12 Cannibal Adventure

by Willard Price

  ‘Coffee and rolls?’

  ‘A bit more than that. A melon, hot cereal, bacon and eggs, a steak, and a bottle of champagne.’

  The guard stared, open-mouthed, then hurried away to do his master’s bidding.

  Kaggs leaned back with a broad smile on his ugly face. He already relished the fat breakfast that was to come. And he appreciated himself for being so smart. Perhaps he would have been less well pleased if he had known that within a week he would be dining on raw beetles, boiled worms, and pickled grasshoppers.

  Chapter 12

  Kaggs walks out

  When the sumptuous breakfast came he enjoyed it to the last bite. This was the life. He wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Butch. Butch had made the mistake of trying to help him. Soft-hearted Butch had paid for his mistake by dying. Thanks to the fact that Kaggs had blabbed to the warden, Butch and his friends were all dead or in solitary.

  Solitary was a living death. The man so confined would never see his fellows, never hear them, live in a room as small as a closet, dine on bread and water, and since attempted escape was a serious offence, his confinement might last for years unless he chose to end things by dashing his brains out against the stone wall.

  All this did not disturb Kaggs one bit. He had fallen into a soft berth and was half inclined to stay there.

  But he was still a prisoner; and his enemies still went free. So far they had outwitted him. But by hook or by crook he would get to New Guinea, find them, and wipe them out.

  His chance came two days later when the warden asked him to go into town to a wholesale provision market and buy supplies.

  Take off those jailbird clothes. I’ll give you one of my suits to wear. Here’s the list of what we want. And here’s the money to pay for it. I think it will cost about two hundred dollars. Takes a lot to feed five hundred men.’

  Kaggs did not take the money. He said, ‘I would prefer that you let them send you a bill and pay them by mail.’

  The warden was pleased. ‘Your saying that is further proof that you can be trusted.’ He took up the money and pressed it into Kaggs’s hands. This can’t be done by mail,’the warden said. ‘They require payment at once in cash. And here’s the money we took from you when you came in. This pass will get you by the guards at the gate. Don’t hurry back. You deserve a little pleasure. Go to a cinema if you like.’

  Chapter 13

  Grasshoppers for lunch

  Kaggs crossed the prison compound and marched out of the gate, flashing his pass at the guards.

  He did not make the mistake of taking a taxi immediately. He walked half a mile to a busy crossing before he hailed one.

  ‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Airport.’

  He settled back and enjoyed the ride. He patted the pocket containing the fat wad of ready cash.

  Arriving at the airport, he said to the driver, ‘Just wait for me, I’ll be going back.’

  He went at once to the counter of the Trans-Australia Airlines.

  ‘How soon is there a plane to Port Moresby?’

  The clerk looked at the departure board. ‘In fifteen minutes,’ he said.

  ‘One first-class ticket, please.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Horace Wibberley.’

  The clerk wrote down the ‘Horace’. Then he paused. ‘How do you spell the last name?’

  This caught Kaggs between the eyes. He didn’t know how to spell it. But he must try at once. ‘W-u-b-1-e-r-y.’

  ‘Did you say 1-u-r-y?’

  Kaggs didn’t remember what he had said. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘I’ll take your luggage.’

  ‘No luggage,’ said Kaggs.

  The clerk looked at him as if he had said something quite amazing. Kaggs saw that he must make some explanation. ‘I sent it on in advance,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, very well.’ He stated the price of the ticket and Kaggs paid. ‘They’re boarding now. Gate 6.’

  As he walked to the gate Kaggs noticed the taxi driver standing patiently just inside the main entrance waiting for his fare. Kaggs lost no time getting through the gate and out to the plane.

  Aboard the plane and comfortably seated by a window, Kaggs glanced out to see the taxi driver at the gate arguing with the guard who steadfastly refused to let him through without a ticket. The angry driver caught sight of Kaggs and raised a clenched fist. Kaggs smiled sweetly and waved.

  The plane took off and flew north between the Australian coast and the Great Barrier Reef.

  It passed over the supply ship that was stationed above the city on the bottom of the sea,- two hundred feet down, where he had been employed as the preacher in the little undersea church - until it had been discovered that he was no preacher but a notorious murderer, and he had been fired. He still mistakenly blamed the boys because he had lost his job. He bitterly regretted that the shower of rocks he had pushed off the edge of the Great Barrier Reef had not killed them.

  The plane passed another place that he remembered well - Thursday Island, famous for its pearl divers. He had spent a spell here as a pearl trader until he had been found cheating as usual. Then he had murdered the pearl diver who had told on him, and it was this murder that had finally put him in prison. Again he blamed the boys because they had caught up with him after he had stolen their ship and had brought him in to Brisbane and delivered him to the Australian police.

  Then the vast mountainous island of New Guinea appeared and the plane slid down to land on its coast at the city of Port Moresby.

  He knew that by this time the warden must have begun to wonder what had happened to him. Soon there would be an alarm and the police would be looking for him.

  He knew this town well. Ordinarily he would have gone straight to the Boroko Hotel for the night. If he did that, he would probably get a visit from the police before morning.

  ‘What hotel?’ he was asked when he climbed into a cab.

