Again, the two took turns on watch while the captive slept. In the morning, Johnny opened two cans of stew and warmed them on the kerosene stove. He opened a can of peach slices, and distributed the food on three plates. Afterwards Footy gathered the dirty plates and cutlery and went to the river. He studied it suspiciously as he approached. When he was reasonably sure no big predator lay in wait, he washed the things, glancing nervously around.
They hit the trail again. Sometimes now, the path disappeared entirely, so Johnny had to cut a way with his machete.
Two more days went by as the men trekked out of the mountains. The Raub River alternated between boiling rapids and smoother stretches of fast water that tumbled from the high country toward the plains.
Somewhat to his surprise, Johnny found he was enjoying the journey. Each day his legs grew thicker with muscle, and the wound site in his chest hurt less. The nagging discomfort was that he was always hungry, craving fresh meat and greens. But it was sweet relief to be out of the hospital and the endless days in bed. Sometimes the pack strap cut into his scar and got it aching. Then he bore the weight in his hands, and distracted himself by looking at the countryside.
In this pristine wilderness, there were abundant Birds of Paradise, flocks of parrots, and many feathered species he did not know. Gorgeous orchids hung from branches, tree ferns towered overhead, and there was a profusion of fragrant blossoms. On the rainforest floor, strange toadstools and fungi grew. The insects were legion. There were butterflies in rainbow colors, giant moths that flapped through the gloom, and beetles with horned heads. There were some two or more feet long that looked like sticks, complete with leaves and bark, but had six legs.
On the afternoon of the third day out of Kissim, the men’s spirits soared when they heard the unmistakable hum of engines.
“A plane!” Johnny shouted.
“A DC-3, I reckon,” Footy called.
They charged for the river and burst onto the rocky bank. Longingly, they stared in the direction of the sound. Each strained to see the silver flash that would be their rescue. But the rumble became a drone, and then faded away. Long after it was gone, the men waited. At last they were forced to admit it was hopeless.
Footy strung together a flamboyant string of words. He threw himself down and put his head in his hands. Even the Japanese slumped on a rock. The lost opportunity was harder to bear than nothing at all.
“Let’s just sleep here tonight,” Footy muttered. Johnny picked up a rock and hurled it into the water.
“And what about the Father?”
The Aussie’s head flew up and he stared at the river.
“Aww yeh,” he said. “Got me head on crook. Let’s move off—much farther off.” And they did.
They heated more cans for dinner. After, they smoked. When he had a half-inch of unfiltered Camel left, Johnny handed it to the prisoner. The man sucked it down so far, he scorched his fingers and muttered.
“You’re going soft,” Footy scoffed at Johnny.
The two did an inventory of their remaining food. The bread was long gone, and they had enough hardtack for one more day. There was half a bag of coffee, but no powdered milk, and only a twist of sugar. There was only one more can of corned beef, another of baked beans and two more stews. There were two cans of fruit cocktail, and that was it.
“It’s enough for one more day—two if we stretch it and go hungry,” Johnny said.
“I’m already starved. We have to find some gardens,” Footy said.
“Sure,” Johnny agreed. “But gardens mean natives—and you know the rest.”
“Bleedin’ Valley of the ruddy Cannibals, mate,” Footy nodded. “Bloody problem.”
Johnny tied the Japanese for the night, then wandered back to the river for some time on his own. He sat on a boulder staring at the flow of water. Again, he thought about Gwyn. She probably thinks I’m dead. He pictured himself surprising her—I’m back! He’d pick her up in his arms and kiss her full on the mouth. The intensity of the image shocked him.
Where did that come from? And what a crock, his killer mind mocked. Have you got malaria? You need to be thinking about getting off this river and on to Japan! Besides, she doesn’t even like you.
Oh yeah? a voice answered in his head. Then why did she say she’d have dinner with me? Johnny knew he had a crush on Gwyn, he might as well admit it. But once again, he lectured himself, there was no future in it. Not here, not now. For years, his plans had been brutally simple. Find the enemy—make him pay. But now, wherever his thoughts turned, there she was.
