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

by Timothy James Dean

  Footy saw the big shadow in the water, dropped his rod and ran. The men broke the surface and swam hard for shore, on their sides, leading with one arm.

  Something was chasing them.

  “Bloody hell! Faster!” The Aussie screamed, hands cupping his mouth. Johnny peered down and found he was looking into the fierce eyes of the predator. A pointed head with big teeth was right below him in the water, looking up.

  “Move your arses!” Footy bellowed.

  Johnny kicked like a madman, Cat beside him, and his feet touched sand. They dashed out of the waves just as Footy got there.

  “’Cuda!” Johnny gasped. “Huge!”

  “You bloody dunderheads!” Footy stormed, “You about gave me a stroke!”

  Johnny laughed and looked at the Japanese. They had been spooked, but neither had been willing to drop his clams. Cat chuckled as well and then they laughed.

  “Aww, yeh,” Footy said, arms crossed. “Right—it’s a bloody joke. But you keep playing silly buggers, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” He stormed back to his fishing.

  Johnny and Cat carried the clams to the kitchen and put them in fresh water. Johnny returned to his carving and Cat went to the forest to wash, and haul drinking water.

  Footy returned in the heat of the afternoon. He had a brace of Grouper that he set in the kitchen, then lay down in the shade for a nap.

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny called to him. “I know the ocean’s dangerous! When I saw the size of that ’cuda, I about walked on water.”

  “Come on mate,” Footy said. “You’ve got to realize, this is no joke! Tell you what Johnny—I’m not going in again. You want to, it’s your funeral.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Johnny said, “but the ocean’s always felt like home to me.”

  “Not here mate!” Footy said, “This is bloody New Guinea!

  “Stupid to survive the war, only to end up in a croc or shark belly.”

  “You’re right,” Johnny conceded, shaving another spiral of wood.

  He worked until the sun plunged for the ocean, then called for another run. With all the good food, fresh air and exercise, they were getting stronger by the day.

  This time Footy changed his style of running. It was more like a skip, with a long hop off his sound leg. While Johnny still managed to hit the Finish Tree first, the Japanese crowded him, and Footy was on their tails. Again they lay on the leaves and caught their breath.

  Johnny was on his back, looking up into the branches when he got that eerie sense of being watched again. He sat up and stared around, but saw nothing unusual in the quiet clearing.

  “What is wrong?” Cat asked.

  “Yes, what’s up mate?”

  “Nothing—I guess,” Johnny said. Then there was an unearthly scream. The men’s hearts hammered and something large lifted in the branches. The three sprang up and ran to the beach and saw a huge fish eagle flapping away.

  The men went back to camp. The catch of the day was the steamed clams.

  “Alright then,” Footy said, popping another succulent morsel in his mouth. “If you blokes want to die getting these, carry on. They’re that good.”

  “I hope Chas made it safely home,” Johnny said as they smoked contentedly by the fire.

  “And we see a plane any day,” Footy said. He turned to Cat. “Not long and you’ll be back in Jap-land.”

  “What will you do when you get home?” Johnny asked. The Asian was silent a long minute.

  “I do not know,” he said.

  “What do you do? What’s your job?” Johnny asked.

  “I am a career Army officer,” Cat replied. “But now I will find other work.”

  “Well, there’ll be money to be made,” Footy said, “you’ve got a whole country to rebuild.” The Japanese turned on him fiercely.

  “With my family dead? Burned to nothing? My city gone? And you think about money?” There was an awkward pause filled by the crashing of the surf.

  “Sorry, I meant no harm,” Footy said stiffly.

  “He was just talking,” Johnny added. “There’ll be millions of people in the same boat as you.” This time the silence stretched so long, the conversation died.

  During the afternoon, the waves rose higher. Now they were enormous rollers that hurled at the beach. The wind whistled, and the tarp cracked like a whip.

  Finally the Japanese spoke.

  “I am sorry,” he told the others. “This is not your fault. But I do not know if I can face this new Japan.

