Eating the Moon

by Mark David Campbell

  Stripped of my name, identity, and hair, then humiliated and degraded, I have been separated from my old life, and now I’m waiting to be reborn as a man. Not knowing what else is in store, I suspect my reintegration back into society will be as traumatic as my separation has been.

  After I lounge in the sweathouse for what feels like hours, Luca and Pico carefully dry me and wrap me in mounds of white cloth. Luca throws me over his shoulder again and, with Pico holding my dangling legs, carries me back to the main lodge, where he places me on the floor, which has been covered with layers of broad banana leaves.

  Once everyone has been positioned, we are unwrapped like fresh tamales. Pico helps me to my feet. Bowls of white paint appear, and Luca and Pico proceed to paint me white head to toe, back to front. The solemn atmosphere changes, and the men sing and chant while they paint. Some of the babo giggle and squirm with the tickle of the brushes. As each babo is completed, we are inspected with smiles and laughter. All covered with chalky white, we look like ghosts or corpses, although I must say the contrast for me and my naturally pale skin is not nearly as striking nor as amusing as it is for some of the darker babo. The drying paint feels strange on my skin. I desperately want to scratch my nose. Eventually I can take it no longer. I sneeze, bringing more laughter and giggling. Pico wipes my nose and repairs my makeup. I’m ready for the next step.

  We are arranged in a circle, and Tukuman appears, wearing a black robe with a hood pulled low over his face, and steps into the center. He speaks slowly and monotonously, recounting stories, many of the same stories that Nando has told me, some of them word for word. I long for Nando. I worry about his deterioration and wish he was with me to share this or at least be by my side guiding me through, as he has done for just about everything I have experienced thus far.

  As Tukuman concludes with the story of Ix Chel, the men start to chant a rhythmic grunt, slowly at first, increasing in speed and volume. Everyone joins in the measured hysteria, and the doors of the great hut are flung open. Men outside with their torches form two rows. Luca and Pico grab me by the arms. We all run through the corridor of light, down the path in a kind of military formation, torchbearers leading and following the troop, winding our way through the jungle toward the sea.

  As we reach the beach, the men form a line along the water’s edge, and we, the babo, caught up in the hysteria, continue to run into the surf. At first I expect, rather hope, that this is a group bath, some kind of simple baptism—the final phase of the ritual. The water around us turns cloudy white from the paint washing off our bodies. As we swim farther and farther out to sea, I keep expecting the group to turn back. Eventually, I understand that the ritual is not over yet. I look back and see the row of torchlights on the beach. There is a full moon. I strain my head up high in the water and look ahead. I can see we are swimming across the strait toward the Near Island, about two miles away. A good swim, yes, but nothing too difficult for me, especially in salt water. I shiver as I think about who or what else might also be swimming below us, but we are inside the safety of the reef, the sea is calm, and we are careful to stay close to one another.

  “Let me know if you start to get tired,” I say to Tiki, who is earnestly swimming beside me.

  He nods and flashes me a nervous little smile.

  The slow undulating sea lifts us up into the bluish light of the moon. The purplish water is filled with fluorescent plankton, creating delicate patterns of light as it swirls around our bodies, protecting us from the infinity of darkness below. I feel like we are moving through the heavens—gods able to change the constellations with a gentle sweep of our hands. If only I could, I would sweep my hand and Nando would awaken.

  After a couple of hours, we reach the Near Island. We crawl out of the surf and flop down on the little patch of rough beach, heads on chests and limbs entwined. I’m tired but not exhausted. Everyone is breathing heavily and smiling. My head, resting upon Smiley’s chest, rises and falls like the gentle surf as he breathes in and out. Tiki rests his head on my leg, and I comb my fingers through his wet hair.

  This was no world record achievement, but all the same, I’m immersed in our collective heroism. It may sound strange, but for the first time in my life, here on the island, I feel like a real man on the inside, not just on the outside. Judging from the smiles of self-satisfaction and puffed-out chests of the other babo, they are experiencing a similar sense of their own emerging manliness.