Johnny steered away from her and turned to General MacArthur and the Philippines. I think it’s the 1st of August today. August! Has my unit left for Okinawa without me? He was flooded again with the sense of urgency. I need to be there! If this “three day mission” had gone right, I’d be on a ship to Manila by now!
Johnny saw a movement on the river and his heart jumped. A shadow ghosted along. A whirlpool spun out there, and something huge slid into it. He stared until a branch came up, shaking leaves, and he knew it was only a waterlogged tree caught in the spiral.
Where’s that monster croc? Johnny remembered Dingo bloodied between those cruel teeth, and the way he had struggled before the brute took him into the river. During the war, Johnny had seen men die in all kinds of ways. He’d even witnessed death by crocodile. He and a platoon of GIs had been fording a river. They were wading through chest-deep water when the man beside Johnny let out a scream and went under. There was nothing but a bloodstain on the surface, and the rest of them ran. It was over that fast. But the Father had taken Dingo on land, and he knew the Major had realized exactly what was happening.
To be eaten alive! Johnny shivered. To know you were no more in the end than a croc’s meal! Again, Johnny saw the glower the crocodile had given him after he shot its foot off. I hope the thing bled to death! But don’t count on it, he warned himself. Do not count on that!
It was almost dark. He went back to camp, made sure the prisoner’s bonds were secure, and strung his hammock. In pitch black now, he sat on a fallen log for the first watch. Footy rolled in his blanket and soon was snoring. The prisoner snuffled deeply as well. Soon they had a duet going. At least it was company, Johnny thought.
On the fifth morning since they departed Kissim, the men found themselves hiking beside a much wider Raub. Since early this morning, they’d seen increasing evidence of humans. Most obviously, there were crimson blobs beside the path. Betel spit, from the mouths of cannibals. No longer did Johnny have to swing his machete. Now he and Footy walked on high alert, their rifles ready. By early afternoon, the terrain changed. They entered a deepening gorge. The banks were jungle-covered cliffs that towered higher and higher on each side.
Late in the afternoon, their trail dead-ended into a wider path. Johnny held up a hand and the other two stopped. The new trail was more than a yard across, packed hard by the passage of hundreds of feet. Now the foliage on each side was uniformly stained red.
His rifle at his shoulder, Johnny stepped onto the wide path and whirled in each direction. There was no one to be seen. He waved the others out.
“Kanaka highway!” Footy mouthed. Johnny nodded and continued in the downriver direction. The rosy light of sunset was spilling through the woods. He quickened his pace. Danger was all around, and they had to find a hiding place to wait out the night.
The gloom deepened. Then, ahead, Johnny saw the trees thin out. Again he held up a hand. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for the others to get down. He crept forward alone, got on his belly and crawled the last few feet. He parted the undergrowth and gazed out.
He was looking down a grassy slope to the river a hundred and fifty yards off. Stretching away was a wide, long valley, between sheer mountain slopes. The river wound like a fat brown snake down the center.
Back in Kissim, Johnny had been certain that following the Raub was their best hope for survival. But now they were here, he was overwhelmed
with uncertainty. And his heart was in his throat, because he was staring at hundreds of living, breathing Mambu savages.
Spread out before him was the Valley of the Cannibals.
CHAPTER 5
Johnny crept back and brought Footy and the Japanese forward. They crawled to the vantage place in the undergrowth. In the fading sunset, the trio saw the broad Raub meandering through the valley. The land on either side was garden-plots in shades of green. Steep mountains thick with jungle flanked each side. What did Dingo say? He’d seen it from the air. “Impossible to pass that way.” In the far distance, mountains pinched into another gorge.
Dotted all across the landscape were Mambu people. Women toiled in the gardens. Men talked in groups. Some on the river stood upright and paddled their dugout canoes. Crowds were congregating on the trails, returning to the villages for the night.
