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

by Timothy James Dean

  “You owe me your life.”

  The man’s face was fierce, his body committed to the slash, but the blade wavered and held where it was.

  “You owe me your life—three times over,” Johnny said. “When I captured you, I spared you. In the Mambu village, I saved you again. And when Mula’s men asked for you, that was the third time.”

  The Japanese said nothing and his muscles bunched, but he did not strike.

  A battle raged within Katsu. His enemy was helpless beneath his katana and he had the one deadly, beautiful act to perform. In his bones, he was samurai. On top of that, like a suit of armor, he was a soldier of the Empire. But what the Yankee said sunk into him like a steel shaft.

  The problem was, it was true.

  In his single-minded desire to regain his katana and do his duty—kill the enemy—Katsu had not considered this. But it was a fact. He owed this man his life. Now the American called for that debt to be paid.

  Johnny watched the blade quiver in the light of a new sun, and he knew his life hung in the balance.

  Katsu thought, my country is beaten and so am I. Despair fired through him and he swung the sword at Johnny's neck.

  Chomi was twenty-five and he lived in the swamp. Life here was precarious. His people inhabited stilt huts beside a channel of the river. The men hunted smaller crocodiles they could snare or spear for meat and skins. When the occasional saltwater giant wandered their way, they gathered the children and pigs into the huts and waited for it to pass.

  Sometimes raiding parties came their way, even the most feared of all, the cannibal Mambu. They came to kill men and take booty—women, pigs and children. When they entered the delta, the families abandoned their homes and hid in the deep swamp.

  Chomi must also consider supernatural dangers, for spirits lived everywhere. Some were indifferent to humans, a few were kind, most were malevolent. Spirits inhabited every animal and tree, patch of land and pool of water. The great fierce ones lived in the sky and the river. When these manifested in the form of tempests and floods, they altered the course of the people’s lives, or simply slaughtered them.

  In the most recent storm, the river had risen around the houses and tugged at the stilts. Chomi and his wives rushed to get the children upstairs and then worked to save the pigs. As their relatives in each dwelling scurried to do the same, Chomi’s family formed a human ladder and handed up the four adult hogs and seven piglets. He had the last two precious ones in his hands when disaster struck.

  Splintering trees, a wall of water broke from the forest. Chomi saw the face of the raging spirit in it, and then it was on him, trying to pull him and his piglets away to drown. He was forced to drop the little ones and hang on with both arms while his wives, children and the other pigs screamed overhead. Chomi climbed the ladder like a half-drowned swamp rat, but the little pigs were swept off.

  Throughout the night the storm raged, and the people and their animals huddled together and comforted one another. But then, in the dawn, when it seemed the worst was over, an uprooted forest giant struck across the stilts.

  For several minutes the houses shuddered, and then the support poles gave way. People, pigs, and possessions, rained into the torrent. Chomi managed to grab the baby and another child as he fell. Humans and animals of his clan were swept away, everyone shouting, and he held the baby and grabbed a branch. The other boy clutched his neck. Chomi clung on and waited for the flood to subside, not knowing who lived or died.

  Eventually, the clan found it had lost one man, two women, four children, and nine pigs. It was clear they had offended a powerful spiritual force. The place itself had turned on them. They could no longer remain here. It had become taboo.

  Chomi knew at once he must guide the clan to another site, but the group discussion raged for two more days. This was interspersed with the search for the lost and the rituals for the dead. The human corpses they tied in the trees. Three freshly drowned pigs, they ate. Other corpses, including a woman and two children, they never found. These, no doubt, had been eaten by crocodiles.

  Chomi was the best hunter in the clan, and he knew the swamp for miles around. He must take his immediate family to a new place, then return and lead the others to safety.

  This was how Chomi, accompanied by all his wives, children and animals, found himself journeying through the everglade. The place he was taking them to was dry ground on which they could build. It had room to plant a garden. Wild Sago Palms grew in abundance, which the women would beat and wash to remove the poison before they could eat the starchy paste. A spring of clean water flowed there, rare in the swamp. The surrounding trees were strong and tall. They would make good stilts for the new homes.

