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

by Timothy James Dean

  Johnny untied his jungle hammock, pulled on his helmet and returned to the gravesite. He spread his bed beside the corpse, cut a piece of rope off an end and put it aside. He opened the zipper and slid the body in. He rolled Cat in the material and roped the makeshift shroud.

  Quickly, before he could think about it, he pushed the bundle into the pit. He turned his back and scraped the dirt into the hole, then packed the mound with his bare feet. He cut two saplings and used the piece of rope to tie a cross. He stuck this in the soil at the head of the grave.

  It was done, but not finished. Johnny thought he should say some words. He pulled his helmet off and searched for something fitting.

  Dad would have a quotation. Johnny wracked his mind but came up empty. At last he recalled a phrase from San Diego. They’d learned it from the Mexicans, and it had become a family tradition. It was the last thing his parents said to one another before his father went to sea.

  “Vaya con Dios, Cat,” Johnny said gruffly. He placed his helmet on the top of the cross, nodded at the grave, and walked away.

  Footy seemed to be sleeping and Johnny took empty pots and soap and went to the stream. He stripped off his shorts and sat in the pool, head under the spout while the water splashed over him. He filled the containers and returned.

  Johnny opened a can of stew and ate the chunks with his fingers. He poured the broth into another pot, added water, and heated it. When it was lukewarm, he took it to Footy.

  The man was white as paper, muttering nonsense. Johnny sat beside him and raised Footy’s head on his leg. He put a spoonful of soup to the man’s lips and tipped a little in. Footy coughed and shook his head. But then, Johnny was encouraged to see, he swallowed and licked his lips. Johnny got about half of it into him, while the rest went down his chin. He cleaned the patient up and Footy slept again.

  The day drew on, and at last it came to Johnny that this was when the three of them would have gone for their run. Again, he was wracked by sadness and sat listlessly as night fell. He roused himself, lit a fire, smoked, and kept watch.

  In the middle of the night, the Australian began an unintelligible conversation with unseen companions. The hours dragged on and Footy progressed through a number of states. Sometimes he lay still as death. Other times, he tossed and raved.

  Johnny heard a scream and sat bolt upright. He realized he’d nodded off and in the faint glow of the coals, he saw Footy facedown in the sand. He had rolled off his blankets and banged his poor leg. Johnny rushed for another tube of morphine and stuck it in him. At last Footy stopped writhing and went limp, and Johnny placed him back on his bedding.

  He lay awake, staring at dark patches of clouds drifting across the stars. What did it all mean? He’d been raised in church, like he’d told Doc Mac, and he’d once believed in a loving God. But three years of brutal war had about beaten the faith out of him.

  His first day of fighting, the day Walt died, he’d realized bone-deep that no supernatural force was going to step in and stop the bullets—not the ones coming at him, or those he’d sent at other men. War was all projectiles and trajectories, the physics of death.

  Somewhere along that journey, Johnny stopped believing in a loving presence behind it all. But now as he stared into space, he remembered what Doc Mac told him. “God does not require your belief in order to exist.”

  The soldier voice said the world was all violent chaos and blind chance. At school, they said everything was a mindless explosion of matter, and no one knew how it got started or where it was going. Johnny pondered that as he listened to the thin evidence of human life, the ragged breaths of his friend.

  Gradually a conviction grew in him, the tiniest flicker of hope. The theory this was all merely a cosmic accident was just that, a theory. Johnny stared at the billion suns across the sky and thought it took a greater leap of faith to believe all this had “just happened,” than that it was a work of infinite imagination and intelligence.

  If there is a God, why did he make it so hard to figure out? And it struck him. You can’t “figure out” the awesome presence that can conjure up a universe.

  So how could a puny creature like he was know how to get by? “Live by the code,” he heard his father’s voice. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

  But that had all been kicked in the ditch by the war. In the jungles of New Guinea where the tough soldier emerged, Johnny came up with a new rule.

  “Kill the enemy before he kills you.” It was not a belief, not an article of faith. It was a daily necessity.

