TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

  “It’s the great bloody croc!” Footy shouted and Johnny turned back. The predator’s eyes were fixed on its enemy as it plowed through the herd. A few men tried to defend themselves, but points that could penetrate wooden shields simply bounced off thick scales. Many Mambu died between flashing teeth.

  “Run!” Johnny shouted.

  With the stock of his rifle, he bashed a path and bolted, Footy close behind. Bumay, still wearing the stranger’s helmet, saw the tall one run and turned to spear him through the back. That was his fatal error.

  The Father saw the smooth head just before him. It spread its jaws and took its tormenter in. It put all the pent up torture into bringing its jaws together. Long teeth carved through Chief Bumay, crushed his pelvis and cracked the spine off like a twig. The spear dropped from his hand and fell under the Father’s foreleg. The great weight fell on it, the shaft splintered, and two feet of ironwood jammed up the injured limb.

  The Father hissed in horror and ground its teeth. A death scream squeezed through Bumay’s throat. Savagely, the crocodile shook its head, and the man flung to and fro. The upper body detached and sailed through the air. It slammed to earth, the helmet popped off the head, and rattled away.

  Johnny had taken only a few steps when he heard the mortal cry. He turned in time to see the torso fall, and then somehow, his helmet was tumbling at him. He caught it, jammed it on and—now behind Footy—ran for his life.

  The fresh assault on it made the Father gag. It spat the chief’s legs. Then it bellowed its anguish once more. When it closed its jaws, it blinked in sudden confusion. The blood of its enemy was still in its mouth, but there, running into the distance, was the smooth-headed man.

  Johnny ran like he never had before. He was just behind Footy pumping by the chief’s house, neck-and-neck between the huts. He passed the smaller man as they came into the open, and there, coming up fast, was the perimeter fence. Johnny turned for the gap.

  The Father tried to chase its enemy down, but each step was searing. It reached the chief’s house and could go no further. It rumbled its frustration and lashed its tail. Four elders were crushed like flies against the wall, and the appendage kept going. It crashed through the woven reeds and battered the tree trunks that held up the house. With a great cracking, the edifice trembled, and then imploded. Thatching, splintered poles and reeds tumbled onto the central hearth.

  The Father turned and limped back to the river. The clearing had emptied. The herd cowered among the nests. The crocodile came upon the upper portion of the truncated chief. Bumay was barely alive. The crocodile scooped him up. It tossed its head and the huge throat opened.

  The people watched the Mambu-ato’s hands embrace the snout of the god. The chief’s chest went between the jaws, and his head followed. Bumay’s eyes were open, fixed on his people. Again, the scaled neck rippled, a hand traced the moon scar like a caress, and the teeth came together. The skull popped like a grape. The reptile continued to the river. At the top of the bank, it fell on its belly, slid into the water, and was covered up.

  The Mambu-matu and Mambu-ato were gone, but the wrath of the river was not done with the nation.

  The chief's mansion had been lofty and spacious. Outside, Bumay had sat in judgment over tribal disputes. Inside, with his sorcerers and elders, he organized festivals, many of which involved the consumption of their human victims. The edifice had been home to some fifty of his clan warriors. Long chains of woven rattan, formed over generations, looped from the ceilings. Each link represented a head taken.

  It was here that every Mambu boy was brought for initiation into the violent life of men.

  The floor above was an even more rarefied domain. To this feared realm, only the Mambu-ato, the shamen and most trusted elders, could ascend. It was up here that rituals were performed over fresh heads to deliver their owners to the dark forces. This was the resting place of the Mambu fetishes, idols and spirit masks. This was where they kept the sacred instruments—the bullroarers, drums and flutes.

  When the Father of the Crocodiles knocked down the Mambu-ato’s house, all the artifacts rained down as well. Eager flames embraced them, smoke billowed up, and the inferno consumed it all. As the people watched, the seat of political and religious power of the Mambu nation burned to bitter ash. Their terror knew no bounds.

  Then, on the face of the water where the deity and the chief had lately disappeared, a gust of wind rose up. It rippled across the surface to the land. It became a dust devil that danced into the conflagration. Faster and faster it spun, feeding on the heat.

