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

by Timothy James Dean

  The men entered and Johnny went to the bed that had once been a desk. The marred wooden top was a rectangle of thick planks, eight feet long and four feet across, attached to the splintered drawers.

  “Help me carry this to camp,” Johnny said. He faced away and hoisted an end. Footy and Cat each took a corner. They pried it out of the earth, got it outside, and began to walk.

  It was heavy and the men were sweating. Footy grumbled it was too much work not to know what it was for, but Johnny just chuckled. The Japanese plodded doggedly with his head down. They stopped to rest several times, but at last they were back in camp. They set the thing upside down near the fire pit.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Johnny said. The other two watched while, with a kitchen knife, he removed the screws holding on the drawers. He put the shattered wood aside and fetched his machete. He leaned the desktop against his knees, grasped the blade between his hands and drew the edge towards him, spilling off a curl. Beneath the ruined surface, the wood was sound. A pile of shavings formed at his feet.

  Footy went to fish. Cat wandered aimlessly down the beach and Johnny saw him sit and stare at the ocean. That’s the direction where Japan lies, Johnny thought. The sun beat on him. Johnny got his helmet and fashioned a brim from a broad leaf and poked it through the netting. It shaded his eyes, and he continued carving, finding a rhythm.

  Maybe because of what he’d told Cat, today his mind flooded with memories of his father. During the war, he’d done everything he could to keep these from coming. They hurt too much, and the hard voice told him such mooning would get him killed. But this morning, it was as if a dam had burst. Johnny’s hands moved, and the man who had loomed large over much of his life became as real as if he was beside him.

  He and his dad had shared a love of stories. During the long weeks his father was at sea, he told his son he spent his free time reading in his bunk. He said he could disappear into the worlds he carried between cardboard covers. Every time he left, Dad took several tomes in his duffle. His favorites were the great seafaring yarns—“Moby Dick,” “Robinson Crusoe,” and anything by Conrad. He also had a good selection of Robert Louis Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, Jack London, and Ernest Hemmingway.

  When Johnny was young and his dad was in port, bedtime meant passages read aloud from whatever book the man was reading. When Johnny was about seven, his dad included him in the process. First, he’d read a chapter aloud and then Johnny had to stammer through a paragraph or two. His father told him this would set him up for school, give him the literal taste of fine prose, and prepare him for a life in public.

  By the time Johnny was nine, his father was lending him books to read on his own. As always with his father, there were rules. Books except gifts were a loan. His father required that they be returned in the same condition in which they had been lent. Folding over a corner to mark a page, for example, was forbidden.

  When Johnny was done, he was expected to be able to discuss the story in an intelligent manner. But it was never like the book reports he had to write for school—mostly about getting the characters names spelled right and outlining plot and theme.

  With Dad it was different. They chewed over the story, and discussed whether the author was worth his salt. Did he know the world he talked about, and did his yarn hang together? His dad was fascinated by what motivated characters, both human and animal, and whether their behavior was consistent with the personality the author had bestowed on them.

  His father always carried a Bible, a collected works of Shakespeare, and some Dickens. His father said the Bible was packed with conniving and nefarious characters, and fantastic tales most sanctimonious preachers didn’t have the parts to tell.

  “‘How about this?’” he once asked Johnny. “‘Eglon, King of Moab was a very fat man. And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right thigh, and thrust it into his belly. And the haft also went in after the blade, and the fat closed upon the blade, so he could not draw the dagger out of his belly. And the dirt came out.’ How about that for graphic action?”

  He told his son that most literature was written by authors steeped in scripture, and if you didn’t know the source, you couldn’t get the reference. Many of the best quotations were either the Bible or Shakespeare, he said, and one of his games was to quote something, and Johnny had to guess which it was.

  “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,” he’d said. “Dad!” Johnny protested. “Proverbs?”