  Most importantly, a branch of the river flowed by the land. It was their hunting ground and provider of life. From the first time he saw it, Chomi felt it was a place where the inhabiting spirits would permit the people to live.

  In order to reach it, however, they must cross the one place Chomi feared above all else. This was a ford where the big pookpook lay in wait. Even saltwater monsters lurked here. Over the years, Chomi had witnessed three full-grown warriors taken at this crossing. It was terrible to watch a crocodile kill a man.

  Now he led the way with a son on his hip, and the young boar around his neck. In Chomi’s fist was his prize possession, a metal machete he had traded a pig for. Behind him came the young wife and the baby, and she led the boar on a vine rope. More children and pigs followed and the senior wife walked at the rear.

  She was strong and carried a stout pole, and Chomi had confidence in her. The sow she pulled came grunting, head down, harassed by three large offspring. These pressed against her, trying to suckle, but this the sow would not permit.

  The family had crossed water several times. At each pool, Chomi stopped the others well back while he went on alone. He looked to see if any large pookpook waited there. When he saw dung and tracks, he noted how fresh they were and if the animal was present. Several times, he saw the eye bumps of smaller crocodiles and entered the water to drive them off.

  At one ford, he spied a big crocodile lurking in the reeds. This pookpook was twice as big as Chomi and he did not even try to confront it. He returned to the family and they backtracked around the danger.

  Traveling with children and pigs slowed Chomi and he was anxious and irritable, shouting at the little ones when normally, he was the most tender of fathers. The reason was that he wanted to cross the most dangerous place in daylight. But by the time they got there, evening already dimmed the forest. His apprehension peaked when he considered being stranded here in darkness. Then the crocodiles could take them at their leisure.

  The new home site was not far off. Chomi planned to sleep there this night. But the perilous water stood between him and safety.

  When they approached the ford, Chomi told the family to wait. He took the stick from a wife and trotted to the water. His worry increased when he saw the droppings and footprints of large pookpook. He prodded the vegetation and nothing erupted. He turned his attention to the water and poked the pole there. Again, nothing.

  Cautiously he waded in, working the stick ahead before each step. When he made it to the other bank he gasped with relief. It was almost dark now. He had minutes to get the family through before the horror of the night would be on them.

  He ran back and urged his family towards the dark water. The people drove the pigs up and surrounded them to prevent them from running off. The swine milled around complaining. They smelled the crocodiles and they knew the humans were going to force them to swim. The people felt very much like the pigs, on the verge of blind panic.

  Chomi took the boy on his hip again and put the young boar around his neck. He knew he must be decisive or everything would be lost. He ordered all to follow and waded in, again prodding with the stick before him. The water came to his waist and the boy clung to his father as they pushed through.

  Chomi trembled with relief when he climbed t
he far bank. He put the boy down and returned to the channel. He took the baby from the young wife and hauled the swimming boar bodily along by an ear. When the woman and the first group were safe, he went back into the pool to help the older wife and the rest. Now he beat the pigs through the water.

  A piglet panicked and broke for the wrong bank. Chomi called a warning and the oldest girl lunged after it into deeper water. She caught the animal by the leg and brought it out.

  Chomi breathed easier when everyone was across. Rapidly, he led them away from the place that turned his bowels to water.

  The Father lay submerged, its snout where the people and animals had just passed. When they were in the water, all its instincts screamed to attack! During its long years, this was how the dominant bull had fed its vast body. But something profound had changed in its appetite. It had waited here only for the smooth-headed man.

  The crocodile watched the creatures pass. It could taste the fear coming off them in the eddies of warm urine. It knew how the bodies bursting in its teeth would taste. But it did not attack. Even when the little pig swam overhead and the small female kicked the Father’s head, it did not bite.

