“It's English!” Footy exclaimed. Johnny put a finger to his lips and unstrung his rifle. Footy did the same, and the two of them moved swiftly over the vegetable mounds, hunting the singer.
CHAPTER 21
When the men were far enough off, the Father stood and stared after them. The rising of the broad, knobbed island set frogs leaping on all sides. Water dripped from the scar across the eye and trickled from the massive jaw while the prey retreated. But it knew its ambush place was good, and it settled under to wait.
Johnny and Footy were through the gardens into a band of trees. The song came from somewhere beyond. The sound of it, a woman’s voice and in English, was so out of place, their skin crawled. They continued into the woods and peered through.
They saw a sun-drenched meadow, and in the middle of it, a near-naked white woman sitting on a log. The song came from her:
“Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy,
Oh where have you been charming Billy?
I have been to see my wife,
She's the darling of my life,
She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother.”
The singer sat in profile. Her hair was long and honey colored in waves down her back. Her skin was a darker gold. But sun-kissed as she was, the watchers in the woods knew she was a white woman. All she wore were strands of blossoms around her hips.
On either side of her stood a young native woman, no more than teenagers. These drew bamboo combs through the blonde tresses. The dark-skinned girls were in a similar state of undress, their breasts bare, their loins scantily clad in strung flowers.
The singer continued to sing, and the men crept closer between the trees. Johnny spied four more native nymphs lying in the grass, threading blossoms onto stalks of grass.
“Struth!” Footy hissed.
“Shhh!” Johnny cautioned—but it was too late.
The woman looked into the forest and the song broke off. Johnny’s gaze locked on her—the lovely body, in spite of the pink ridge of scar across her chest. He saw wide eyes in a striking face, and the woman was looking right at him. His heart beat raggedly, and he glanced at Footy and saw the Aussie’s jaw hanging open.
“They’ve seen us,” Johnny said.
“Yes mate,” Footy agreed.
The singer said something and her companions stared into the shadows. The girls in the grass rose on their feet.
“We’re friends!” Johnny called, “Allied soldiers.”
The woman spoke again and the men heard a tribal tongue. Then she called in English.
“Come out! Show yourselves!” Johnny and Footy glanced at each other.
“What is this!” Footy rasped. “Maybe we've died and gone to heaven!”
“I doubt it’s heaven,” Johnny growled. “Leave your pack and knife here—take your rifle and revolver. Keep your guard up!” He dumped his pack against a tree and slipped his machete and bayonet inside. He pulled off his helmet and set it on top. Footy did the same with his own pack, Bowie knife and Dingo’s hat.
The soldiers walked to the edge of the meadow and paused to face the seven women in that sun-soaked place. It came to Johnny just how rumpled and dirty they were.
The women, by contrast, looked clean and soft, and had bright hibiscus behind their ears, in addition to the flowers around their hips. They wore shell necklaces, bracelets and ankle-bands. Each woman had tattoos around her breasts, winding down her stomach to disappear into the floral skirt.
The white woman was adorned the same way, the tattoos outlining her breasts stark against fair skin. Johnny could not drag his gaze away from her. She laughed musically and spoke again:
“Come.” She smiled at Johnny and opened her arms.
“She's Australian,” Footy said.
“I know it,” Johnny said, running his fingers through his hair.
The woman spoke in the other language and her six companions came toward the men, smiling. Their hands were outstretched, and in their state of undress, the men could see they had no weapons.
Three girls went to each man. Johnny and Footy kept their rifles in hand, but for what purpose in the face of unarmed women? Unreal as it was, they had stumbled into an oasis of comfort and bliss.
The brown girls saw the men’s wide eyes and giggled. Hesitantly, they reached out and began to touch. Johnny smelled the heady perfume of sun-warmed female skin and flowers. The girls’ lips glistened with some sort of oil, and their breasts and nipples grazed him, while gentle hands stroked his arms.
The truth was, Johnny and Footy were little more than boys themselves, prematurely aged by war. In spite of their misgivings, they relaxed in the caresses like men dying of thirst go into a lake of clear water.