  “Shakespeare. King Lear,” Dad told him. Now as Johnny’s blade carved the wood, he heard his father’s voice:

  “They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.” Hosea, Johnny’s mind shot back. Well, that Sunday in Hawaii, Japan sowed the wind. And with the atom bomb, the enemy Empire has reaped the whirlwind.

  Johnny recalled the slaughter of his parents and the old hatred welled up again. He found himself panting, and had to clench his teeth against it.

  Justice has been done, he told himself. Japan has been more than punished. The enemy nation has been clubbed to its knees and kicked onto its back.

  He realized that he had to find a way to let the hatred go, or it would eat him alive.

  Maybe that’s part of what Gwyn meant when she said to look for my heart. First, I have to get through the hatred.

  Johnny’s hands continued to draw the cutting edge. He had cleaned an entire section. He smelled the fresh wood and wondered what forest it had grown in.

  Footy was coming back with his pole over his shoulder. He arrived in camp and hung his string of fish in the kitchen. Later Cat appeared, soaking wet, with an armload of shellfish.

  “Where’d you get those?” Johnny asked.

  “I dive,” Cat shrugged.

  “Not afraid of sharks?” Footy asked.

  “No,” Cat said shortly. He spilled the shells into a pot of water and fired up the stove.

  “What kind are they?” Johnny asked.

  “I do not know in English. Hokkigai,” Cat said.

  “What you said,” Johnny replied.

  By early-afternoon Johnny had shaved the entire top. He turned the wood over and started on the other side. It was not as damaged and the work went faster. By late afternoon he had it smooth. He turned the rectangle on an edge and began to round off a corner. Finally as the western sky lit up again he stood and stretched.

  “Let’s go for a run.”

  “What mate?” Footy asked. Cat looked up.

  “You know—a run,” Johnny said, “something you do with your feet.”

  “Yes, and what about my ruddy foot?”

  “What about it?” Johnny asked. “Come on, I’ll take it easy on you. I played football in high school. A little workout is just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Football?” Footy said. “You’re going to teach me, mate? Why do you think they call me ‘Footy’? I’m a runner. But now...” he shrugged.

  “Come on, have a little backbone,” Johnny said. “You too Cat.”

  “Do what?” the Japanese asked. “Does it involve a collision?’”

  “No! I’m talking about a run—on the beach,” Johnny said. “Sheesh. Do I have to spell it out?”

  He headed off and the others followed.

  CHAPTER 9

  In bare feet, wearing only their shorts, the men walked down the beach to the wet sand. Johnny broke into a jog and Footy and Cat followed. After a dozen steps he turned and ran on the spot.

  “Move it!” he shouted. Cat went by, arms pumping. The Aussie came gamely enough, favoring his bum leg.

  “Come on Hopalong!” Johnny said and ran off.

  “I’d show you bloody ‘Hopalong,’ if not for this bloody leg,” Footy fumed. When Johnny and Cat got too far ahead, Johnny led them back and they literally ran circles around the Aussie. Then off they’d sprint again, while Footy lurched grimly along. The men covered two hundred yards before Johnny turned.

  “Ok!” he called, “The other way!” He
and the prisoner passed Footy forty yards back and he went with them. Johnny got a burst of high spirits. He went into the surf and ran with knees up.

  “Like this!” he called. Cat came behind him, getting soaked.

  “Way to go Cat!” Johnny said. “Footy, get with the program!” But the Aussie had stopped and was leaning with his hands on his knees, face scarlet.

  “Bloody foot, mate,” he puffed. “Not on me game.” He lay down in the shallows on his back. Johnny and Cat continued to run around him. Finally the American pointed down the beach at the enormous tree on the point.

  “There!” Johnny said. “The ‘Finish Tree.’ Get up Footy—fast as you can, no excuses!” The Aussie groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The other men were off, running full tilt in their different styles. Johnny bounded along, the dark hair that was getting long, blowing back. The shorter Japanese pumped behind him, his center of gravity low, legs churning. Footy took off after them.

