on sea. Guybrush started rowing northeast - toward the Monkey's head.
It was fairly easy work, at least when the wind seemed to be in his direction. As he rounded the Monkey Head peninsula, however, it got even easier as he was now sheltered from all crossbreezes. Rapidly flanking the isthmus, Guybrush rowed along the coast until it widened into a long beach. Guybrush brought the boat in.
He jumped out into the water, pulled the boat onto the sand, and took a deep breath of the air. Here he was, on the other side of Monkey Island�. He'd have to be careful - there might be cannibals around. On the other hand, if there were cannibals around he might be able to get Herman's banana picker yet. Guybrush wanted to make up for all the trouble he'd caused - maybe this way he could!
On the beach, lying still in blatant defiance of its inherent weightlessness, was a note. Guybrush read it, rife with anticipation.

To the Monkey Island� Cannibals-
I'm not giving you bloodsuckers the key to the Monkey Head until you
return my banana picker.
- H.T.

Guybrush dropped the note and started into the jungle, heading northwest.

This side of Monkey Island� seemed even more deserted than the first. Guybrush made his way past countless paths, trees and bushes, all for nothing. He was about to turn around when he stumbled onto a native village.
It was entirely unexpected. The path had been widening, getting better, when suddenly he passed under a high wooden gate - made from dark and light wooden planks and decorated with skulls, in the manner of a chieftain's headdress. Passing under it, Guybrush found himself amongst the brown/yellow thatched huts of the village.
The wind blew in a lonely fashion. A skeleton hanging from the second story of a hut on stilts kicked in the breeze.
For a village, it sure was a quiet place.
Guybrush looked in the hut nearest the gate. It was empty. The hut next to it was very empty - emptier, even.
Guybrush looked up at the house on stilts. He couldn't see inside from here, but he bet it was empty.
He made his way further into the village. No signs of habitation started to present themselves. The huts he were now passing were the emptiest huts he'd ever seen. There were no two ways about it - these huts were empty.
Hut after hut of emptiness. It got so Guybrush bet if he looked up the definition of 'empty' in a dictionary, there'd be a picture of one of these huts.
But there was, at least, a different hut.
It didn't look any emptier than the others. But this one was locked, and the door flanked either side by large stone statues. By one side of the hut was a huge stone head, twice as high as Guybrush, in front of which were arranged spears, shields, and bowls of fruit as offering.
The mouth of the head was open - empty, as luck would have it. Its eyes were blank, and above them was a thick circlet of stone rungs, in the manner of a Greek headdress or a sweatband.
Guybrush looked down at the bowl of fruit in front of the statue. The various pieces looked a little overripe, except for the two lovely juicy bananas.
Bananas...
Suddenly, Guybrush had it. He knew what to do! So that was what the monkey was for... Well, well, well. Guybrush pocketed the bananas and turned to leave, hoping to get back to the boat and back to the South beach.
Unfortunately for Guybrush, some of the natives had appeared. Three of them, each with dark brown skin, clad in green/yellow holdalls, some kind of purple/pink sweat socks, thick purple armbands, and wearing elaborate masks, had appeared in the small clearing in front of the chieftain's hut. Although Guybrush couldn't see their eyes, they didn't look impressed.
The native nearest had a bright red mask that looked a bit like a cross between a lion and a tomato. "Is that a banana in your pocket," he said nastily, "or are you just glad to see us?"
"You've got a lot of nerve stealing from the notorious Monkey Island� cannibals," said the second native. He wore a grey mask with huge spikes that looked like a cross between nothing on earth Guybrush had ever seen before, but definitely involving evil, squinting eyes. Beside him, the third native, his head more conventionally dressed as a lemon, nodded agreement.
"You're cannibals?!" gasped Guybrush.
"Well, yes," said the first native, almost reluctantly. "Although, lately we've been trying to stay away from red meat."
"Only for health reasons," said the second native, quickly erasing any possibility of ethical considerations. "We're still as vicious as ever."
"Especially with tourists who try to steal our stuff for souvenirs!" said the first native, who seemed to be the leader. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" he prompted Guybrush.
Guybrush thought. "Look behind you - a three headed monkey!" he cried out urgently. The natives turned to look. Guybrush started to run, but the natives had realised the ruse.
"Hey!" cried the first, stopping his charge for freedom before it had begun. "Do you really think we're that stupid? I wouldn't push it if I were you."
There was a moment of silence. It was the classic Mexican standoff, or might have been had Guybrush had been in a position remotely approaching one of power. While the impasse remained, a brown, hairy sack detached itself from the trees behind the natives and approached. It was a monkey, and it had three heads.
Guybrush shrieked. "Look behind you! A three headed monkey!" He pointed.
The natives didn't move. "Ha!," said the Tomato Head condescendingly. "We're not going to fall for that trick again!" The three headed monkey was eating a banana, sharing it from mouth to mouth. It threw the skin away, and retreated once more to the jungle. "I guess we'll eat you now," said Tomato Head, seeing how Guybrush wasn't offering much in the way of resistance. "Unless..." And here he looked, almost hopefully, at Guybrush, "If you had some sort of offering for us, something we could pass on to the Great Monkey, we might be persuaded to let you leave here uncooked. Well?"
Guybrush surveyed his inventory. He tried offering the lens. "I don't think the Great Monkey would want that," said the first native. The flint: "Come on, you can do better than that." The breath mints: "Thanks, but we already have some of our own." The staple remover: "Now what would the Great Monkey do with that?"
The natives were growing tired of his offerings. "Obviously, you have nothing for us," said Tomato Head. "We might eat you, we might let you go. We'll have to talk about it with the village nutritionist. Come - let me show you our guest hut. The natives marched Guybrush back the way he'd came, to the chieftain's hut. They opened the door, threw Guybrush in, shut it, and barred it with two spears. "That should do it," said Tomato Head, satisfied. They left.
Guybrush surveyed his prison. A huge yellow object with white hands, nestled under the window, immediately caught his attention. Herman's banana picker! He picked it up - it was surprisingly light - and read the note chiselled into the handle. "If found, please return to Herman Toothrot." He put the banana picker back down.
By the banana picker was a bowl of bones, which put Guybrush in a less happy mood. He might end up like that if he couldn't find a way out of here. He looked up into the roof, from which hung thick green vines. He pulled on them, found they were reasonably strong, but somehow hanging himself didn't seem to be the answer.
There was another piece of paper, on the floorboards of the hut. Guybrush picked it up, found it was a memo, and read it anyway.