Johnny’s gaze remained on the singer. She stared straight back with arresting gray eyes, her arms still open. Johnny licked dry lips.
“There’s something wrong here!” he croaked at Footy. He heard the Aussie grunt and looked over to see that a girl had pried one of his hands from his rifle and it was cupping her breast.
“What could possibly be wrong?” the Aussie sighed. He still had the Lee Enfield in one hand, but two girls were stroking the arm. The four moved like dream-walkers into the meadow.
Johnny felt a hand slip inside his shirt and stroke his chest and he shivered. Suddenly he yearned to throw caution to the wind and succumb, whatever would happen. But he had not survived three years of war that way.
Warm hands at his back gently coaxed him toward the woman waiting on the log. He glanced at Footy again and saw him with his shirt off, bathed in sunlight, the girls caressing him. He was grinning like an idiot.
“Footy!” Johnny called, “keep your guard up!”
“Why mate?” Footy said in a dreamy voice as Johnny watched a woman take the rifle from his hand. He could no longer see the revolver in the Australian’s belt. A girl pulled the man’s hand to the twin of the breast he already held.
“Come to me,” the white woman said, and Johnny’s attention swung back to her. He was just before her and she arched to show her oiled breasts, holding him in her bewitching gaze.
Johnny gaped, and a girl pried one of his hands from his rifle. Brown fingers guided it to the singer’s hip. He shuddered as he touched her.
“Who—who are you?” Johnny managed. A shadow went over her face, and then she was calm again.
“We are the bridesmaids,” she said. “We are here to give men their reward. Those who are thirsty, come and drink.”
The soldier told him this was wrong, but Johnny’s young body was swamped with desire. He stepped closer and the woman put her own hands on his hips and rose to press against him. He felt her pelvis, and the firm breasts against his shirt. She slipped her hand behind his neck and drew his face down to her own. Her lips parted and he saw a hint of tongue.
No! The shout was deep within him, and with huge effort, he turned his face so the woman’s lips only brushed his cheek.
He looked at Footy and saw the girls rubbing their near naked bodies against his. The Aussie’s arms were around one, and as Johnny watched, he kissed her mouth, and she kissed him back.
“No!” Johnny called, aloud this time, but the girl lay on the grass, and Footy sank on top of her. Hands were pulling down his shorts.
The white woman put her hand on Johnny’s chin and turned his face to her. She had unbuttoned his shirt, and now she touched her breasts to his bare skin. It was almost more than he could bear. He was breathing hard, and felt hands tugging at his rifle. Fingers loosened his belt.
The singer lay back on the log and spread her knees, displaying herself for him. A hand lazily traced the tattoo around a breast and down into the flowers. Johnny felt on fire.
The soldier in him continued to protest, but another, stronger urge, would have what she offered. He leaned over her and pressed down. He could feel her whole length quiver, and he was separated from her by only a thin layer of cloth.
When on leave with other men,
he had never used the brothels so many enjoyed. He’d even gone and taken a look, but what he saw depressed him. It was a cheat, the promise of one thing, and the substitution of another. He remembered what he’d had with his girlfriend that last year in Hawaii. The fumbling in the back of the old Packard was far more meaningful than the cash transactions he saw the whores make.
But Johnny had never known what the singer now showed him in the full light of the sun. She was a full and lovely woman, waiting for him on the log. Her arms were back over her head, hands lost in her hair.
“And the lion shall lay down with the lamb,” she said. Johnny felt hands tugging at his trousers. Somehow, he still managed to clutch his rifle in his hand. Now he groaned and put it down, but kept his boot on it. He pressed on the woman again, barely noticing that two of the girls had moved back behind her. Only one remained, working at his belt.
The white woman was staring at him with those eerie gray eyes and a low chuckle escaped her. Something about that was so uncanny, all the hair rose on Johnny’s head and arms, and he searched her face.