  “I think defeat takes more courage than war.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The following day, the palm heads tossed and the ocean climbed higher. Johnny kept carving and the shavings tumbled down the beach. Footy and Cat tried to fish the booming breakers, but caught only a few perch, which the men had for lunch.

  In the afternoon the Japanese brought his sword and sat beside Johnny. He had a rag and coconut oil and he drew the blade from its scabbard. He set it across his knees and for an hour, he scrubbed the metal until it gleamed.

  He stood, holding the grip in two fists, and made sweeps through the air. Johnny studied the man’s stance—legs widespread, the committed face, the sure moves. Johnny admired the long curve of steel. The point was formed by a forty-five degree angle across the end. Behind the sharp edge, a wavy line ran the length of the blade.

  “That is a fine thing,” he said.

  “When I was home,” Cat said, making another pass, “six days a week I must practice with a sword. At first it was bamboo, later metal, never Katsumushi-maru!

  My father was a master—he taught me himself, although I had another sensei as well.” He made a particularly deadly slash.

  “Mostly we drill. Practice, practice, practice. Then, when I was good enough, my father and I started cutting makiwara together. These are straw bundles, about as thick as a man’s neck. It was a long time before I could sever one with a single stroke! My father did it every time.” He paused for a moment and studied Johnny.

  “My father and I did not agree on some things. He was very critical, very strict. Now I think our happiest time together was when we were cutting makiwara.

  “A warrior’s sword is a living thing,” he went on as he turned on a heel and carved the air. “We call it a ‘katana’ and this one has a name, given to it by one of my ancestors after a great battle. It is called ‘Katsumushi-maru.’ Katsumushi means ‘dragonfly.’”

  “Dragonfly?” Footy said as he came and sat down. “Sounds girly.” Cat suppressed his irritation and ignored the Australian. He finished his routine and took a seat.

  “For us, the dragonfly is ‘the invincible one,’” he said to Johnny. “It means both war, and victory.” He displayed the sword.

  “Katsumushi-maru was forged three hundred years ago, and has been in my family all that time. It has killed more than five hundred men—and the story of those victories, I know by heart.

  “It took thirty men at a place called ‘Bizen’ to make this sword. They were under three masters. One made the steel. The second forged the sword. The third polished and finished it.

  “The blade itself has two natures. You see where the metal joins?” Cat held the katana so the light caught the wavy line behind the cutting edge. Johnny stopped working to listen and both he and Footy nodded.

  “The edge is very hard—very sharp. This is necessary! But the sword must also be flexible so it does not shatter when it strikes. The genius of the master who made it was to marry the two steels, the two personalities.” The prisoner turned to stare at Footy.

  “I hope when you take my katana to your home, you will understand its value. You will treat it with respect.”

  Footy was tempted to make a scathing retort, but something in the prisoner’s earnest stare gave him pause.

  “I will,” he said seriously. Katsu dipped his head and returned the blade to its scabbard.

  The day ended with another run. As they approached the point, Johnny was once mo
re in the lead, but then he tripped. The Japanese stepped in front of him and was first to the Finish Tree. Johnny came second, with Footy breathing down his neck.

  This evening, the sun on the western horizon turned the clouds to pink cotton candy shot with bright lemon. The color bled away and the rising wind drove a curtain of dark clouds across the sky.

  The men ate, and lit their fire, but the wind sucked the sparks toward the trees. They kicked sand over it and went to bed. Johnny lay in his swaying hammock, while the others wrapped themselves in blankets and turned their backs to the driving sand.

  Katsu heard the wind in his ears, but that was not why sleep evaded him. He was troubled by an inner storm. Perhaps it was triggered by the sword practice, but once again he felt the conflict between his lethal warrior nature and his peaceful religious one. Samurai tradition required that he be ready to kill himself for honor at a moment’s notice. Christianity forbade it and said he would forfeit his eternal spirit. How could he resolve this? How had his ancestors done it? It was like trying to piece together the two types of steel for the sword.

  He pondered it like a Buddhist koan, a conundrum or contradiction that held a kernel of enlightenment. His father had taught that the essence of a samurai was to be of service, to give absolute loyalty to his lord. In addition, Katsu had grown up in a Christian family. He had been baptized in the cathedral as a baby, and confirmed as a teenager. In a way, he had no choice. It was the family tradition, and Katsu had not questioned his father, or the priests. It was the Takano family way.