  After about ten minutes, the babo begin gathering dried sticks and logs, but we are naked, wet, and without matches. Bright Eyes selects a flexible stick and, using the cords he’s wearing around his neck, makes a small bow, like a child might make to play a game of Indians. Smiley drags a large dry log over, while the others arrive with handfuls of dried plant fibers, as fine as hair, loosely rolled into little wads.

  Straddling the log, Bright Eyes loops his bow cords around a stick and places one end on the log while Smiley holds a flat beach pebble on top of the stick. Then, oscillating his bow back and forth like a fiddle, Bright Eyes rotates the stick like a very crude drill. It takes a few practice trials to coordinate the right sawing motion with the correct pressure of the rock on top of the stick, but with a little sweat, advice, and cursing, the pair synchronize themselves. The stick begins to drill into the surface of the log, and it’s not long until a tiny whiff of smoke appears. At that point, another babo delicately places a wad of fine plant fiber at the base of the drill, blowing on it ever so lightly. A wisp of smoke becomes a tiny flame that spreads through the fibers. Soon we have a roaring bonfire.

  We sit arm in arm in the warmth of the blaze and congratulate ourselves. All the while, I have the uncomfortable sensation that we are not alone—that we are being watched by someone or something.

  Suddenly, from out of the darkness, they descend upon us wielding clubs and screaming like banshees.

  I initially think this must be part of the ritual, but then two longhaired, clay-covered figures leap upon Bright Eyes, beating him and attempting to drag him off. He screams in terror and rolls on his back, struggling to protect himself with his flailing arms and legs. I jump to my feet and hurl his two attackers aside onto the sand. As I bend over him, one of them leaps onto my back and tries to strangle me. I whirl around with a sudden force and bat my assailant hard with the back of my hand, sending the crazed creature flying to the ground with a thud. Without really looking, I grab Bright Eyes and half hoist him, half drag him between me and the fire. We all move in close and form a tight circle. Another creature leaps out at me flailing a club, and I cover my head. Smiley swings a burning log, setting fire to my assailant’s hair and sending it off in a crazed frenzy toward the sea.

  My mouth is dry, and my teeth are chattering as I stand poised with a burning log in my hand, ready for their next attack. “Who are they?” I yell.

  “Tara,” Bright Eyes yells back.

  Then we are startled by a familiar cry coming from the darkness. That’s when we realize Tiki is missing. Without a word, each babo grabs a rock or burning log, and we run down the beach toward the cry.

  We don’t have to search far. A short distance behind a large outcropping of rocks, we see Tiki on his back, his arms and legs pinned to the ground by two of our clay-covered adversaries. Another one is straddling him, riding up and down on his torso.

  We strike savagely, swinging burning logs, pelting them with stones, and punching and kicking. I swing my log like a baseball bat and strike the creature riding Tiki on the side of its head so hard that I knock it sideways and it remains motionless on the ground. I grab Tiki and hoist him over my shoulders. He clings to my neck, and we run back down the beach to the safety of the fire.

  All accounted for back at the fire, we agree that we should make our escape swimming before they have time to regroup and attack again.

  Tiki has been badly beaten and is in shock. It’s obvious that he won’t be able to swim back on his own. At that point, I’m glad my father and moth
er sent me to those lifesaving classes during the summer at the lake. With Tiki floating on his back, Smiley and I tow him back across the strait, while the others swim in a close formation around us.

  Our swim back feels much longer. Smiley and I are panting for breath, and my arms and legs are aching by the time I catch sight of the torchlights in the distance. “We are almost home.” I’m exhausted but jubilant. My ordeal is almost over, and maybe I will have saved Nando.

  It’s only about five hundred feet to shore when I first feel an odd current below, like something large has passed beneath us. I stick my face in the water and look into the abyss. Deep below us, a shadow penetrates the swirling plankton stars. The salt water stings my eyes, and I lift my head for air.

  “What’s wrong?” Smiley asks.

  “Nothing,” I sputter. “Keep swimming.”

