Diffusion

by Stan C. Smith

  As he faded away, the voices followed him into the grayness. “Gu mbakha-lekhe wa-mol-mo, dodepa-le Lindsey? Lindsey gekhene mbakha mo-mba-te?”9

  In the darkness, the tree kangaroo watched the men from above. Their present behaviors intertwined with a long history of observed behaviors, allowing a reasonably accurate prediction of the scene’s outcome. Rarely was the mbolop allowed to intervene in the unfolding of such events, but it now seemed likely that the potential role of the new outsiders would have no chance to play itself out.

  With a drawn-out grunt, the tree kangaroo unfolded itself from its restful perch in the fork of a yawol tree and clambered to the ground. This drew the attention of the tribesmen, and they turned to stare at the approaching creature. In the sultry darkness of the trail beside the river Méanmaél, paws and claws moved with precision. The men watched the movements, nodding their heads in understanding. Soft words were exchanged between them, a dispute ensued, and chewed pandanus nuts were spat with disdain onto the ground. Finally, one of the tribesmen turned and departed, making his way on the trail in the direction the one called Quentin had been walking. The other stayed behind, pacing in circles around the crumpled figure, his spear held ready. The mbolop returned to its comfortable perch to wait.

  The cabin was dark now, and somehow this seemed better to Bobby. He felt almost safe lying next to Ashley. Mrs. Darnell was still awake. She was trying to be quiet but he heard her crying. And the Papuan men were still there, moving around outside the plane. Occasionally a dark shape appeared at the opening, as if checking on them.

  He whispered, “Ashley, you awake?”

  “How the hell can I sleep?” she hissed. “It’s like we’re prisoners and I have to pee.”

  “I don’t think they want to hurt us.”

  “Maybe not, but if they were trying to help us, they’d call for a rescue helicopter. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re dying off here.”

  Bobby didn’t have anything to say to this. Eventually he closed his eyes and slept.

  Quentin was awakened by voices. Someone was poking his leg and chest. He fought his way to consciousness. The forest was still dark, and several figures crouched beside him.

  “What…what are you doing?” he managed to say.

  “Ah, very well, then,” a man at his side said. “Perhaps our verdict was premature.”

  Quentin blinked and lifted his head. He tried to sit up but was too weak.

  “You would be obliged to rest, young man,” said the stranger.

  Quentin tried to think clearly. “You speak English. Thank God.”

  The man was doing something to Quentin’s leg, tugging at the cloth of his trousers. “Having yet to know me, you might do well to withhold your thanks to God.”

  “Our plane crashed and some of my students are hurt.”

  “I was told there were young people in your company. Students, you say? Curious.”

  “Do you have a radio?”

  The man gazed at his own hand as he rubbed something between his fingers. “No doubt you will find this uncomfortable. Steady yourself.” In one swift motion he gripped Quentin’s face, pried open one of his eyes, and roughly smeared something onto his eyeball.

  Quentin recoiled. “Ow—shit! What is that?”

  “Shit.” The stranger pronounced the word as if he had never heard it before. “It has always been my opinion that a man in distress is an honest man. Your words expose your state of civilization, sir.”

  Quentin rubbed his eye and after a moment the initial pain subsided. “What the hell did you put in my eye?”

  “You should not worry over that. You will thank me for it soon enough. It is time for questions of my own. From whence have you and your companions come?”

  “We’re from the U.S.”

  “The U.S. Where might that be?”

  Quentin looked at the man, trying for the first time to make out his features. Although it was dark, Quentin saw that he was oddly dressed. What appeared to be a light-colored vest covered his upper body. Over his crotch was a loosely cut pair of shorts. His legs and feet were bare. His accent was not Australian, which was how Quentin described the inflections of all English-speaking people in this part of the world. Instead, it sounded British—a Masterpiece Theatre sort of British. He sounded and looked like a fairly young man. His dark hair was cut short, and he appeared clean-shaven.

  “The U.S. The United States,” Quentin said.

  “The United States, of course. Tell me, if you will—what do you call this place?” The man held his hands out, indicating their surroundings.

  “New Guinea? Papua? I don’t really understand what—”

  “Papua? Curious. What brings you here? And with students, no less.”

  The man’s questions seemed irrelevant. “I’m sorry, but we need help. My students, my wife, we need to get to a hospital.”

  “Do you mean to say that you have brought your wife to this place?”

  “Yes. My wife and I survived the plane crash, but some of our students died. The others are hurt. Our son may be dead by now. They need a hospital.”

  The man stared at Quentin for a moment. “Sir, you should not worry over them any longer. Their fate, and yours as well, is no longer in the hands of God. I fear your wife and students have perished.”

  Quentin stared, but it was too dark to see the man’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you can do nothing to save them.” He motioned to two Papuans standing at Quentin’s feet. “These indigenes, within whose territory you find yourself, fancy their privacy in a way you could scarcely imagine. You will not be leaving this place.”

  Quentin suddenly felt weak. He slumped onto his back on the ground. This couldn’t be real. He wasn’t lying injured in the mud in a black forest. He was in his bed, cool dry sheets over him, Lindsey’s smooth skin against his side, the smell of her hair in his face. They would wake up together. He would share the dream he’d had with her, and she would listen.