And he saw it. There was something absolutely wrong with her eyes. Gwyn’s face rose before him and he saw her intelligent, thoughtful gaze. The contrast was so profound—those sane green eyes, and these eldritch gray ones—that Johnny jerked back.
The woman followed him up, bringing forward the hands that had trailed behind the log, and now they held a short stabbing spear. She put the point against Johnny’s neck so he felt the cut, and the trickle of blood. Her smile disappeared in an instant, and her scowl was murderous. Then Johnny felt other points press into his back.
He felt furious and stupid, and all his desire melted away. Urgently he wanted his Springfield. He could feel the stock under his foot, but he could not reach it with the spear at his throat.
“Now see. You are the lamb, and I am the lion,” the woman said.
“And you're nuttier than a pecan roll,” Johnny told her, reaching a hand and buttoning his pants. He patted his belt and realized his pistol was missing. He turned his head carefully against the point to look at Footy. The Aussie was lying on the girl, shorts around his knees, buttocks to the breeze. But two girls stood over him with spears raised, ready to plunge them into his back.
“Footy!” Johnny called. The Aussie’s flushed face turned his way and he absorbed Johnny’s predicament. Then he craned over his shoulder and saw his own danger—but somehow, through it all, his hips continued to bounce.
“Stop!” the white woman screamed at him, but Footy’s movements grew frantic, and a strange warbling sound issued from him.
“I said, stop!” the white woman shrieked. She spewed words and her handmaidens pressed the points of their spears hard against Footy's back. He slowed a little, but suddenly made a crowing, gargling sound, shivered all over, and went still.
“Disgusting little beast!” the woman hissed. Johnny saw all the women were focused on Footy. He pushed the singer’s spear away, grabbed his rifle, and pressed the barrel between the white woman’s breasts. His finger went around the trigger.
“Call off your girls!” Johnny barked. “Tell them to put down their weapons—or I’ll kill you.” Her gray eyes rested calmly on his face and she did not speak.
“I’ll put a bullet through your heart!” he warned her. “This is what I do. Believe me.” She stared into his eyes and returned her spear to his jugular. He felt the two points press harder behind him, and then the unmistakable muzzle of a gun. My pistol!
Footy rolled off the girl onto his back, and the ones holding spears repositioned them over throat and heart. The girl he’d been on got up, found another spear in the grass, and stood over him. She poised the point over his exposed genitals.
“Not there!” Footy said in horror, and covered himself with his hands.
The singer spoke in a normal voice to Johnny, as though discussing no more than the weather.
“Now—you will shoot me, and my girls will kill the both of you.”
She is crazy, Johnny thought. She wants to die. Keep her talking!
“My friend is Australian, like you,” Johnny tried. “You don’t want to kill us—we’re Allies! We’re on the same side!”
“He’s a filthy little pig,” the woman said. “And we cannot be on the same side, because we are women, and you are men.”
Johnny searched her eyes and knew beyond doubt she intended to kill them.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“This is Creation,” the woman said. She looked around, “and it is good. But then men come. You bring the Serpent into Eden. You put it in us, and the Serpent teaches us evil.
“We are the bridesmaids. To kill the Serpent, we kill the man.” She smiled again. “You see? But I grow weary of talking. Let us make an end.”
And all at once, Johnny knew who she was.
CHAPTER 22
Evil things were on Katsu. His skin was covered in them. He jumped up and saw big black ants crawling all over him. He beat at them frantically with his bound hands. They were biting everywhere, nipping his face, even inside his ears and under his trousers. He shouted and brushed them away and had to reach inside his pants, under his buttocks, to pull off the ones that hung there.
His fingernails were cracked and filthy, but as he watched them pinch off the torturers, it came to him again who he was. He even remembered some of how he happened to be here, alone in the jungle.
I am Katsu. He remembered Kissim—the crocodile, the enemy soldiers, and the trek. He thought of the fearsome cannibals, and Mula’s village. The most recent event he could recall was the thunderstorm. He pushed the limits of his mind and remembered that his captors had been stricken by diarrhea.