  Along the shore, the men are waving their torches back and forth. Some of the babo break formation and swim toward them with renewed vigor.

  “C’mon, just a little farther.” As I speak, something comes up from behind us like a wave. I look over my shoulder, but I see nothing.

  I shiver, firm my grip under Tiki’s armpit, and pull him in closer to me. Smiley moves in tighter and begins to hum a low tune as we make slow frog kicks in unison.

  Ahead of us, babo are splashing and calling to the men who are now standing in the surf, waving and whistling. I raise my free arm and wave. As I roll onto my side and readjust my grip on Tiki, I think I see a fin break the surface behind us and disappear into the darkness. Again, I feel a current of water flow underneath us.

  “Rufus!”

  We twist our heads around frantically but see nothing.

  “We’ve just about reached the sand shallows,” I say, trying to reassure myself and Smiley, but my heart is pounding and I’m panting like a dog. Smiley continues to hum between jittery little gasps for air. Our strokes became tight and rapid, and we bob and jerk through the darkness toward the lights on the beach, towing Tiki closely between us.

  Then Rufus strikes, slamming into Tiki and dragging the three of us under. I toss around like a cork, gasping as my nose and mouth fill with water. I kick blindly, connecting with something rough and impenetrable. I claw and flail my way to the surface and choke as I try to grasp a strangled breath of air. My arm feels like it has been wrenched out of its socket. I’m completely disoriented. Smiley bursts to the surface near me, flailing his arms and coughing up water. Terror engulfs me. “Tiki!” I cry and swing wildly around in the black water, trying to spot him. All around me, panicked babo are screaming and splashing. “Tiki,” I cry again. Something clamps down on to my wrist. I twist around toward a large dark mass looming near me, throw my other fist as hard as I can, and kick frantically.

  “Stop! It is me!” Kizo’s familiar voice calls. “Are you all right?”

  “Where’s Tiki?” I gasp.

  “Go in. I will look for Tiki.” Kizo pushes me forward, and I swim toward the torches. Luca and Pico grab me and drag me from the surf onto the sand next to Smiley. I grab him by the shoulders and cry, “Where’s Tiki?” He stares at me blankly. His golden smile is gone, and his face is empty. I look up at Luca with my mouth open. I can’t form words. Luca flops down on the sand and cradles us both in his arms, and we begin to sob.

  GUY’S HAND trembled as he reached to clutch his shark tooth pendant. He began to rock back and forth, cradling himself, and large tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Richard rested his chin on his fists and said nothing.

  “I tried.” Guy dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his face, and blew his nose loudly. “Really I did. I tried.”

  “Let it go.” Richard’s voice was soft and gentle.

  Guy sniffed loudly. “Our time is up. I have to go.”

  “It’s okay.” Richard gently motioned with his flat hand. “Take your time.” But Guy was already up off the sofa and walking toward the door, still huffing and holding his handkerchief to his face.

  Chapter 20: Back to Tukuman

  GUY WALKED up to the nurses’ station. Armando was not there. He turned and scanned the notice board. Tacked on one side was an announcement: Starlight boat cruise for nurses and support staff. He removed the paper, carefully replacing the tacks in the board, then leaned over the edge of the counter and took a pen from a little collection sitting in an old coffee cup.

  On the back of the announcement, he wrote: The fish has nibbled on your bait. It’s time to sink the hook.

  Guy reached into his pocket and took out two tickets printed on fine stock in an elegant black scroll, embossed with a gold border: The Annual LGBT Achievement Awards Dinner, The Royal Leeds Hotel. He held the tickets for a moment, then wrote: Bring your friend with the big bum but send her home when you reel your fish in. After folding the paper twice around the tickets, he made an envelope and wrote Armando on the face, then replaced the pen and placed the envelope neatly next to the keyboard. He turned and continued down the corridor.

  Guy glanced up at the clock on the wall as he walked into Richard’s office. It was two minutes after nine. “Sorry I’m late. Had to take care of some important business this morning.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?” Richard said.

