by R. B. Shaw
Dave turned to Ted. ‘They should know you, Ted, and Fang speaks their lingo. Can you two settle ‘em down?’
The warriors again moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, a forest of feathers over a riot of multi-coloured plumes and floral headdresses. The noisy agitated mass chanted and menaced the intruders with black fire-hardened spears.
Fang spoke quickly in a local dialect, then turned to Dave. ‘Should be okay. They’re at war with the Nokopo as well. They’re just cautious of enemy raids.’ He then continued talking to the leader of the warriors, explaining that they were carrying a plane wreck to the coast and were the ones who asked for the raft to be built.
The warrior spokesman recognised Ted and the confrontation eased. He turned to the wary group and shouted quickly in the local dialect. Enthusiastic children returned and pulled on the ropes, excited by their first close look at an aircraft. For many children it was the first wheel they had seen.
Seiji noticed many wailing grief-stricken women, their fingers bandaged. ‘Why are they crying?’
Ted had witnessed the gruesome ritual before and explained. ‘They’ve lost loved ones, either in combat or the recent earthquakes. It’s traditional to lop off a finger joint in sorrow. At first they thought we were relatives returning from the dead.’
Jake realised the villagers treated Seiji with suspicion. ‘Many of the old men here were children during the war. They’re scared. You’re probably the first Japanese they’ve seen since.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Dave corrected him. ‘One told me that another Jap passed through and stole from their gardens. Harada’s ahead of us and probably choosing his moment.’
Dave quickly organised another search of the river upstream. To his deep disappointment, Kumo could not be found. Later that afternoon, the chief invited them to overnight in some spare huts. Dave was relaxing outside his smoky village hut when the drop plane flew over right on time. After the successful airdrop, Jake hurried the documents over. Dave rummaged through the usual mail and found Jan’s letter.
‘Dave, still nothing on barge 282. I’ve confirmed there is a Ventura wreck in this region. It was visited by the American war graves commission in 1948 and three bodies were removed. The Ventura might take some finding. The positions of crash sites are obscure, just rough estimates of altitude, distance and direction from the nearest airstrip. I’m contacting the Americans at the war graves commission in Honolulu to see if they can supply details of the bodies removed.’
Despite the results of the trek, Dave remained disappointed and despondent after Kumo’s death. If Ted could not reveal more clues, the Ventura might be their only onward lead, as Jan’s research indicated. At least he felt a little safer within the sanctuary of the village and could plan in peace. The chief confidently assured him no sentries would be necessary. With the ongoing tribal conflict, the people were in a state of constant alert.
Dave and the chief walked to the riverbank to check the raft. A cloud-crowded sunset was mirrored perfectly in the still waters, the opposite bank a tufted band of dark vegetation. His team followed, interested to see the specially-built raft that might expedite their journey. Nearby natives played bamboo flutes. Others accompanied them with huge wooden bassoons a metre long. A youth twanged a haunting melody on split bamboo with a tuning string, the local equivalent of a Jew’s harp.
‘Sounds like a catina,’ Fang muttered.
Seiji was mystified. ‘Another musical instrument?’
Fang smirked contemptuously. ‘Yeah. Three strings stretched over a dead cat’s arse and ya play it with your teeth.’
Seiji shook his head, perplexed by Fang’s attitude, then wondered about the dubious origins of western music.
Dave studied the poor construction and waterlogged timbers of the raft with silent disappointment. It was too late to do anything but try it out in the morning. He paid the chief for the raft, rewarded him for his hospitality, and then returned to his hut.
That night, Ted tried to sleep in the relative safety of the native grass hut. He was impatient with the sluggish trek and desperately wanted to see Richard. Yet, though sober, the same dreams still haunted him. Each night more detail unfolded with startling clarity. He rolled over again, made restless by the primitive pounding drums and chanting warriors. When sleep did come, the nightmare took over. The evening breeze fanned the flames outside. To Ted, fire was the essence of all evil.
This was more than a dream. Ted woke, realising the smoke and flames were real. He could not breathe and could feel the terrible heat. He ran outside and heard frantic shouting. Flames torched through the grass walls of a nearby native hut. Other huts were burning and villagers attempted to extinguish the fires. Ted retreated from the panic and turned his back on the flames. He had no doubts Harada had struck again. In the dark night, the dancing flames provided the only light. Two warriors emerged from the gloom, grabbed his arms and escorted him away from danger. Something was wrong. They held him firmly and led him to the riverbank.
