Eating the Moon

by Mark David Campbell

  As I prepare to sit down, Tukuman greets me in the traditional manner, grabbing my package and shaking it gently, which kind of translates into “How’s it hanging?” I jump, then try to smile as warmly as I can. Tukuman, enjoying my modesty, bursts out laughing. Pico climbs onto his lap, and in a few minutes the ceremony begins. Drums pound and grog gourds are passed all around. Everyone is bristling with anticipation. Fathers are unashamedly sticking out their chests and waving their torches.

  Finally the babo come out in procession into the central plaza, and as they say, the crowd goes wild. The Red brotherhood is first, followed by the Blue and then the Green, each dressed in exquisite feathered capes the colors of their brotherhood. I see Smiley with the Reds and Bright Eyes amongst the Blue, and I cheer and wave. Then I spot Nando amid the Green procession, and as I do so he looks up at me and beams. I join in with Pico and Tukuman, who are bouncing wildly and chanting his name.

  Once all the babo have collected in the plaza, they form a giant circle and begin to dance. The greatest performances, however, come from amongst the spectators: raining down flowers, making birdcalls and animal sounds, yodeling, dancing and gyrating and, oh yes, exposing their asses and farting as loudly as possible. Even though they do not actually clap or yell bravo, the message is essentially the same. Tukuman, a man of infinite talents and resources, bends over, bares his ass, and blows a fart that echoes off the plaza walls. I’m thankful for the heavy use of incense during this auspicious occasion.

  Desperately wanting to join in the festivities, I do an awkward hippy dance and squeak out a belch, which causes Tukuman to almost fall over laughing. Then as I’m reaching for the grog, I witness a sight that I had only heard about back at school and believed was nothing more than urban myth—a Blue Angel. Pico, with a torch in hand, holds it next to Tukuman’s exposed ass just as he releases his second opera. The gas ignites, sending everyone close by scrambling to safety. I can see the tears in Tukuman’s eyes and smell the scorched hair, and I’m sure he’ll have trouble sitting for the next few days. Like true adolescents, they roar with laughter and begin farting in rhythm to the beat of the drums. Encouraged but physically and emotionally unable to join the duet, I settle for playing bongo drums on their asses as they bounce them high in the air.

  As the festival reaches hysteria, from out of nowhere, in the courtyard below us, Luca appears, waving a drinking gourd in his hand. He staggers into the center among the babo and begins to move like he is doing a rain dance from an old western film. The music and dancers stop. I look up at Kizo on the adjacent platform. He drops his head and looks at his feet. The cheers turn to low grumbles.

  Luca stands facing the gathering with his arms spread wide. “I thought you said this was a party?” he yells up to us in a drunken slur. Some of the men stand up and cross their arms tightly. “Some party. I can tell when I’m not wanted.” He makes an exaggerated gesture with his middle finger—of course, it has no meaning to anyone but me and Tukuman—and he staggers off behind the pyramid mound.

  The music, dancing, and cheering have just resumed when suddenly everyone is distracted again by the wild screeches of Luca as he races across the corner of the plaza like a crazy man. A hailstorm of stones and obscenities coming from the women’s side follow him. Men sitting on the edge of the platform have to scramble toward the middle to avoid being struck by flying stones. Everyone is silent. Kizo tries to make himself as small as he can. Without a word, he gets up and follows Luca. After a few uncomfortable moments and more low grumbles from the crowd, the music, dancing, and cheering start over again.

  At some point in the evening, the music changes and the drumbeat slows to a heartbeat. Taking their cue, the babo cease dancing. They cast off their capes, pull off their loincloths and many of their more cumbersome decorations. Naked, they form a grand circle, butts to dicks, and undulate their hips slowly and rhythmically. The crowd falls silent. One by one each babo penetrates the babo ahead and is penetrated by the babo behind. There are a few tears and some whimpers, but there is ample coconut oil for lubrication. Bright Eyes is particularly well hung and proves to be a bit of a problem for the babo ahead of him. After a few unsuccessful tries, he trades posts with Smiley, who parks Bright Eyes’s monster.

  With the circle now complete, the drumbeat meters out the thrusts and undulations, accompanied by moans and groans. As I watch, I recall the first time I got fucked. It was by some nameless, faceless sailor down at the docks in Montreal. I knew none of the relaxation and breathing techniques I know now, and spit was my only lubrication. It hurt like hell, and I bled for a day afterward.

