Eventually the girl stole back to her hut. Her parents, who slept on skins spread on the dirt floor, watched her enter. The young woman spooned into the warmth of her siblings, and the family slept again.
Anda carried the bag of cold kaukau across a shoulder, spear in hand as he retraced the path in the ghostly light. He ate while he traveled, careful not to drop anything that would betray that he had passed this way. After what he had learned in the night, he did not expect to encounter the Mambu, but a man’s life depended on eternal vigilance.
On the main path at last, Anda ran hour after hour, anxious to share the astounding news.
Mula led his guests to the kitchen table and they sat. Johnny untied the captive’s wrists. The man was preoccupied, by the news, Johnny thought. Miriam brought plates piled with baked sweet potatoes. These she’d cut open and smothered in tomatoes and green beans. Also on each plate were chunks of meat, swimming in their juices. Johnny poked suspiciously with his fork.
“What’s this?”
“Me one-talks dragged this outta the rivva,” Mula grinned. Seeing the incomprehension on the other faces, he laughed. “This is pookpook, mates—croc! You evva try it? Pookpook is good eating—you give it a go!”
“Are you sure?” Johnny asked, “That it’s croc I mean?” It was Mula’s turn to look perplexed.
“Look, I don't want to be eating any person,” Johnny told him bluntly. “I don’t eat humans, Mula.”
The Uhuli chief took offense.
“We don't eat no ‘ooman beans here! We are not bloody cannibal, mate! I’m hurt, I am, that you think that.”
“Don’t take it wrong,” Johnny said, “but in the Mambu valley they gave us human flesh.”
“Bloody cannibals,” Mula shouted and banged his fork on the table. “Them sons-a-satan! They eat us Uhuli, why do you think we hate 'em? But we, the Uhuli, the only real people—we do not eat no ‘ooman beans.”
“Aw yeh,” Footy said, “that's what they all say in New Guinea, mate! That’s the old story here. ‘It's them, not us!’ Till you find yourself chewing on some bloody arm or leg.”
Footy, too, was eyeballing his plate. The prisoner would not touch his helping. Mula speared a piece, popped it in his mouth, chewed with relish and swallowed it down.
“Aw, eating ‘ooman beans, that's bloody primitive, that is!” he said as he loaded another forkful. “We Uhuli, we not eat people. Nevva did, even in the old days.” He filled his mouth again.
“Naw. We headhunters!” he went on proudly as he chewed. “That's what Masta Billy say. Headhunters—not cannibals.”
“What's the bloody difference?” Footy asked.
“Big bloody difference,” Mula insisted. “Headhunters—we take enemy heads. Cannibals—they eat you mate. See?”
“Mula, you swear this is croc?” Johnny asked, studying the meat on the prongs of his fork. His stomach growled.
“I swear onna Bible,” Mula said. Johnny decided to trust him. He put the meat in his mouth and it was tasty. Footy watched the Yank, then forked up a bit, sniffed, and ate. The Japanese studied the other men. When he saw them swallow, he decided to brave it.
“’Course I’ve eaten pookpook before—back in Aus,” Footy said. “But in this country, you want to bloody well make sure what’s on your plate.”
The meat was firm, Johnny found, whiter than beef, more like pork. There was nothing fishy about it.
“This is pookpook like I told ya!” Mula insisted as he took more.
“We Uhuli gotta fight, same as you blokes, to protect ourselves. Sometime we kill Mambu to even the score. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ Masta Billy tell us the Good Book say. That the Uhuli way! We like that. But we add one: ‘a head for a head.’” The chief laughed loud and pounded the table with a fist.
“A head for a head!” He enjoyed himself so much, Footy and Johnny had to chuckle, and even the Japanese smiled.
“That’s a good ‘un,” Mula said, wiping his eyes. “We usta take Mambu heads—put 'em in our House Tambaran. But since Masta Billy, mate, we don't bring no ‘ooman heads inta this village no more.
“We all good Christian now. Masta Billy took us in the rivva. He bap-tide us. We burn down the spirit houses and all them heads. And we had some good ‘uns—even one Mambu-ato from before.