  “No, just one of my little investment ventures.” Guy waved his hand dismissively. “Hey, you missed a good one on TV last night.”

  “Do you watch a lot of TV?”

  “Huh. If I ever calculated all the time I wasted in front of the tube, it would scare me. Sometimes I think, why am I watching this shit? With all the extra time, I could write a book or prepare a lecture or do something productive. And then I say to myself, I’ll definitely think about that, but right now my show’s on.”

  “What were you watching last night?”

  “Strange Phenomena of the Paranormal. It was about the Bermuda Triangle. They were talking about the disappearance of this training flight mission at the end of World War II. Of course, the theory is they disappeared into another dimension or something.”

  “Of course.” Richard snorted a smile and nodded.

  “The cool part is that they had old photos of the guys. Baby faces. And they interviewed friends, family members, and military people who were there. It was like they were talking about someone I knew.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the paranormal.”

  “I didn’t say I believed the stuff.” Guy yawned and scratched his head. “Besides, who would watch a show called Ordinary Phenomena of the Completely Normal?”

  “Well, you’re a scientist and a sailor.” Richard shrugged casually. “What’s your opinion on the mysterious disappearances?”

  “I do have a theory.”

  “I thought you might.” Richard’s smile widened.

  “My theory is this.” Guy held up his forefinger. “When a plane falls from the sky into the ocean, it sinks.”

  “That’s quite a theory.” Richard chuckled.

  “Yes, I call it the Guy Palmer Theory of Things That Sink.”

  “Your theory sounds a little easier to swallow than paranormal disappearances.”

  “Of course there’s one way to prove the planes actually did disappear into some kind of different dimension, you know?”

  “And what’s that?” Richard leaned back and stretched his shoulders.

  “Go there and come back,” Guy said flatly.

  “And for proof?”

  Guy gave Richard a dreary-eyed glare. “That’s a little harder. Most people would think you’ve crossed the line between reality and fantasy.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re talking about here?” Richard sat forward.

  “It is.” Guy continued with his story.

  WITH THE return of the babo, the rites of passage are finally over. Tiki’s death has left me confused and frightened and the village in turmoil. Luca wraps his arm over my shoulder and leads me to our spot at the signal fire, where we sit and stare out to sea. The swoosh of the gentle
waves washing back and forth along the sand beach below us seems to say hush, hush, and my breathing and heartbeat slow. In the background, the low, deep grumble of the surf breaking against the outer reef warns of a world outside filled with danger.

  After a long silence, I speak. “I was his omi. I was supposed to protect him. I’ve made a mess with Nando, and now Tiki is….”

  Luca stares at me, says nothing. Then he begins speaking in a low tone. “There was a new boy named Sasha who came to St. Mike’s when we were about fifteen. He was very pretty, maybe a little girly, and very innocent. At first the older boys bullied him, but I kind of took him under my wing and they left him alone. I told him, when they come to get you in the night, do what they want and you’ll be okay. Most of the time they just want to touch you or play with you, maybe a blow job. That’s all.” Luca tossed a stone over the edge of the cliff. “We had a code name for it. We called it making confession if the priest touched you and taking communion if you serviced him.”

  Luca runs his fingertip back and forth in the sandy dirt. Then he stops. “But there was one priest, Father Segars, we called him Father Cigarette, because he always smoked. He was big and looked like a soldier or a policeman. We were all frightened of him. He could be pretty nasty too. Here, look.” Luca pulls the skin of his inner thigh and shows me four round burn scars. “These are from Father Cigarette.” Luca pauses and lies down on his side with his head leaning on his bent arm.

  “Anyway, Father Cigarette decided he liked Sasha, and almost every night he would come and take him. In the morning, Sasha would be covered with bruises or burn marks. Sometimes he was bleeding from his ass. The other boys started calling Sasha his whore.” Luca stops, swallows, then tosses a piece of root into the fire.

  “This went on for six months or so. Sasha stopped talking altogether. There was nothing I could do.” Luca rolls over and looks out to sea.