Diffusion Box Set

by Stan C. Smith

  The boisterous chatter drew nearer. Any human voices would have been intrusive here, but these bore the tenor of American teenagers. One voice—it was Russ Wade—rose above the others.

  “Mr. Darnell, are you taking a dump?”

  Abruptly the entire group was upon him. Seven students, ranging from fourteen to seventeen, from eighth to eleventh grade, and Lindsey, Quentin’s wife and colleague.

  Lindsey emerged from the brush into Quentin’s clearing first, leading the others. Her wavy, caramel-blond hair was still fresh from the air-conditioned ride in the minibus, and she wore a teasing smirk on her face, apparently pleased at having crashed Quentin’s party.

  Russ flashed his amiable grin and cartoonish eyes, making it impossible for Quentin to be mad at him. “You should’ve gone at the losmen,” he said, still at high volume.

  Ashley said, “Wow, you’re funny Russ. Maybe consider shutting the hell up?”

  Miranda, Ashley’s best friend, frowned at her harshness. She said to Russ, “We just don’t want you to scare off the animals.”

  Russ wasn’t fazed. “Oh, you girls want to see animals? I thought you just came to see the horims.” The other boys chuckled at the reference to the penis gourds worn by Papuan men, sometimes their only article of clothing. The teenagers discussed the gourds endlessly.

  Ashley shaded her eyes and scanned the surrounding forest in a mock gesture. “Miranda, did you just hear a talking penis?”

  Quentin glanced at Lindsey. She had a knack for intervening when the students’ banter crossed the line, and he had a habit of letting her deal with it.

  “Hey!” Lindsey shouted over the ensuing laughter. “This is our last field day, and we’re wasting time.”

  Lindsey was right; they’d stretched their legs after the long ride, and it was time to get started. As they walked back to the minibus to collect the gear, Quentin mustered his enthusiasm to motivate the students once more. The kids were natives to a society of online computer games, where patience was as rare as a bird-of-paradise. Quentin also made a silent wish for this final day to go without incident. For three previous summers, he and Lindsey had brought students to the Central Highlands with no mishaps. Papua was an ambitious destination for a Missouri public school district, and more than one administrator had tried to stop the field trips. But Quentin’s passionate requests to the School Board, emphasizing his deep connection to this place, had so far worked. Nevertheless, one fractured ankle or one case of chikungunya or malaria would bring it all to an end. It could even bring an end to his job.

  At the minibus, Quentin said, “This is it, folks. We’ve talked up Lorentz Park for weeks. Today, you’ll have your last chance to see things nobody has ever seen.”

  The eighth graders, Bobby, Carlos, and Quentin’s own son, Addison, were attentive. The older kids were at least quiet. “Roberto and Russ, you guys are on insects today. Ashley and Miranda, you’re on plants. Addison, Bobby, and Carlos, you guys are on vertebrates.”

  Bobby beamed. He punched Addison’s shoulder. “Vertebrates! What’d I tell you?”

  Addison was slight-framed, pale, and rarely physical. He frowned and rubbed the spot on his shoulder. But then he held up his smartphone tablet, showing the mammal guide home screen. Quentin smiled at this. It was usually a struggle to get his son to use that damn thing for anything except Kembalimo, the language game that had become so popular the last few years.2 Addison and Bobby were developing a friendship, and Addison could definitely use a friend, especially one like Bobby.

  Bobby was among Quentin’s favorite students. The boy was perpetually enthusiastic, in spite of his struggles with schoolwork and his parents’ recent thorny divorce. Bobby was the only student who had actually earned his place on this trip. Two years ago, he’d shown up in Quentin’s classroom after school, having heard about the previous summer’s trip. He had asked an astounding number of questions and then had declared he would earn the money to pay his own way for the trip by the end of his eighth grade year. It had taken Bobby two years to do it, but here he was. The other students were here because their parents had paid for it, including Quentin and Lindsey’s son, Addison.

