Eating the Moon

by Mark David Campbell

  Chanting loudly, he examines my eyes and ears. He pries open my mouth, looks inside, and shoves his two fingers down my throat. I gag and squirm. He slaps my ass hard. Then he moves behind me and caresses me, at first with gentle touches and massages to my buttocks, then probing fingers. I know it sounds ludicrous, but it’s like he’s trying to see what’s inside me. Tukuman continues to probe deeper. Over and over again, I reach a point where I am about to come, but each time I just hang there on the edge of orgasm, never climaxing. I imagine Nando fucking me, but I know I must be hallucinating. I completely lose all sense of time and can’t say how long Tukuman works on me. By morning light, I eventually climax with such a loud moan that it feels like it has come from somewhere else.

  Afterward, my head begins to clear somewhat and I realize I’m now alone. I start to worry if Tukuman is planning to leave me like this as his prisoner, his toy, and torture me. Maybe he’s planning to kill me through orgasm, draining me of my fluid, strength, and will.

  A short while later, Tukuman reappears from outside. His hooded robe hangs open, exposing his tattooed chest, belly, and loins. Even his face is covered with tattoos and piercings. He’s truly the most savage-looking individual I’ve met so far. In his hands he carries a small calabash bowl and a large obsidian blade.

  Oh God! Here it comes, death or worse!

  With a lightning movement, he slashes the blade across the cords that bind me, and I pop open like a spring. My legs are sore and cramped. I rotate myself around to a sitting position with my legs dangling over the edge of the table, hunched like a defeated athlete. He shoves a bowl in my face. I look at it apprehensively, assuming he’s going to drug me again for a second round. I know my legs are too wobbly to attempt a dash, and besides, where would I run to? He flicks his finger, signaling me to drink. Resigned to my captivity, I take the bowl and raise it to my lips, my hands trembling out of exhaustion and fear.

  “Coffee?” I say with surprise.

  He growls and nods.

  “Are you going to torture me?” My voice is shaky, and sweat is running down my face and body.

  “Torture you? Why would I want to do that?” His accent is unmistakably American, Midwestern I think. I stare with my mouth hanging open. His bizarre facade seems to fade, and his voice and attitude are as comforting as a letter from home. “I suppose you already know, my name’s Tukuman. That means Butt-Face in their language.” He roars with laughter like a jolly truck driver.

  “But… you’re… you’re not American, are you?”

  “Bet your sweet ass I am, or at least was.” He stands at attention and salutes me. “But all that can wait till later.” He speaks in a low and serious tone. “Right now we got one very sick boy, and you’re the problem.”

  “But I don’t know what I did!” I cry.

  “Don’t expect you to understand, son. Best I can do is tell you this. Sometimes a person’s spirit is too strong, too attractive, and a weaker spirit kind of gets stuck to it.”

  I remember reading about a similar kind of thing amongst the Indians of Mexico. “I didn’t mean to make him sick.”

  “Intentions don’t count for too much here. But you got a piece of that boy’s spirit stuck inside you. That’s what I had to see for sure last night.”

  “Wait a minute. How can you know all this stuff?”

  “Let me see if I can explain it like this,” Tukuman continues. “They got them fancy shrinks in New York City who can tell what’s wrong with you just by talking to you. In case you hadn’t noticed, folks here don’t do a lot a talking, but they fuck all the time. It’s like the way they say most of everything they got bottled up inside and need to say. That’s where I come in. It’s called a ‘seeing.’ They say I got the gift for it.”

  I cringe.

  “If you don’t believe me, take a look on your chest. See that red patch that looks suspiciously like the tattoo Nando’s got?”

  I look down and rub my chest. Sure enough, there’s a distinct red mark in the same place as the butterfly tattoo Nando has on his chest. It must be a trick. Tukuman must have put it there last night. But I can’t see how tricking me could possibly serve any real purpose.

  “Everything was fine.” Tukuman waves his finger in my face. “Then you guys showed up and set the balance of things all off, and now we got us a problem. Let me assure you Nando’s in big danger.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” He takes the bowl from my hands.