  A column now, it caught up bundles of flaming grass, fanned them red hot, and flung them across the surrounding roofs.

  Johnny jumped through the fence and sprinted for the gorge. He did not have to look back to know Footy followed. He heard the footfalls and ragged breaths.

  He pelted on until there were three hundred yards between them and the village. Just ahead, the river poured into the jungle and they could hear the thunder of falling water. Johnny’s heart tripped like a jackhammer, and he doubled over. Footy dove beside him.

  “Hell's bells,” the Aussie gasped. He dropped his rifle and rolled on his pack. Johnny collapsed to one knee. He glanced at the village and was alarmed to see someone racing after them. He raised his rifle and recognized the man through the scope.

  The Jap!

  He came at them with his bloodstained sword in his bound hands. Johnny waited until he was close.

  “Stop there!” The man panted like his heart would burst. He shot a look back, saw no one coming, and sank on both knees.

  “Put down the sword!” Johnny ordered. The man stared.

  “Put—it—down!” Johnny said.

  And then the Japanese spoke.

  “Must crean first!”

  Footy sat straight up.

  “Bloody hell!” he crowed. “He speaks ‘Engrish!’”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Japanese kept his eyes on Johnny while he wedged the handle of the sword between his bare feet. With his roped hands, he pulled up grass, wrapped it around the blade and wiped, hilt to tip. Johnny alternated between watching him and darting glances back at the village. His attention went to the cloud of smoke that billowed suddenly over the roofs. The Japanese discarded the grass and repeated the process, then wiped the blade with the tail of his shirt. He knelt, placed the sword across the path and backed away.

  “Footy,” Johnny said, “go get it.”

  “Crikey!” Footy said. “Shoot him if he moves!” The Aussie, clutching his side, went toward the Japanese. He snatched up the sword and moved behind Johnny.

  “What the bugger can do with this thing!” he exclaimed, a hand touching his own neck. “Struth, mate!”

  “And with his hands tied,” Johnny said. Footy slung his pack down and slid the sword into its scabbard once more.

  Now there were shouts from the village. A group of warriors clustered at the fence and men were coming over. Behind them, a thick column of smoke churned into the sky.

  “There’s a fire in the village,” Johnny said. “And here comes the posse. We’ve got to run some more. You—get behind me,” he told the Japanese. The prisoner trotted to stand with Footy.

  “All this time, you speak the King’s English,” Footy confronted him. The man shrugged.

  Johnny lay on the path and rested his elbows. He held his rifle steady and put the scope on the lead runner. The man came at a good clip, spear held high. Six or seven were strung out behind him. Johnny shot the leader. He tossed up his arms and tumbled.

  The next runner faltered, but then jumped over his comrade and ran on. Johnny jacked in another shell and tracked him. This one waved an axe. Johnny shot again and watched him somersault into the grass. Suddenly the entire string pulled up, rethought their ill-conceived plan, and bolted. They virtually flew through the fence and stood muttering on the far side, staring out. Johnny smiled without mirth and put another bullet into the bunch. That did it. The
warriors scuttled for the village, but halted again as a wall of flame gushed from the whole row of huts.

  Johnny watched the smoke boil against the blue sky and it came to him this was a glorious day. His wound ached, his lungs were raw, but it was sweet to be alive. He grinned at Footy and the prisoner.

  “Hey!” he said, “it was touch-and-go there, but we made it. Good fighting—both of you!” He got to his feet.

  “You,” he said to the prisoner, “go first! Then you, Footy. They’re stopped for now, but who knows for how long? Let’s go, go, go!”

  The three men charged into the jungle. They ran while the mountain flanks drew together, and they were sprinting down the gorge. They heard the river cascading beside them as the forest closed over their heads.

  The path took them to the brink of a drop off. They stared down a steep rock scree. The trail zigzagged across it. The jungle canopy formed again a hundred feet below. The Japanese headed off and Footy fell in.

  Johnny decided to take the short cut, straight down. Half running, half falling, he went fast in a slide of rocks. The other two paused as he rumbled by, then came after him, the Japanese having to scamper on his bare feet. Johnny slammed to earth and stood aside while the others landed in a rattle of rocks. They jogged off again.