  The men sprinted the last hundred yards and Johnny came to the Finish Tree first. He flung an arm around the trunk, spun and fell onto the carpet of leaves. A second back, Cat slammed his hands against the bark and fell panting as well.

  It was a few minutes before Footy limped up, slapped the tree, and pitched out full length. The men lay, talking idly for half an hour, then sauntered back to camp. Cat made steamed clams and fish, poached in coconut milk.

  Johnny and Footy awoke to Japanese shouts. They scrambled up and looked where he pointed into the plantation. In the early light, they saw a column of invaders. Gigantic crabs followed each other across the forest floor. The crustaceans’ backs were up to three feet long, and they stood at least a foot tall. They looked like lobster musclemen. The men watched the leader hoist a coconut in its massive claw and squeeze. The coconut cracked like a Christmas nut and the crab picked up white shreds and began to feed. The others spread out to do the same.

  Cat grabbed up a stick and ran at the big one. As he came close, it dropped its meal, stood on its hind legs and raised its claws for battle. Then it actually rushed the man! For only the second time since they’d met him, they heard the prisoner laugh.

  “Kani!” he shouted delightedly. He swung his cudgel between the claws. The carapace cracked and the crab fell on its back. Cat grabbed it from behind and held it up, massive claws swinging.

  “Good eatin’ there!” Footy observed, searching for a cudgel of his own. Soon he and Johnny were crab-bashing as well. Their opponents might be smaller, but they were feisty and well armed. Pincers that could split a coconut could take off a finger, even a hand.

  Johnny had never had crab claws and legs for breakfast, but they were superb. They gorged themselves on the tender boiled meat, dredged in coconut oil, salt and lemon grass.

  When they could not eat another bite, Footy and Cat went fishing. Johnny nursed a coffee and returned to his project. Soon he was in shavings to the knees. He got one corner carved in an arc. He turned the board over and began on the opposite side.

  By mid afternoon, his hands sore and cramped, he took a break. He saw Footy fishing a long way off. Cat, however, was nearer, and he was drawing with a stick on the sand. Curious, Johnny went down to him. Cat was on the wet sand above the waves, scratching Japanese characters.

  “What’s that?” Johnny asked.

  “Nothing. A poem.”

  “You’re a poet?” Johnny asked.

  “No,” the man said. “Yes—sometimes.”

  “What’s it say?” Johnny asked.

  “You will not understand.” The prisoner looked at him.

  “Try me,” Johnny said. Cat shrugged.

  “Meigetu ya,” he said,

  “kuni moetukite,

  kagayakinu.”

  Johnny stared at him.

  “In English?”

  “I will try,” Cat said. “Forgive my poor translation.” He thought it through, nodded and spoke:

  “Since my country burned down,

  how clearly

  I see the moon.”

  He looked at the Yankee. “You understand?”

  “Hmmm,” Johnny said. “It’s got something, I’ll give you that. It’s mournful. I’ll think on it.”

  “As I said,” Cat shrugged, “it is Japanese—what we call ‘haiku.’” Johnny nodded and went back to his project. Footy returned near sunset and looked at what Johnny had carved.

  “It’s a boat. Give it up, mate. Too small. You’ll never get to Bora Bora that way.” Johnny pinched tired eyes and set the wood aside.

  “You’re a card. Ready to run?”

  Cat nodded. Footy griped but went along. This time, although the Aussie still reached the Finish Tree after the others, his time had improved.

  That night, Cat’s entree was savory seafood soup, featuring crab claws and chunks of Grouper, with canned corn, tomatoes and coconut milk. The result, Johnny thought, was better than any thing he’d tasted in a restaurant. For dessert they had fresh bananas and fruit cocktail. Afterwards, the men relaxed around their fire under the stars, and smoked.

  It seemed to the men that the beach was deserted and they were alone, but in fact, a thousand creatures of the forest and ocean watched their every move. And on this particular night, as on several before it, they had a very large observer.

  Just after nightfall, it emerged from the river and drifted out into the saltwater. It rounded the point and now floated fifty yards off the beach, the waves sliding over its back.