  “Right now I’m a little freaked out and confused as shit.”

  He laughs. “Don’t pay no mind. That grog I gave you was pretty strong. You just got your marbles scrambled a bit. It’ll pass.” He goes outside to the fire and comes back and hands me more coffee. “Wow! Sure been some time since I spoke American like this to anyone. Feels a little funny in my mouth, like my tongue’s all out of shape or something.”

  “But if you’re American, what are you doing here?” I feel like we’re two tourists who’ve just connected, even if one has stayed in paradise a little too long and gone native.

  “You know, I ask myself that question a lot, probably. Answer is, pretty much the same as you.”

  “Nando said his father was American too. Did you know him?” I take a sip of the burnt coffee.

  Tukuman’s face becomes hard. “Might have. What’s it to you?”

  “I want to know how he left the island.”

  “Nobody leaves!” Tukuman yells, and I flinch backward, spilling some of my coffee.

  Then his face softens again, and he looks at me and smiles. “But you? Where in the States are you from?”

  “I’m not. I’m Canadian.”

  “Canadian. You boys got right in there from the start, while our lame-ass government sat back on its hands and watched that little Nazi walk right across Europe. Took the sneaky Japs to bomb Pearl Harbor before we finally did something about it. Hey, you in the army?”

  “Canada doesn’t have much of an army, mostly peacekeeping.”

  “Peacekeeping, so that’s what they call it. Russians behaving themselves?”

  “I could update you a bit, but I’m not too good at history and politics.”

  “History! Now there’s a laugh. No, no, son, it’s not really that important to me now. Just a little curious about the outcome, that’s all.”

  “How long have you been here, anyways?”

  He grasps his chin and looks at me as if he doesn’t understand the question, and then he nods. “Long time, son, if time means anything.”

  I sit there staring at him, not knowing what to say. My eyes follow the endless flowing swirls of tattoos covering his body. Some resemble the glyphs and pictograms decorating the pottery and walls of the village. On his left shoulder is a pruny scar the size of my hand, and I can make out what appears to be a classic Betty Boop tattoo.

  “You staring at my past?”

  “Oh, no, no not really, just curious, that’s all.”

  “Well, Miss Betty here, or what’s left of her, got me into some big problems with the women when I first came. I told them she was one of our gods back home, which seemed to appease most of them, but as a matter of simple good taste, some of the women thought it best to set her free. Hurt like shit at the time, and now all that’s left of her is this scar. Take a look at this one. Now this is a real tattoo.” And he shifts his right shoulder toward me and shows me a cartoonlike shark tattoo. “Got this in the Philippines during the war. Gus and me got drunk and had these done. You know, the Flying Tiger Sharks, just like the ones painted on the nose cones of our planes. Man, those were the days. Booze, sex, and flying. Gus and me together no matter what.”

  He stops talking, his eyes glaze over, and he stares off into the distance. “Long time no see, Gus,” he says like there is someone else in the room with us.

  I turn to look, but no one’s there.

  “You know it didn’t have to be like this. You didn’t have to leave us. Miss you bad,
buddy.” Then he refocuses his eyes and looks at me.

  “You miss it?” I say.

  “Miss what?”

  “Home.”

  “I miss it like a case of anal warts.” He howls with laughter. “Caught those one time back in Manila. Nasty things. Doctor had to burn ’em off my butthole with a red-hot blade. I’ll show you the scars if you want.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. Maybe some other time.”

  “This is home for me now. Ain’t got nothing else left out there. A few old ghosts show up from time to time, but I made peace with them long ago. Now they’re like souvenirs from a trip, nothing more, just little reminders and keepsakes. That’s all.” Suddenly he stops, and whatever comforting Americanisms I see in him vanish like he has been possessed by a demon. He moves his face in close to mine, and I look deep into his eyes, but they are clouded, dark, and savage.

  By now the effect of the grog has worn off, and so has my patience. I feel anger boiling up inside me. Maybe Tukuman is jealous and just trying to scare me off with all his witch-doctor crap. “Don’t just stare at me,” I bark. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do for Nando!”