  The drums reach a frenzied pace, along with the humping and moaning, and it’s not long before the first babo pulls out his dick and shoots his load across the ass of the babo he has been fucking. This has a sort of snowballing effect, and all the babo climax, shooting as far as they can. The crowd chants, “Come, come!” When the final babo shoots, he accidentally catches one of the other babo in the eye with sperm. Again the crowd dissolves into an arrested adolescent hysteria, cheering, laughing, and dancing like eels on acid.

  Suddenly the drums stop, and the babo lock arms, forming a defensive circle. The crowd edges toward the lower steps.

  “What now? What’s happening?” I yell at Tukuman above the noise.

  “When the conch shell blows, run like hell and grab Nando,” Tukuman yells back. “If you want him, you had better be fast.”

  He barely finishes his words when the conch shell blows and the audience spills down from the pyramid mound. I leap over the shoulders of Den, who is ahead of me, and scramble across the plaza. Pico, whose agility is superhuman, passes me, both of us heading in the same direction. Just in front of us, the superbly athletic Lalli is obviously also headed for our target. This is no time for fair play. I leap forward and grab him by the back of his loincloth, reefing it up as hard as I can and sending him into a tumble. Without a pause, I run on, but Mazu and Jab are fast approaching Nando from the side.

  “Pico!” I holler. Without further instructions, he flies through the air, pounces like a cat on top of Mazu and Jab, and sends them hurtling to the ground. I slide like a baseball player coming into home, smashing up against the cluster of babo and scrambling to get my arms around Nando’s legs. Hands, feet, and knees are everywhere. I hang on tight while Pico pulls off other would-be suitors. I haul Nando over my shoulder and do my best fireman’s dash across the plaza, up the terrace steps, and to the safety of our cottage, losing Pico somewhere in the pandemonium. At last we are alone, a little dusty and battered but together.

  We stand there in the doorway clinging to each other, our chests heaving as we try to catch our breaths. But now, after everything I’ve been through to have Nando, rather than ravishing him with my passion and desire, I feel awkward and self-conscious. My nervousness makes Nando uncomfortable, and that makes me even more nervous. I’m sure once I have quieted down after the excitement of the evening, everything will flow naturally and smoothly. I embrace him tighter, and we kiss and caress each other. And… nothing. Nothing swells, nothing becomes engorged. There is no bone, no ramrod, no throbbing member.

  As I’m becoming increasingly distressed and desperately trying to hide my predicament, I feel Nando’s hard dick, pressed against my leg, beginning to soften.

  Oh no, I think, this is a complete disaster. I want to tell him this has never happened to me before, or I must have drunk too much at the party.

  Just as I’m about to explain, a shrill animal cry pierces the quiet of our room and Pico leaps in, slamming into the two of us and toppling us onto the floor. Without the slightest hesitation, he rips off his loincloth, grabs his bamboo-like dick, and shoves it into my mouth. Before I’m able to protest, he takes Nando’s shrinking boner and sucks him hard again.

  “DOC, YOU know that final climb on a roller coaster where the little train labors up the steepest hill and then drops over the edge into what seems like eternity? You feel like your insi
des are being turned inside out. You lose all sense of what is up and down?”

  Richard smiles and nods.

  “Let me just say, with Nando, I finally got my ride on the roller coaster!” Guy made a sweeping wave with his arm.

  Richard looked with a frozen expression at Guy. “Spoken like a true Freudian.” Then he chuckled.

  Guy grinned and wobbled his head back and forth. “You know, sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar.” Guy got up from the sofa. “See you next week.” He left the room.

  Armando was leaning over the nurses’ station, humming to himself and writing something as Guy silently walked up to him. Guy leaned across the counter and sniffed.

  Armando jumped back. “Ahh! Mr. Palmer. You scared me. I didn’t hear you.”

  Guy said nothing. He cocked his head sideways and sniffed again.

  Armando pulled back nervously. “Everything all right?”

  Guy studied Armando’s face.

  Armando averted his gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay this morning, Mr. Palmer?”

  Guy smiled, reached over, and patted Armando gently on his head. “Good boy,” he said. “You’ve netted your fish.”

  Armando looked bewildered for a second. Then his face turned red like an embarrassed little boy.

  Guy winked, turned, and walked toward the exit.

  Chapter 23: Luca’s Arrangement

  AS GUY rounded the corner to Richard’s office, he saw Armando up ahead closing the door behind him. Guy stopped and watched. Armando headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. He was light on his feet, almost bouncing.

  Guy continued on down the corridor. He opened the door carefully. Richard was staring blankly at his computer screen.