  But the furnace of war, and now defeat, had melted all that was not essential out of him. Now, as he tried to fit what remained of himself together, he found there was a hard core after all. If this atom bomb on Nagasaki had destroyed the Urakami Tenshudo, the Cathedral, then it was all gone—the Latin mass, the incense, the ornate robes, statues of the saints, and of course, the politics of the priesthood. Oh yes, Katsu had observed that this was also a hierarchy of men, jockeying for position. But all stripped away, he saw the Christ at the center. And now as he looked into that life, he could see one thing. Service.

  The God of the universe, on his knees washing the feet of peasants. Katsu had an epiphany. That is it! Jesus was forever feeding the people, healing the sick, comforting sufferers. Two thousand years of human intervention had turned him into something else, perhaps an icon of gold high in a temple, but at the true heart was humble service.

  I have been blind! My warrior nature and my peaceful soul come together in this! I was made to serve.

  Nippon was overwhelmingly Buddhist, Katsu thought, and did not both the Buddha and the Christ teach peace? And were they not the spiritual teachers of both Japan and America? But in spite of that, the nations rattled their sabers, dressed their sons in uniform, and rushed to war. How is that possible?

  Katsu felt a glimmer of hope. My family may be dead, my world is in ruins, but perhaps I can serve my countrymen. His hand touched Kasumushi-maru and he sent a thought to it.

  Perhaps it is best that I give up you, spirit of my fathers, my warrior heart. What has this prideful nature done for Nippon? It has destroyed us. When I must, I will surrender you. I made a solemn promise. But not yet! No, not yet.

  That night the crocodile did not watch from the tossing ocean. It wormed to the edge of the jungle and stared at the men. When the light winked out, the Father crept back and slid into the shallows. The wind could howl, but it was submerged in the silence of the river, only the nubs of its nostrils up in the storm.

  It had selected its place of ambush and now it could rest.

  The men awoke to tumultuous seas and clouds scudding across an iron sky. The coconut crabs were gone and they spent the morning huddled in camp, watching the waves mount in fury.

  Johnny did the math and figured it was the seventh day since Chas Rutherford had departed. He went back to his project. It was almost done. He’d carved off a third of the wood he’d started with, and what he had left did not resemble a desktop in the least. The stains and cuts were long gone, and the flat surfaces and the rounded edges were fresh and golden.

  The others ventured to try their luck at fishing. They needed the food. After some hours they returned with a meager catch, a single cod the Aussie had landed.

  Johnny was done. He stood his creation on end and rose beside it. It came to a point over his head, flared to its widest at his shoulders, and narrowed to the rounded butt on the sand.

  Johnny caressed the sleek shape and was well pleased.

  “A small boat,” the Japanese observed.

  “No mate,” Footy said. “I know what it is.”

  “What’s that?” Johnny asked.

  “I’ve never seen a real one,” the Aussie said. “But it’s a surfboard.”

  “Head of the class!” Johnny told him. “It’s the first one I’ve carved, but not the first I owned.” He turned it, admiring the grain.

  “It’s about eight feet long, and that’s short, but it’s all I had to work with.”

  “I knew some time ago, but I didn’t want to spoil your fun,” Footy said. “But mate, you’re actually going to surf this bloody ocean? If so, you’re as longlong as that crazy woman, Sarah.”

  “I haven’t decided,” Johnny said. “It was something to do.”

  “It is ready?” The Japanese asked. “I would like to see ‘surfboard-ing.’”

  “‘Surfing,’” Johnny told him, “and it’s not quite ready. I’d like your help to waterproof the wood. I need coconut oil, lots of it.”

  Cat collected seasoned nuts, split them and chopped the meat. Footy wanted to help and the two took turns crushing the nutmeat against the flat rock until they had a can of oil. Johnny rubbed layer after layer into the wood. After each coat, he let it dry. Half an hour later, the surface would be matte patches and he’d do it again.