“Now, with Masta Billy gone, some of me one-talks, they go back to the old ways. Some take heads, hide 'em in a jungle. But I don’t allow heads in a village. Things not easy with me missionary gone. But…” he banged the fork on the table again, “…we Uhuli are not cannibal mate! The real people are Christian!”
“Well, good to know,” Johnny said, scraping his plate.
Miriam had taken a chair at the table and was eating as well, baby asleep in one arm. Luke climbed on her knee and ate from her plate.
“Good dinner, Miriam,” Johnny said. “Thank you.” She dazzled him with a dark smile. The men all had seconds. When they were done at last, nothing left in the pots, Miriam took the plates and scraped them out the door. There were squeals, yips and excited clucking.
“Now sleep,” Mula said, standing and stretching. He took a lantern and led them to the bedroom door. “You can have me own room,” he offered. The men peered at the stained mattress and the pile of grubby sheets.
“No, no,” Johnny said, “that's ok, we'll bunk in the living room.”
“Couldn't take your bed, mate,” Footy chimed in. Mula seemed pleased. The Aussie spread his blanket on the sofa while Johnny and Mula walked the Japanese to the church. They got the prisoner settled on a bench, and Johnny brought out a rope to tie him.
“No need,” Mula told him. “You,” he spoke directly to the Japanese, “you run—if you like.” He looked around at his men, said a few words that caused a laugh, and grinned at the captive.
In the living room, Johnny roped his hammock from the poles. Footy stretched out on the couch. He could feel every spring in it, but it was better than the hard ground he’d been lying on. Mosquitoes whined around his ears and he spread the square of mosquito netting over his head.
Johnny lay in his hammock and heard Footy snore. He was exhausted, and it seemed more than physical. He pondered it, and slowly he realized he was weary of all the killing. After three years of war, he had entered strange new territory. It wasn’t just about the Japanese anymore. In the Valley of the Cannibals, he had slaughtered natives for the first time.
Complicating everything, his sworn enemy, “the Jap,” had fought at his side. It had never even occurred to him that something like this could happen.
Killing the Mambu was in self-defense, he reminded himself, but he remained uneasy. Sure, they’re cannibals, but this is their country. What beef do I have with them?
In mid-thought, Johnny fell asleep. Neither he nor Footy saw the moonlight that spilled through the windows. In the church, the Japanese slept like the dead, and did not hear the warriors’ voices, or the sounds they made as they moved about.
Mula assigned the guard, and the others accompanied him, Miriam and the children, back to the gathering place in the village. Here they found the people already gathered. The fires flared, and the Uhuli prepared to mourn their dead.
The five wives of the three fallen men sat together with ashes smeared on hair and skin. They began to keen, and their mothers, sisters, and all the women took up the ritualized wailing.
Two of the wives worked themselves into such a frenzy of grief they called for hatchets. Helped by the others, they each chopped off a finger at the first knuckle, and stanched the blood flow in more ashes.
When the first wave of grief ebbed, Mula addressed them. He sketched the story of each man’s life, and described their relationship to dozens of those present. These connections, a man’s “line,” were of paramount significance in village life. When that was done, he said a prayer asking Papa God to take the souls of the dead into heaven, repeating as much as he could recall of what the missionary had said on these occasions.
Then, feeling guilty because “Masta Billy” had tried to stop the practice, Mula called for the dead men’s possessions. The wives came prepared with these—weapons they had left behind, and other items of dress. These were placed before the chief, and then he and others each picked one up.
They lit torches, and the entire community walked upriver. At last they approached the secret and sacred place, a grove of trees with an enormous one at the center. This was the Uhuli Tree of the Dead.
None of them had talked about this, let alone showed it to the missionary. They knew that if they did so, they would lose it. So even though they had embraced the new faith in Papa God, and the loving son, Jesus, they continued to revere the remains and relics of the ancestors.
The people surrounded the enormous trunk and Mula sent the dead men’s clan brothers up the tree with baskets of food and gourds of water. Putting on a brave front, but in truth quivering with terror, the warriors climbed among the hanging bones and possessions of the departed. For all time, this had been the Uhuli way of preparing the fallen for the journey into the spirit world. If the rituals were not done right, the ghosts would not be appeased, and would not embark on the final journey. They would turn malevolent, and come back to haunt their own families. The result would be disease and calamity.