  The only reason he was even here to think these things was because he had followed that rule to the letter. But now he hurt deep inside, like something was breaking. He was bereft, with only the unconscious and the dead for company.

  Johnny put a stick on the fire and lit another cigarette. He was no longer rationing.

  What if all this is a design—some great scheme where my life is only a snap of the fingers?

  What if we’ve been given everything we need? Paradise is here, all around us. But then there’s this little thing called “free will.”

  None of this took a leap of faith, Johnny decided. Anyone could see it. We are free to love or hate. The Uhuli and Mambu—America and Japan—it’s the same, just on a different scale. Now our tribal wars tear up the Earth and the slaughter is counted in millions.

  And where is God? There is a fact and this is it. If God does intervene, it’s only here and there. This life saved, that one let go. On the big scale, God does not step in. God does not save the millions. The silence says, “You are free. Here is the world. Make it heaven or hell, live like angels or devils, it’s your choice.”

  Maybe God asks us a question, Johnny thought, and history is our answer.

  Footy cried out and Johnny went to him. As he adjusted the leg, he saw the depths of his friend’s suffering and it devastated him.

  Later, as the sun was coming up, he had another thought.

  Maybe we break God’s heart.

  Day dawned and Footy still lived. Johnny mashed bananas and stirred in coconut milk. He lifted the Aussie’s head and spooned the sweet concoction into his mouth. Footy’s eyes stayed closed but he was able get some down. Finally he spoke.

  “Ta,” he whispered. It was the first intelligible thing he’d said since the Father’s attack and Johnny got a lump in his throat. What’s happening to me? Don’t turn into a pussy!

  Footy’s teeth chattered and Johnny tucked a blanket up to his chin. He was overly emotional, even tearful this morning. I’ve been through a lot, he told himself. I’m just tired. I need sleep, and soon, but then who will look after Footy?

  He wished he had a book to read. “The Man Who Would Be King,” or “White Fang.” But there was no book, and he sat by Footy while the clouds unraveled across the sky.

  In the afternoon, Johnny pulled off the bandages and inspected the stump. He was relieved to see no sign of infection. A scab had formed over the seared flesh. Johnny swabbed it with iodine, smothered it in antibiotic powder, and wrapped it again.

  “You are doing great pal,” he told Footy in a hearty voice he did not feel, even though the Aussie was out cold. “A few more days of R and R and you’ll be good as new.” Footy mumbled and raised a hand. Johnny gently pressed it down. You desperately need a doc, but at least you’re eating.

  That day and another night dragged by. In the new morning, Footy was suffering, and Johnny drugged him again. He changed the bandage in the afternoon and was encouraged to see patches of pink showing through the scab. He boiled a towel, wrung it out, and washed the man from head to toe.

  The sun was a bright patch behind roiling clouds. The seas were wild and wind tossed the foam. In growing admiration, Johnny watched the rollers come in. Gradually, a sense of longing rose within him. The water giants called him to play, and his eyes flashed to the sleek thing he had made. He had the urge to escape into the tumult, mount his wooden wing and never come back.

&n
bsp; Footy groaned, and Johnny abandoned his pipedream and returned to his caretaker chores. The day went by, and the weather grew worse.

  That night, Footy’s babbling became hysteria. Johnny put a hand on the patient’s forehead and found him burning up. He dosed him with morphine and that quieted Footy, but the heat came off him like a furnace. Johnny wanted to soak him down but found he was out of water. He pulled a burning branch from the fire and took a pot into the jungle.

  He was walking fast on bare feet, hardly paying attention, when he almost stepped on the snake. The Death Adder reared up and struck and Johnny barely managed to dance beyond its reach. He shoved the torch at the viper’s head and it recoiled and slithered off the path.

  Johnny’s track and field events had been sprints, hurdles and the long jump. He backed up a few paces, pot in one hand and the stick in the other, took some running steps and leapt over the place the snake might still lurk. He jogged to the pool and returned with the water, waving the smoldering stick in front of him, but the serpent was gone.

  Johnny soaked Footy down, and while the evaporation cooled him, the skin was soon burning again. Johnny kept at it for hours. His arms ached and his body begged for sleep, but he persisted. Day broke, and on he went.