  Late that day, he had the wood saturated. The men studied the shining grain. Even Footy had to admit that the Yank had made a handsome thing.

  It was time for their run. The three jogged through strong wind to their starting place.

  “Ready?” Johnny asked. They crouched. “Set—go!” Footy and Cat got a pace ahead and Johnny leaped after them. For the first hundred yards, he followed the Japanese. The man ran in his vigorous way. Footy was next and ran with hardly a limp, making up for the slight lag of his right leg with longer leaps of the other.

  With a hundred yards left, Johnny rushed into the lead. With the point fifty yards away, Cat caught up and they pounded neck-and-neck.

  Then Footy seemed to fly by them, running faster than Johnny had seen him go since Bumay’s cannibals were behind them. Both Johnny and Cat stretched after him, but for the first time, it was the Aussie who slapped the Finish Tree first.

  Footy jogged in a circle, face tomato red, shaking victory fists. Johnny and Cat came in together and dropped. Footy tottered around the clearing, threw himself down at the jungle’s edge and leaned against a log.

  “I won!” he crowed. “I won, I bloody won!” His grin wouldn’t quit. Johnny and Cat’s chests heaved and for a time, there was only the sound of gasping. Some minutes later Johnny rolled on his side and smiled with genuine pleasure at Footy. The pilot had such a blissful look as he leaned back, eyes closed, chest still heaving.

  Johnny put an elbow under his head and he, too, closed his eyes, awash in the euphoria that followed all-out exertion. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a jangle of alarm sounded. It was something he couldn’t put his finger on, but the warning wouldn’t go away. On the contrary, it got steadily more urgent until it was screaming for attention.

  Johnny’s eyes snapped open. It was absolutely serene under the shade of the huge tree. But there was something wrong, and he could not see it.

  And then it struck him. Footy was sitting near a puddle of water. It had not rained.

  Johnny’s eyes fixed on the Australian. He sat with his legs straight out, leaning against a log in the foliage. But it came to Johnny—
there was no log in that place.

  Johnny sat bolt upright.

  “Footy!” he hissed, “get up!”

  “Why mate?” Footy said dreamily, eyes still closed.

  “Footy,” Johnny said and jumped up, his voice rising. “Get away from there!”

  Footy glanced to his right and then his left, peering at the dense leaves, and Johnny saw his face change. Through the caked mud, he saw the rows of scales.

  And then the log breathed.

  Cat was watching as well and jerked to his feet. Johnny took a step toward Footy as the Aussie sprang up, trying to get away from the thing that waited in the quiet woods.

  There was an eruption of branches cracking, and chunks of mud flying. And the unmistakable, murderous, blunt-arrow head of the Father swung into the clearing. The men absorbed the massive skull, the greenish eyes with the black slits, one marked with the dark, curving scar.

  But it was the teeth that riveted Johnny’s attention, the long rows along the indented jaws.

  “Run!” Johnny’s mind screamed, but like one of his nightmares, he did not say it and his feet were rooted to the spot.

  The Father stood up off its belly and stepped fully into the clearing. A branch of a tree broke like a gun report, and more clay cracked off.

  It opened its jaws and roared. The sound shook the men to the core. They gasped in terror and sucked in the crocodile’s rotten breath.

  Footy was closest to it. He still had the impression of the scales on his hands as he tried to leap away.

  But Footy had expended all his energy on the race. It had taken an extraordinary effort to beat the other men. His injured leg dragged back, and the predator was swift. The Father bit him.

  Cat and Johnny saw the teeth clamp on Footy’s leg. There was the crack of bone and the scream. The Father shook its head and the man whipped like a rat in the jaws of a Rottweiler.

  The Japanese finally made his legs move. He turned and ran away.

  Johnny was frozen by warring impulses—run for his life, or fight for his friend. So it was he who saw the crocodile lash its head and Footy’s leg come off at the calf. The man hurled through the air and crashed upside down against the Finish Tree. The sound leg wedged between the branches and the body hung down, arterial blood spurting from the stump. His eyes were fixed open, seeing nothing.