Many times the missionary, firmly but with compassion, had explained to Mula the old and new ways did not mix. But without “Masta Billy” to guide him, Mula found many complex situations where he was torn between two worlds. Now, in order to relieve his unease about what they did at the Tree of the Dead, he told himself that his brothers could use their weapons, food and water, to help them on the journey to Papa’s heaven.
The Uhuli returned to the bonfires. For several hours, one after another, they rose to reminisce about their dear kinsman. They recalled acts of kindness, unusual prowess, and exploits in battle. Already, the tales were taking on mythic proportions.
The fond recollections were interrupted more and more frequently by outbursts from the warriors. These worked themselves from grief to fits of anger. A man would leap up and swear by all his ancestors, that he would not rest again until he had avenged his lost comrades. The loathsome Mambu would pay with their heads! On and on the outpouring went, until everyone had a chance to speak. Their grief spent at last, the people stumbled to bed.
Mula led his family to the mission bedroom, got them settled, and padded into the church to be with his men. They kept an eye on the sleeping prisoner while they talked through the momentous events of the last days. They discussed the white men’s fabulous yarn from every angle, and voiced the impassioned hope that it was all true—the demon Mambu-ato and his hated cannibals had been destroyed.
A particularly intense discussion centered on the pookpook, the legendary Father of the Crocodiles. Before the missionaries came, the Uhuli had worshipped the beast. They had grown up hearing that it had lived since the dawn of time, and several of the elders argued that the old rituals of appeasement must be revived. If not, they warned, the Papa would descend on them once more, and feed on the Uhuli.
But on this point, Mula was insistent. There would be no revival of the former ways. The days when they feared every illness and accident as the work of a malevolent spirit were done. “Masta Billy” and “Missis Sarah” had shown them the way, he said. They were children of Papa God, and they were in charge of the world, not victims of it. Mula made his point: they would pray to Papa God to save them, not to the crocodile.
At last the chief crept through the living room where his guests slumbered, crawled into the sheets beside his wife and sons, and passed out.
The sky was flaring on the horizon when Anda entered the village. The dogs scented him and barked, but only a little. The sentries, in turn, heard this, and knew who approached.
Cocks had been prematurely announcing the dawn for several hours. All the animals were up now, and vying for scraps that had been tossed from the huts. Anda passed by and approached the mission. The guards watched him come, and an elder stole into Mula's bedroom and roused the chief. As he rose, Miriam and the boys stirred, but fell back asleep. The Uhuli went to the church and joined the other warriors. The prisoner turned on his bench, cracked an eye to peer at the men, then slumbered again.
Mula handed Anda a cold pookpook leg. The young man had to hold the limb in two hands. He ripped off bites as he recounted his tale. The chief plucked a betel nut from the branch being passed around and stripped the skin with his teeth. He took the nutmeat in his mouth and felt the familiar burn. A gourd of white lime powder was passed and he dipped the stick in and sucked. He chewed, his spittle increased, and he squirted a jet onto the ground. Immediately he felt guilty. “Masta Billy” had been very strict about that—no buai in the church! But now, sadly, Mula was one of the worst sinners, and the floor was heavily stained.
Anda talked for more than an hour, the tale stretched due to continual interruptions, but at last it was told. Mula took some minutes to think it through, then gave a series of orders. Warriors departed for the village.
In the living room, Johnny awoke to the shaking of his hammock.
“Time to get up and shine,” Mula grinned through the netting. “I got big news, mate!”
CHAPTER 12
Johnny had slept in his pants and he unzipped the hammock and slipped out. Mula wore his broad, black smile.
“Anda’s back! I wish me ol’ dad was alive ta hear wot he say!” Johnny smelled coffee and saw Footy in the kitchen with Miriam.
He went to the church. The prisoner was awake and Johnny told him to come and eat. On the way, he smiled to the warriors, Anda among them, and said good morning. They beamed and repeated, “good-fella mornin’!”