  Quentin heard himself moaning. It was the same voice—his voice—that had followed him on the path. He wanted it to stop, so he pulled Lindsey’s body closer and fell asleep.

  Quentin was floating in space. Stars were everywhere, all around him, above and below. The stars appeared to be passing by in the vast distance, as if he were moving at unimaginable speed. A cold loneliness washed over him, a sensation that he’d been alone for a long, long time. Quentin noticed one particular star growing larger as it approached. It continued to grow, until he had to look away from its blinding light.

  “Wake yourself, sir. It seems you are to persevere another day.”

  Someone gripped Quentin’s shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. The forest was no longer dark. A Papuan man stood above him, armed with a spear. Kneeling beside him was a white man, wearing a peculiar gray vest and little else. Quentin focused on the man’s face—thirtyish, smudged but clean-shaven. The eyes were very light brown, almost gold. Quentin’s mind fought to connect the face before him with the shadowed specter of the night before. Then the words the man had spoken came back with ruthless lucidity. He pushed himself up, gripped the man’s vest, and flipped him onto his back. Quentin was on top of him in an instant.

  “What have you done with my wife? And my kids?”

  There was a flash of movement as the Papuan jabbed his spear to Quentin’s chest. “Yu Khentelo! Yu beben!” The spear punctured Quentin’s skin, but he ignored it.10

  The man beneath him spoke calmly to the Papuan, “Yu khentelo tekhen. Khedi belen. Khedi belen.” He looked at Quentin. “I assure you that I mean no harm to you or your fellow travelers. I have, in fact, returned to you to seek a remedy.”11

  “You told me they had perished. What did you mean by that?”

  “My conclusion was premature. Our situation has changed. With my assistance, you may yet save them. Please yield, sir.”

  Quentin looked up at the Papuan
and was struck by the man’s appearance. His face was that of a mature Papuan man, but his skin was smooth and flawless. It lacked the markings of disease and wrinkles that were characteristic of tribal Papuans. And this man’s dress suggested a most traditional existence. Other than a short penis sheath, he wore nothing but three cords around his neck, each strung with small white objects. The Papuan smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth, and then suddenly wrenched the spear to the side, tearing Quentin’s flesh.

  Startled, Quentin released his grip on the Englishman’s vest. He retreated to one side and sat on the ground, clutching his new wound.

  The white man rose to his feet and smoothed his vest. The material shimmered strangely, and it occurred to Quentin that the vest had felt extraordinarily light in his grip.

  “Do be wary of Noadi,” said the Englishman. “Whatever schooling you may have had, you can scarcely comprehend the chasm between his morality and your own. Presently it is sufficient to note that he is but a savage, with savage ways. Tell me, sir, have you the want of seeing your wife again?”

  “What’d you do to them? Where are they?”

  “Their locality is unknown to me. I have hopes that you will lead me there.”

  Quentin shook his head. “Last night you said you knew about them, that they were… dead.” The word dropped from his mouth like a stone.

  “But I had not the opportunity to confirm the claim.” He gestured to the Papuan. “It is the brothers of Noadi who have frequented the area where your flying vessel ran aground. As is their custom with strangers, they had determined to kill you all. But I only recently learned that they have, curiously, stayed their hand. Your wife and students may yet live. I have come to you so that we might save them.”

  Quentin glared at him. “I’m listening.”

  “If you would pause for a moment and consider your condition. Mere hours ago you were scarcely living, with copious bleeding and fetid injuries. You have made an astounding recovery, would you not agree?”

  Quentin inspected his shin. By now the deep slice from the machete should have been festering, infected with microbes from the river and from his own filth. Amazingly, the gash was partially healed. Instead of red and swollen, it was pale and smooth.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Your rest was brief, I assure you. What of the wounds on your chest? My friends were rather vigorous in restraining you.”

  Quentin pulled up his shirt. There was a ragged gash from Noadi’s savage gesture only moments before. On either side of it were two nearly-healed wounds where the spear points had pierced him during the night.

  Quentin stammered, “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Quentin tried to grasp the situation. He was sure the stranger was not lying, that it was indeed only hours ago that he lay wounded and delirious, perhaps near death. Suddenly he remembered the man rubbing a gritty substance into his eye. “What did you treat me with?”

  The man raised his brows. “Pray tell me, are you familiar with ointments or poultices with such powers to heal?”

  Quentin’s answer was immediate. “There is no such substance.”

  The man stared for a moment, his face blank. “Curious.”

  “What I mean is, there isn’t—”

  The man interrupted. “Perhaps later there will be time for this discussion. Let us, for the moment, agree that your recovery surpasses your expectations, and return to the fate of your companions. Clearly your strength is returned. Are you prepared to travel?”

  Quentin felt stronger than he had in days. Even his hunger and thirst were diminished.

  “Yeah, let’s move.”

  Bobby forced himself awake. Something wasn’t right. Wetness struck his face and he wiped it away. Through sleep-crusted eyelids he saw the green light of morning above him. Something struck his face again, and then his arm. He squinted. The stuff on his arm was reddish-brown and moist. He propped up on an elbow and hit his head. His confusion turned to fear. The roof of the plane’s cabin was less than a meter above the ground.

