The warriors muttered anxiously to one another and stared until the moon went down. Come tomorrow, they must report all this to the war chief.
Johnny was surfing. He stood on the ocean, the foam swirling around his ankles, the arc of the wave over his head. There was a roar of water and he felt the surge of power through his feet. He glanced down and there was his long wooden surfboard. He was glad to see it! He’d lost it years ago. Now here it was again!
He looked at the translucent rising water and tried to turn into it, but the board had become sluggish and would not respond. He glanced down and saw with horror that his feet rode the back of the enormous crocodile.
The head as big as his body turned back over its shoulder and Johnny saw the moon scar, but it was red, and blood dripped from it and ran like tears around the yellow eye. They fell into the ocean and stained it crimson. He was transfixed by the huge teeth along the rough mouth, and the way it curved in a knowing grin.
The crocodile opened its jaws and it lunged back at him. He tried to leap away, but could not move, and the teeth bit into his wounded shoulder.
Johnny grunted and Footy’s hand went from shaking him to covering his mouth. Then Johnny remembered. This was the day they must walk through the Valley of the Cannibals. There they would confront the most feared warriors in New Guinea, and somehow get across. He looked around and saw first light filtering down through the forest giants.
There’s a good chance we won’t see sunset, the soldier spoke up. But let’s get on with it. This is as good a day as any to die. Johnny crawled to the prisoner and untied him.
Footy opened the can of fruit and ate the first third. Johnny went next, then handed it with the spoon to “the Jap,” who finished it and drank every drop of syrup. Johnny tied his hands in front again.
Johnny and Footy double-checked the load in their firearms. When they had their packs and headgear on, rifles in hand, Johnny pulled out the cigarettes. He put one between his lips, gave another to Footy, and on impulse, handed one to the captive. Looking surprised, the man took it in bound hands and dipped his head. Johnny lit them all with his Zippo.
“It might be our last smoke,” he said and grinned as he led off. All three puffing, the men strode from the forest into the open. Johnny walked fast, trying not to be quiet.
“Whatever happens, act confident,” he said over his shoulder. “Keep moving—don’t stop for anything.”
They came to the edge of the trees and went down, scanning the valley. It was daybreak and quiet, only a few women in the distance moving toward the gardens. He lengthened his stride, the other two following.
The trail took them into a grove of banana trees. Johnny rounded a corner and bumped into an ancient couple. The man was cutting down a bunch of red bananas with a bamboo knife while the woman held open a string bilum. The two of them were bickering as they attempted the insertion. Johnny took in the homely faces, sparse teeth, and white hair.
The Mambu couple saw the strangers. Their mouths fell open and everything tumbled from their hands. The old man clutched his chest and fell back while the woman fetched up against a tree. Babbling, the man lurched for Johnny and grabbed his arm.
“The stories are true,” he gasped in his language. “Our ancestors can return from the land of the dead!” He reached a quaking hand and rubbed Johnny's cheek, then looked to see if the white came off. “They are spirits!” he cried to his wife. The old woman crept forward, lips pulled back over her stumps of teeth. Tears sprang from her eyes and ran down her wrinkled cheeks as she stared into Footy’s face.
“Do you see?” she said, “Here is my uncle Fumayma!” Her fingers stroked the blonde hair on the Aussie’s arm and he grinned at her.
“What are you saying, Mum?”
“They have forgotten how to talk,” the old man observed. The woman reached for Footy’s sandy hair that stuck out under his hat and tugged.
“Ouch!” he said, pulling back.
“The hair has burned in the spirit world,” she nodded. Footy took a pinch of her own stiff curls and gave a playful twist. The woman jerked back rubbing the place and squinted at him. Footy laughed and his attention went to the fallen bananas.
“I'm bloody starving—may I?” He tore one off, peeled it and shoved it all in his mouth. Johnny leaned his rifle against his leg and broke off a few, stripped the skin from one, and ate it in a few bites. He tossed the peel and attacked another. The couple stared as the two men wolfed down a hand each.