To the Ghost Pirate LeChuck:
We must protest your 'acquisition' of our voodoo antiroot. We realise that
it represents a hazard to you and your crew, but this is thievery!
- the Monkey Island� Cannibals.

Guybrush dropped the note, and now noticed a cute little skull beside it. He picked up the skull, which fitted easily in his hand, and looked at it. Nothing special. But there was something about the board it had been resting on. Guybrush gave an experimental push - it was loose! Guybrush picked up the board, revealing a surprisingly well lit hole, leading to a tunnel beneath the hut. An escape path.
Guybrush looked at the banana picker. He might be able to fit through the hole, but he doubted the banana picker would. Rescuing it would have to wait another day.
Guybrush dropped into the hole, crouched on the floor of the tunnel, and started inching out.

It came to an end at a trapdoor which, when Guybrush heaved it open, resided in one of the totally empty huts on the other side of the village. He went the door and looked to his right, and could just see the three natives in front of the guest hut, arguing. He could hear them better.
Guybrush looked at the fence which surrounded the perimeter of the village, and started to edge along it toward the gate.
"... and no, I'm not getting squeamish," said Tomato Head, far off. "I'd love to eat the guy!"
"So let's do it!" said Grey Head emphatically.
"But think of your arteries!" exclaimed Tomato Head.
Guybrush was making good progress - he was nearly at the gate, and hidden from view by the huts.
"We are cannibals, for crying out loud!" said Grey Head, who sounded like he was in the grip of an identity crisis.
"Yeah, but cannibals have to watch their saturated fats just like everyone else."
"If I have to eat any more fruit," said Grey Head, "my head's going to turn into one big citrus! No offence, Lemonhead."
Guybrush slipped around the gate and trotted quickly down the path. Phew, he thought. He brushed small clouds of mosquitos out of his path, ducked the brightly coloured parrots which flew recklessly through the trees, and a kept a keen eye out for snakes as he made a quick return to the boat.
The cannibals had let him keep the bananas. That was good. He'd need them...
The sun was just coming down, noon now past, when Guybrush emerged at the beach. He ran the boat into the calm seas quickly and jumped in after it.

Many minutes of furious paddling later, and Guybrush had landed on the south beach. He dragged the boat into the shade of the banana tree, and noticed three bananas had fallen from the branches. More luck. Guybrush picked them up, dusted the sand off, and set off for the forest.
Walking north, Guybrush kept the chasm on his right, ducking through vines and sidestepping washouts until he finally reached the shaded hollow the monkey seemed to call home.
Guybrush looked at the ground uncertainly, trying to work out if there was anything solid there. Eventually he stepped into the hollow, his feet sinking into piles of twigs and leaves that gave beneath, then held.
The monkey was flitting about the vines above, its grey white tail used expertly as a fifth limb. As far as it is possible for a monkey to look, it looked harried and a bit worried. It wasn't, as yet, paying any attention to the white and pink blob below.
Guybrush removed a banana from his pocket and held the curvy yellow object in the air like a beacon.
The monkey, alerted by a flash of yellow, turned its head midway through its swing, and as a result missed the vine, crashed headlong into a large gnarled trunk, and fell to the earth. It jumped up, screeching, and ran across the bracken on hands and feets, coming to a halt in front of Guybrush. It stood up and looked at him queryingly, almost like a dog begging for food.
Guybrush handed over the banana.
The small, skeletal hands of the monkey seized the banana eagerly. With blindingly fast motions the monkey skinned the banana, swallowed the ripe fruit eagerly, and finished by eating the skin. It looked at Guybrush again, its tail standing up and flicking softly.
Guybrush handed over another banana. It was demolished in a similar display.
Three more bananas were duly given. The monkey ate them all. When he finished the final banana, the monkey bared its teeth at Guybrush (the closest a monkey will ever get to a grin), and said "Oook ook!"
"Was that thanks?" asked Guybrush suspiciously.
"Oook."
"Oh. Okay. Come on then." Guybrush pointed the way out of the hollow, and started out.
And the monkey followed him.
Many have been called by treasure from afar. The knights of the Round Table sought England far and wide, causing a lot of needless trouble in the process, in their quest for the Holy Grail. The Spanish conquistadors searched the New World for legendary El Dorado, and if killing millions of native Incas was what it took, well, show me the way to the battlefield. Still thousands continue the quest for Atlantis. Many have foolishly, and heedlessly, spent their lives in the doomed search for the Fountain of Youth, along with its lesser known companions the Water Trough of Contentment and the Public Toilet of Plenty. But such drives, felt to the very marrow of the soul, are as apprentice-work to the lengths a monkey will go to to get a banana.
The monkey had not eaten a banana in three years. Partly, this was because it was a very stupid monkey. Now a tall stranger (from the monkey's point of view, at least) had given it five. Not suprisingly, the monkey would follow this Messiah, wherever he went.
Guybrush led it along and around the chasm, through thick jungle and stinging ferns to the newly filled pond, and along the coastline to the isthmus. Over the sandy bar they trotted, up the hill, and over the lip and to the very fence of the Monkey Head.
Making sure the monkey was paying full attention (he needn't have bothered), Guybrush reached up and pulled the nose of the totem pole on the left. The fence slid upon. He released it and the fence closed again.
Guybrush looked at the monkey and pointed at the nose. "Hold this," he said, "and I'll give you a whole barrel-load of bananas."
"Oook?"
"A truckload of bananas!" Guybrush spread his arms wide to indicate the approximate dimensions of the truck.
"Oook!" Happily, the monkey started up the totem pole, finding easy grip amongst the deep carvings. Its small, babylike hand grasped the nose, and it swung out into the space. Fortunately, with five bananas under its belt, the monkey was just heavy enough to open the gate.
Before it lost its grip, Guybrush entered.
The Monkey Head loomed as he drew closer. It was a pity he didn't have the key, but that was a task that would have to await later scrutiny. For now, he needed an offering.
Drawing into the yard in front of the Monkey Head, Guybrush now saw a number of idols seated into the ground in front of the head, obviously offerings from previous occasions. They were all carved from dark brown wood, in a slightly shaky style, indicating a craftsman that was still learning.
Each idol was unique. Some features were common - all of them, for instance, looked reasonably humanoid, with two arms and two eyes. One, however, was most curious - it looked like a dog wearing a fedora hat, on top of which sat a demonic bunny with an unsettling grin. Most of them were quite large, coming up to Guybrush's shoulders. There was no way he'd be able to cart one of those back.
Guybrush was starting to worry, when he saw, looking over the ground a second time, a small wimpy idol about as high as his hand. It was mostly submerged in the ground. Guybrush pulled it out. He looked at it closer.
"What a cheap piece of mass produced tourist crap," was his considered opinion. Still, maybe the cannibals would go for it. This was the only idol he had any chance of carrying out of here, so it would have to do. Anyway, no-one would notice this missing piece of junk.
Guybrush pocketed the idol. As he did, he noticed a label on the bottom - "Made by Lemonhead." Guybrush left the enclosed space, passed the monkey still faithfully holding the gate open, walked up the slope and out of sight.
The monkey kept its grip on the nose. It waited patiently. Guybrush didn't reappear.
Still it held its grip. It wasn't about to let go of that truckload of bananas.