  Now the noisy prey were gone, the crocodile stood up. It felt a turmoil of conflicting urges and it parted its jaws and roared its frustration.

  A hundred paces further along the trail, Chomi heard that and shivered from head to toe. He knew how big the predator must be to make that sound, and it came from the water they had just crossed.

  The children and swine heard as well and they squealed in terror. Chomi ordered the younger wife to lead. She ran while he fell back, urging the family on.

  “Run! Run for your lives!” They virtually flew along, pigs with their tails high, people rolling their eyes at every shadow. Chomi came last, and every few strides he whirled, machete ready.

  The predator was far too agitated to remain here. Again, it rumbled its frustration and abandoned its ambush. It swam downstream aggressively, its foreleg throbbing. Without interest, it swept by the corpse of the cousin it had slaughtered.

  It swam as darkness came, and then into the night. With each hour that passed, it grew leaner, harder, and hungrier. But this hunger was for one food only—the one-prey. It even ignored the juicy, coarse-scaled fish that swam right in front of its snout.

  The water turned brackish with the rising tide. Salt tingled around the reptile’s teeth and burned into the wounded limb, but this hurt was welcome. The Father grew eager for the ocean.

  The South Pacific was calling its child to come home.

  CHAPTER 26

  The samurai sword flashed down at Johnny’s neck and he did not know if he lived or died. Now the enemy’s hands were locked, the blade out of sight. The swordsman held still, muscles like ropes. Then he stood, lifted the weapon away and stepped back.

  Johnny’s hand flew to his throat and he brought fingers up to see if he was cut. There was no blood, and only then did he know he was unharmed. He sat, staring warily at the other man. The Japanese deliberately touched his thumb to the razor edge and a line of scarlet appeared.

  “When I draw the katana,” the soldier said in the clearest English Johnny had heard from him, “it must taste blood.” He wiped the thumb on his trousers and slipped the katana into its scabbard.

  The man was outlined in sun and Johnny saw him in that moment with hyper-clarity, as though for the very first time. In the gift of his life continuing, the perception flooded him: the Japanese was lithe, centered, and each movement was precise, controlled. For the first time, Johnny did not see an unattractive foreigner. He was a man born of another race and tradition, certainly, but he was a warrior of artistry, even grace. Johnny received the insight in a flash, at a super-conscious level, beyond his ability to articulate.

  Jap, Nip, Slant, Slope, the words chased their tails through his mind. We call them that to make them subhuman, to make it easy to kill them. But here is a soldier like me, who fights because his country sent him. In the hours and days to come, the realization would fade, but it would never be entirely lost.

  “I owe you my life. I forgot that,” the Japanese told him. The man sat on the ground, crossed his legs, and spoke again.

  “It is an old thing you call on, much older than this war. But it is true—yes, I owe you my life.” Johnny stared back at him.

  “Now I have paid that debt, or some of it. I have given you your life. Beyond that, I believe the atom bomb is real. Nippon is lost, for who can fight such a catastrophe? And if my country is lost, my life has no value. You say I owe you my life—I give it to you. Kill me or not, it is the same to me now.”

  The scabbard was at hand and he slid the sword into it. He held the katana in both hands, bowed his head, and placed it on the ground in front of the American. Johnny saw his rifle was out of reach as well. The Japanese had moved it. Now the man put the Springfield beside the sword and sat back. Johnny looked at him searchingly and saw that this time, the enemy had truly surrendered.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” Footy asked, voice raw with sleep. The pilot was raised on his elbow, hair tousled, hat and netting pushed aside. Johnny found he was very glad the Japanese had not hurt Footy and he grinned.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Footy was unhappy. Johnny explained what had happened, about the Japanese coming back and then surrendering again. The pilot was too distracted by his pain to ask many questions. He saw the socks on his feet and did ask about that.

  “I sewed your cut while you were out from the morphine,” Johnny said. “I hope you can walk, but you can’t go barefoot. I got the injury taped, but you’re going to have to wear my boots.”