  At last his patient began to cool. In a final burst of sweat, the fever broke, and Footy’s breathing became deep and regular. Johnny saw that his skin color was returning to normal. The Aussie began to snore, really going at it, and for once, Johnny welcomed the sound. He stretched out on the sand and slumbered.

  He awoke in the full glare of the afternoon sun. He sat up and saw Footy. The Aussie’s blue eyes were open, staring at him.

  “Johnny,” the pilot rasped, “where’s me bloody leg?”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Footy,” Johnny began. “I’ve got a lot to tell you,” but the patient’s eyes drifted shut and he was gone again.

  Johnny roused himself, washed his face and made coffee. He felt better for the rest. He opened a can of spaghetti and ate it cold. He sat by Footy and smoked, and watched the mounting seas. There must be a storm out on the South Pacific. Jumbo waves tumbled in that reminded Johnny of “Pipeline,” his favorite run on Oahu’s north shore.

  Eventually Footy had a fit of coughing and raised himself on his elbows. His eyes came open and stayed that way. Johnny brought him some water and he drank the whole cup.

  “Hungry?” Johnny asked and Footy nodded. He opened a can of fruit cocktail and brought it back.

  “What happened?” Footy asked in a cracked voice.

  “Not yet,” Johnny said and sat beside him. “Eat first.” He held the Aussie’s head in the crook of his elbow and fed him the fruit and all the syrup.

  “Now,” Footy said when that was done. “I can see me bloody leg is gone. Talk.”

  “Do you remember being attacked by the crocodile?” Johnny asked. Footy closed his eyes.

  “Ahh, the Father,” he said. “No...”

  “The run,” Johnny said, “the Finish Tree...”

  “Ah yes,” Footy said, cracking an eye. “I won...”

  “It was there,” Johnny said. “The Father was there, waiting for us. It attacked you. But you’re going to make it.”

  “Ahh?” Footy breathed as he raised his head and looked at the bandaged, shortened leg.

  “No more bleeding,” Johnny said. “No infection.”

  “Ahh,” Footy said in a lost voice. Johnny took a breath.

  “Cat is dead.”

  “Dead? How...?” Footy’s gaze fixed on the Yank.

  “The Father killed him,” Johnny said.

  “And where’s that bloody croc now?”

  “Dead as well. Cat killed it,” Johnny said, “with his sword.”

  “Ahhh,” Footy said. He lay back and passed out.

  Johnny drew his surfboard against his legs. He stroked the warm wood, fingers tracing the grain, while he watched the tempest. The gulls rode the wild wind and he marveled at the way they dipped and soared. The rollers were incredible, and the surf hammered the beach. Every so often, Johnny woke Footy up enough to take water. For lunch, he fed him mashed bananas and pudding. The Aussie slept again.

  Late in the afternoon, Johnny was wandering back and forth in front of the campsite when Footy called.

  “I need help, sorry to say. Toilet,” he explained. “Help me sit up. There,” he pointed at a log. “Get me on it.” Johnny lifted the man from behind. Footy held his stump sticking out so it wouldn’t get bumped, while his other heel dragged in the sand. Johnny put him on the log and walked away to give him privacy. He went to the dump in the trees and chose a big can. He filled it with water and set it beside Footy so he could wash himself. When the Aussie was ready, Johnny helped him back to bed.

  “Give us a ciggy,” Footy said, “there’s a mate.” Johnny lit it for him.

  “Now,” Footy breathed through the smoke, “that’s better. Make a latrine close by, would you Johnny? I’d like to take care of meself.”

  “Ok,” Johnny said.

  “And bring me clothes.” Johnny helped him get into a roomy pair of Dingo’s shorts. Then he dug a deep hole in the sand and rolled a log near it for a seat. He stood a few cans of water nearby.

  That evening, the Aussie insisted on feeding himself. Johnny propped him up and gave him a plate of stew. Footy ate most of it, but he was in pain. Finally he pushed it aside and clutched his thigh, sweat popping on his forehead.