On the other side of the village, Dave and his men helped douse the flames. Fang covered himself with a soaked tarpaulin. ‘Dave! He shouted outside a burning hut. ‘Our cash box and equipment are inside!’ Before Dave could respond, Fang dashed through the flames and dragged the charred moneybox from the smouldering ruins. He tossed off the smouldering tarpaulin and levered open its heat-buckled lid, being careful not to burn his hands. ‘We’re lucky, Dave. The heat wasn’t enough to melt the coins.’
‘Yeah, pure luck,’ said Dave. ‘If it was paper money, we woulda lost the lot. Put some guards on it and let’s see what the hell’s going on here.’
A band of Nokopo warriors armed with spears materialised from the dark surroundings. Their slick bare bodies glistened from the flames of the other burning huts. There was no combat, just a shouting standoff as the village defenders confronted them. The Nokopo intruders did not enter the village. They defiantly stood their ground, ululating and thumping their chests.
As a gesture of contempt, the Nokopo lifted their arse grass to expose their buttocks while brandishing their weapons. Their faces were daubed with orange clay pigments, yellow sap and white lime ochre. As they postured, long colourful feathers wedged in their matted hair bounced up and down in sympathy with their agitation.
Jake quickly escorted Seiji to the safety of the group. ‘Dave, those warriors are giamin. I don’t think they’re looking for a fight.’
Dave watched as the Nokopo intruders shouted insults and challenges, then slowly pulled back. ‘You’re right. Something’s wrong here. Where’s Seiji?’
‘I’m here. What is giamin?’
Dave stood back suspiciously from the flames to reassess the situation. ‘A false attack. They could be drawing the villagers out into a trap.’
Fang agreed. ‘Most tribal battles are bluff, just a show of strength.’
As the village warriors chased the attackers into the jungle, Dave watched cautiously. ‘This looks like a diversion. Where’s Ted?’
‘Last time I saw him he was still in his hut,’ Fang replied.
‘Jake! Call ‘em back, it’s a decoy! ‘Dave almost panicked. ‘Harada’s after Ted!’
Fang took the lead as they ran back through the burning huts. Ominously, Ted’s hut was undamaged and he quickly checked inside. ‘He’s not here!’
In the eerie gloom, someone near the riverbank swore loudly and struggled with two attackers. Jake ran to the scene, leading a band of jabbering warriors. ‘Dave! Fang! Over here, they’ve got Ted!’ The Zawan warriors stayed with him, advanced threateningly and brandishing their weapons.
The two Nokopo warriors back stepped cautiously, Ted wedged firmly between them. Dave could not understand their strategy. ‘What the hell are they up to?’
Fang then noticed a camouflaged shape barely visible in the dancing firelight. The familiar figure was lurking in a lakatoi canoe behind the stilted support poles of a village hut. ‘Harada!’ He nudged Dave. ‘On the water, in a du
gout behind the pylons.’
‘He’s got your pistol—aimed at Ted.’ Dave felt frustrated by the stand-off. ‘We can’t risk him being shot.’ The two Nokopos backed further toward Harada’s escape canoe. ‘Make sure the Zawan and villagers stay back.’ Then a slight movement on the verandah of the hut above the retreating warriors caught Dave’s attention and he elbowed Fang. ‘Look, up there!’
Fang also noticed the dark prone figure sliding stealthily, almost snakelike to the edge. ‘Ted’s bodyguard!’
The Nokopos were now only metres away from Harada’s canoe. They checked over their shoulders and took the shortest route under the tall hut.
In one rapid movement, the Zawan bodyguard stooped down from the verandah and grabbed the nearest warrior by the hair. He hauled the surprised Nokopo off the ground with one hand and pinned him with a headlock. The Zawan whipped his razor sharp eagle talon from his earlobe. He reached down and slashed the warrior’s stomach open from groin to breastbone. The disembowelled Nokopo screamed in agony as bloody blue grey entrails slithered from his stomach cavity and trailed down to the ground. They glimmered gruesomely red with reflected firelight.