  Markus, their hired driver, slid from the minibus and straightened to his full height, six inches shorter than Quentin. Black skin and strong features indicated he was native Papuan, rather than Indonesian. Markus kept a tireless running commentary in mixed pidgin and English. Having driven taxis in Jayapura, the capital city of Papua province, he was amused by the odd activities of this group.

  “I will help you today,” he said. “We will find many kumul.”

  Quentin glanced at Lindsey. On their first day, they had taken Markus up on his offers to help, only to discover that he seemed to hate the forest and everything in it. When the kids had searched for reptiles, including snakes, he’d started referring to them as longlongman or longlongmeri, which meant crazy man or woman.

  “No thanks, Markus,” Lindsey said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Lindsey took the older kids into the forest, and Quentin took the eighth-grade boys in another direction. They had agreed to stay within shouting distance of each other and the minibus, so before they had gone too far, Quentin stopped at a clearing and waited. The boys sat on the ground, succumbing to this familiar ritual.

  At first it seemed quiet. There was no breeze, and the only sounds were from living, moving things. Feeding lorikeets shrieked in the distance. There was faint scratching, claws against wood, possibly a rat or possum. Nearer, they heard motion in the leaf litter—first to one side, then everywhere. Spiders seeking prey, snails gliding, millipedes and pillbugs rummaging through an endless food supply of decaying leaves, and insects of all conceivable forms, performing all conceivable functions. With each passing heartbeat, countless legs scuffled, antennae tapped and tasted, and mandibles and fangs crushed and killed.

  “Did you hear that?” Quentin scanned the canopy with exaggerated movements. “That could be the Mbaiso!”

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “What’s an Um-bay-zo?”

  Quentin lowered his voice. “Mbaiso is Moni for ‘forbidden animal.’ The Moni say they are ancestors, returned in a different form.” He paused. “If you find one, supposedly it can look into your past.”

  “Really?” Bobby whispered. Addison said, “Yeah, right.”

  They sat quietly. The chuckling of a honeyeater filtered through the trees.

  “Have you seen one?” Carlos asked.

  Quentin shook his head. “Only young people can see them, and they only appear if you have a deep love of the forest. The Mbaiso can tell these things about people.”

  The boys rolled their eyes, but they quickly rose to their feet, eager to start searching.

  The next three hours passed quickly. The boys saw only two mammals: a rat that quickly scampered away, and a cuscus—a type of possum—high in the canopy.

  The highlight of the day was a tree python, bright green with buttercup yellow spots. Addison had found it as he relieved himself in the brush. He’d yelled so loud that Lindsey, her students, and Markus came running. The python then became the most photographed snake in the Baliem Valley. At this point, the teachers decided it was time to head back.

  Streaks of afternoon sunlight painted the forest as the group made their way to the minibus. The day’s activities had reduced the exhausted students’ chatter to occasional comments as they walked. Miranda and Ashley led the way, but Quentin stayed close behind. The two girls were best friends, but their differences had become apparent to Quentin during the trip. Both girls were popular at school, but Quentin now suspected this was due to their combined personalities. Miranda’s syrupy sensitivity acted as a buffer to Ashley’s rough edges and temper. Together, they were balanced, even remarkable. Apart, their peers would probably marginalize them.

  Miranda stepped over a fallen tree and then brushed debris from her pant leg. “I so need a shower. Things are crawling under my clothes.”

  Russ was fiv
e meters behind, but he still heard her. “You need help getting them out?”

  “Whatever, Russ.”

  “What does it mean, whatever?” Markus said. But then he stopped walking. His eyes were fixed on the forest ahead.

  Miranda saw them first. “Look, there are people.”

  Four men emerged from the shadows. Markus spoke a greeting in Dani, but the men approached without answering. In Wamena, the town the Americans used for their home base, many Papuans could be seen wearing a combination of traditional dress and items influenced by the 21st century: a pair of shorts, a wristwatch, even a PVC pipe worn as a horim. But the men approaching them now had no ornaments or implements of modern origin.