  “Do for him what he can’t do for himself,” he yells back.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Go through the rites of passage for him!” Then, with a roar and strength far beyond what I imagine for a man his age, he picks me up by the shoulders and tosses me out the door of the hut as if I weigh nothing. I lie on the ground in crab position, stunned. Then I feel Pico’s familiar grasp on my arm. He pulls me to my feet and leads me away.

  GUY PAUSED, blinked rapidly, then held his finger in the air and said in a commanding voice, “‘Ladies and gentlemen. When you’re out there in the field and you have no idea what to do, just relax and follow the program. Remember, you are not the one in control.’ That’s what Dr. Roberts, an old professor of mine, had once told us at the end of a lecture on anthropological fieldwork. I’m sure Bion understood that too. Don’t you think?”

  Richard nodded. “I’m sure he did. I wish I could say the same for some of my colleagues.”

  “Pity, eh?” Guy put his hands on his knees and grunted as he rose to his feet. “See you later, Doc.” And he left.

  Chapter 19: Rite of Passage

  RICHARD’S DOOR was slightly ajar.

  Guy stood in the doorway watching as Richard read a pink flyer, unaware of Guy’s presence. The light from the window shining through the paper illuminated the bold title in reverse.

  “The big LGBT Achievement Awards dinner, eh?”

  Richard sat up suddenly and quickly placed the flyer on his desk.

  Guy walked in.

  “Yes,” Richard said with a slight tone of irritation as he swung around to look at Guy. “I decided to join the committee—you know, get involved with the community.”

  “So you’re rubbing elbows with the pink elite now. You’ve really jumped into the deep end, haven’t you?” Guy said as he placed Richard’s coffee on the corner of the desk and moved over to the sofa.

  “Well, if you’re thinking of coming, you’d better get a ticket fast. They’re almost gone.” Richard followed Guy and sat down in the swivel chair. He popped the lip off his cappuccino and took a careful sip.

  “Not a problem,” Guy said as he squirmed his butt back and forth, making himself comfortable. “You know I always felt I had to be more intelligent and in better physical shape, more sophisticated and popular than everyone else just to be good enough. So I got a PhD, bought an expensive car, went to the gym obsessively. I made all the right social connections with all the right people.”

  Richard fidgeted in his chair but didn’t respond.

  “Whatever.” Guy waved his hand over his head. “But then I discovered the only people I attracted were people who were also caught up in the same superficial loop, and I drove away the people I really wanted near me.”

  “So you think I’m trying to validate my self-worth through the company I keep?”

  Guy scrunched up his face. “No, not really. Guess you got to get out there and explore. Why not start at the top.” Guy cleared his throat. “Thing is, I’ve never been much for those society queens and social climbers.”

  “Why are you so judgmental? I just see it as a way to meet people and get involved. There’s more to the gay community than just bars and saunas, you know.” Richard set the tape recorder on the corner of the desk, then took another sip of his cappuccino.

  “Doc, have I ever shown you this?” Guy held up a shark’s tooth necklace he had strung around his neck with a hemp cord.

  “That’s an impressive tooth. Is it from Rufus?”

  Guy nodded. “I wear it to remember.”

  “To remember what?” Richard tilted his head.

  “That life is fragile and fleeting.” Guy sat quietly for a moment, then began. “As I was telling you.”

  I FOLLOW Pico through a maze of jungle paths that until now I had no idea existed. Deep in the bush, we come to a smoky clearing with a large thatched structure in the center. Pico stops abruptly and signals for me to lie over his shoulders in a fireman fashion. But I’m too big for him, and he staggers under my weight. Then, as if from nowhere, Luca appears. I start to speak, but Luca puts his hand over my mouth and shakes his head. He shifts me off Pico’s shoulders and onto his own and carries me inside the hut. Eight boys, who I recognize from down at the beach, are seated on the ground in a circle: the skinny boy with blue eyes called Bright Eyes, the hairy boy with a brilliant smile called Smiley, and a few emerging young muscle men. I slip off Luca’s shoulders and sit down next to them. No sooner am I settled than Tiki’s younger father, Den, comes in carrying Tiki, with Molap following closely, barking orders. Molap looks down at me, curls his lip, and spits on the ground. An old man who is seated in the center stands up and comes toward me. He doesn’t look at my face.

