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

by Timothy James Dean

  While Mula regaled Johnny and Footy, two flute players joined the drummers. Their instruments were bamboo tubes thick as a man’s arm, two or three feet long. The inner wall had been left intact at one end, and a hole burned near it. The men held the instruments sideways to their lips and blew across the opening. The first man sounded two notes, and the second echoed this in a higher pitch. Back and forth it went, while the drums beat along.

  Now the white-feathered warriors danced, each leaping high in the air to outdo his friends. They jabbed at one another with sharp bamboo spears, the thrusts coming increasingly close. The crowd shouted encouragement, and the dancing grew frenzied. Then a razor edge touched flesh and blood flowed. Mula and the other men chortled and called comments to each other.

  As a boy was injured, he dashed to the sidelines where elders slapped pig fat mixed with soot into his cut. Mula pointed out the multiple raised scars on his own legs and torso. The young warriors’ incisions would heal this way.

  “They scars a honna,” he grinned. The treated boys were soon back threatening their friends once more. Mula told his guests that next, he and “me bruthas” would act out Uhuli history, their triumphs in war and the hunt.

  When it was time, he strode to the dance area, his bow and arrow in hand, his great axe through his belt. He called to his warriors, and the hawk-feathered men gathered around, each with a bark headdress.

  Big drums, hollowed out trees with slits in them, were rolled up and new drummers beat them with cudgels, resounding bass thumps. The hand drums joined in, and warriors stamped in time, facing their people. Mula shouted phrases, each one repeated and embellished by his companions. Every so often, they punctuated the singing by twanging the bowstrings, shaking their weapons and shouting their battle cries. Mula finished his recitation, and another warrior continued, and then another.

  At last they were done, and Mula called them to the mumu. The women had been busy while the men danced, and Johnny and Footy came to the pit and watched. The dirt and top layer of banana leaves had been stripped. The steam carried a mouth-watering aroma. Women jumped down and sliced up the pigs. Others waited with stacks of cut banana leaves, their plates. On each square, the servers piled juicy pork, sweet potatoes, and a variety of vegetables. A contingent of elderly men crowded around and provided much advice, ignored by the women.

  At last Mula called out in a loud voice. Silence descended and all eyes turned his way. The chief handed his bow to a warrior, glanced at Johnny and Footy and grinned.

  “Let’s pray, mates.” He pressed his hands together and the gathering followed suit. Even the women busy in the pit paused and bowed their heads.

  “Thank you true, Papa-God, for bringin’ us togetha!” Mula shouted. “Thanks for killing them bloody Mambu—for new friends and good food.” He added some phrases in Uhuli and bawled, “let’s eat!”

  Women went into the crowd, passing out the laden leaves. Miriam brought the first serving to Mula. On her heels came two of the most fetching unmarried girls, who giggled and handed huge helpings to Johnny and Footy. On his square of banana leaf, each man had a generous slab of pork, soft bamboo shoots, yellow and orange sweet potatoes and yams, beans in edible pods, and whole cooked tomatoes. The men sat on stones, balanced the leaves on their knees and ate with their fingers in the firelight, while the sky blazed with a million stars. When every one had eaten, and many, including Johnny and Footy, had second and then third helpings, the singsing continued.

  A group of dancers came out from between the huts. They wore fantastic costumes made of light bamboo frames, over which were stretched painted and feathered bark paper and animal skins. Several men carried each assembly. There were crocodiles with flapping jaws, undulating snakes, flamboyant birds and more. The drums built to a furious crescendo, stopped, and the animal-dancers went still.

  A humpback “boar” emerged into the firelight. The actor’s mimicry was superb. Oinking and snorting, the pig dipped his snout to root in the dirt. But now the “crocodiles” crept at it. It wandered blithely on, unaware of its danger. Some in the crowd screamed warning, while others laughed excitedly, caught in the spectacle. On the boar came, tossing it tusks, and the crocs slid up.

  At once, a crocodile rushed it and enclosed the pig in long jaws. The boar let out a series of uncannily lifelike squeals as it was dragged off. Mula and his warriors rushed into the act. They ran at the pookpook and mock-stabbed it, as other “crocodiles” threatened the men. But the Uhuli fighters, joined by the white-feathered novices, finally prevailed. They drove the pookpooks out of sight among the huts.