“Good!” Footy said to the old folks, rubbing his stomach.
“Our relatives still like our bananas,” the woman observed.
Johnny remembered the Japanese. He peeled one for him and put it in his hands. The man shoved it in. Johnny fed him four in a row. The elders came close, the native man shorter than the prisoner. He touched the Japanese skin and stared into the slanted eyes.
“This one is different,” he said. “He is like the foreigners they killed downriver. You remember the taste?” He put a gnarled finger on the rope that tied the Japanese’s wrists.
“I do not think this one is a ghost,” he said doubtfully. “Perhaps our ancestors brought him for food?”
“Struth!” Footy exclaimed. “Their eyeballs are going to pop out!”
“They must think we’re from Mars,” Johnny smiled. He dropped his pack and began to stuff it with the fruit while Footy did the same.
“I reckon the stories about these bloody Mambu are exaggerated,” Footy said hopefully. “If the buggers are all like this, we just might survive. “
“Don't count on it,” Johnny warned. “Let’s go!”
The trio moved off and the old ones hurried to keep up. The man hung off Johnny’s arm while the woman hobbled beside Footy, grinning at him while she recounted everything that had happened since he, her mother’s brother, had gone to the spirit world.
“What are you on about, Mum?” Footy grinned at her. “Are you completely daft?”
The men strode along the path among the gardens and a clutch of women carrying digging sticks saw them coming. At once they broke into shrill cries and came running to the strangers, heavy bark skirts swinging, breasts bouncing on rounded bellies. Soon there were some twenty women surrounding the travelers, all trying to touch their skin and hair. Johnny forged through them, batting away the hands that kept reaching into his clothes and touching his pockets.
“Smile!” he called. Footy pasted on a grin and even the Japanese bobbed his head and stretched back his lips. The crowd swelled with each step and now Johnny was shoving to get through. The smell of ripe bodies rose.
“We’re friends!” Johnny called, smiling. Natives pressed from all sides. The Japanese in particular seemed not to like that. He came close behind Johnny and ducked his head.
“Friends!” Footy took Johnny’s example and shouted in a jovial voice. “Bloody good mates!” He smirked at a young man, then had to shoulder aside a heavy woman in his path.
“Good morning, you great bloody cow! A lovely morning, isn't it? Yes, we are all best mates here, you bloody, horrible savages!” The noise grew deafening as more Mambu came running, every one of them hollering at the top of his lungs.
The path led them to the fence made of saplings around the first village. The path continued beside it, and as they went by, natives spilled from the huts and rushed to the commotion. Johnny gazed at the crowd and saw the dark skin, broad faces and rugged features.
Increasingly, it was warriors who snatched up their weapons and came at a run. These included the sentries who had witnessed the marvelous events of the night. This might be what the deity’s visitation signified, they thought—the coming of foreign invaders! They bulled through the throng. There was sure to be some killing!
Every man was naked, Johnny saw, except for the outlandish genital coverings. He’d heard about penis gourds in New Guinea, but he’d never seen them until the Mambu valley. They were the color of yellow squash, but from man to man the shapes varied. So
me were short and simple—others, long and twisted. They were held around the waist by a string. Hanging at the back was a single long leaf that more or less covered the crack of their buttocks.
Most men wore a circlet of bound pig tusks through their noses. Some had great shells hanging on their chests. They carried arrows and spears with fire-hardened points, axes and knives of stone. The throng increasingly hampered Johnny. More and more, those confronting him were agitated men. At last, facing a bristling wall of points, he was forced to pull up.
The Mambu harangued the strangers, shouting in their faces. Johnny’s group did not understand a word, but they saw the violent body language. Still, the old couple remained at their sides, clinging to their arms. They talked continuously until warriors pulled them off.
This is it, the soldier voice told Johnny. We’re surrounded and outnumbered. There’s no escape. We can’t shoot them all, but we can die fighting.
“Get ready to fire!” he called to Footy.
The Mambu headhunters confronted the strangers, whipping themselves into a murderous frenzy.
