Korul set his bow on the ground and then held his spear with both hands, ready to thrust it. He said, “If you wish this man to die quickly, I will kill him.”
I shifted my position to shield the dying man. “Do not kill him,” I said.
Korul nodded and lowered his spear. “Come, Samuel, we will continue hunting. The man will soon die.”
“You go,” said I. “I will be just behind you. I wish to talk to this man. When I finish, I will call out to you if I cannot see where you are.”
The three hunters agreed to this, and they continued walking east. I turned my attention back to the Japanese man.
“I wish I could speak to you in your language,” I said. “There is so very much I could tell you.”
The man’s eyes were still upon me, but it seemed that he was unable or unwilling to speak.
I turned to look for Teatakan, Ot, and Korul, but the dense forest had already hidden them. I then pulled out the skin pouch I kept in the pocket of my waistcloth. With my finger I dug a small lump of clay from the pouch. I wiped it on the man’s lips, and he swallowed it immediately, perhaps assuming it was food.
“I do not know what brought you to this place,” I said to him. “But I do hope you find peace in whatever place you may go to next.” I placed my hand upon my chest. “Samuel,” I said. “Samuel Inwood.”
I did not expect him to reply to this, so I returned my pouch to its pocket and began to stand up.
Then he did speak, although with obvious difficulty. “Iwataro. Iwataro Hayashi.”
“I wish you Godspeed, Iwataro,” I said to him.
As there was little more I could do, I then left him and his dead companions.
The next day I decided to travel north to Humboldt Bay in order to witness with my own eyes what was occurring there. Sinanie agreed to accompany me, and we departed the following morning with ample time to travel more than half the distance before nightfall. We arrived at Humboldt Bay on April 22. From my time spent with Penapul’s tribe many years ago, I knew of an area without trees upon the hill on the west side of the bay that afforded an unobscured view. However, long before we reached the hill’s summit, Sinanie nearly convinced me to turn back, as the air was filled with thunderous eruptions so forceful that the hillside itself shook beneath our feet. Having travelled so far to see what was causing these noises, I was reluctant to retreat, and so we soon arrived at the open view upon the summit. Before us was a scene so dreadful that we simply stared at the bay without speaking for some minutes.
Humboldt Bay was filled with war ships. There were dozens of them. The greatest of them were far larger than the grand steamship Deccan that had carried me from England to Singapore. Mounted upon these enormous ships of metal were canons, which were the source of all of the thunderous destruction. The canons fired repeatedly at the shore, sending streaks of fire to destroy everything before them and filling the sky above the bay with clouds of dark smoke. So violent were the explosions upon the shore that it seemed impossible that any man, beast, or plant there could still be living. If Penapul’s village had ever managed to rebuild its population following the loss of its boys and men, they almost certainly could not exist after this indescribable destruction.
Among the larger ships were smaller ones that appeared to be completely loaded with men, and these vessels made their way directly toward the beach. As I watched, one of these ships ran right up onto the beach, where its load of soldiers swarmed onto the shore amidst smoke and firing of guns.
When I turned to look to the west, I saw great columns of black smoke rising in the distance. It was as if the entire northern coast of New Guinea were being attacked and destroyed by the unimaginable power of these machines of war. Never before had I witnessed anything like it, and I hoped to never see such violence again.
Without a word spoken, Sinanie and I turned away and began our journey back to the village.
Perhaps someday I will be judged harshly for my actions. Perhaps those judging me will argue that the knowledge and power of the Lamotelokhai could have been used to prevent such lamentable warfare. How could this be, though, when such murderous intentions exist in the minds of men? How could such a war be ended or prevented? Would the people in possession of the Lamotelokhai use its powers to make all their enemies suddenly complacent and agreeable? If so, is it morally justifiable to forcibly alter the thoughts in the minds of other men? And where would that lead us to next?
Or perhaps the country in possession of the Lamotelokhai could bring about peace by simply exterminating its enemies? If so, I can tell you that I have seen such a solution with my own eyes, and it does not bring the peace and comfort of mind that you might wish for.
Perhaps you might argue that the Lamotelokhai’s power could be used to provide every country with all the resources and wealth its people may desire, thus eliminating any want for war. But where do the desires of men end? Rarely do they end with accumulated resources and wealth. Instead, men then wish for power. They wish to own all of the lands of the earth, and even then their desires do not stop. Hence, the final result would still be war, but in this case it would be war between countries possessing unlimited resources. Such a war is frightening to contemplate.
Perhaps you might argue that I am simplifying this matter to the point of distortion, and that the greatest minds of the world will surely devise ways in which the Lamotelokhai may be used to bring about peace. If so, you may be correct, but I have had seventy-six years to ponder this, and I have significant doubts, which in the last few days have been confirmed. The world’s greatest minds were apparently not able to prevent the war that is now taking place, and I believe I know why. It is because, as great as the world’s societies may have become, they have still not achieved one very important characteristic: a general inclination for compassion.