There are thousands of them! Johnny counted five villages, beginning with the nearest one about two miles away. Each had a perimeter fence and lay beneath a pall of smoke, no doubt from the cooking fires. The largest one was in the far distance, near the end of the valley. Maybe a six-hour walk, maybe more.
He heard something and glanced that way. He froze when he saw a squad of warriors coming. He gave Footy and the prisoner a warning touch. Nine Mambu came single-file along the path. They were armed with bows, axes, spears and clubs, and were naked except for the long yellow gourds hiding their penises. Johnny did not think it was a war party. Border patrol, he guessed.
The warriors gazed all around with keen eyes. They passed within thirty feet of the watchers, and continued towards the river. Johnny’s group waited behind cover as the last sunlight climbed the eastern slopes and exploded into the clouds, dying them crimson, then dusky rose, then charcoal. The first stars flickered over the peaks.
In the near darkness, the three crawled back into the forest. They pushed away from the trail into dense forest. Fifty yards in, encircled by trees, they stopped.
“We sleep here. No stove,” Johnny whispered.
“Not even a ciggy,” Footy agreed. Johnny untied the prisoner’s hands. Footy opened a can of beans and another of stew and the two men ate this cold, leaving a portion in the bottom for the prisoner. They remained hungry, but all they had left was fruit cocktail, and that was their breakfast. Not only do we have to get through this deadly place, but we’re going to have to beg or steal food from the cannibals, Johnny thought grimly. It seemed an impossible task, and he pushed it out of his mind.
Johnny tied the prisoner for the night. He did not bother to hang his hammock: he’d sleep on the ground. We may have to be up and fighting for our lives in a heartbeat. It was Footy’s turn to take the first watch.
“The valley is huge,” Johnny whispered as he lay down. “It's going to take all day to cross.”
“If we get across,” Footy said. “Dingo says no one’s ever gone in there...”
“Yeh, yeh,” Johnny interrupted. “At least we’ve got surprise going for us. We’ll march straight through. If we have to, we‘ll shoot their ringleaders and run.”
“And that’s your plan?” Footy hissed.
Johnny spread his hammock on the leaves and stretched out on it. Footy sat with his rifle. The captive seemed to fall asleep at once, and Johnny envied him. He just couldn’t get there. He knew he needed rest and a clear head for the perilous day tomorrow, and he squeezed his eyes closed, but the minutes lumbered by. He heard every sound in the jungle, and each time Footy shifted.
At long last he drifted off—only to be shaken awake. It was his watch.
Two miles away, a Mambu sentry stared at the river. Every night, the warriors guarded the gorges at each end of the valley. These were the vulnerable points through which any enemy must enter. Once more tonight, he did his duty, even though no foe had been foolish enough to attack the Mambu in their territory during his lifetime. The Mambu-ato, their war chief, had issued his orders, and his elite guard came by regularly to ensure they were followed, on pain of death.
The clan the sentry belonged to must obey. Twice a day, he and his kinsmen patrolled the perimeter. Every night, they watched the gorge and the river. If a sentry fell asleep, his own relatives would beat him senseless, for if it was the Mambu-ato’s guards who found him instead of them, he would pay with his head. In addition, there would be a fine of women, pigs and weapons laid upon the entire village.
The warrior watched the river and kept himself awake with buai. His brothers and cousins slept beside him. It was shaping up to be another long and eventless night.
Suddenly he leapt to his feet. Something moved on the face of the deep! It was hard to see in the starlight, but it might be an enemy canoe, a crocodile, or a piece of driftwood. He saw it again. The thing was huge! Add that to all the supernatural events of recent days, and there was reason for his consternation.
One moon ago, an elder-woman renowned for her trances had seen the river god in her dreams. Her familiar spirits awakened her and guided her through the sleeping nation. There, under the cold face of the full moon, she witnessed a portentous event.