Meanwhile Guybrush was walking furiously along the Monkey Island� beach, cursing his decision to land at the southern extremity.
After many minutes of struggle, he finally made the boat, pushing it out to sea, jumping in, starting rowing, and cursing anew the decision of the cannibals to live on the wrong side of the mountains.
After many more minutes of struggle with changeable winds and occasional splashes, Guybrush landed on the beach. He started running along the path toward the cannibal village, periodically wishing the cannibals had decided to live a bit closer to the beaches.
After many many more minutes of sweat, Guybrush staggered into the cannibal village. The three natives he'd met before were standing around in the centre of the still deserted huts, having a discussion. They marked his entrance, and rushed over quickly to cut off any sudden retreat.
"Ah, the banana thief returns to the scene of the crime," said Tomato Head.
"Maybe we should just eat him right now," suggested Grey Head.
"Do you have any idea how much cholesterol is in one of these things," said Tomato Head, who had taken the occasion of Guybrush's first entrance to discuss things with the village nutritionist. The outlook wasn't good, particularly for a pirate whose skin was bound to be tough and his meat stringy.
Tomato Head returned his attention to Guybrush. "Now then, how did you break out of our hut and why did you come back?"
Guybrush had meant to say, plainly, that he wanted to get on their good side and here was an offering to that effect. However, Grey Head's continued suggestions regarding his fitness for consumption had unnerved him somewhat. Accordingly he gasped, "Don't eat me! I'll give you anything!"
"Anything?" asked Tomato Head in a slow, musing voice. "All right. We'll give you one more chance to trade something of yours for your freedom."
Guybrush had just enough wits left to present the statuette for inspection.
Tomato Head immediately snatched it. "Hey, wow! This is impressive!" He eyed it a little longer, then shouted "Lemonhead! Take a look at this!"
The quiet native in the yellow headgear came to his side and peered at the idol. "Oooh, that's nice," he said in a voice that reminded Guybrush of short, balding men in glasses that spend an unhealthy amount of time with children. "Simple. Just like one of mine. And little. Like mine. And it says 'Made by Lemonhead' - just like one of mine!" His voice was gushing - he sounded most pleased. "We should take this to the Great Monkey!"
"Yes, I agree," agreed Tomato Head. Looking once more at Guybrush, he said, "We are very grateful to you for this fine gift. If there's ever anything you need on Monkey Island�, just come see us." The natives then started talking amongst each other and wandered off. They were soon lost from view.
Guybrush was left alone in the village. He looked right, where the door to the guest hut was propped open. He looked left and right, then tiptoed stealthily over to the door, slid smoothly around the frame, and dropped into the hut.
The banana picker was still here. Guybrush picked up the bright yellow contraption, which was taller than he was, and suddenly thought of the lengths he would have to take it to get back to Herman's fort. His legs sagged.
There was nothing else to do. Steeling himself with this thought, Guybrush picked up the banana picker and left the hut, walking in the kind of stealthy manner that would attract instant attention should anyone be around to see it.
As it happened, there was someone. With their back turned toward Guybrush was Herman, who was standing in a huff near the gate to the village and addressing the world in general. "All I want is my banana picker back," he was saying, the very voice of reasonableness. "But will they give it to me? They want the Monkey Head key back first! That'll be the day! Don't you think they're being unreasonable? It's not as though I'm asking for a lot."
Guybrush coughed.
Herman turned. "Oh, hi!" he said. "I was just looking for the natives, to get them to return my banana picker - but I can't seem to find them!"
Guybrush was standing not several feet away from Herman, and holding a garish yellow banana picker that was taller than he was. It occurred to him that maybe Herman was just a few sticks short of a bundle.
"I have your banana picker," said Guybrush, willingly handing the metal device over.
Herman took it. "Hey, thanks! I thought I'd never see this again!" He reached into his shirt. "Here, you can take this monkey head key back to the natives."
Guybrush boggled as Herman withdrew from his shirt a white stick about three feet long, slightly wider at both ends, and gave it to him. "Ok," said Guybrush, holding the almost weightless object in his right hand. "And don't worry, I won't use it or anything." Since Herman didn't look like leaving, Guybrush nodded and took the outgoing path.
On the way back, he learned the secret - the key was foldable.
About halfway back, the first doubt struck.
He knew LeChuck was somewhere around the Monkey Head. He didn't know where. He didn't know how many pirates were with him. He had no voodoo antiroot with which to battle them even if there weren't that many. And to top it all off, he no longer had a ship to get Elaine home in!
Guybrush stopped. He needed help.
The cannibals weren't perfect. They did look a bit slow. But any port in a storm...
Guybrush headed back.