  Bobby looked at the floor beneath him. It was covered with fine soil, concealing his ankles and part of his legs. Ashley and the others were half buried where they lay. Bobby shook Ashley’s shoulder. She moaned.

  “Ashley, wake up! Mrs. Darnell, wake up!”

  Mrs. Darnell responded immediately. “What’s wrong?” She had been sleeping on her side, and her body was partly buried. She sat up, striking her head on the ceiling, which seemed even lower now than it did only moments before. The soil fell away from her body.

  “Mrs. Darnell, your clothes!” Bobby tried to look away, but couldn’t. Most of her shirt was gone. Where the fabric had touched the soil, only bare skin showed.

  Bobby realized his own shirt had fallen into his lap. He lifted what was left. The entire back was gone. He grabbed his jeans and pulled. Only the front remained, and they lifted easily from his legs, leaving him naked. The heel portions of his shoes were gone, and the remains covered only his toes. The soil was eating everything around them.

  “We need to get out!” Mrs. Darnell cried.

  Quentin led the Englishman along the riverside path, retracing his steps. The Papuan, Noadi, was no longer with them. Apparently he had serious misgivings about the crash site and survivors.

  As they walked, Quentin was astounded at his own dexterity. His machete wound was all but healed. The pain in his hip from the plane crash was gone. His lacerations, which had been infected, were now aseptic and dry. Even the bites that had pockmarked every inch of his exposed skin were nearly gone. And now the insects had apparently decided he was no longer fair game. They buzzed near him briefly and then left, as if he were distasteful.

  “What did you give me last night?” he asked. The path was wide here, and they walked side by side. “Are you a doctor—a shaman or something?”

  “I am no doctor—medical, magical, or otherwise—although I have learned much about healing as a guest amongst the indigenes.”

  “What tribe are these people? Are they Yali, or maybe Korowai? They don’t look like Papuans I’ve seen before.”

  The man hesitated, as if his choice of words were very important. “What they call themselves is of little importance, as I assure you they are unknown to you.”

  “And you,” Quentin said. “Why are you here?”

  “I am a naturalist, devoted to studying the fauna and the flora of this land.”

  “Well, whatever you gave me healed wounds that should take months to heal.”

  The Englishman was silent.

  Quentin tried again. “This is an immense medical discovery.”

  Silence.

  “Who are you?” Quentin asked. “How long have you been here with these people?”

  “My name is Samuel Inwood.”

  Samuel wore no modern clothing, only a pair of shorts and a strange vest. The shorts were made of animal leather, supported by a strap tied around the waist. The vest seemed to be hand woven and stitched, perhaps from hair or silk. The only item that was plainly not from the forest was a peculiar amulet, made of twisted gold wire and hanging from a cord around his neck.

  Quentin asked again, “How long have you been here, Samuel?”

  “Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to become better acquainted. As for now, I have learned a good deal from your words regarding the state of society beyond this forest. Your surprise at the healing nature of my treatments, for example, tells me that my discoveries here have not been duplicated elsewhere.” He paused. “But I have yet to learn your name, sir.”

  “Quentin Darnell. I’m a teacher. I teach Eighth graders—about fourteen years old.”

  “And you have brought with you here your young students, from the United States. Remarkable. Tell me Quentin, what is your age?”

  “I’m thirty-six. Why?”

  “Thirty-six years. Yes, you have the appearance of a man
of that age.”

  Quentin was wondering how to respond when they came upon the marker he had arranged on the path after slicing his ankle. “This is where I found the trail,” he said. “I may have walked in circles for hours before that.”

  “You must recall your route, Quentin. I am aware of but the general direction.”

  Quentin felt panic surfacing. He should have made an effort to mark his path from the crash site. He had carried a machete in his bag; he could have cut markers. The others might die simply because he hadn’t thought to do that. He took a deep breath, trying to flush his doubts. With Samuel’s help, they would find the others and save them. And then perhaps Samuel’s medications could be used on them. Quentin glanced at the listless brown water of the river. He would need to hydrate before leaving the trail.

  “Samuel,” Quentin said, “I need some water. Is this safe to drink?”

  Samuel was busy scattering the sticks that made up Quentin’s marker. “You may drink without ill effects,” he said.

  Quentin no longer had his water bottle, so he waded in to drink with his hands. “Good, I drank from it yesterday.”

  Samuel tossed the last stick away. “Yesterday was an altogether different matter.”

  Quentin had scooped a handful of brown water to his face, but he paused. “It’s safe today, but it wasn’t yesterday?”

  “It is not the river which has changed, Quentin. It is you.”

  Once off the path, Quentin could discern no sign of his passage. “I can’t do this. I came too far.”

  Samuel pointed ahead. “It is somewhere to the east. But without your assistance, we may not find it. The lives of your party are at risk. I am not deceiving you on this point. The indigenes are intent upon killing all intruders. I learned only this morning they have not yet committed murder. For what reason and for how long, I do not know.”

  “If they told you that, why aren’t they guiding us to the plane?”