  ‘No hotel,’ said Kaggs. ‘Take me to the harbour.’

  Arriving at the marina, where the bay was covered with small craft, he went straight to the charter office.

  1 want a speedboat with a high-powered engine and a small cabin.’

  ‘Well, how about that one up against the wharf?’

  ‘It looks good. What’s its speed?’

  ‘Twenty knots.’

  ‘Tank big enough to carry a good load?’

  ‘How far are you going?’

  ‘Trobriand Islands.’

  ‘It will get you there. The tank is full right now.’

  ‘What’s the rental?’

  ‘Eighteen Australian dollars a day.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Kaggs. ‘But I’d have to try it out first. Is that possible?’

  ‘Well, if you’d like to run it about for a half hour or so, that’s all right. What’s your name?’

  ‘The Reverend John Smith.’ This time Kaggs was careful to give a name that he could spell.

  ‘Oh, a preacher. In that case I think you’re a pretty safe risk. Take the boat for a little run and see how you like it.’

  Kaggs boarded the craft, switched on the engine, and soared out of the harbour. When he was well out of sight he headed not for the Trobriand Islands but in exactly the opposite direction - west along the New Guinea coast through the Coral Sea.

  His one purpose now was to get out of reach of Australian police patrols. All this eastern end of New Guinea was Australian territory. The western part of the island belonged to Indonesia. It was very wild territory, practically without any Indonesian police, and completely beyond the reach of Australian patrols.

  He was sure the boys had gone there because they were out to take animals alive and wild animals were far more abundant in that territory than in the more civilized Australian east. The newspaper item he had read had clearly stated that the Hunts were headed for this region.

  The first thing was to get well out of Australian waters. Having spent years in this are
a, he knew the geography well and could get along in the native languages.

  At twenty knots it would take him about twenty-two hours to cover the 450 miles to the Indonesian border. It meant that he must keep going all that night and much of the next day. Sleep was something he could not afford.

  There were no provisions on board. That meant he must go hungry until he could land beyond the border twenty-two hours from now and get food in a native village. That would be a risky matter, for on this cannibal island it was possible that instead of getting food he might be food for savages who had a liking for human flesh. But he felt fairly safe, knowing that the cannibals did not care too much for the flesh of white men because it was too salty and tasted of tobacco. Still, if they were hungry enough…

  All night he fought the desire to go to sleep, and all the next morning he kept going. At about noon he gunned his boat through Torres Strait and again passed Thursday Island where he had killed the pearl diver. By mid-afternoon he was breathing easier because now he must be in the Arafura Sea off the Indonesian coast. He put in at Merauke to refuel, but it was dangerous to stop long enough to get food because he was still too close to Australian territory. This was not wild animal country - the Hunts would have gone farther along the coast.

  He went more slowly now, investigating every place where they might have landed. They probably would have gone up one of the many rivers. He sailed up the Bian until he reached a small village. There the villagers were so curious about his white skin that he knew they could not have seen the Hunts and Captain Ted Murphy. They appeared to think that he must be a god, so he acted like one. He commanded them to bring out food, for even a god must eat.

  He was very hungry - but promptly lost his appetite when he saw what they set before him, preserved grasshoppers, raw beetles, and worms that they had dug out of rotten logs and boiled in blood. Whether it was animal or human blood, there was no way of knowing.

  He forced himself to eat all of it and washed it down with river water. He fought a desire to throw it up.

  For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he had not been so smart after all. If he had stayed in the prison he might be dining on the choicest foods of Australia.

  His spirits rose a little when they brought him dessert. But alas it was another disappointment. In the stone bowl was one of those giant spiders big enough to catch birds, nicely boiled, and sprinkled with crickets. He refused the dish. It was taken away and replaced by a baby python, guaranteed to be fresh because it was still alive. He was aware that the villagers considered this to be a very special treat, since to their taste snake meat was much better than chicken.

  Angrily he threw the snake out on the ground and cursed the people who had gathered around to watch him enjoy it. They responded to his anger by cursing him, and one approached with a stone axe that would easily split his head in two with one blow.

  He found it wise to retreat to his boat and get under way down the river, dodging the rocks they threw at him from the bank.

  He wished he were back in jail.

  He continued along the coast, probing every river. He slept in the boat. The roof of the cabin leaked and when heavy rains fell he would wake in the morning soaked to the skin. He hated the natives and they hated him.

  He inquired everywhere about the three whites but got no answer - until at one village a witch doctor came out to meet him as he beached his boat.

  “Have you seen a ship and three white men?’ Kaggs asked.

  The witch doctor’s eyes narrowed and he answered cautiously, ‘Do you wish them well or do you wish them harm?’

  ‘Harm,’ said Kaggs.

  The witch doctor smiled. ‘Then I will tell you. They are in the next valley, up the Eilanden River.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I saw them there. I was the headman of the village. They turned the people against me and I had to leave. What do you intend to do to them?’

  ‘Kill them.’

  ‘Good. I have put a curse on them and I will put a charm on you. Also I will give you an axe, and a bow and arrows, and a spear.’