When he returned, Herman had gone, but the natives had regathered in the village centre. They greeted him with sunny grins. "Have you come back to let us repay you for your fine gift?" asked Tomato Head.
"Well, yes," began Guybrush.
"Tell us. What is it?"
Looking at their open, honest faces, Guybrush had a sudden pang of accumulated guilt. "On second thought, you've already done so much..."
"Well, if there's ever anything you need from us, just let us know."
Guybrush nodded. "Thanks."
Tomato Head looked to the others. "What a guy!" They turned to leave.
Guybrush had regained his resolve. "Well actually, there is something..." he began uncertainly, not wishing to spoil the mood.
The natives turned back. "Well, what would it be?" asked Tomato Head.
"I need a ship," said Guybrush.
Tomato Head didn't look like he understood. "How did you get here if you don't have a ship?"
Guybrush was caught off guard. He stuttered, "Well, this big rock fell out of the sky, and..."
Tomato Head cut him off. "I see. Say no more. Well I'm sorry, but we don't have a ship. Is there anything else we could do for you?"
Guybrush tried something else. "I'm looking for somebody," he said.
Tomato Head was as incredulous as before. "Here? On Monkey Island�?"
"We're the only people living on Monkey Island�," said Grey Head.
"Well, the only civilised people," amended Tomato Head.
Guybrush decided to cut to the chase. "I'm looking for thirty dead guys and one woman."
"I don't think I want to hear anything more about it," said Tomato Head with an expression of extreme distaste on his face that suggested he'd already heard too much.
Luckily, Grey Head interceded. "Wait - maybe he's talking about those dead pirates."
"Oh yeah - those guys."
"Then you've seen the Ghost Pirate LeChuck and his cadaverous crew?" asked Guybrush.
"Those jerks have been bugging us for months!" said Grey Head.
Tomato Head was likewise not impressed. "Zooming around in that ghost ship of theirs... wailing and moaning until all hours of the morning-"
"-scaring away all the cruise ship business!"
"Normally when we have problems with the undead," explained Tomato Head, "we just cook up our standard potion of exorcism and be done with it."
"So why don't you do that now?" asked Guybrush.
"Well, the main ingredient of the potion is a very rare root - in fact, there's only one in existence."
"We only use a bit at a time, you see," explained Grey Head.
"But LeChuck stole the whole thing!"
"LeChuck came in here and stole your root?" exclaimed Guybrush in outraged tones. "What a cad!"
"Oh, and I suppose stealing bananas is any better?" asked Grey Head nastily.
There was a moment's effete silence. "Where is LeChuck hiding it?" asked Guybrush finally, in a more polite tone of voice.
"He's in a place beneath this island, somewhere in a huge system of catacombs. A hellish place filled with the wailings of tortured souls trapped forever in the rock, where the walls bleed and the air is thick with the rancid smell of pure evil."
"Tourists used to line up for hours to see it," said Grey Head proudly.
Guybrush liked the sound of the place, even if it was the kind of outfit that would get closed down by a halfway vigilant Health Department. "And then LeChuck came and ruined everything, right?" he said.
"No, we lost the key."
"It was stolen!" said Grey Head angrily.
"Well, we loaned it to a hermit who lives on the other side of the island," said the more conciliatory Tomato Head.
"And until that crusty old pantless weirdo brings it back, we're keeping his banana picker."
Guybrush had learned enough. "I'm off to find LeChuck and get the root!" he exclaimed.
Tomato Head didn't look ready to share in the enthusiasm. "Sorry, but it's just not that easy. Trying to find LeChuck could be very dangerous."
Grey Head spoke up. "You'll never find your way through the catacombs without the-"
He was cut off by Tomato Head, who spun around furiously. "Hey!" he shouted. "Ixnay on the eadhay of the avigatornay!"
"The what?" asked Guybrush.
"Nothing."
"Nothing," agreed Grey Head hastily.
"Why are you guys talking in pig Latin?"
Tomato Head looked at Grey Head. "I see he is baffled by our native dialect. Good."
"Oday ouyay avehay away apmay ofway ethay atacombscay?" asked Guybrush.
"Orrsay. Onay," said Tomato Head, shaking his rather large head.
Grey Head was more helpful. "We could at least tell him what the head does," he said to Tomato.
"Well, it's a navigating tool-"
"-It's a head. It was once attached to a navigator."
"We've kept it alive magically so we could take advantage of its innate sense of direction. Getting through the catacombs without it is impossible."
"But it's our only one, so you can't have it," said Grey Head emphatically.
"I guess we have nothing to offer you," said Tomato Head, a bit regretfully.
"And after he gave us that nice idol, too," said Lemonhead sadly.
"Feel free to come to the Great Monkey and visit your idol anytime," said Tomato Head, trying to offer at least something to Guybrush. He turned to Lemonhead. "So, Lemonhead, what was that you were saying about tropical oils?"
The natives started their discussion again, leaving Guybrush to find his way out. Rather than doing this, Guybrush started going through his pockets. Maybe Stan would have some words of wisdom.
Guybrush found the pamphlets handed to him by Stan, and leafed through them. How To Get A Leg Up In Treasure Hunting looked fairly useless, as did How To Arm Yourself In Sea Battle. The title of the last leaflet, however, immediately caught his attention: How To Get Ahead In Navigating.
Unfortunately, the contents were less inspiring, consisting as they did of a catalogue of Stan's Quality Navigational Equipment. Disgusted, Guybrush stuffed the leaflet back in his pocket.
Was about to stuff it into his pocket...
Suddenly, a tiny particle of inspiration, fleeting through the universe, hit Guybrush's brain, which had become something of an attractor in the past few days.
Guybrush had an idea.
He walked over to the natives, still kibitzing in their circle, and handed the leaflet to them. Tomato Head took it, and his eyes widened as he read the title. "Well, look at this!" he exclaimed. "It looks like instructions on how to get a head!"
"We could give him our head, and use these instructions to get ourselves a new one!" responded Grey Head, the village brain trust.
Tomato Head looked back at Guybrush. "Yes, I suppose we can give you this now," he said. He reached into the folds of his pouch and pulled out a small object roughly the size and colour of a coconut. He handed the wizened and shrivelled object to Guybrush, who took it gratefully.
"Thanks," said Guybrush, staring into the eyes of the head.
"Looks pretty good for a dried up old head, doesn't it?" said Tomato Head proudly.
For a dried up old head, yes, thought Guybrush. For anyone else, not so good. He looked down at the small head nestled in his arms, at the spiky hair that curled from its skull like dried weeds, hair that writhed under his forearms and somehow felt alive, at the necklace of gelatinous eyes that ringed the head, at its thin and cracked lips, nicotine teeth, and most of all the wide, terror filled eyes that swivelled madly from side to side like a pair of partially fried eggs in a thunderstorm.
"We keep it wrapped in this magical necklace that keeps it invisible to ghosts," explained Tomato Head further, pointing to the multitude of eyes bound to a thin strand of string. The eyes of the head, swivelling upward, got a fix on Guybrush. They halted. The head grinned, a motion only millimetres away from a baring of the teeth. "Oh look - I think he likes you," said Tomato Head. "Just follow his nose, and he'll lead you to LeChuck's hideout in the catacombs. Then get the root from LeChuck and come back here, and we'll mix up a batch of our special, enzymatic ghost-dissolving solution."
"And you can pour it on LeChuck like salt on a slug!" said Grey Head.
"Yeah!" enthused Guybrush. He shifted his grip on the head, so that now he held it by the hair. It dangled freely in the still, humid air.
"Good luck," said Tomato Head. With that final note of encouragement, the natives wandered off, entering a hut seemingly at random.
Holding the head away from his body (it wasn't an object Guybrush felt comfortable concealing anywhere near his person, especially in his pockets), Guybrush set down the path again, on a quest to find a root. It was a quest he'd pretty much been on ever since reaching Melee Island�.