As the other Nokopo panicked and ran for the canoe, Dave shouted to the Zawans. ‘Shoot now!’
A volley of arrows caught the remaining Nokopo and he screamed, then tumbled to the ground. Ted dived for the sanctuary of the hut support pole as Harada fired. The shot missed but hit one of the advancing vengeful villagers. They were now in a screaming frenzy. Harada shoved off, crouched low and paddled furiously out into the current. A hail of arrows and spears followed him into the night.
‘You okay, Ted?’ said Dave.
Ted could not face the flames in the village. ‘Yeah. Cunnin’ bastards. I thought they were tryin’ to help me.’
Dave surveyed the nearby jungle with suspicion. ‘Seems safe now. We’ll help put the fires out, after that we’re all sleeping as a group tonight. Jake, organise some warriors to watch over Ted and Seiji.’
‘Nothing like this will happen again.’ Jake advised. ‘The chief has lost face.’
Despite the chief’s assurance of safety, Dave took further precautions. ‘I don’t care. It’s too late. We lost a lot of stores in the arson attack. Post extra sentries around the village for the rest of the night.’
18
Next morning, the porters looked in good spirits. After thwarting the attack by Harada and his Nokopo they were eager to tackle the last section of the trail.
Dave thanked the village chief for his cooperation as they prepared to leave, then checked with Ted. ‘Do you think we might reach the coast road today?’
‘We’ll probably reach the Saidor road by day’s end,’ Ted nodded. ‘Without the wreck to carry we’ll be free to make for the coast and continue the search.’
Dave smiled but soon found that the cliff trail proved to be too narrow for the Cessna fuselage, as Ted predicted. Fortunately, he had ordered the raft’s construction solely to float the fuselage through the Nankina gorge. They tested the flotation of the suspect raft, surrounded by an audience of primitive warriors. Most wore arse-grass, pearl lip shell and traditional tusks through the nose. Gingerly, they moved the awkward fuselage down the bank and manoeuvred the wheels onto the raft. It submerged momentarily as the full weight moved onto the log surface. Fang and Dave lashed the wreck down, realising any unbalanced movement could cause a capsize.
Fang baulked at riding on the raft. ‘This thing’s so bloody waterlogged it’s ready to sink!’
‘Ted reckons it’s not far.’ Dave replied. ‘We’ll keep a few porters on board as fenders and move ‘em around to keep the balance.’
Nearby, a native pathfinder boarded a dugout canoe manned by a line of standing paddlers. As they led the way, Dave and Fang coaxed the wreck-laden raft out into the current.
Fang eyed the towering corridor of foliage. ‘We’re sittin’ ducks out here, Dave.’
‘We’ve got no choice. Stay low and watch for snipers as we go. Seiji is Harada’s target. I’ve got him and Ted together, surrounded by laden porters up on the cliff trail. That way they’re less vulnerable to attack.’
Fang grunted. ‘I feel so much safer now.’
The dismantled fuselage looked incongruous on the small-waterlogged raft. Up on the trail, a crowd of inquisitive natives followed the raft’s progress through the gorge. Jake’s shore party gradually restrained the unstable raft’s passage downstream, constantly wary of a capsize. As Dave’s group floated silently along, twin images merged ahead. The tawny yellow sky blended with a matching mirror image below.
Fang and Dave constantly scanned the foliage that capped the walls of the gorge. They kept low, expecting sniper fire any moment. The waters gyrated from the rhythmic paddling of the pathfinder’s canoe ahead. The constant wavelets caused rippling tiger stripes of white, black and gold as the chanting paddlers led the way through the sheer-sided gorge. Though it seemed like hours, the raft journey took less than forty minutes.
Their only choice of a landing point appeared ahead, and Dave bought it to Fang’s attention. ‘Fang, what about over there?’
Fang swore with frustration as the raft settled deeper in the water. ‘It’s on the wrong side of the river, but it’ll have to do.’
Lifting the fuselage off the sinking raft proved to be a precarious task. Dave relaxed as the struggling porters finally heaved it up over the embankment. Still uneasy, he slipped his Colt back into its holster, glad of the dangerous but successful transit. ‘Well, despite our vulnerable state, Harada didn’t attack.’
