“English. Samuel neni fo English.” The Papuan touched Carlos’s arm and ran his finger down the red and gray flesh. He started removing the wrap from Carlos’s hand.
Mrs. Darnell pushed his hand away. “We need to get to a hospital. Can you help?”
The man turned to Mrs. Darnell. Bobby couldn’t see, but he must have given her a convincing look, because she let him remove the wrap. He looked at the rotting hand and then reached into a pouch that hung from his neck. He pulled out his hand, his fingertips covered in gray globs. He spoke to Mrs. Darnell in his musical chatter.
“Thank you,” she said. “But that’s not what we need.”
The Papuan reached for Carlos’s face, forced open one eye and smeared the stuff onto his eyeball. Bobby’s stomach went tight.
Mrs. Darnell pushed the man’s hands again. “Stop that!”
The second Papuan rushed past Bobby and held his spear in Mrs. Darnell’s face. This man’s spear was also covered with vaguely familiar symbols and shapes.
“Please,” Mrs. Darnell said. “There’s nothing wrong with his eyes. He needs a hospital.”
The man spoke to her again. They were soft words, and they made Bobby believe the men did not want to hurt them.
Ashley said. “Just let them do what they want so they’ll leave!”
Mrs. Darnell backed away and watched.
The man with the pouch crawled from Carlos to Miranda. He examined her broken leg and then scooped out more gray sludge and forced open her eyelid. She moaned as he smeared the stuff against her bare eyeball. Mrs. Darnell whimpered and turned away, helpless.
Next he moved to Addison. The man touched his face and chest, and felt his neck.
“Yu le khomilo-mbo,” he said. “Khomilo. Dead.”4
Mrs. Darnell wheeled around. “He’s not dead!” She moved toward them, and the second man brought his spear up again, but she ignored it. “His heart is beating, see?”
The man looked at her silently, his face close to hers. Bobby had always thought of Mrs. Darnell as pretty, but next to the Papuan her face seemed old, and very white.
She was sobbing now. “He’s breathing.”
The Papuans looked at each other. They talked in their high voices back and forth like they were trying to decide something. The man then reached to Addison’s face and rubbed the stuff into his eye. The second man frowned and shook his head at this.
Both men left the plane, and again stale air and dread filled the empty space.
Quentin limped along the path, cursing his recklessness. He paused and gazed down at his leg. Blood still flowed from the gash in spite of his efforts to stem it. He’d knotted one of his socks around his ankle, but the sock and lower leg of his trousers were now saturated with blood. The blood had seeped into his hiking shoe, and his foot slid inside it with each step. It was getting harder to walk. He had to find a village before losing consciousness. So he trudged on.
The path still followed the river. Occasionally it would cut away and Quentin would lose sight of the water, but soon it would reappear. Finally he could stand the pain no longer, and he stopped. He turned and looked back the way he had come. The forest seemed darker than before. For a moment he forgot which way he had been walking, and he rubbed his face in frustration. Only a small amount of water remained in the bottle, and he drank it down, reveling in the sensation of moisture in his throat. Grunting, he hobbled to the river’s edge and knelt by the water. He submerged the empty bottle. The water looked like chocolate milk as it gurgled into the bottle. No doubt it contained microbes that would have a heyday with his system. But what difference did it make now? This thought struck him as funny, and he laughed out loud and took a long drink from the bottle. The water tasted like mud and algae.
He pulled the bag from his shoulder and peeled off his shirt. He pushed aside the tangled vegetation and waded into the river. A red stain curled away from his blood-soaked trousers and moved slowly downstream. He splashed brown water over his head and body.
Feeling somewhat renewed, he pushed on. The path continued, but seemed to narrow. Sometimes the way was blocked by a riot of new growth, but when he fought through it the path continued on the other side. With every step he heard himself grunt, but it seemed like the voice of a stranger.
The forest grew dark, and the stain on his trousers was now black. Quentin could hardly see the path, but he pushed on anyway, feeling only pain and hearing only the continuous grunting. He no longer knew or cared whether he was making the noise himself. He cared only about taking another step, and then another.
Finally he could go no further and he stopped. For a moment he stood watching the shadows swing back and forth as his body swayed. With a final grunt he buckled and sat down on the trail. He just needed to rest. Then maybe he could start again.
There were voices talking in the blackness—small, funny voices Quentin didn’t understand. He willed himself to open his eyes and look. A few stars peeped through the canopy, and he realized he was on his back. Two figures, silhouettes of blackness, stood above him. He tried to speak but the words jumbled themselves. The figures stopped talking.
He focused his efforts and tried again. “Help…we need help.”
One of the figures spoke, “Gu mbakha-to-fosu le-bo?”5
Quentin tried to concentrate. “I don’t understand.”
“Nu pesau im-le. Pesua.” The speaker crouched by him. “Friend, gu spirit lai-ati-bo-dakhu. Lele-mbol-e-kho-lo? Laleo? Spirit?”6
Suddenly Quentin was more alert. “Do you speak English?” He struggled to sit up. The figures moved and there was a sharp pain. The men were holding spears against his chest.
“What are you doing?” He collapsed. “Jesus!”
“Mbakha lekhen, Jesus? Laleo khop.”7
Quentin’s mind groped. Were the men even real? He raised his head again. They were still there. One was taller. Strands of light-colored objects encircled his neck, forming a wide loop over his shoulders and chest. Each of the men wore a headdress of some kind.
“I need to go to your village and radio for help. Do you have a radio?”
“Gu laleo-lu de-te-dakhu, Jesus,” the taller man said.8
Quentin tried to get up again but the weapons snapped to his chest. He shoved the spears aside, gripping one of them in his hand. “Look, I need—”
The spear was yanked from his hand and he felt a fire in his chest, and then another. He fell back, clutching the pain. Looking down he saw two dark spots on his shirt.
“You stabbed me! Shit!”
A calm grayness descended upon Quentin. “Lindsey, I didn’t...”
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. Mr
s. 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?”
Diffusion Box Set Page 9