He was able to cut off some time from his journey by landing on the isthmus, close to the Monkey Head, but not much. The sun was now noticeably lower in the sky.
Guybrush was soon in the Monkey Head hollow. The monkey was still here, swinging faithfully on the nose. It looked hopefully at Guybrush, who ignored it totally as he entered the gate and walked to the Monkey Head.
It loomed as large and menacing as before, even more so now because Guybrush couldn't see anywhere to insert the key. The dark holes where its eyes were was hopeful, but they were much too high up for him to reach.
Guybrush's expert gaze was caught by the right ear of the Monkey Head, or more specifically by the deep well of blackness between it and the right cheek of the head. It was the second largest monkey's earhole he'd ever seen, and (a closer gaze confirmed this) the dirtiest. Nevertheless, somehow this orifice seemed like the right one into which a key should be inserted.
Guybrush reached in and withdrew the key, unfolded it, and now in light of the connection before him finally worked out what it was.
The key was a giant cotton swab.
Guybrush gritted his teeth, looked at the ground, put the navigator's head on the ground, and stabbed the swab into the monkey's earhole. It immediately lodged in a thick plug of earwax. Straining, Guybrush shifted the swab up and down, pushing and prodding further into the decaying mass and trying to shut out the accompanying wet, slick and somehow crackling sounds.
There was sudden pressure on the end of the swab, and an audible click.
A sudden wind blew past Guybrush, hot and dank, as the mouth of the head opened and fell into the earth. The blue tongue of the head followed it, curling out and over the teeth like a carpet. Guybrush looked in astonishment at a gaping maw large enough for him to walk into without even ducking. He couldn't make out much detail, but there was a dull red glow, and shifting noises.
Guybrush withdrew the end of the cotton swab, which was stained dark brown, and threw the key as far as possible. He dusted his hands, picked up the head, and stepped onto the tongue. It was springy, like a bed of reeds, and water welled wherever a depression was caused by his feet, but it held his weight, which was good. Guybrush walked up the tongue, under the teeth, and into the very entrance to the underground deeps.
The mouth cavity was small, and ended shortly, at a circular pit set against the back wall. Bones, set like the vertebrae in the neck, made a ladder down from this hole, leading down to a vast structure below that seemed to contain collarbones and a ribcage. Guybrush climbed down.
Shortly he was standing directly above the sternum, the collarbones stretching either side of him. He turned to look at his surroundings, and found himself in an underground cavern larger than his wildest imaginings. In front of him stretched paths innumerable, suspended above molten torrents of lava, a massive river that flowed from left to right.
The paths came closest at the wide ledge just below the left collarbone. Guybrush, after a little scrambling, was standing on dark brown earth. The space here was reasonably wide, and in the dark gap immediately in front of the skeleton was a large crop of nightshade blue mushrooms, dotted with purple and red and green. Guybrush had a feeling hell would contain mushrooms.
He brushed past the mushrooms, being careful to avoid the lava on his left, ducked under an archway of stone as gnarled as an ancient tree, and found himself crossing the lava stream on a curving bridge barely two feet wide. He came to safety on the other side, slightly unnerved by the screaming visages of lost souls embedded in the stone, and pushed on. The path was leading toward the small mouth of a cave. Guybrush ducked into it, crawled along, and before long had emerged in a new cavern even redder and more hell lit than before.
Pathways stretched away in all directions. He was in real danger of getting lost. He only had the vague idea, because of the orientation of the skeleton, that he was now somewhere under the isthmus. However, he might just have easily been under twenty feet of ocean. It was time to consult the head.
Holding it by the roots of its hair, Guybrush held the head of the navigator forward as if holding a lantern. Instantly the head started to twist under his hand, a motion made oddly ticklish by its thick, dirty hair, and finished pointing to Guybrush's left, a path that led over a narrow bridge to another junction.
Guybrush followed the advice, and paused at the junction, where an entire wall was taken up by gigantic, lidless, redlit eyes. The head, swivelling madly, turned until it was pointing the way Guybrush had came.
Guybrush shook it. Obviously the thing was defective.
The head defiantly looked backward. Sighing, Guybrush turned, and nearly fell over and he beheld an entirely new landscape suspended above the lava. New pathways and bridges, leading to stalactites, stalagmites, forests of mushrooms and noses in the dirt, had appeared from nowhere.
Guybrush was lost already. The cave entrance was lost - he couldn't get out. All he could do was trust the head.
Which he did, as the head gave prompt and helpful directions. Guybrush turned left, paused in horror at the big red nose which came to his knees, took a right through a thicket of stalagmites, and right again to the entrance of another cave.
Leaving the cave, Guybrush was led straight on, directly across the lava to the cave on the other side of the cavern. He ducked in.
Emerging from the cave, he took another right and ended up in another cave. He had a moment of worry when the cave emerged at a dead end, but the head sent him back again, to a landscape that had changed in a blinking.
There came a time when the lava disappeared from beneath, and the paths joined as one, and Guybrush walked forward, more eagerly than before, until finally coming to the very top of a bluff. Below, he beheld the ghostly blue form of LeChuck's pirate ship, still anchored in the smooth yet slow flow of the lava, its ethereal sails blowing in the netherwinds.
They had made it. Guybrush felt he could trust the head a little more, but still not enough to consent to put it in his pockets. He held it firmly in his right hand. A path led down from the bluffs to the ship, where a ladder gave entrance to the deck. This path Guybrush now took, jumping over fallen stones and inching around slipgaps in the road. Quick hands seized the ladder, which like the rest of the ship was blue/black and a little discorporeal, and Guybrush darted up the ladder.
He stood on the edge of the deck, and for the moment had time to fully survey the area.
Around the mast, a group of four ghost pirates were having a jolly shindig. They were the first ghosts Guybrush had ever seen, and though the light blue transparency was a little offputting, they were no more scary than any of the Scumm Bar denizens. One was playing the violin, another, one with a real-as-socks wooden leg, was dancing merrily, occasionally bumping its head into the air and catching it with its neck. The others tapped their pipes and nodded their heads in time with the music. Behind them was a trapdoor.
On his left, a ghost dog slept at the foot of the stairs leading to the wheel. A door was set into the woodwork by the stairs.
On his right, a ghost had somehow gotten drunk and was passed out at the top of the stairs. Beside these stairs, another door.
No one was paying him any attention (a fairly usual state of affairs. Guybrush found it everywhere). Guybrush as a result walked along the deck toward the trapdoor.
As he reached the trapdoor and bent down to open it, the music stopped.
Guybrush looked up.
The four pirates were all looking at him, a bit stunned. Guybrush was suddenly aware that his fully solid, pale pink form would be a little conspicuous on a ghost ship like this.
Guybrush cleared his throat, which had gone very dry. "Uhhh," he said in an utterly failed attempt at nonchalance, "you wouldn't happen to have a root I could borrow, would you?"
The ghost pirate with the wooden leg started shambling toward him.
"Yikes!" screamed Guybrush, and ran off the ship, jumped down to land, and scampered up the path to the bluff. He paused for breath. There was no way he'd be able to rescue Elaine from that ghost ship - he was too real.
A thought struck him - they'd all looked at him as he was struggling clumsily to open the trapdoor, but none of them had looked at the head in his right hand. Why?
It was certainly conspicuous.
He remembered Tomato Head's words: "...wrapped it in this necklace which makes it invisible to ghosts..."
There was his answer. All Guybrush had to do was wear the necklace, and he'd be able to move freely around the ship. Pleased with his deduction, Guybrush reached to take the necklace.
"You can't have it," snapped the head as he brought his hand near. "It's mine." The head had an odd quality to it - it sounded like what a pile of leaves would sound like, should it be able to talk. Still, the oddest quality of all was that it was speaking in the first place.
Guybrush blinked, and held the head critically at arm's length. The head swivelled around, getting a feel for the view. "Okay, we're here," it announced in a voice that now reminded Guybrush more of a jockey. "Now what do you want from me?"
"Hello, head," said Guybrush. Surrealism didn't begin to describe what was going on here.
"Hello," said the head.
"Thank you for leading me to the ghost ship."
"Hey, no problem," said the head in a friendly voice. "When you've only got one job, you do it well. Know what I mean?"
"May I please have that necklace?" asked Guybrush in a hopeful, pleasant voice. He didn't particularly want to get on the head's bad side (literally - it had a really bad case of lice).
"No, but thanks for asking so politely," said the head.
"Oh come on, pleeeease?"
The head shook. "You can beg all you like but you can't have it."
"Why can't I have it?" asked Guybrush. What did a head need with some mangy necklace?
The head's eyes swivelled around. It looked nervous. "I've got a bad feeling about this place," explained the head. "I think I might need it."
The explanation cut no ice with Guybrush. He needed it too. And even now Elaine was perishing away in the hold... Guybrush's politeness snapped. "Maybe I'll just take it," he said in a suggestive voice.
"Maybe you better not," said the head, a little menace in its voice.
"I don't want to have to hurt you." enunciated Guybrush slowly, as if to a dim student who still hadn't got it. He shook the head to emphasise the power relations in this particular pair.
The head gritted its teeth and glared at Guybrush. "And I don't want to have to make you regret it," in a voice that suggested he might like to be the first to make Guybrush regret it.
"What are you going to do? Bite me?" said Guybrush derisively.
"Remember, you need me to get out of this place," warned the head. "If I wanted to I could strand you here forever."
"If I wanted to, I could dropkick you into the lava."
The head swivelled around, and turned its mad eyes to the lava bubbling and heaving below. It reached a conclusion. "On second thought..." it said more pleasantly, "Hey, what good's a necklace if you don't have shoulders?" It grinned, pleased by this spur of the moment analysis of the situation.
Guybrush reached out, took the grimy necklace in his left hand, and pulled it over his head. It hung loosely around his neck, and dark blue lines coursed and flowed over his skin. "This feels weird," said Guybrush. His heart felt heavy. Blood seemed to be pumping at twice the rate of usual. His skin felt tingly.
Whatever, something was happening. Shoving the head in his pocket, Guybrush darted back down to the ship.
As before, he stood on the deck, looked around, and walked along the dock. This time, however, the ghosts paid him no attention. They'd in any case returned to their jig, deeming the sudden appearance of a human on the ship as a matter of little concern. Accordingly Guybrush was able to silently lift the trapdoor lid, and climb careful down the stairs.
The stairs led to the crew quarters, which were deserted save for a bearded ghost sleeping in a bunk by the ladder. It held a jug of grog in its right hand. As Guybrush approached the ghost drew the jug closer and hid it under the blanket, some instincts stronger even than sleep.
There was a door on the far side of the room. Guybrush walked over, and found it opened on a food storage area of some sort. In addition to the usual crates and kegs, a number of ghostly white chickens were pecking about on the floor, and two vicious ghost pigs were locked safely in a pen. They were eating some kind of grey meat, and Guybrush was able to watch it as it was swallowed, travelled to the stomach, and was slowly digested.
Guybrush reached down to pet one of the chickens. It shied away from his touch, however, leaving Guybrush holding a ghost feather. He slipped it away in his voluminous pockets. The head started fidgeting, and Guybrush took it out and put in another pocket.
Amongst the crates and barrels stacked along the walls, only one was notable - a crate that glowed from within with a bright, greasy, blue light. Guybrush couldn't see anything special about it, except for the big glowing voodoo antiroot.
The antiroot! Guybrush tried in vain to open the crate, but it was locked tight. He sighed.
There was another trapdoor, set into the ground in front of the crate. Guybrush reached down to open it, and found it too to be locked tight. Something important must be down there - maybe it was Elaine!
There was nothing else he could do here. Regretfully, Guybrush left the storage room and re-entered the crew room, and found himself confronted by the two feet of the ghost pirate, sticking out from the small blanket. They were thankfully odourless.
Guybrush had a sudden idea. Taking the feather, he dangled it on the feetpads of the ghost. The ghost pirate twitched. Its arms spasmed as it curled up instinctively, and as a result the jug fell to the floor. Quickly Guybrush scooped it up, not because he had any particular desire to rob the ghost pirate of his warmth and good cheer, but because it might prove handy. Besides, ghost grog was probably a bit weak.
Guybrush climbed the stairs, and rejoined the bracing hell air on deck. The door nearest him, by which slept the drunk pirate, was unattended, so Guybrush tried it. Unfortunately, the doorhandle squeaked noisily as he started to open it.
The pirate with the wooden leg turned at the noise. "What was that?" it squeaked, rushing over. Guybrush quickly got out of the way as the ghost pirate shut the door, looked around curiously, and returned to the jolly throng.
That left the door on the other side of the ship. Guybrush skirted to it, scrupulous avoiding the ghost pirates, and tried the door. This one, gratefully, didn't squeak. Guybrush entered.
First he saw the massive windows, their grilles opening on the red maw of hell. Next he saw the massive figure posing dramatically against the light, staring out into seas sailed by no mortal man. Its beard waved in winds unfelt by Guybrush, who was rooted to the spot as he suddenly realised this was LeChuck.
Minutes passed. LeChuck stood as still as Guybrush, and slowly Guybrush came to realise his presence was not yet known. He looked around the Captain's room.
He saw a dressing table by the door on his left. An unmade bed on his right, where Guybrush saw blue hairs wriggling in the sheets. Above the bed was a map of Monkey Island� - fat lot of good it was now. And next to the map, hanging on the wall not several feet from LeChuck, was a large blue key.
Guybrush started to tiptoe across the floor toward the key. Small beads of sweat rolled down his unseen face. And he was nearly there, when suddenly there was a minute creak in the floorboard beneath him.
LeChuck spun around, and his face was terrible to behold. Guybrush jumped back involuntarily, and this saved him, for LeChuck strode forward to where he had only milliseconds ago stood. "Who dares enter the cabin of the Ghost Pirate LeChuck?" he growled, searching the air for any intruders. He waited, then turned and went back to the windows. "Strange places - strange noises," he muttered.
Guybrush exhaled. And yet he had to have that key. Guybrush steeled himself with the thought of Elaine, then crept forward as close as he dared. The key was close, but tantalisingly out of reach. He could see it better though, and it was definitely metal.
Guybrush racked his brains. He was all out of inspiration particles. He could hardly dare breathe, for the wind would go straight over LeChuck's right shoulder.
There was something. While he'd crept closer to the key, he'd felt a small needle shift in his left pocket. It was a little uncomfortable. Guybrush rummaged through the pocket, and came out with Stan's magnetic compass - "When you set sail for good value, all winds point toward Stan's!" There was also a warning - "Contains strong magnet which may interfere with navigational equipment." Guybrush stared at the magnetic compass. Could it work?
He extended the compass toward the key, in his right hand. As it approached the key began to shake on its hook. Surely LeChuck would notice the motion.
But Guybrush's luck held. The key slipped free of the hook, and as if pulled by a magnet flew toward the magnet, caught just in time by Guybrush before it could collide and spoil LeChuck's concentration. With the key now safe, Guybrush got the hell out.