Fang scanned the jungled slopes. ‘He’s probably found some important clue and already left for the offshore islands.’ He moved away and returned disgruntled after questioning the pathfinder about access for the wreck, Harada, gold and wartime patrols. ‘There ain’t no trail to the Saidor road along the other side,’ he said unhappily. ‘Those limestone cliffs block the way. The rough track along this side looks like the only way to reach the Saidor road. It means we’re gonna hafta cross the vine bridge.’
Dave wanted to avoid the bridge crossing and called Ted. ‘Is there any other way to reach the Saidor road?’
‘No,’ Ted replied. ‘The vine bridge is the only way across, except for rope or raft.’
Fang smiled sarcastically as he peeled a fresh pawpaw. ‘So, what do we do now? Avis rent-a-truck? I asked the pathfinder about gettin’ the plane over the vine bridge. He just laughed.’
Ted nodded in agreement. ‘You’ll get all the small stuff over. The wings and engine will be a problem. The fuselage? No way.’
After rummaging through a patrol box, Dave turned to Fang. ‘We got enough rope to rig a flying fox?’
‘No. Why not radio Jan to fly the Egg back in and lift it over?’
Dave thought ahead. ‘I don’t wanna disturb her research and flights out to the islands.’
‘Okay, get her to send about 200 metres of Manila hemp in the next airdrop,’ Fang responded unfazed. ‘I’ll sort it out from there.’
Dave immediately set up the radio and soon made contact. ‘Jan, we’ve got problems crossing the river up ahead. Arrange for 200 metres of Manila hemp in the next airdrop. That way we’ve got the option of rigging a flying fox. How’s research going?’
‘Important news, but I can’t say much on the radio. I’ll include it in the airdrop. Have to hurry. Good luck.’
Dave packed up the radio, intrigued by Jan’s quick transmission and rejoined the line. He felt comforted by the thought that beyond the bridge ahead, the motor road led directly to Saidor.
Ted hurried along, desperate to complete the trek. He wanted to be at Richard’s side in Madang Hospital. The Zawan bodyguard stayed close as ordered, restricting his own mobility. He would be free to roam soon; all the Zawan would return once the wreck reached the Saidor road.
Dave prepared to move on, though still pre-occupied with Jan’s enigmatic message.
Jake interrupted. ‘The stragglers ha
ve caught up with the engine porters, Dave. We’re ready to tackle the last section of the trail.’
‘Good. The bridge is less than two hours away. Get ‘em moving.’
Early in the afternoon, Ted limped excitedly back down the line. ‘Nearly there! The vine bridge is just up ahead!’
Though he had seen native bridges before, Dave gazed in awe at the impressive structure erected over the now deep and wide Nankina river. Basically a suspension bridge, the span stretched between four massive ten metre high tree trunks. The main span consisted of three bulky support ropes woven from a myriad of small vines. The lower thicker bundle provided a precarious footway. Two others hung at chest height forming side support. Vines laboriously woven between the base and handrail spans closed in the sides to form a ‘V’ cross section. A loud cheer burst from the exhausted porters as they saw the truck and trailer waiting at the road head on the far side.
Fang stared at the primitive bridge and slowly shook his head. ‘Poor bastards. They don’t realise what a dangerous job it’s gonna be gettin’ the larger parts over.’
Dave agreed. ‘Jake, keep the porter line moving. Transfer all the small parts and equipment straight across the bridge. Where’s Ted and Seiji?’
‘Still checking the area for clues. The Zawan bodyguard and sentries are escorting them.’
‘When they’re ready, make sure they cross together,’ Dave ordered, then studied the rough bridge in detail. Primitive construction principles provided a simple but strong design, no right angles, no ends trimmed off and no nails. Heavy timber braces lashed horizontally to the uprights looked like huge rungs on a giant ladder. Manhandling the fuselage, wing and engine over the vine bridge daunted even Dave’s aggressive attitude to the sorting of problems.
Fang returned panting. ‘Dave, we tried liftin’ the engine across. Had to give up. It’s too bloody heavy to get enough porters in close.’
‘And too exposed to possible attacks.’ Dave scanned the foliage with concern. ‘We’ll have to rig a flying fox for the fuselage anyway. Leave the engine till then.’