  Footy knew he should be grateful to the Yank, but he was in a filthy mood. He asked himself why, and apart from the obvious injury, it was something he couldn’t put his finger on. It has to do with the Jap, but what? He tried to puzzle it through, but it eluded him.

  Johnny brought his boots and the Aussie pulled them over the socks. They were too big and he laced them tight. With the Yank’s help he got up to his feet and tried his weight on the hurt leg. The pain was sharp. Footy grimaced but forced himself to take some steps.

  “It'll do,” he muttered. His head felt thick and he realized he was hung over from the morphine. As soon as he thought it, he wanted more and asked for it.

  “Better not,” Johnny said, “if you can bear it, Footy. There are only two more doses and you might need it worse—later on.” Footy saw the sense of that, and gave a curt nod.

  “Right you are,” he said. One more thing the Yank’s in charge of. He turned his bloodshot stare at the enemy and then back to Johnny. It’s something there.

  Johnny packed his gear and poured the boiled water into the bottles. He tied his machete and bayonet-knife to the outside of his pack. He didn’t want to get them wet when he had to wade. Once more, he missed the feel of his .45 on the belt and had to let it go.

  The only food they had were the three potatoes he’d cooked last night. He gave one to Footy, then looked at the prisoner and at the two kaukau he had left. I could eat six myself, he thought.

  “Here!” Johnny said gruffly and gave one to the Japanese. The man nodded thanks and bit in ravenously, not bothering to strip the burnt skin. Johnny ate the other one.

  Footy watched the Japanese shovel it in, resenting every bite. Johnny can play bloody saint if he wants, but not me mate, not me. The Jap’s the enemy and he’s eating our food. The blighter was dirty and scratched all over. He’d even lost his shirt somewhere. Almost naked, Footy thought. Bloody monkey!

  “Look,” Johnny said to him, “we can’t be far from the ocean. The Jap surrendered and I believe he means it. I’m not going to tie him up anymore. He wants to run, let him go. We’ve got your foot to deal with. Let's try and get out of this alive!” Footy glared at the captive.

  “No bloody way he can go free,” he said. “I don’t trust him.” Johnny stepped to the prisoner and stared in hi
s face.

  “I want your word you will not hurt us,” Johnny said “If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But if you come with us, you’re our prisoner. You obey our orders. Do we have a deal?” The prisoner gazed back and nodded.

  “Say ‘yes,’” Johnny told him.

  “Yes,” the Japanese said.

  “Ok,” Johnny said, and turned away.

  “Bloody hell!” Footy exploded, “you're going to accept that?” The Japanese turned and stared hard at the Australian, but said nothing.

  “Ok,” Johnny said to Footy, “how would you do it?” The Aussie frowned at the Japanese.

  “Swear on your Emperor’s life that you won’t harm us,” he said. “These bloody people believe the Emperor is a god,” Footy said to Johnny. The prisoner thought, nodded, and spoke.

  “This is an unusual request, but I swear on the life of Emperor Hirohito I will not harm you.” The man was clearly serious, and even Footy was somewhat mollified.

  “Ok,” Johnny said. “Here's how I see it. We've still got a lot of croc country to cover. Let's move out! You come behind me,” he told the Aussie. “You need help, I’m right in front. You come last,” he said to the Japanese, “You carry Footy’s pack and water.” The Japanese nodded. Footy was unhappy to have his things in the prisoner's hands but he knew what the Yank said made sense. Johnny picked up the sword and balanced it on his hands.

  “Now,” he said, “what are we going to do with this?”

  “No way the Jap’s having it,” Footy barked. “You can’t trust him with that! It’s mine.”

  “Fine,” Johnny said. “I’m not going to hump it. You?”

  Footy limped over and snatched the thing. I’m not going to let the Jap behind me with this bloody pig sticker! The Yank forgets what the bugger did to those cannibals! More than that, he was not going to give up his samurai souvenir for anyone. He already pictured himself showing it around the taverns in Cairns.