He crossed the ship once more, entered the trapdoor, through the crew quarters, and into the food storage area. The key looked the right size and shape for the hatch leading below, which Guybrush tried, and found it fit. He swung open the hatch, and drew back from the smell that emerged, a smell of rancid butter and decaying moss. Holding his nose, he descended the ladder.
It was long and steep, and at the bottom Guybrush found this was not, after all, Elaine's prison. Rather, it was home to a number of fat, snarling ghost rats, which seemed to be guarding a big tub of grease. Most of the rats were lying down on rafters and against the hull - they looked drunk. One, however, stood bolt upright in the middle of the floor, staring at Guybrush with alert eyes. It had big, scary teeth, and Guybrush didn't care if it was a ghost or not - it looked like it bit. It was as big as a cat.
There was no way Guybrush was going anywhere near that rat. But, looking at the grease, Guybrush realised he needed it, to stop the door above from sticking.
Guybrush looked once more at the rat. It looked annoyed, probably, Guybrush guessed, because it hadn't gotten drunk like its friends.
Guybrush had the answer. Taking the ghost grog, he poured it into a small dish and kicked it toward the rat. The rat sipped at the grog eagerly, and was soon snout deep in the liquid. Guybrush tiptoed around it, and finally to the vat of grease.
He had nowhere to store it, so Guybrush had no alternative but to reach his hand down into that fermenting mess and scoop out a slimy handful. Grimacing, Guybrush retraced his steps around the rat and started climbing the ladder one-handed. Behind him, the rat fell comatose.