  And so, alternately running and walking, the trio left the Valley of the Cannibals behind.

  The rapids had roiled through the gorge, but now the land was flatter, and the river flowed swift and silent beside them. The mountains spread apart again, and the path dropped into the rainforest. The men clambered over rocks slick with water. The dank smell of mushrooms filled the air, and orange fungal shelves grew on the trees and deadwood. The river entered fresh sets of rapids that flooded toward the lowlands, and water music echoed all around them.

  At last they came to a meadow and took a break. Johnny and Footy were anxious to take stock of their ammunition. The pilot found he had two chargers left for the Lee Enfield and he inserted them in the magazine. Johnny had only five cartridges for his Springfield. Back in the Mambu village, he’d burned through shells as fast as he could shoot. He reloaded his .45 and had a pocketful left. Footy broke open the Webley revolver, which ejected the casings, and put in six more. He had a few more, and that was it.

  “We're a little low on ammo for a tour of the New Guinea bush,” Footy observed.

  “Right,” Johnny said. “We can’t do any hunting. We have to reserve every shell for defense. ”

  Each man ate a Mambu sweet potato and they departed. They walked until nightfall and camped by a stream. As usual, Johnny and Footy took turns on watch. The Mambu might have given chase after all, and who knew whose lands they trespassed on now? In the morning, they breakfasted on the old folks’ bananas.

  “For shore they’d never clapped their peepers on a white man,” Footy said. “Crikey, I thought they’d have a heart attack.”

  “But they acted like they knew us,” Johnny said. “I wonder what was going through their heads?”

  The men walked all day, pausing to fill their bottles when they found fresh water. They walked over hills, the mountains behind them, and the path alternated between wooded and grassy land. The river continued to the side. From time to time, they startled crocodiles that went thrashing through the reeds into the water, but these were all of the smaller freshwater variety.

  The jungle gave way entirely to kunai. This provided respite from the mosquitoes, but the sun beat relentlessly. Johnny thought his brain would fry under the helmet, and for a while, he walked with his shirt draped over his head. All of them were grateful when the jungle came again, even though the shade was hot as a sauna.

  At mid-afternoon, they came to a pretty place of low grass and spread out trees. A clear spring burbled over stones. The bushes were smothered in fragrant yellow flowers, and hundreds of pale blue butterflies clustered over them. The men sat to drink and wash. Johnny broke out the cigarettes and passed them around, with one to the prisoner. Footy humphed, but said nothing.

  The Asian smoked it down to an ember, then put it out in the dirt. When he looked up again, his eyes went wide. He pointed over the other men’s shoulders. The two whirled to find a line of native warriors. There were eight of them with longbows, arrows on the string.

  Johnny knew at once these were not Mambu, but somehow they looked familiar. And then he recalled the corpses in Bumay’s valley. They had worn the same laplaps, bamboo headdresses, and hawk feathers in their noses. Their chest muscles were marked in yellow and white as well.

  Johnny slid his hand towards his Springfield, but a huge newcomer stepped his way with his barbed arrow aimed at Johnny’s chest.

  “I wouldn't touch your rifle,” he said in a broad Australian accent. “Me boys are a bit nervous. You don’t want an arra in ya, do ya?” Johnny retrieved his hand.

  “That’s betta,” the man nodded. “You lot just sit easy and we’ll talk a bit.”

  “Blimey!” Footy exclaimed, “Where in hell did you come from?”

  “Well, not hell, mate,” the warrior said, letting the tension off his bow, although his men remained poised. He smiled, displaying ruby inner lips and blackened teeth, and picked between the front ones with a sharp fingernail.

  “Where did you learn to speak such perfect English?” Footy crowed.

  “In Australia, mate. At school in Adelaide,” the native said.

  “Adelaide?” Footy repeated, dumfounded.

  “Adelaide.”

  “Who are you?” Johnny asked.

  “My name is Mulakuwapatawny.”

  “Wow,” Johnny said.

  “Strike me pink!” Footy chimed in.

