The Disciple
You stand on the deck of the battered steamboat, moored at the Inner Station. The jungle walls rise high around you, a silent, impenetrable barrier. Before you stands a young Russian man dressed in clothes so patched they look like a jester's motley. He speaks of Mr. Kurtz with a feverish, worshipful intensity.
"He has enlarged my mind!" the Russian exclaims, his eyes wide. "You don't talk with that man—you listen to him. He wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. The natives adore him... he came to them with thunder and lightning."
You look past him toward the ruined station house on the hill. Through your binoculars, you see the fence posts are topped with round knobs. A sudden, chilling realization hits you. They are not ornamental balls of wood.
They are human heads, drying in the sun, facing the house.