  “Hells bloody bells! Morphine!” he gasped.

  “Ok,” Johnny said. “We’ve got three tubes left. That’s all there are. Three—you want one?”

  “Give me half a dose mate,” Footy managed. “Right now!” Johnny slid the needle in and squeezed a portion of the tube. The pilot gasped hard, but after a few minutes he calmed down. He grabbed the cigarettes and smoked four in a row, lighting one from the end of the other.

  “Struth mate,” he said, “in the war I worried about getting killed, but this is worse.”

  Sometime after the drug kicked in, Footy dragged himself to the latrine. Johnny got up to help but the Aussie waved him away. It took Footy ten minutes crabbing on hands and a foot to get there and sit on the log, but he managed. Afterwards, he grunted his way back to his blankets.

  Johnny put a box of cigarettes, matches, and a bottle of water beside Footy. He also set the half-dose of morphine at hand.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Johnny asked.

  “A pistol and one bullet,” Footy groaned.

  “Besides that,” Johnny said. “I need sleep too. I’ve been up most of the time since this happened. You want something, you yell until I wake up.” He rolled out a blanket, and for the first time since the Father’s attack, he slept the entire night.

  Johnny awoke to a gale blowing and saw Footy sitting against a log, cigarette butts stuck all around in the sand.

  “’Mornin’, mate,” Footy said, “but I can’t say it’s good.”

  “Bad night?” Johnny asked.

  “The worst,” Footy said, “I gave meself the morphine. I’m ready for more.”

  “Ok,” Johnny said. “There are two tubes left.”

  “Bloody hell,” Footy gasped. “Give me another half.”

  “Right away,” Johnny said and he got up. “From here on, it’s up to you to tell me when.” He gave Footy the shot. “I’ll put on coffee.”

  “Make it easy and just chop me friggin’ head off,” Footy wheezed. Johnny brought him a mug of the brew, then heated beef hash and cooked the last of the bananas. He told the pilot he had to provision the camp. This morning, he’d haul water, get bananas and go fishing.

  “Go on mate,” Footy told him. By late morning Johnny had bunches of bananas in the branches and a pile of green coconuts, one cut open by the pilot to drink. All the pots were full of water.

  Johnny took his pole and went to the ocean. It was tough casting into the roaring waves, and he caught nothing for an hour, then hooked six pan-size Snappers in ra
pid succession.

  When Johnny got back he found Footy asleep and was glad to see it. To be awake was to suffer. Johnny fried the fish while his stomach grumbled. He ate three, covered another for Footy’s lunch, and saved two for dinner.

  That night, he was forced to give the Aussie another half dose of morphine.

  “One more squeeze and we’re out,” Johnny warned.

  “Alright mate,” Footy said. “Don’t leave it near me or I’ll use it for shore. But the pain’s lessening a bit.”

  “That’s good news.”

  Next time Johnny was conscious, there was rain drumming on the canvas. He listened to the water running and the endless growl of the breakers.

  When next Johnny awoke, clouds were blowing off a clear sky. The sun had made a comeback and bright blue rollers fifteen feet tall washed in from the horizon.

  Footy was awake and Johnny got up and cooked. The morning passed with the patient drifting in and out of awareness. Johnny got the oil and rubbed another coat onto his board, then sat staring at the South Pacific.

  “Why don’t you go on then?” Footy’s voice came to him. “I take back what I said before—before everything.” Johnny looked at him.

  “To tell the truth, Johnny,” Footy said, “I’m overly cautious around the water. Always have been. We had crocs and sharks where I grew up. I’ve been hearing about swimmers being taken since I can remember. But don’t let me stop you. With the Father dead, you give it a go.”

  “I’d like to,” Johnny told him, “but no way.”

  “Why?”

  “You,” Johnny said simply. Footy thought about it and nodded.

  “Right,” he said. “I see—sorry.”

  “Oh come on,” Johnny said. “That’s just the way it is. You’d do the same for me.”

  “Don’t be so shore,” Footy answered.

  “Sure you would,” Johnny nodded. “That’s what friends are for.”