  Dance followed dance. The white men’s eyes stung from the smoke and their heads began to nod. Johnny asked Mula for permission to leave, and for food for the prisoner. He and Footy walked back to the mission. Johnny took the leaf-plate to the captive, found him asleep, and woke him up. The man looked at the Yankee with dull eyes and muttered he was not hungry. Johnny shrugged, set the food beside him, and went to the living room. Footy was already on the couch. Johnny stepped outside, used his toothbrush and powder under the stars, and climbed into his hammock.

  Within minutes, he and Footy were out like lights. In the clearing, the singsing went on and the hours wore away. From time to time, parents carried their offspring to their huts. Eventually, the elderly climbed the ladders as well. Some of the dancers simply dropped where they were and passed out, while feet continued to pound beside their heads.

  None of the Uhuli saw the disturbance across the river, in the darkest shadows beneath the bank. A cuscus possum was the only witness. It was asleep on a branch over the water when it was blasted awake by an exhalation through huge nostrils. Terrified, its nocturnal eyes bulging more than usual, it stared down and saw something massive move. It squeaked in fright and scampered to the very highest twigs. There it curled again, complaining into its soft belly fur, and covered its eyes with its paws.

  The Father stared across the river, saw the light flickering on the prey animals, and felt the tickle of smoke. But it was not hungry, its leg throbbed, its bones ached and its head hurt. It breathed deeply, submerged, and swam downstream. Carried by the current, aided by occasional sweeps of its great tail, the Father passed through lands that, unbeknownst to it, the Uhuli called their own.

  Mula and his warriors stimulated themselves with fresh buai and kept on dancing. Only when fingers of light probed the eastern sky did the last diehards reel away.

  The chief returned with his men to the church. He changed the guard, he and his one-talks stripped off their headdresses, and they lay on the benches and conked out.

  Johnny awoke with the morning streaming through the windows. He saw Footy, up early again, but alone in the kitchen. The Aussie bent over, lighting the stove. Through the bedroom door, Johnny made out the recumbent sleepers. He slid out of his hammock, took it down and rolled it. He greeted Footy and said they’d be on their way in a few minutes.

  Johnny went to the church and woke the prisoner. He saw Mula nearby, out cold among his comrades, and did not disturb him. The guards nodded to Johnny where they crouched chewing buai at the doors.

  Johnny and the Japanese went to the kitchen. The coffee was percolating on the stove by then, but Footy was not to be seen. They were at the table, sipping from their mugs, when the Aussie came back with his hands full of eggs.

  “I’ve been watching where the chooks were laying,” the pilot winked. There was a cast iron skillet on the stove, and Footy threw in a pork rind he found on the counter. When it was sizzling, he cracked in the eggs. He chopped cooked kaukau from a pile and dropped this in as well. Shortly, he was sliding plates in front of the men and they ate.

  When breakfast was done, Johnny told the prisoner he would tie his hands again. The man listlessly held out his arms. Johnny and Footy were putting the last things in their packs when Mula came in, yawning and scratching under his laplap.

  “Top o’ the mornin' mates,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Time to be off, is it
?”

  “Yes,” Johnny said. “That was quite the party.”

  “Yes, ta. Looks like you went all night, mate,” Footy added.

  “Right,” Mula agreed, pinching red eyes. “Gotta stay with me one-talks at a singsing.”

  Uhuli warriors followed Mula in, arms loaded with rolled leaf packages they piled on the table.

  “Food for you lot,” Mula said. Johnny and Footy stuffed the cooked pork and vegetables in the top of their packs. They arranged their weapons on their belts, slung up their loads and picked up their rifles. Johnny put his helmet on, and Footy, the Digger hat.

  Miriam shuffled out of the bedroom, the children still asleep. Johnny and Footy thanked her, and Johnny gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then, to the other men’s surprise, the Japanese went to her, said thank you in English, and made a bow.