Footy was with Mula and the family at the table. Johnny and the prisoner sat. Breakfast was sweet potato mixed with crocodile stew. Mula was cutting slices of yellow “pawpaw.” Footy passed around mugs of strong coffee. The sugar was gone. Mula spoke between bites.
“You’ll be glad ta know, mate—Anda done fortify da feet.”
“Verify the facts,” Johnny murmured.
“Wot I said,” Mula nodded. “Bumay village is burn down—gone-finish!” The chief could not contain his glee. He threw back his head, held his belly, and laughed. Miriam and Luke giggled and even the baby cooed.
“Anda, he hear a lotta white fellas come outta the sky and fight the Mambu. These white men got big magic—they kill plenty a Mambu! Anda’s mates, they seen a lotta dead men. Meebe fifty, meebe a hundred—all dead! Dead!” Again, Mula laughed and slapped the table.
“They say a big yella man...” Mula looked doubtfully at the prisoner, “...he gotta magic knife and he cut a lotta Mambu head.
“They say one bloody big-pella pookpook spirit come outta the river and fight along-side the white men. This what they call the Mambu-matu, mates! This the Papa of them sons-a-satan! The pookpook eat Bumay, their numba one pekpek-head.” Again, Mula guffawed, delight transforming his broad features.
“They say the Mambu-matu burn down the bloody village.
“Ahhh, wotta day, wotta day! These magic fellas,” Mula looked doubtfully at the unwashed men at his table: “This you lot—for shore?”
“That’s us,” Johnny grinned, pretending to hold a rifle. “Big magic men from out of the sky.”
“Bloody right,” Footy said. “Bigfella fight true!” Mula shook his head indulgently at them.
“The Mambu—they got a lot to do now,” Mula went on. “First, they gotta make magic to find out why they been punish. Find out why Papa pookpook fight them—kill them—eat that bloody Bumay.
“Then—for shore, mates—them Mambu, they gonna find someone ta blame. Oh yes! That the Mambu way! And who they gonna blame?” He slapped his chest.
“The Uhuli! That’s who! Why? They always do! Then they gonna come this way—in four, five days, I reckon. An’ we gonna wait for ‘em—back in the bush. I got me one-talks watchin’ the track outta the valley
now. When they come—with no Bumay, a lotta the men gone—we gonna get ‘em. We gonna cut us some Mambu head!”
Johnny and the others had finished eating and sat back, drinking coffee.
“Tell me more about this croc,” Mula went on. “He the pookpook with this mark...” he cupped a hand and placed it over his eye, “…like this?”
“That's him!” Footy said.
“You know the Father?” Johnny asked.
“Aw yeh, mate,” Mula said. “Everybody on the Big River know the Father! He the Papa of the pookpook, that for shore. He got strong magic. Masta Billy, he not like us to call ‘im ‘the Father.’ He say, we got only one spirit Father, up in Heaven. But I say, this pookpook, he a demon Papa, come ta eat the people. And pigs. And dogs.” Mula paused and thought again.
“What I wanna know—what the Papa pookpook do, helpin' you blokes fight the Mambu? Why the Papa eat that pekpek-head? Tell me this, Masta Johnny.”
“Don’t call me ‘Master!’” Johnny said. “I’m Johnny—call me Johnny.”
“Awlright—Joe-nee,” Mula said smiling. “I like that!”
“The Father’s a crocodile,” Johnny said. “Just a crocodile. It’s a big one, for sure. But I shot its foot off. It’s flesh and blood, like any animal.”
“Not magic mate,” Footy added, “though that is the biggest bloody croc I've ever clapped eyes on. And believe you me, I've seen big ones back in Aus. Johnny here bloody well did blow its foot off,” he continued. “The Father’s no devil—but I do believe it is hunting this Yank.” Johnny shrugged and laughed it off.
“Naw, naw, don’t laugh,” Mula told him, face serious. “It could be, could very well be. That the pookpook way. A croc want a fella, it watch him. Once a pookpook pick a fella, it get him by-n-by.
“If the Papa want you Mas… if this pookpook hunt you, Joe-nee, you watch out. Mebee you gotta big problem, going down his rivva.”
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 23