Hence, I have convinced Matiinuo, Sinanie, and the others of the tribe to move the village far inland, to a place so remote that outsiders will not find it for many years to come. I will use the Lamotelokhai’s help in concealing the village so that it will not be seen by men in flying vessels above, nor by occasional wandering hunters or explorers below. Sinanie and I have devised a plan for constructing huts high in the tallest of trees. Rather than being supported by poles, which are easily seen from the ground, these huts will hang from the trees themselves.
I do not know for how long we will manage to remain hidden, but I hope for many years. If you are reading these words, the Lamotelokhai has at last been discovered by outsiders, in which case you should pray to God for the wisdom and compassion required to use it safely. However, even this act is likely to be found wanting, as the Lamotelokhai’s power seems to far exceed the power of any god.
We must all become improved.
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Author’s Notes
First, I must say that I have the deepest respect for the unique cultures of the Papuan peoples. Obviously I have taken liberties in developing the characteristics of Sinanie’s tribe, but I intended no disrespect by doing so. I have also taken some liberties in developing Penapul’s tribe, although nearly all of their characteristics are based upon actual Papuan cultures, as described by Alfred Russell Wallace in his amazing account of his work in that part of the world from 1854 to 1862, titled The Malay Archipelago (first published in 1869), and as described by other authors listed below.
I must also point out that the character, Samuel Inwood, was a product of his time. His notions and ideals are based on
an accumulation of research and reading the texts of such men as Alfred Wallace. It is not my intention to insult the more modern sensibilities of readers. Instead, I wish to accurately depict a man of Samuel’s time and station in life, and his gradual realization of a broader way of looking at humanity.
I adapted the language of Sinanie’s tribe from the amazing work of Gerrit J. van Enk and Lourens de Vries in their studies of the language and culture of the Korowai, a Papuan community of treehouse dwellers of southern Irian Jaya (now called Papua). Astoundingly, the Korowai had never come into contact with outsiders until the early 1980s.
I am thankful for the hard work of those who have painstakingly researched the cultures, wildlife, and ecosystems of Papua. The following are recommended books (and one video).
Flannery, Tim. Mammals of New Guinea. Chatswood, New South Wales: Reed Books Australia, 1995. Print.
Flannery, Tim. Throwim Way Leg: Tree Kangaroos, Possums, and Penis Gourds – On the Track of Unknown Mammals in Wildest New Guinea. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1998. Print.
Marriott, Edward. The Lost Tribe – A Harrowing Passage into New Guinea’s Heart of Darkness. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1996. Print.
Merrifield, William, Gregerson, Marilyn, and Ajamiseba, Daniel, Ed. Gods, Heroes, Kinsmen: Ethnographic Studies from Irian Jaya, Indonesia. Jayapura, Irian Jaya: Cenderawasih University, 1983. Print.
Muller, Kal. New Guinea: Journey Into the Stone Age. Lincolnwood, Illinois: Passport Books, 1997. Print.
Souter, Gavin. New Guinea: The Last Unknown. New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1966. Print.
Van Enk, Gerrit J. and de Vries, Lourens. The Korowai of Irian Jaya – Their Language in its Cultural Context. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Print.
Wallace, Alfred Russell. The Malay Archipelago. 1869. Print or ebook.
This astounding work, which is in two volumes, is now in the public domain and can be found in a variety of print and ebook formats. If you are at all interested in the exploration of this part of the world, I highly recommend reading Wallace’s work.
Sky Above Mud Below. Dir. and Perf. Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau (organizer and leader) and Gerard Delloye (assistant leader). Lorimar Home Video, 1962. VHS.
This video was filmed as it happened in 1959, when a group of explorers set out on a seven-month attempt to cross the jungles of Papua (then called Dutch New Guinea). Winner of the 1961 Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature.
Acknowledgments
I am not capable of creating a book such as this on my own. I have the following people, among others, to thank for their assistance.
When it comes to editing, my son Micheal Smith is extremely talented, and his tireless and meticulous suggestions are invaluable. If you find a sentence or detail in the book that doesn’t seem right, it is likely because I failed to implement one of his suggestions.
My wife, Trish, is always the first to read my work, and therefore she has the burden of seeing my stories in their roughest form. Thankfully, she does not hesitate to point out where things are a mess. Her suggestions are what get the editing process started. She also helps with various promotional efforts. And finally, she not only tolerates my obsession with writing, she actually encourages it.
Monique Agueros, a colleague of mine for many years, also provided helpful editing suggestions.
I am thankful to all the independent freelance designers out there who provide quality work for independent authors such as myself. The mostly hand-drawn map of New Guinea at the beginning of the book was created by Sabrina Genarri (via fiverr.com). The cover design was created by Emanuele La Motta (via 99designs.com).