  This witness had sharp senses. It was no longer impaired by confusion brought about by infection. The giant hung just beneath the surface and watched its enemy in the fire glow.

  The Father had not eaten for weeks and it was cranky with hunger, but only for this, the one-prey. It watched him and thought where to attack. It had developed an aversion to a charge over open land. The last time it did this, it killed the animal, but had been badly wounded as well.

  It reverted to the age-old instinct to lay in ambush. Now, under cover of darkness, it floated in the ocean and fixated on the men. The crocodile knew it could not hide here by day, because the prey would see it in the clear water. Eventually, it swam back into its river. Now, in the new light, it crawled through the jungle. It crept until it was behind a thin veil of leaves, and watched the men again.

  It was troubled. It was not sure of its attack because sometimes it saw the smooth-headed man with two others, but other times, there were three of the furry-headed ones.

  The Father continued to watch and learn.

  It observed that each day when the light grew dimmer, the animals loped along the beach and then basked in the jungle. It watched this behavior for two days, and on the third, once the animals had departed, the crocodile stole to where they had lain.

  The huge head slid from the undergrowth and hovered over the place. It sniffed the unique spoor of each man. One of the spots inflamed its senses. Here it drew in the very body signature of the smooth-headed man.

  The predator eased through the trees. It stopped when its snout touched the sand. It saw three figures in the flickering light. Eventually, it slunk to the river.

  In the morning, the hunter crawled out to watch again.

  As the sun came over the sea, the men rose and searched for the coconut crabs. There were not as many as yesterday, but enough for a decent crab-whacking. After another breakfast of claws, Footy and Cat went fishing. They were not natural companions and unless Johnny was with them, they kept their distance. The Aussie had been wandering further away each day, while Cat liked the nearby wall.

  Johnny put on his sunshaded helmet and continued with his project. He had each of the long sides of the tabletop curved. One end came to a point while the other was blunt. Johnny would work on one side for an hour, then turn the wood over and match the other to it. He began to round the edges.

  For lunch he ate cold crab and bananas, and carried a plate to Cat. The man had a pile of fish wrapped in banana leaves. Cat wound in his line and consumed the food.


  “Where do you get the clams?” Johnny asked.

  “You want to see?”

  “Yes,” Johnny told him. Cat led along the beach to a place where the coral bed came close to shore. The top was so near the surface, it damped the wave action.

  “We have to swim,” the Japanese told him.

  “Let’s cool off,” Johnny said. Cat went into the waves and Johnny followed. They swam thirty yards beside the coral shelf, the sandy bottom ten or twelve feet below. Cat upended and breast stroked down. Johnny breathed deep and went after him.

  Footy was a further fifty yards along the beach. He’d discovered a hole the barracuda didn’t seem to frequent. He saw his companions splash into the ocean, swim out and disappear. He shaded his eyes and stared after them.

  Are they daft, that far out with the Father and his mates about? In the euphoria of their arrival at the beach, Footy had gone swimming. But since then, he’d noticed too many sharks, and while he’d not seen a saltwater croc, that did not mean they weren’t there.

  Rutherford said the Father was back—and what is that shadow in the water? His heart tripped and he squinted against the glare. He began to walk towards the men, wrapping in his line.

  Submerged beside the coral head, Cat picked up a stone from the sand. Johnny was beside him with eyes open. Unlike the fish, he could see only a blur. He watched Cat pull himself to the clam colony on the side of the coral head and strike with the stone. He tugged off loosened shells and handed them to Johnny, who clutched them in an arm.

  Suddenly Johnny felt that spooky sense of something watching him. He stared into the blue. While he couldn’t make it out, he saw something gliding from the deep.

  Cat clunked with his stone and continued to load Johnny up. Now he chipped off an armload himself. Johnny felt the desire for air burn in his lungs. He pointed for the surface and pushed that way, Cat right behind. Then, from the corner of his eye, Johnny saw something dark coming fast, and kicked harder.