Beyond that everything was a blank. How he came to be in this grove of bamboo, being eaten by ants, he did not know. Where his captors had gone, he had no idea either. He realized he was famished when his stomach whined.
Katsu had no weapons and no food and he was totally lost. He felt a prick of fear. At least with the enemy he had been fed! He tried to form a plan and the best he could think of was to free his hands and find the river. His mouth was parched and he needed water or he would die of thirst alone.
Katsu searched the forest floor until he found a sharp-edged rock. He sat and sawed at the rope. Eventually, he cut through a strand and peeled away the coils.
He tried to move off and found he was in foliage so dense he could make no headway. He was reduced to crawling on his belly over the roots. After a long and painful time, exhausted by his ordeal, faint from lack of water and food, he struggled into an open place in the jungle. A shaft of sunlight came down and Katsu lay in it and slept. He did not hear the wild pigs. The boar sniffed around the man, snorted and trotted off, followed by the sows.
Katsu woke in darkness and his body was a single itch. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His fingers searched out a pebble and he sucked on it. He could see nothing and he resigned himself to remaining here. The mosquitoes were a constant torment and so were his thirst and hunger. He tried to cheer himself up by thinking: I am free—free of my captors, free to go where I will and do what I want.
The night dragged on and he could not stop the mosquitoes feeding. When he could bear it no more, he slapped madly at himself and rubbed his hands over his skin and scratched everywhere. Then he sheltered his head with his hands and put his face against his knees. He waited out the dark, repeating fiercely, I am free, I am free!
The night was eternal and sometime in it, he began to say to himself, the enemy is lying. For years now, fighting in the foul jungle, he and his comrades had encouraged one another. Nippon will win, Asia will be ours. We are the only truly civilized people, and we are the rightful head of the region. Nippon cannot be stopped—the Empire will win! But now as he tried to muster the old confidence, the words rang hollow. Lost and alone, he was forced to admit the truth. He no longer believed the proud sentiments.
The news of the atomic bombing of Hi
roshima stabbed through his mind like a dagger. He felt the truth of it in his bones, and he knew that Nippon’s dream of expansion was undone. A voice as cold and hard as steel rang in his head. The Empire is vanquished. In spite of our bravery and boldness, our enemies have won. We will be prisoners, even in our homeland. The world has changed forever.
The man hated this voice that came like a faithless lover in the night, but he could not deny it. He was defenseless, nothing more than a weak boy, alone in a cruel universe. The weight of the infinite heavens pressed down so he could not breathe. He felt he would crack like an insect. There was a stabbing pain in his chest and he thought he might be dying. A sound rose in the forest. It was harsh, and came in waves, and it emanated from him. His chest heaved and water he could not spare ran from his eyes. He felt utterly defeated, and he let the mosquitoes feed unmolested.
Later during that boundless night he saw pinpricks of light. At first he thought they were hallucinations born of the illness that still wracked his body. But when they came close he saw them reflected dimly on leaves. They were fireflies! The dancing points lifted his spirits and he slept.
He awoke with the voice speaking. The world I know is no more. We, the samurai, continue to live but in truth, we were defeated long ago. And myself, my father, and all the soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Army, have been duped. Our war leaders let their pride convince them of the lie that we could win.
Where have they led us? To defeat. Our ships lie on the bottom of the ocean, our planes have been shot out of the skies. My countrymen lie dead by the tens of thousands in unmarked graves.
We despised each nation we conquered as “the defeated.” Now we are them. We are a nation without honor or value. We have lost face before the world, and I am ashamed. Nothing in my life prepared me to face my family or my country this way! I am a stranger to the place of my birth.
But now another voice rose in him, and while it too was harsh, it had human warmth. Yet you live, my son. You are my child and we are samurai, forever, whatever others say. That means we exist to serve the nation. Even though, by our religion, we are warriors of peace, this is wartime and you are a soldier! Your self-pity is intolerable! You will do your duty! Katsu was grateful then for the discipline his father had occasionally beat into him.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 31