  Instead of the longer decorative horims seen in Wamena, these men wore short gourds cinched against their abdomens—the functional apparel of active hunters. Brown feathers from the wings of cassowaries fanned out from their headbands. Their noses held ornaments that appeared to be heads of black beetles, the oversized mandibles piercing the septum. Each man held a bow and several long arrows. Disfigured, flaking skin covered most of one man’s legs. Quentin recognized this as Grile, caused by ringworm and easily treated where medical supplies were available. Their bodies were greased from the waist up, something Quentin had only seen in mock battles enacted for tourists.

  The men ignored Markus and focused on the Americans. They began talking to each other. Markus looked at Quentin and shrugged.

  Quentin tried Indonesian. “Selamat. Siapa namanya? Dimana?”

  The men showed no understanding.

  Markus spoke again, this time apparently digging into his knowledge of Papuan languages, and he exchanged some words with them.

  “These men are going to Wamena,” Markus said. “They talk about killing.”

  Quentin’s gut tightened. Papua was an Indonesian province with a history of political injustices and violent resistance by the indigenous Papuans. Bringing students here a few decades ago would have been unthinkable. But tourism was common now, and typically the Papuans were friendly to visitors. “Tell them we don’t want any trouble.”

  One of the tribesmen extended a sinewy hand and grasped Ashley’s dark, curly hair. She tensed. The man rubbed the hair between his fingers, as if judging its coarseness.

  “Ashley, relax,” Miranda said. She smiled and placed her hand on her chest. “My name is Miranda.”

  The man released Ashley’s hair and grasped one of Miranda’s breasts through her shirt. Miranda’s smile transformed into a stricken expression.

  “Miranda meri, don’t be afraid,” Markus said, his voice unusually high. “They will go away soon; you will see.”

  The Papuan turned back to Ashley and reached for her breast, too.

  Ashley blocked with her elbow. “Don’t touch me, asshole!”

  She then wheeled and slapped the man’s face. The Papuan’s head wrenched, and his feathered headdress flipped to the ground.

  The forest clearing became deathly still.

  Ashley stood defiant, her face red and fists clenched. The man recovered from his shock and lunged at her, ranting and pointing his finger. Lindsey was closer than Quentin and threw herself between them.

  The man’s companions suddenly filled the air with feral shrieks. But they were not angry, they were laughing. They hooted wildly, doubling over, dropping their bows and arrows to the ground and pointing at their dishonored companion.

  The man stopped his verbal assault. Slowly, he picked up his headdress. He looked over Lindsey’s shoulder at Ashley and spoke in an even tone, like he was stating a simple fact, perhaps I dropped this hat on purpose. He placed it on his head, restoring some measure of dignity.

  Ashley was now trembling and tears streaked her face.

  When the laughter subsided, Markus exchanged words with the men, and he seemed to relax. “These men will not hurt us,” he said. “Now they understand.”

  “They understand what?” Lindsey said.

  “That you are not from the government. And your students are yangpela, young people. Pikinini. I told them to come to the minibus. We’ll give them food.”

  Still chuckling, the men gathered their weapons and walked away with Markus.

  “Good God, Ashley!” Russ said.

  “Drown in your own vomit, Russ!”

  Russ raised both hands to show he meant no harm.

  Lindsey touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, Ash?”

  “No, I’m not!” She stepped away and stood with her back to them.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Quentin struggled for the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well, I’d say we’ve learned some valuable things about—”

  Addison interrupted him, “We learned that Ashley’s bitchy temper could get us killed! She’s such an idiot!”

  Addison had typically been a silent, although brooding, observer when the entire group was together, and this outburst seemed to shock everyone. Ashley swung around with rage in her eyes, and Bobby even stepped away from Addison as if seeking a safer distance. The older boys, Roberto and Russ, glanced at each other and then started toward Addison.

  Addison was seemingly unaware he had crossed a line. He continued, “Only a total idiot would hit someone who has a—”

  Lindsey rushed in and clapped a hand over his mouth. “That’s enough, son.” Still covering his mouth, she guided him away from the group toward the minibus.

  Quentin looked around at the remaining students. So much for Addison’s progress with making friends.