CHAPTER 6
The Mambu warriors were hopping up and down in their fervor to attack. Johnny thrust his rifle into the air and fired. The shot cracked across the valley and echoed back. Those nearest fell, pricking themselves on the weapons behind them. A few in the crowd fainted and fell down. The whole group cowered, and some turned uneasily to the mountains that had answered the invaders’ loud challenge. Johnny reloaded. A native grabbed the spent cartridge that flew out and singed his fingers.
But then the warriors pressed forward even closer, infuriated by their fear. Their razor points hovered inches from the strangers’ skin. Johnny reloaded and said the first desperate thing that came to him.
“We go to the chief!” he yelled.
“Big chief!” Footy picked it up and tried it in the trade language. “Luluai!” He, too, shot his rifle in the air. In the deafened silence, he called again: “Luluai!”
Johnny knew that word and he took it up.
“Loo-loo-eye! Loo-loo-eye!” This was the common term for village leader, but it meant nothing in Mambu. However, one of the more widely traveled headhunters had heard it downriver. He was a thick, older man, and a brother of Chief Bumay. This was the first thing the strangers had said that made sense.
“Luluai!” he repeated in his hoarse voice and then said it in his language.
“Mambu-ato!” The War Chief!
“Mambu-ato,” other voices joined in. The hoarse warrior continued.
“Bumay!” He shook his spear and repeated his brother’s name, stamping his feet. “Mambu-ato—Bumay!”
The people took up the chant. “Bumay, Bumay, Bumay!”
“The dog-strangers call for my brother, the Mambu-ato! We will take them to him!” the warrior cried. But the head of another clan disagreed.
“No! Kill them now,” he screamed. “They have broken taboo! The strangers invaded our valley and you know the penalty!”
“They are the spirits of our family!” the old couple shrieked. “Do not offend them!” A hundred voices joined in, each with an opinion.
“Hear me!” The hoarse warrior gained dominance by sheer volume. “The dog-strangers must die, all of us know this. But they call for my brother, and this is the law. Their lives are forfeit to the Mambu-ato—to him alone!” The assembly considered this—out loud, and all at once.
Johnny, Footy and the Japanese watched the debate without comprehension. At last it seemed the warriors reached a consensus. All pointed to the village in the far distance. The crowd surged that way, pressing Johnny’s group forward. The Mambu danced as they walked, shaking their weapons and chanting.
“Bumay! Bumay! Bumay!”
“We're in for it now mate,” Footy called.
“We bought ourselves some time,” Johnny replied. “Stay ready!”
It was a long trek, pressed in by their escort of warriors, dragging a tail of hundreds. They passed village after village, and at each one, the throng increased. After seven long hours, at last they approached the final and biggest village. The crowd pressed them against the fence. A half-mile further was the end of the valley.
Faint with hunger, already awash in body odor, the strangers were assaulted by a reek of garbage and excrement. In order to enter the village, each person must go through a gap in the fence, one at a time. In the opening stood a stump. Each one must step onto it, then down on the far side. It was an ingenious way to prevent any attack in numbers.
The squad led by the chief’s brother went first and waited for the foreigners. Johnny was next, and stepped down among people, yapping dogs, pigs, chickens and screeching children. It was bedlam.
Once the three strangers were over, the procession surged into the Mambu town, while those behind continued through the bottleneck. Johnny’s group was forced between the huts and the crush grew worse. Hundreds of residents swelled the crowd. To their consternation, Johnny and Footy found themselves being forced apart. They used the stocks of their rifles to push back together, on each side of the prisoner.
They saw two types of native habitations—long rectangular houses with peaked roofs from which men spilled, and round huts for the women and children. Through each doorway they could see fires burning. There were no chimneys, and the smoke seeped up through the thatch.
For the Mambu, the arrival of the outlandish strangers was a once-in-a-lifetime event. That three foreigners would invade their valley was beyond belief! Every member of the nation came rushing to take part in the momentous occasion. There would be a satisfying slaughter, no doubt, and then, exotic meat.
