The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  “Nem blong mi Billy,” I said slowly, showing off my linguistic skills before Kaz could beat me to the punch. I spoke slowly, so the native would be sure to understand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Billy. I’m John Kari,” he said, speaking English that would pass muster in Parliament. I pretended not to hear Deanna giggle as Kaz introduced himself. In plain English, of course.

  “John Kari speak English pretty damn good, eh?” Jacob Vouza said, grinning as he came aboard, well-armed himself. This got another round of laughter.

  “Now don’t you two worry about the looks of this ship,” Porter said as Kari went below to start the engine. “It’s a bonzer vessel, and that’s the dinkum oil.”

  “Silas not speak English so good, eh?” Vouza said, laughing and slapping the Aussie on the back as they crowded into the small bridge. Engine noises rumbled up from below deck as Kari popped up from the engine room hatch.

  “It’s a fine ship, and that’s the straight truth,” Kari translated. “Silas lays on the Australian pretty thick when he first meets an American. All in good fun. He’s really a bastard.” He disappeared with a smirk on his face as Deanna cast off the lines and we headed out.

  “Does anyone here speak plain old American English?” I asked.

  “Sorry, mate, we’re having a bit of fun with ya,” Silas said as he leaned back. “We call a good friend a bastard. Meaning he’s a good egg.”

  “But not the Englishmen,” Jacob said as the boat picked up speed.

  “No, never,” Silas grinned. “Then he’s a Pommie bastard, and that’s a real bastard!” They both laughed, and I wondered at the wisdom of an ocean-going voyage with these madmen.

  We left Tulagi and circled around Florida Island, getting our first view of Malaita in the distance. Smoke belched from the stack as the engine chugged and wheezed, but the boat moved at a decent clip. Bonzer enough for this short crossing.

  “I understand Jacob is taking you to see Daniel,” Deanna said, the wind nearly whipping her words away.

  “Perhaps not all of him,” I said. “Do you know what he’s talking about? Are there headhunters on Malaita?”

  “No,” Deanna said. “They’re in New Guinea. It’s better that you see for yourself. Keep in mind this has much religious significance for Jacob and his people. While many Malaitians have taken to Christianity, they still revere their ancestors. And Daniel is with the ancestors now.”

  “Well, I’ve been to a few Irish wakes, so I’m familiar with strange burial customs. Tell me, are you expecting trouble over there? You’re all loaded for bear.”

  “Bear?” Kari said, poking his head above deck.

  “Ready for anything,” Kaz explained. I was glad we had some jargon of our own to throw back at him.

  “Ah, yes,” Kari said. “You must always be ready in the Solomons. Even though there has not been much fighting on Malatia, the Japanese have landed there a number of times. They had an observation post at the north end of the island, working much as we do to warn of attacks.”

  “What happened to it?” Kaz asked.

  “Marines raided it,” Kari said. “There were about thirty Japs. Most were killed or captured. A few escaped into the bush but the Malaitamen caught up with them.” He drew a finger across his throat.

  “They still land troops and patrol the island looking for Coastwatchers and radioing back intelligence,” Deanna said. “But they don’t stay long. They get no help from the natives and soon they’re out of food and ready to leave Malaita behind.”

  “Do we know if there are any Japs there now?” I asked.

  “You never know, mate,” Porter said from the bridge. “Always assume the enemy is right around the bend.”

  The wind and waves picked up, and Kaz went below to the small cabin to be miserable. I stayed topside, staring at the horizon the way my dad had taught me, to minimize the pitching sensation. Soon we drew close to Malaita, the shore now visible and the water calmer. I clambered up to the bridge to get a better view.

  “Is that where we’re headed?” I asked, as a cluster of huts at the water’s edge came into view.

  “Wouldn’t go in there,” Porter said. “That’s Laulasi. Back when you Yanks landed at Guadalcanal, seven of your planes bombed Laulasi, thinking it was the Jap observation post up at Afufu. Killed twenty-eight people, mostly kids. So we don’t go to Laulasi much, and never with a Yank in tow.”