Copyright © 2017 by Stan Smith
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Note to the Reader
Blue Arrow is the story of Peter Wooley, as told by his amazing wife, Rose. It is a novella of 15,000 words. I’m assuming you have read Diffusion, Infusion, and Profusion. If you have, you already know who Peter and Rose are and will likely be eager to better understand the fascinating history of their relationship.
You can learn more about my novels and sign up for my author emails at my web site. I have another series called BRIDGERS that I’m sure you’ll enjoy!
http://www.stancsmith.com
1
Peter
I imagined leaving Peter when I was only forty-one. I packed my bags and placed them by the door. I envisioned myself walking out the door and down the street. I would rent a flat in Southside Cairns and someday open my own beach shop. Rainbow-colored sunglasses, dried starfish, earrings with dangling abalone and cone shells, large-handled bags with embroidered clownfish, and tasteful flip-flops made of hemp fibers—not the cheap plastic ones.
But then Peter came home. At that time—it was 1977—Peter wasn’t what you’d call a working man. Three generations of his family had thrived in the shipping business. Sugar cane, mostly. He was not rich, but the family business had provided him with enough funds that working was optional. Oh, Peter could have worked, but he had other things on his mind. If you ask me, he was busy devising a most spectacular way to die. First, there was cycling. He wanted to outpace Hubert Opperman’s ride from Fremantle to Sydney—4,600 kilometers in thirteen days. Like Opperman, Peter had to carry his bike more than fifteen kilometers at Nanwarra Sands. And he did this on his own. No support vehicle, no one dropping off food and water. He didn’t beat Oppy’s record, but he survived. Then there was swimming—twenty kilometers across the Rottnest Channel. Again on his own, no support. Jellyfish nearly brought an end to that, and to his life. And then there was rock climbing—without safety equipment. Just to prove he could, I guess. But all of that came to an end when he attempted to traverse the island of New Guinea from north to south. Alone. This was impossible, of course. Well-equipped expeditions had failed. Peter would die there. I knew it, and he knew it.
And so, when Peter left me at home to go die in New Guinea, I packed a couple of bags and placed them by the door. Four weeks later they were still there, waiting for me at the door. Two more weeks passed. I hadn’t left, and I hadn’t moved the bags. I began to realize I didn’t really want to leave, that I wanted the bags by the door so Peter would see them when he came home. Perhaps then he would see what was happening to our relationship. Perhaps then he would decide his life was worth living. If only he would come home.
Another week passed. Peter was three weeks overdue. I should have begun the mourning process, because I knew he was dead somewhere in the rugged, stifling, uncharted wilderness. He had probably eaten the wrong fruit, or contracted a rare disease. Or maybe he had fallen in a ravine. Perhaps most likely he had simply died of hunger or thirst. But still my bags remained by the door, and every day I waited for a phone call that might end my suffering one way or the other.
And then Peter came home.
He called from the airport, and an hour later I heard the familiar sound of his Ford Cortina pulling into the driveway. He came in and saw my packed bags. He was apologetic, repentant, remorseful. And changed.
Peter said he had found something in the jungle. Out there in the wilderness. He said it was something so important it would change the world. He didn’t know exactly what it was, and he hadn’t brought it home. I’m not sure I believed him, but at the time all that mattered was that I desperately wanted to. I had never seen him so emotional about something. Perhaps I allowed myself to believe his fervor was in part due to coming home to me. He promised he would never leave me again, and that we would grow old together. He wept and held me with trembling hands, and he talked about us being partners, and how he needed my help figuring out what to do.
So I unpacked my bags and put them away. We all make mistakes in our youth, and I was only forty-one, af
ter all.
2
Yonks Day – Year 1 – 1978
Yonks means a long time. As in, I haven’t seen you in yonks. It is derived from donkey’s years, which also means a long time. Yonks Day comes once a year. I like to think of it as Peter’s other birthday, as it is the date of his return. And he had come home a new man.
A year after Peter had come home, we weren’t yet calling it Yonks Day. It had only been a year, so why would we?
During the first weeks following his return, Peter was occupied with a sort of second courtship. He went to great lengths to convince me I was the love of his new life. He sold his bikes and his climbing gear. He had lost the best of his wilderness survival gear in New Guinea, but he took what was left and sold it, too. He set up a savings account in which we would deposit what we could each month until I could quit working for Sylvia at her beach shop and buy my own shop on the Esplanade. His efforts were not wasted; I fell in love with him all over again.
That first year was magical. It was a sit-on-the-beach-and-giggle-at-the-sinking-sun-until-everyone-goes-home-and-then-make-love-in-the-sand year. It was a collect-gull-feathers-and-put-them-in-a-box-until-you-have-thousands-and-then-make-Rose-a-wall-hanging-that-looks-like-ocean-waves year. It was a year of keeping promises and making love until I hurt. You see, I was not perfect. But Peter was.
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