On the deck, Guybrush found he had too much grease - he applied it to the hinges, the handle, the screws, and anything else nearby, and still his hand was greasy. Guybrush considered, then wiped it on the head. The head, not having its necklace as protection, was too scared to complain.
Guybrush tried the handle, and the door slid out smooth as silk. Guybrush entered the room beyond, which was the darkest of all the rooms he'd seen so far, and also the most sparsely decorated. In the far corner was a large door, heavily bolted, in front of which slept a ghost pirate as guard. Next to the door, a blue torch and a rack of ghost tools - pickaxe, hammer, screwdriver and so on. Guybrush, drawing close, read the label above the door as BRIG.
His heart quickened - the Governor was in there! He tried to peer through the grille, but he couldn't get close enough because the ghost guard was in the way. Neither could he call out, because he'd wake the guard. And he didn't have the anti-ghost potion yet.
He needed the antiroot. And these tools, hanging on the rack, looked useful. Guybrush took them and left, vowing to return as soon as possible.
He walked briskly to the food storage area, where still the voodoo antiroot glowed brightly from its secured cage. Guybrush looked at the crate, and at the ghost tools.
"This should do it," he said confidently, and got to work. After a minute of furious thumping, sawing and screwing, the top of the crate was prised off.
Guybrush reached his hand in slowly, and reverently took the root. As if left the crate, however, it lost some of its glow and became more of a twisted up root that wasn't really impressive looking.
Guybrush looked toward the cannibal village, or where he imagined the cannibal village to be. There was no time to waste.