  I watched the village as we motored by, wondering what it must have been like for people who lived such a primitive life to watch bombs dropped on their children. Not that dropping bombs was all that civilized to begin with.

  Fifteen minutes later, Porter eased the boat toward a small bay, steering between coral reefs and letting the waves usher the boat into calm waters. Ahead, a river emptied into the bay, and Porter guided the craft to the cover of sheltering palms.

  “That’s that,” he said. “Japs shouldn’t spot us from the air, at least.”

  We debarked, Kaz wasting no time getting onto dry land. Vouza led the way into the bush, with Porter at the rear. We stayed on a trail along the riverbank for about a half mile, then went into the bush. The hot air was thick with humidity and the sunlight faded as we pressed on under the dense canopy and through the thick undergrowth. All around us vines wound around tree trunks and hung from branches, snaking up from black muck like parasites, choking the trees. There was nothing of the pleasant sea breeze that wafted over Tulagi here. The cloying odor of rotting leaves and wood rising from the mud assaulted our nostrils, and I was already soaked in sweat.

  “Welcome to Malaita,” Vouza said, glancing back at us. He was barefoot, wearing only a lap-lap, and he looked totally at ease.

  “Can you tell us where we are going, Jacob?” Kaz said, leaning on the cane as I gasped for breath.

  “Kwaiafa,” Vouza said. “Up the mountain.”

  “There isn’t a road?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is road,” Vouza said. “But long way around. We take shortcut. You need rest?”

  “I don’t,” Deanna said, taking a swig from her canteen.

  “Not me,” I chimed in, wishing Deanna had wanted to take ten. We soldiered on.

  “Where are you stationed?” I asked John Kari as we crossed a small river at the base of a thirty-foot waterfall. We stopped to scoop up the clear water and rinse our faces. The open air was refreshing after the jungle gloom, and even Jacob paused to stare off into the clouds. Or maybe he was on watch for Jap aircraft.

  “San Jorge Island,” Kari said. “Off the coast of Santa Isabel, next island up the chain. Perfect for coastwatching; a nice mountain peak with a view of the Slot and plenty of bush to hide in.”

  “Friendly natives,” Porter chimed in. “To us at least. Not like Malaita, not one bit.”

  “Because of the bombing, you mean?” Kaz asked, soaking his cap in the cool water.

  “No,” Vouza said, his eyes still on the sky. “Some Malaitamen still cannibal. High up on mountain.” With that, he climbed the riverbank and vanished into the lush green.

  “Isn’t that where we’re going?” I asked as the group hurried to follow him. No one answered, and I ran to catch up.

  “The villages along the coast have all become Christian,” Deanna explained as we came out of the thick jungle and assembled on a narrow footpath. “But the farther up the mountain, the more they cling to the old ways. Ancestor worship and occasional cannibalism, from what I understand.”

  “It’s not occasional if you’re the one in the pot,” I said.

  Vouza signaled for us to wait, and went ahead to scout.

  “They’ll probably only roast your liver,” Kari said. “So don’t worry about being boiled alive.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “No, it’s true,” Kari said. “The liver, I mean. Malaita cannibalism is ceremonial, to show disdai
n for a defeated enemy. The point is not the actual eating of flesh, but taking an extreme form of vengeance. At least that’s what I have read on the subject.”

  “Let us hope we can continue to rely on secondary sources,” Kaz said.

  Vouza reappeared and motioned for us to get a move on. I thought I caught a glance of movement in the thick greenery, but then it was gone. I picked up my pace, forgetting about the rivers of sweat running down my back.

  Fifteen minutes later, we came to a small gorge with a sluggish stream at the bottom. Three logs had been felled to form a crude bridge. On the other side, a half dozen or so native buildings stood in a half circle facing the stream. They were on stilts and thatched with palm fronds. Women and children gathered to watch our arrival.

  Vouza led the way across the bridge. As I glanced back to make sure we were all there, six native men quietly stepped out of the bush. Not a single leaf or branch moved as they took to the trail and followed across the bridge, rifles slung on their shoulders.