When it was over, she scurried to the war chief’s men’s house and roused the guards. While she waited outside, they woke the Mambu-ato. Respected as she was, if she had dared to enter the realm of the warriors, she would have been cut down. As it was, her life was on the line. The chief was notoriously cranky when his sleep was disturbed.
Within minutes, his close advisors spilled out like angry ants. They brought the wooden chair from which he held court. Its back was carved in a high arch, a totem crocodile on each side, snouts meeting overhead. They placed this ready for the Mambu-ato, while shamen and warriors arranged themselves by rank around the native throne.
At last Bumay, the Mambu-ato himself, came out yawning and threw himself into his seat. He was a powerfully built young man, sulky and half awake. He adjusted the hastily tied gourd that pinched his testicles, raised a leg and scratched a fleabite on his hind end. He called for buai, a nut was given to him, and he began to chew. A sorcerer commanded the crone to speak. How dare she disturb the chief, and the leaders? Bumay squirted spittle on the ground and stared at her.
The woman spoke. The Papa of the pookpook had come to the nation once more. It had been many years, but he had returned. She described her dream and the way the spirits led her to the river. There she saw the deity—the giant pookpook with the moon on its head. Watched by its sister in the sky, the Mambu-matu went by. Although the incarnation of the river’s power had not been observed within the lifetime of many of those gathered, she had seen it in her youth, and there was no doubt. The Chief was wide-awake now, his petulance forgotten in the face of this stupendous news.
“What must we do?” he asked his sorcerers. The deity must be propitiated, they replied. If not, the dark power would consume the Mambu people. It would feed on them until they divined what had brought it here. Ultimately, they would have to perform all the correct rituals, and make human sacrifices. How much better, the elders argued, to do what must be done at once!
Bumay responded decisively. By first light, a war party composed of scores of his best fighters was milling in front of his spirit house. While the shamen beat drums and cast spells to guarantee success in the manhunt, the warriors got ready. They rubbed their bodies with black grease and painted one another. They donned towering white egret headdresses, chose their weapons, and followed the Mambu-ato out. They streamed through the fence and took to the trail through the downriver gorge. The war chief broke into a trot as they went towards their neighbors, their favorite enemies.
Two days later they returned, dragging four live captives. Often the marauders were only able to bring back dead meat, but the rituals to appease the Father required living sacrifices. This time, they had been fortunate. Three of their prisoners were the usual Uhuli men. But the fourth was an exotic addition. This was a foreigner with yellow skin. The fact that he was emaciated to the point of starvation did not detract fro
m his value as a rare specimen.
In a costumed ceremony attended by the entire nation, the victims were sacrificed on the river’s edge. While the crocodile did not deign to make an appearance, the river, of course, was watching.
The men’s heads were severed from their bodies. The Mambu-ato himself took the yellow man’s head off with a blow of his axe.
The skulls were mounted on spears set in the riverbank. The priests carved prize pieces of the meat, and then the carcasses were floated on banana log rafts into the stream, intended for the Father. The dead heads oversaw their bodies drift away.
Bumay had the testicles roasted on sticks, and ate several of the succulent morsels that were so good for absorbing a man’s power. He distributed the rest to his favorites. Other cuts were passed among the people, so all could have a taste. There was considerable interest in sampling the foreigner by those with a penchant for the exotic. They pronounced the taste spicy, but not as good as the usual Uhuli flesh.
As the days passed, the shamen informed the Mambu-ato that the slaughter and the gifts to the river had worked their magic. The Father refrained from preying on the nation. In fact, the great pookpook was gone.
Now the sentry who saw the movement on the river roused his kinsmen. Together, they gazed at the ghostly scene. And then, all of them saw it. A giant shape slid along the surface. There was no doubt. It was the Mambu-matu. Strong magic and great events were afoot, and the men were frightened. It was one thing to face a human enemy in a fight, but this was a spiritual force, and when the great ones appeared, the people were bound to suffer.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 17