As the three men moved within their phalanx, they were frequently pricked by spear points at their backs. After a particularly painful jab, Johnny spun and caught the young warrior in the act. He used his Springfield to knock the spear aside and hit the offender in the jaw with the stock. The fellow, about Johnny’s age, staggered back and fell hard on his butt. At once he jumped up and screamed in fury.
“Bumay!” Johnny yelled in his face. The crowd took up the chant again, and they surged on. Shortly, they burst into an open space on the riverbank. Surrounded on three sides by huts, it was spacious enough to accommodate maybe a thousand people. It offered a sweeping view of the Raub, and there were canoes all over it, driving at them.
Johnny’s attention went to the grandest edifice in the entire town. It was one of the rectangular men’s houses, but twice as high and several times as large as any other.
“House Tambaran,” Footy nodded. “Likely to be this Bumay’s roost.” The roof of the A-frame soared to a high point at their end. Like all the other buildings, it had an open entrance, but no door. The men could see the fire flickering on the hearth. The triangular wall was covered in flattened bark. On it were elaborate paintings of animals and mythical figures. At the top was a rendering of a giant crocodile. Above the curled body were toothy jaws that went into the peak.
On each side of the doorframe stood a pyramid seven or eight feet tall. Johnny thought they were stacks of white rocks, but something about them made him take a closer look. He raised his scope, and his stomach turned over. He was looking at empty eyes and nose holes over rows of white and black teeth. They were human skulls. The upper ones were white, some with patches of kinky hair still attached. Those at the bottom were yellowed ivory.
“Human heads!” Johnny said.
“Bloody cannibals!” Footy spat. He and the prisoner stared as well. Elderly men surrounded the big house. Some sat cross-legged, scraping at skulls cradled in their laps. When they saw the strangers, the elders put aside their work and hobbled over to gawk. Again, a multi-voiced exchange took place. Mambu continued to press into the meeting area, and now the place was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men, women and children.
The ancient couple the men had first met wormed their way forward. They came weeping, and embraced Johnny and Footy. They shouted to the crowd, and some nodded, while others se
emed to scoff.
“Bloody drama, eh mate?” Footy called to Johnny. “Whadda ya reckon they're on about?”
“No idea,” Johnny said. “Let's try to get some food.”
“Right mate!” Footy said. “Kaukau,” he yelled, using a hand to mimic putting food in his mouth.
“Kaukau,” Johnny called. Hundreds of heads spun their way and mouths dropped open.
“Kaukau!” said Mambu voices. Others repeated the word in their own tongue, and a roar erupted. “They want sweet potatoes!” Women reached into their bilums and pulled out roasted tubers, and passed them hand-to-hand to the strangers.
Johnny and Footy ate one-handed, holding their rifles. Mouths full, they grinned at the natives. A startled laugh went up. An animated discussion took place, and women scurried to the huts. The Japanese nudged Johnny.
“Ok, ok,” Johnny said. He gave the man a potato and he ate fast. More food kept coming, and soon there were piles on the ground.
A chunk of cooked pork was thrust into Johnny’s hands. He felt his juices run and bit in. A roasted chicken was handed to Footy, burnt bits of feathers and all. He tore a leg and chewed. Another pork roast was handed to the prisoner. He ate ravenously.
“Save some,” Johnny said. He went on a knee beside his pack, rifle against his side, and put his hands out. The natives passed him more kaukau and meat. He shoved these on top of the bananas. Footy filled the other pack from the piles. The Japanese ate like there was no tomorrow. And he may be right, Johnny thought.
With some provision made for a future that did not include the taking of their heads, the men ate at a more leisurely pace. The food continued to flow.
While he chewed, Johnny studied the far side of the village for an escape route. Beyond the chief’s house was another row of huts, and over those he saw the end of the valley. He was craning at the paths between the huts when another chunk of meat was put in his hand. He lifted it to bite, and the Japanese hit him with his fists.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 18