  Outside they found an escort of ten warriors. The group set off, Mula and his men yawning hugely. They passed the rows of dugout canoes along the downriver path. They went through gardens and came to the perimeter wall. Sentries stood around an opening and Mula exchanged greetings as they passed by.

  It was a fine morning, the breeze off the river having a hint of coolness. Johnny gazed across the swirling surface. Where is the Father? Well, one thing’s for sure, the soldier said, it’s out there, and it’s looking for you.

  The sun rose and cast long shadows. Vapor rose from the reed beds. The men walked for an hour and came to a sapling fence along the jungle.

  “The end of our land,” Mula said. “Me one-talks will stop here, but I’ll come with you blokes—a long-way likilik.”

  “‘A little bit of a long way,’” Footy grinned.

  “Yes mate,” Mula said. “We go into Taifora land. They strange ones, the Taifora. They friends of the Uhuli, and prob’ly wouldn’t hurt you, but best if I’m with you. Got their own ideas, this lot. I’ll guide you ‘round ‘em.”

  Johnny’s group shook hands with the line of warriors. Then the Uhuli men watched the foreigners who had killed Bumay and his Mambu, disappear with their chief into the forest.

  CHAPTER 14

  “What did you call the next tribe?” Footy asked.

  “‘Taifora,’ mate,” Mula said. “Had their own missionary one time, but the Mambu got him, early on. That was before the Masta and Missis come to the Uhuli. The Taifora, they got some Christian, some of they own ideas. ‘Misguide,’ that’s what Masta Billy call ‘em.”

  “Misguided? How?” Johnny asked.

  “You see for yourself,” Mula shrugged, “soon enough.”

  They hiked the morning away and ate a cold lunch. They began to hear drums echoing through the forest.

  “Awlright,” Mula said, “no talk now.” A few minutes later, he ducked around a tree and the others followed. They found themselves going up a jungle-covered hill. From the top, Johnny paused to look back, and there was the Raub winding into the distance. The men continued along the spine of the ridge as the drumming grew louder.

  Mula motioned for the men to get down. They slid on their bellies to the edge of a cliff. Johnny found he was looking onto a field thirty yards below. Behind it in the trees was a village, but it was the activity on the grass that commanded attention.

  A line of twenty drummers stood along the far side, facing his way. Each of them beat on the now-familiar hourglass drums. They wore headdresses of brilliant green feathers, and were painted from head to toe in the same color, interspersed with bands of yellow. Around their hips were short skirts made of the same glossy feathers.

  On the near side of the field was a tower built of four tall poles. Perched on top, just below the watchers, was an open-sided hut. Two men stood under the grass roof, staring up and away. They had hands cupped around their eyes, and they appeared to be looking for something.

  A pole stood beside the field. From it, a long strip of cloth fluttered. On the opposite side, midway down the line of drummers, was a homemade table of saplings and vines. Behind it stood six men, the most outlandishly outfitted of the lot. They had bleached white crocodile skulls tied on their heads. Their bodies were painted green like the others, but they had pieces of skin tied around biceps, chests and thighs, from which sprouted iridescent Bird of Paradise plumes.

  “Taifora priests!” Mula whispered.

  The six were busy with a small box on the table, also made of sticks. A vine ran from it to a woven ball one held. He spoke some words and passed it to the next shaman, who did likewise. The ball went along the line.

  The drums beat faster, and the warriors began to hum in deep voices. Johnny realized something was moving in the forest. A shape emerged from the shadows, and it looked like an airplane. The effigy was cleverly made of long saplings bent into a frame, covered with painted bark cloth. Six native men walked inside it, heads poking through appropriately placed holes. The “aircraft” was complete with wings and a tail, and had a propeller of bark that spun on the nose.

  The contraption drifted down the field. The drummers were humming louder now, a sound like engines. The thing stopped by the priests’ table and, as the drums beat faster, the men inside lifted it off and laid it on the grass. Each of them had a stick box in his hands. The six walked to the table and put their offerings there.

  The drums were at fever pitch and the warriors broke into frenzied vocals and looked up. Johnny thought they’d been spotted, but then realized the Taifora were staring beyond them, into the sky. The priests were gyrating and shrieking like men possessed, and Johnny felt a touch on his arm. Mula motioned to leave.