  The villagers gathered around Vouza and the six men flanked us, holding their rifles at the ready. Four British Lee-Enfields and two Japanese Arisaka models.

  “What’s going on, Jacob?” I said, not certain if this was our escort or our guards.

  “Japs,” he said evenly. “But far away. No wari.”

  Deanna was the center of attention, the children swarming her and chattering in Pijin. Kari and Porter stayed with her as she set up shop on the porch of the largest house, where the armed men stood watch.

  An older woman approached Vouza with leaves and flowers held in a thick, large leaf, rolled and tied tight. The fragrance rose up from her hands as Vouza took the greenery and spoke to her. It gave off a sweet, pleasant odor, like walking through a garden in bloom. They spoke in low voices while the woman patted Vouza’s hand, tears in her eyes. She walked away, ignoring us.

  “Daniel’s mada,” he said, then held the bouquet to his nose and inhaled. “She wrap puchupuchu in taro leaf. Now, I take you to Daniel.” It wasn’t far, a few hundred yards from the village, but there was no trail or sign that others had come this way.

  The smell hit us before we saw it.

  Flies swarmed and buzzed as we approached a cairn of rocks. I swatted at the darting insects as I tried to make out what was protruding from the rock pile, breathing in quick, shallow gasps.

  It was a head. Daniel’s head.

  His eyes and lips were gone, all the soft flesh eaten or rotted away in the fetid jungle heat. The outline of his skull was clearly visible, hidden only by patches of dried skin. Kaz and I had seen death before, but this was something new. The autopsies I’d attended in Boston were nothing compared to what came next.

  Vouza grabbed the head and twisted. A cracking sound marked the severing of the neck from the spinal column. Kaz turned away. I wanted to, but the scene was so unreal I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  “This is ravuravauni,” Vouza said, standing over the cairn which presumably enclosed Daniel’s body. He waved his package of leaves at the flies zooming around the head.

  “The grave?” I asked.

  “No, no grave. Only hed is important. Only hed matters,” he said, tapping his own skull. He unrolled the leaves and flowers and began to stuff them into the mouth, eye sockets, and nasal passages. “Good puchupuchu,” he added, rubbing the remaining leaves into his hands. “Now Daniel ready.”

  “For what?” Kaz asked, steadying himself on Jack’s cane as he stepped closer.

  “Clean,” Vouza said. “We go down to the beach. Then you lukim Daniel’s hed. He sit in the sun for few days, then go rest with ancestors.” He carefully wrapped the head in the giant taro leaves and tied it off with vine. Holding it under one arm, he took his rifle in the other and started off. We trotted along after him, glad the puchupuchu had done its job.

  “There,” Vouza said as we neared the village. Farther up the hill were a group of small wooden structures. They were steep-roofed and decorated with necklaces and other garlands. Inside, protected from the elements, were stacks of skulls. “Ancestors.”

  “Fascinating,” Kaz said as we hurried to keep pace with Vouza. “This reminds me of Hallstatt, an Alpine village in Austria.”

  “Austria is probably the last place this island reminds me of,” I said.

  “They share a similarity,” Kaz said. “Lack of proper ground for burials. Hallstatt is perched between a steep mountain and a deep lake. People can be buried in the church graveyard for only a year. Then they are disinterred and their bones deposited in the church crypt. The skulls are prominently displayed. I happened upon a disinterment procession when I was touring the country. Quite festive, actually.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “We haven’t seen much cleared land. Those giant roots and vines would make hard going for a gravedigger.”

  “Yes,” Kaz said, warming to his theory. “And the climate is perfect for rapid decomposition. The combination of salt water and sand makes for a viable cleaning agent. We should be able to make out Daniel’s wound quite clearly.”

  The path to the beach took us down the other side of the mountain, to the eastern shore of the narrow island. Waves broke over a coral reef, sending sprays of saltwater into the air. Before us stood open ocean, the great South Pacific. The view was marred by nothing more than a few white, fluffy clouds and the horizon looked a million miles away. The wind off the water was refreshingly cool after the trek from the village, and Kaz and I plunked ourselves down as Vouza unwrapped the head of Daniel Tamana.