  Bobby was watching Quentin and seemed to detect his concern. He smiled, his adolescent blue eyes shining, and Quentin sensed that the boy was trying to reassure him. Bobby had a way of doing such things, which was another reason Quentin liked him. Bobby then turned to Carlos and gave him a shove. “Let’s go, before Markus gives away all our food.”

  The peculiar assembly of travelers sat on the ground near the minibus and shared the food Markus had packed. Markus talked with the Papuans some, but he seemed unwilling to divulge further details about their destination and purpose.

  As the afternoon sun dropped, the kids opened up to the Papuan tribesmen, trying to ask questions about their customs and gesturing wildly to explain their own equally puzzling lives. Russ and Roberto tried in vain to explain that they played in a garage band. The younger boys pantomimed a question about the Mbaiso, the mythical animal of Quentin’s story. The Papuans simply shook their heads. Two of the men suddenly howled with laughter. Miranda had taken their photo and shown them the image on her smartphone’s screen. Only Ashley sat quietly, keeping an eye on the Papuan she had struck. His name, they’d learned, was Pupun.

  Resting on his elbows, Quentin watched. This encounter could have gone a different way. Perhaps those who had criticized this field trip were right; Papua was still occasionally volatile and was too dangerous. But bad things could happen anywhere. And Quentin was compulsively drawn to Papua, by a force he could comprehend but not suppress. If anything, Quentin was self-aware; Lindsey and occasional therapists had made sure of that. He understood his drive to overcome this place, to be a stronger man than his father. Bringing students here without incident was his way to conquer the Last Unknown. But perhaps it was going too far.

  Lindsey jabbed his leg with her foot. “Where are you, hon?”

  Quentin half-smiled. “Right here.”

  After finishing the food, the Papuans disappeared into the forest. Everyone piled into the minibus, and they began the three-hour drive to Wamena. Soon the students began dozing off.

  Lindsey said, “What do you suppose Pupun and his friends are up to?”

  Quentin pulled out his smartphone to look at photos. “Maybe they’re the last of a tribe. A disease wiped them out. Those four were immune, and now they’re on a quest to find women—rebuild the tribe.”

  “And they thought they’d recruit Ashley,” Lindsey laughed. “No such luck. They’ve wandered the forest for years, getting slapped by women.” />
  Quentin snorted. “Or maybe they’re guardians of a treasure. Their quest for mates continues because they haven’t found any women worthy of it.”

  “More likely they’ve forgotten where they put it. They need help finding it.”

  Quentin ignored this. “Probably gold. The legend of the mountain of gold is true, and they’re guarding it.”

  “Gold is boring. The treasure is a rare flower. When you smell it, you fall in love, then you search until you find your soul mate. That’s Pupun’s quest.”

  “You may be right,” Quentin said. “Pupun had me smell this dried flower he had. Then everything was clear—I had to start my search.”

  Lindsey raised her brows.

  “It took me about three seconds,” he said.

  She slapped his shoulder.

  Russ spoke without opening his eyes. “You guys are teachers, for God’s sake. You’re making me sick.”

  As they descended into the Baliem Valley along the dark waters of the Uwe River, the ice-capped peak of Gunung Trikora hung in the mist to the south. The rugged peaks of the Maoke mountain range extended from the eastern half of the island, the independent country of Papua New Guinea, west to the Bird’s Head peninsula in the Indonesian province of Papua. The Bird’s Head peninsula was where Quentin’s parents had introduced him to the tropics when he was six. They had wanted him to meet the Papuans they thought they knew so well. Quentin dismissed this thought. No point in ruining his mood by dwelling on the past.

  As they entered Wamena, Markus braked sharply, startling Quentin and waking the others. The road was blocked by a group of Papuans.

  “Lauk,” one of them said in greeting. His t-shirt displayed the Morning Star flag.

  “Lauk,” Markus said.

  Speaking pidgin, the Papuan requested donations for the Free Papua Movement. Markus spoke to Quentin, “You should give these men money, tisaman. They will be happy then.”