  The group backed into the forest and descended the other side of the hill. Half an hour later, they emerged on the riverbank.

  “What in the world was that?” Johnny asked in a low voice.

  “Masta Billy call it the ‘Cargo Cult,’” Mula said.

  “Aw, yeh,” Footy said. “I’ve heard of that, but first time I’ve seen it. It’s all over New Guinea they say, sprung up here and there on its own.”

  “What’s the Cargo Cult?” Johnny asked.

  “Right mate,” Mula said. “Let me try. Some people believe you lot—you whites—are their dead family come back to life.”

  “Ok,” Johnny said, and thought about the old Mambu.

  “I saw a plane,” Footy said.

  “Yes mate,” Mula said. “It go like this. God have a son, who die for everyone, that’s wot they say, right? The son go to heaven and make big houses, plenty big houses for us, right?”

  “I guess so,” Johnny said. “Something like that.”

  “We see you white blokes. You come along, cut a path in the bush. You talk to a magic box. I know it’s wireless like me own, but some of these fellas, they bloody primitive! Then a baloose—a plane—it come! And the cargo come out. These fellas here, they want that cargo! Right mate?”

  “Right mate,” Footy said.

  “So what does that have to do with God?” Johnny asked.

  “Ahh,” Mula said. “Where does the cargo come from? From big houses far away, the white men say. Some people think Jesus go to heaven and make the cargo for his children. But the white man, he get it first. Then he want it all himself. He don’t share with God’s children!”

  “Whoa!” Johnny said. “Now that’s what I call a good yarn!”

  “These Taifora, they make the magic, but the goods don’t come. How do they explain that?” Footy asked.

  “Ahh, they just don’t get the magic right,” Mula grinned. “One day, soon enough, they gonna get it. Then the baloose come!”

  “That is so nuts, it almost makes sense,” Johnny said.

  “More like, the most buggered story ever told,” Footy added. Johnny was reminded of a family at the church back in San Diego. They told everyone that if they just tithed right, prayed right, did it all right, there was a fortune coming their way.

  “Watch out for anyone who thinks God Almighty is their personal slot machine,” Johnny’s father warned.

  “Mula, if the Taifora put ha
lf that effort into real work, they could buy the cargo!”

  Mula stared at Johnny intently.

  “Is that right, Mas…is that right, Joe-nee?” he asked. “What you mean, ‘work?’”

  ‘Oh—let’s see,” Johnny said. “Like growing coffee, tea and coconuts. Or…” he snapped his fingers, “…how about croc skins? They’re worth a lot of money.”

  “Is that true, Joe-nee?” Mula asked. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout those utha things, but pookpook skins, I can get. We trade ‘em for cargo?”

  “Sure,’” Johnny said. “Right Footy?”

  “Bloody right mate,” Footy chimed in. “Take the skins and rub ‘em in salt. Dry ‘em in the sun. You sell ‘em for money, and money buys cargo. That’s the Australian way.”

  “Japanese way too,” the prisoner spoke. The others stared at him. He’d hardly opened his mouth all day.

  “I think ‘bout that,” Mula nodded. “Thank you to verify the facts. Now this is where I stop. You got a long way likilik to the big water. Maybe five days, maybe ten. I don’t know, mate—nevva been there, but that’s wot I hear.” The travelers turned to leave.

  “You tell 'em when you get back,” Mula went on, “the Uhuli need anotha missionary! We need guns and bullits, clothes, knives, axes. We like them motors for our canoes—an’ petrol! I keep the Lighthouse Mission nice n’ ready for the next missionary,” he added, “you be shore an tell 'em that!”

  “Yes, yes,” Footy said, impatient to be off.

  “You save your croc skins,” Johnny smiled. He offered his hand and Mula pumped it vigorously. “And thanks, Mula. You’re one of the good guys.”

  “One of the good guys,” Mula smiled broadly. “I like that! Thank you for killin’ that pekpek-head and those sons-a-satan. Joe-nee, you watch out for the demon Father! Don’t let him eat ya!” Johnny waved and headed into the forest.

  “Nice guy, that Mula,” he said.