  The odor of death wafted up on the breeze as he peeled away the taro leaves. He wordlessly removed the puchupuchu and carried the head into the water, giving it a thorough soaking. Then he rubbed the fine white sand all over it, seemingly oblivious to the decayed skin and flesh sloughing off. More water, more sand, more rubbing, followed by careful, delicate scraping with his knife. I wondered what had happened to the brain matter, but we remained silent, aware that this was a funeral ritual as sacred as any church service.

  “Daniel is ready,” Vouza said, setting the skull on a taro leaf and placing it before us. The surface of the bone was clean, the smell of decay nearly gone. Vouza turned and walked into the water, bathing himself, rubbing gobs of wet sand over his hands.

  “Here,” Kaz said in a whisper that seemed appropriate to the moment. He placed a finger in a depression on the rear of Daniel’s skull, behind the ear. “His parietal bone was evidently struck.”

  I took Jack’s cane and held the round knob at the top against the indentation. It was a perfect fit. A killing blow.

  “Cane blong Jack?” Vouza said, standing over us with his rifle in hand.

  “Cane blong Jack,” Kaz said. “But it might not be the cane that killed Daniel, or someone other than Jack could have used it. It might have been given to Jack to frame him for the murder.”

  “Maybe,” Vouza said. “Maybe not.” He lifted Daniel’s skull from the ground and placed it in the cleft of a rock overlooking the beach. “Morning sun work on Daniel. Three, four days, he be ready to join ancestors. Nice and clean, white like teeth. Come, we leave him alone now.”

  What took a half hour going down took three times as long going up. Finally we came to the village, where Jacob Vouza received another warm welcome. He seemed much loved by his people, or perhaps it was because of the ceremony he’d conducted. Or both. Deanna was finishing up with her last patient, a child with a laceration on his leg. Deanna sprinkled sulfa powder on the wound, singing to the child as she wrapped a bandage around the thin limb.

  Porter and one of the natives were engaged in a rapid-fire Pijin conversation. He was pretty good at it. The native indicated the general direction of our boat, and I was able to make out “Japan fella” but nothing else.

  “A Jap pilot was shot down over the Slot,” Porter told us. “He parachuted and landed close to shore near our b
oat.”

  “What about the Jap patrol?” Vouza asked.

  “They’ve been spotted on the coast road from Malu’u,” Porter answered. “They must have seen it, too.”

  “Good,” Vouza said. “We get pilot and kill many fella Jap, too.”

  “We should get a move on,” Porter said. “It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  Vouza nodded, accepting a drink of water from a gourd given him by the old woman we’d seen earlier. Four of the native men trotted off across the bridge and melted into the bush.

  “Are you sure we can handle that?” I asked. “We’re not exactly a combat patrol.”

  “Most assuredly,” Kari said with a grin, the excitement causing his voice to rise. “There is a ten-thousand-dollar bounty for every live pilot we bring in.”

  “Even split three ways, it’s damn good money,” Porter said. “Sorry, mate, only goes for Coastwatchers.”

  “Don’t let me stand in the way of cash money,” I said, with more bravado than conviction.

  Vouza said his goodbyes to the villagers and made for the bridge. We followed to the cries and laughter of children saying goodbye to Deanna, trailing us as we crossed the ravine.

  “You’re popular everywhere you go,” I said.

  “Who doesn’t like Amelia Earhart?” she answered.

  Our exchange drew a muted hush from Vouza. Deanna unslung her carbine, and suddenly the jungle seemed even more threatening than ever.

  We stayed on the path this time, wending our way down switchbacks until mountain steepness gave way to rolling hills. I saw one of the natives come out from the bush ahead and talk with Vouza before vanishing again. We had an escort. Which meant there was something close we needed protection from.

  I unsnapped my holster.

  Twenty minutes later we came to the river, probably the same one we’d crossed farther upstream when we went cross-country. Vouza motioned for us to wait, and we moved into the underbrush along the riverbank. I drew my automatic, feeling the sweat in the palm of my hands. I looked at Vouza, who put a finger to his lips. He didn’t need to tell me twice.