A long walk, a brief row, and a short hike later...

Guybrush strode triumphantly into the cannibal village, where the cannibals were gathered in the village square, awaiting his return. "I did it!" called out Guybrush. "I got the root!" He handed it to Tomato Head, who boggled.
"Hey!" exclaimed Tomato Head. He showed it to the others. "Look, he's not kidding! Here it is!"
"He's not such a wimp after all!" said Grey Head, probably the friendliest thing he'd said to Guybrush so far.
Tomato Head pocketed the root. "Come on," he said, "let's go make the brew of the fermented root." The natives entered a hut. "Wait here, we'll be right back," said Tomato Head from the doorway.
Guybrush stood outside, patiently waiting. After a while he was joined by a three headed monkey, which ambled in from behind him. For the second time Guybrush found himself looking at the genealogical disaster.
"I'd love to have you stuffed. I'd make a fortune," said Guybrush. The monkey reached into hidden folds and withdrew a banana, which was demolished in seconds by three heads working in unison. One of the heads swivelled to look at Guybrush, and winked at him.
The monkey left, even as the natives emerged from the hut. Tomato Head was carrying a bottle, which was filled with an ugly brown liquid like tobacco spit, and equipped with a squirt nozzle. "There it is," said Tomato Head.
"One squirt of that stuff," said Grey Head enthusiastically, "and the ectoplasm really hits the fan!"
"And if you have a little left over, it's delicious with a little vanilla icecream." Guybrush put the bottle in his pockets. "Good luck," said Tomato Head.
"Thanks," said Guybrush. The natives waved, and returned to their huts.

After some more furious paddling...

The sun was setting above when Guybrush finally came to the bluff overlooking the ghost ship. There was an unaccountable emptiness, which Guybrush only accounted for when finally reaching the edge, and looking over into the lava.
The ghost ship had gone.
Guybrush sighed, frustrated. LeChuck had slipped out of his fingers, and he'd been so close!
A ghost pirate was standing further out on the bluff, looking likewise to where the ghost ship had been. It had not, as yet, noticed Guybrush's return. That changed with Guybrush's sigh, upon which the ghost pirate with the wooden leg turned, and shrieked "EEP!!" Its head bounced off its shoulders, spun in the air, and landed again. "You scared me half to death!"
Guybrush took out the bottle, and shook it menacingly. "Have a taste of root beer, you evil spirit!" he cried.
The ghost pirate was alarmed, and shouted "Wait!" Its skeletal head bounced, spun, and settled in place. "If it's ghosts you're after, I can tell you where the others are!" This particular pirate, like most of LeChuck's, and, indeed, most pirates in general, had heard of such qualities as honour and loyalty, and decided they could get stuffed.
Guybrush kept the bottle in place. "Tell me where the ghost ship is."
"If you tell me, will you promise not to hurt me?" asked the ghost pirate anxiously.
"I won't not promise to avoid refrain from harming you," reassured Guybrush.
"What?"
Guybrush sighed, and put the ghost potion away. "OK, I promise." And he'd been looking forward to trying it out, too.
"OK," echoed the ghost, mollified. "They all left for the wedding."
The word struck a sudden chill into Guybrush's suspicious heart. Something didn't fit. "Why are you still here?" he asked warily.
The ghost pirate explained. "My head fell into the lava there, and I had to chase after it. When I came back they had gone!" The ghost pirate bounced its head nervously. "Shame, too. I hate to miss the wedding."
"What wedding?" Guybrush had a sudden dark thought.
"LeChuck is marrying the Governor of Melee Island�," said the ghost.
"WHAT!?" Guybrush was shocked. "But how will they..." He hastily threw a blockade over that line of thought. "Where is the wedding?" he asked, still shellshocked.
"There's a lovely church on Melee Island�," said the ghost. "They're headed there."
"Melee Island�! Oh, no!" Guybrush thought of the long miles between Monkey Island� and Melee Island�, and suddenly his knees sagged. It was too much.
"I give up," he said wearily. "I'm tired of chasing them everywhere."
"What?" asked the ghost sharply. He sounded every bit as astounded as Guybrush had earlier. "You can't give up now! What kind of a hero are you, anyway?"
The words of the ghost pirate awakened a rage of fire in Guybrush's veins. He stood up. "You're right! I've got to stop that wedding!!"
"Bye!" said the ghost pirate. Guybrush turned to leave, which he would have done had not Herman Toothrot at that moment walked merrily up to the bluff, past Guybrush, and to the ghost pirate.
"Bob!" said Herman. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I missed the boat to the wedding," said Bob.
"Hey," exclaimed Herman brightly, "No problem! We can take mine! Let's go!" They started from the bluff.
"...hey..." said Guybrush in a small voice. The spark of energy was gone - he was utterly confused again. Nevertheless, Herman and the ghost stopped and looked at him. "You have a ship?" was all he could to think to ask.
"Yep."
Guybrush shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He didn't understand. "If you've got a ship," he said slowly, thinking at about the same rate, "why are you waiting to be rescued?"
"Why heck, if you're stranded, you've got to be rescued! Says so in the rules."
"Will you take me to Melee Island�?," asked Guybrush hopefully.
Herman thought, and nodded. "I'll lend you my ship, if you promise to rescue me with it."
"OK. How did you get in here without a head?"
Herman looked at him as if he was mad. "I have a head," he said, baffled.
Bob was waving to them from the catacombs beyond. "Let's go!" he called out. The heady triumvirate set out.

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