  Rather than all these weapons. Kaggs would have preferred to have just one revolver. But he took them and went hastily on his way along the rocky coast, then up the Eilanden.

  He turned of! the engine every once in a while to listen. When he finally heard the chatter of a village around a turn, he hid his boat in a cove and crept through the jungle until he could see the village.

  Just off shore floated the ship Flying Cloud. His search was ended.

  He went back to his boat and quietly floated it downstream to a more secure hiding place. Then he sat down to make plans.

  Chapter 14

  You, ten thousand years ago

  You, as you were at the dawn of civilization - what were you like, what did you do, how did you act?

  ‘It’s a bit creepy,’ Hal said. ‘Like a dream. I keep thinking that these cannibals are probably just as I was, or my ancestor was, ten thousand years ago. I see myself back in the Stone Age.’

  ‘Well,’ Roger said, ‘what do you think of yourself?’

  ‘I think I was a pretty dumb cluck.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Roger said comfortingly. ‘Perhaps in another ten thousand years you’ll get over it.’

  The river was handy and Hal doused his brother’s head into it.

  The boys were rapidly picking up the simple language of these simple people. They could talk with them a little now. Every day they learnt more about their strange habits.

  They had made friends with Pavo, head of the village now that the witch doctor had been expelled. Pavo sat beside them, counting the hens’ eggs he had taken out of a boa constrictor.

  Pavo was proud of his hens because they laid many eggs. While the hen was away from the nest the snake had invaded the nests and swallowed the eggs. Pavo had taken a sharp stone knife, cut the snake open, and found that the eggs had not been broken or even cracked.

  Now he was counting them, but how curiously he did it. He started by touching the five fingers of his left hand, then the left wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm, shoulder, neck, ear, temple, forehead, then the same parts on the right side of his body, ending up with the little finger of his right hand. That made twenty-seven. It was as high as he could count. But there were two eggs left. Since he could not count them, he broke them open and swallowed the contents.

  Pavo had a pen but could not write. He had admired HaTs ballpoint pen and Hal had made him a present of it. It was the colour of gold and the headman considered it a fine ornament. So he took out the boar’s tusk which he usually wore in his nose, and forced the pen through instead. It really was prettier than the tusk. His friends thought it very fine, especially when he pressed the nubbin at one end of the pen and made the point pop out at the other end as if by magic.

  ‘I wonder if he understands what writing is all about,’ Roger said.

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t ten thousand years ago,’ Hal said. There was no such thing as writing then.’

  ‘How about the Egyptians?’

  They didn’t start till later. And then they didn’t really write - they drew pictures. We’ll try him and see what he thinks of it.’

  Pavo had rinsed his eggs in the river, then had taken them back and replaced them in the nests. The hens at once returned to their nests and covered the eggs with their warm bodies.

  Hal was writing in his notebook. He noticed that Pavo was looking on, seeming to wonder that Hal should waste his time making these silly wiggles and squiggles.

  ‘Let’s show him that writing can really do something,’ Hal said. ‘You go ova: to the house of one of our friends. I’ll send him over with a note and you give him what the note asks for. That will show him what power there is in a pencil.’

  Roger went and sat down in the doorway of a house. Hal showed Pavo a fish resting near the bank. He made a thrusting motion with his hand as if he wanted to spear the fish. Pavo nodded - he
understood that Hal wanted a spear.

  A man had been chipping a log nearby to make a dugout canoe.

  Hal took up one of the chips and wrote on it ‘spear’.

  He gave it to Pavo and said, ‘Roger,’ and signalled towards the house.

  Pavo looked at the wood and the mark on it and seemed quite bewildered. Finally he set off with the chip in his hand and a wondering look on his face as if he thought Hal must be a little out of his head. He went to Roger and handed him the chip. Roger, without a word, went into the house, picked up a spear and gave it to Pavo.

  Pavo came back to Hal bringing the chip as well as the spear and looked at Hal as if he were a worker of miracles. Breathlessly he handed over the spear then rushed off to his friends waving the chip.

  ‘Look what the white man has done,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘See this wood. He made it talk. I took it to Roger and it told him everything. It talked!’

  It was the first this village had ever known of the miracle of writing. For days they marvelled over ‘the chip that talked’.

  Not only was writing a mystery to these people of the Stone Age but pictures also puzzled them. Hal brought a magazine from the ship, together with some photographs. On the magazine cover was a picture of a hippopotamus. Pavo and his friends looked at it without understanding.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Pavo. ‘A house?’

  ‘No,’ said someone else, ‘a tree.’

  Pavo opened the cover and looked at the back of it. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  Hal showed them a photograph of Roger.

  ‘Ah,’ said Pavo. ‘This I know. It is a kangaroo.’

  ‘No,’ said an old man. ‘That is a wild pig.’

  Others thought it might be a shark or a barracuda or an octopus.

  They turned the photograph over and could not understand why the beast did not stick out behind.

  Hal told them it was a picture of Roger.

  Pavo shook his head. ‘Kangaroo,’ he insisted. He proved it by putting his finger on a bush that partly hid Roger’s legs. Roger looked as if he were up a tree, and the New Guinea species of kangaroo does climb trees. What more proof would you want?