  “Nando?” he says as he carefully examines the butterfly-shaped blotch on my chest.

  I say nothing.

  The old man digs his finger into my chest and yells, “Babo!” the name given to boys who are undergoing their rite of passage into manhood. Since Nando is about my age, I assumed he had already undergone the ritual to become a man years ago, but apparently I’m here as a babo, in his place. Sitting on the floor amongst the group of adolescent boys, I feel like the big kid who got held back in school too long. But whatever is in store for me, this is the only way I have of helping Nando.

  Pico, Kizo, and Luca come toward me. They strip me of my loincloth and sponge me down with water and scented oils from a large ceramic pot. The old man produces an obsidian blade and carefully begins to shave me—first my face, then head, then entire body until I’m as smooth as a skinned rabbit. All around me the other boys are being washed and shaved, even though some of them, like Tiki, don’t have much body hair in the first place. I look over at Tiki, and he is shivering nervously. I throw him a reassuring wink, and he forces a smile back at me. Molap glares at me and growls, then turns Tiki so his back is to me.

  Once we are all shaved, we sit naked, cross-legged on the ground, chanting, led by the old man in the center. I do my best to follow along, trying not to cough or sneeze from the incense-choked air. After a couple of hours, some men appear with bowls of foul-smelling gruel. We drink, then continue to chant. I’m among the first to feel the effects of the gruel. It begins with loud grumbles and snarls in my stomach and progresses to cramps and nausea. One by one we topple over, doubling up and moaning in pain.

  We are carried outside to a kind of stinking bog where we proceed to vomit and shit violently. Everything comes out. I’m dripping with sweat and shivering. Even after the violent heaves have ceased, I’m unable to stand. I lie there on the dirty ground amongst the other soiled and stinking babo.

  The men form a tight circle around us and begin to taunt, mock, and insult us. They laugh and jeer and spit at us. Some men flip out their dicks and wave them at us, laughing all the harder. I scram
ble out of the way just in time as Molap tries to piss on me.

  I hear Mazu’s and Jab’s hyena laughter, and I grab a handful of mud and hurl it at Mazu. He squeals and dodges it. I spring to my feet and lurch toward him but lose my footing and fall face-first into the muck. By the time I drag myself up again, Mazu and Jab have disappeared. The boys around me are crying, and I soon join in with my own sobs of misery. I look over at Luca and feel humiliated, having him witness me like this. I want to call him to rescue me. For the first time since I have come to the island, I feel truly lost and I want to go home. I try to remember something of myself I can hang on to, but everything seems so distant and futile. I know I’m supposed to be doing this for Nando, but I don’t know how this will help him. I tremble with the thought of what is yet to come.

  Thankfully, the pandemonium doesn’t last long, and soon drums begin to beat and conch shells are blown. Kizo moves amongst the men, telling them to calm themselves. Luca and Pico come over and lift me out of my disgusting squalor, hoisting me by my hands and feet and placing me on a raised oval stone platform along with the other babo. Each holding urns, the men surround the platform and begin to douse us with warm water, washing away our caked-on disgust. Luca and Pico climb up onto the platform and wash me, gently caressing me like mothers with a newborn baby, cleaning my mouth, nose holes, ears, wiping my butt and genitals. I lie helplessly while they carefully inspect every part of me, making certain no trace of grime or soil remains. Then they clean me again.

  After I pass inspection, they hoist me from the platform and carry me like an invalid to a small dark sweathouse where they lay me down side by side with the other babo on a bed of aromatic leaves and bark. The hot, humid air smells like cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, lemongrass, and mahogany. After the stench of the bog pit, the perfumed vapors are a delight. Within minutes I begin to run with sweat. Luca and Pico pour cool water on my face and body, rubbing me with scented oils and holding my head delicately while I drink.