  “And where are you from?” Johnny went on.

  “The Uhuli village—the Lighthouse Mission, mate,” he said. “This here is Uhuli land. Fo’give me, but the betta question is—who are you, and where are you from? I need an ansa, b'cause as you can see,” he glanced at his war party, “me one-talks need ta know.”

  Johnny stood up slowly, showing empty hands.

  “I'm Johnny Willman,” he said, “Sergeant, US Army. This is Glen Carmichael—Australian.”

  “Ahh, I like the Aussies,” the warrior grinned. “And you Yanks too, a course. Allies, we are!”

  “Call me ‘Footy,’” the Australian said. “What do they call you again?”

  “Mula-kuwapa-tawny,” the man said slowly.

  “Hold on!” Footy said. “What?”

  “That’s a jawbreaker,” Johnny added.

  “Aww—call me Mula,” the warrior grinned, enjoying their discomfiture. His face went serious again and he scowled at the Japanese. “And this bugga?”

  “Our prisoner,” Johnny said. Mula narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “And how do you come to be on our land?” he asked.

  “We've come from Mambu territory,” Footy said. “Bloody Valley of the Cannibals, mate.”

  “Do you know a chief called 'Bumay’?” Johnny asked.

  Mula couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d been slapped. He spun and spat a string of betel juice.

  “That fella’s the brutha of satan,” he said, licking the red off his lips. “Wot about Bumay?”

  “Glad you think that…” Footy said.

  “…because Bumay is dead,” Johnny went on. ”And maybe thirty of his men.”

  “Or more,” Footy added. “Maybe fifty. We didn’t stop to count.”

  “And when did this bloody miracle take place?” Mula asked.

  “Yesterday,” Footy said. Mula spoke rapid-fire over his shoulder to his men. The Uhuli crowded around, all talking at once. They unbent their bows, but kept their circle intact, arrows on the string.

  “Nothin' personal,” Mula said at last, “but we find this ratha hard to believe. No one comes outta the Mambu valley, not evva! I’ve lived here all me life and I’ve nevva seen it! You go in there, the only way you come out is pekpek.” This tickled him and he roared with laughter. He retold his joke t
o his men and they all howled.

  “Pekpek is…” Footy explained.

  “I know—crap,” Johnny said. “Well, we did it,” he went on to Mula, “and we’re not pekpek yet, as you can see.”

  “This fella Bumay,” Mula went on. “He’s killed a lot of me people, mate. You lot couldn’t fight ‘im yestaday, b’cause, you see, he was here. He killed three of me one-talks. We hunting them sons-a-satan t’day.”

  “We’re telling the truth,” Johnny said. “I shot Bumay—but that’s not what killed him. A crocodile got the chief.”

  Mula stared at Johnny in absolute disbelief.

  “And this Jap here,” Johnny pressed on, realizing how strange it all sounded. “We captured him at Kissim, up the river.”

  “Kissim—aww yeh? Nevva been that far,” Mula said. He stepped to the Japanese, put his broad face close and smiled in an unfriendly way.

  “We don't like these yella fellas,” he said. “We hunt ‘em. Bad fellas. They killed Masta Billy—our missionary. An' Missis Sarah, they carry her off.”

  “When was this?” Johnny asked. Mula scratched his head and spat buai. Again, he conversed with his men.

  “Two Christmases,” he said.

  “That’s two years,” Footy explained.

  “You men got quite a yarn,” Mula said. “Masta Billy, he had some yarns. But yours—it's a good 'un.

  “Now. We need ta find out if wot you say is true. You come with us. You stay in my village.” Johnny and Footy glanced at each other.

  “Look,” Johnny said, “we need to keep going.”

  “We’ve got to get to the coast, mate,” Footy put in.

  “The way I see it,” Mula said, “you lot are on my land. You say you been in the Mambu valley. I’ve lived here all me life, and I’ve nevva done that. But you two—and ‘im…” he nodded at the prisoner, “... you go through. You fight Bumay an' his boys—on Mambu land! You get help from a pookpook! You kill a lotta Mambu and you come outta the valley! That is a lot for us to eat, mates.”