  “Here’s your cappuccino. Oh yes, and I brought you something,” Guy said excitedly, as if he were a schoolboy who had brought something for show-and-tell.

  “A gift?” Richard closed his screen.

  Guy placed one coffee cup on the corner of Richard’s desk. “No, no, don’t worry. It’s just a simple drawing.” Guy dug in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper, handed it to Richard, then went over and sat down on the sofa.

  Richard got up, followed, and sat down in his swivel chair. He unfolded the sheet and examined it. “It looks like a drawing of a fish. Is this an archaeological pictogram?”

  “Sort of,” Guy said. “Tell them it should be about six centimeters long and in black ink only. Maybe your right pec or left glute would be a good spot.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.”

  “For your tattoo!”

  “My tattoo?” Richard snorted. “I’m not really a tattoo kind of guy.”

  Guy wrinkled his face. “But tattoos are the way you record important things that have happened to you.”

  “Tattoos aren’t the only way to remember important things in your life. Have you ever tried photos?”

  “You can’t wear a photo on your skin.” Guy began to gesture and speak more rapidly. “A photo can never be a part of you. Take this one here.” Guy pulled up one side of his T-shirt and pointed at one of the designs on his stomach. “It’s Rufus.” Guy lifted the other side of his T-shirt. “And this bird represents Tiki. They’re gone now, but I still wear them on my skin. They’re a part of me.”

  “But a tattoo is just an image,” Richard said.

  “Yes, but fantasy is a seed from which reality grows. Sometimes you have to help it a bit.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”

  “Put the fish on your bum and you’ll give your fantasy form and space.”

  “It sounds like you’re selling magic this morning.”

  “Magic? Call it what you want, but we do this with words all the time. You imagine something and then you tell someone, and by telling them you start to make what you imagined real. Words are just arbitrary sounds that have been given meaning and turned into symbols. Sometimes words are inadequate tools to do the job. Why is it so strange to think you might be able to achieve the same thing with another type of symbol—a tattoo?”

  “But you’re stuck with a tattoo for life,” Richard said.

  “You’re stuck with the experience for life. The tattoo is only a symbol of that.” Guy paused. “If you think about it, that’s all life is—a series of experiences.”

  “I guess you have a point, but I’m still not convinced I need a tattoo.”

  Guy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He paused again, as if he were looking for something else to say. Then he exhaled slowly. “Like I was telling you on Monday.”

  AS I walk up the path toward the signal fire, I see Jab standing on the edge of the cliff looking out to sea. His head is drooping, and his arms are hanging limply at his sides.

  “Jab!” I yell.

  He swings around and looks at me with an expression of fright. “I don’t know anything.”

  I walk up to him, grab him by the back of his hair and his arm, and lean him over the edge of the cliff.

  “I didn’t do anything. I swear. It was Mazu.”

  “Where is Mazu? I want to have a little talk with him.”

  “There.” He flails his arm out toward the reef.

  In the distance, I see Mazu paddling a canoe loaded with bundles.

  “Where’s he going?”

  Jab looks at me with pleading eyes. “He’s leaving for the Far Island.”

  “The Far Island. Why?”

  “Everyone is saying that Mazu did some magic on you and Nando,” Jab blubbers. “He may have given Nando puffer fish venom to drink and put poison wood sap on your chest!”

  “Why would he do something like that?” I spit.

  “Because he was jealous of Nando and he wanted you. And now Tukuman is looking for him too.”

  I haul him back from the edge and push him up against the rock face. “If Mazu knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay on the Far Island forever.”

  “But what about me?” Jab makes a long sniffle. “He took my canoe, and nobody will take me out fishing with them.”

  I sneer. “Ask Molap. I hear he’s looking for someone to go out with him. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and throw you off this cliff.”

  Jab runs down the trail without looking back.

  Later as I enter our cottage ready to tell Nando the news about Mazu, I see from the furrows on his brow that something is bothering him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  “Well, if you keep frowning like that, you’re going to get premature wrinkles.”

  He forces a smile. “Oh, you’re just saying that to be nice.”

  It’s easy to forget that signs of aging are considered beautiful. “Nando.” I take his hands in mine. “C’mon, tell me what’s wrong.”

  He breathes in deeply. “My sister.”

  “Is she okay? She’s not sick, is she?”

  “No, it is not that.” He looks to the ground. “Dzil, her mate, has broken the arrangement with Lalli and made an arrangement of her own without Kyle.” Nando pulls his hands from mine and clasps his head.

  “Who did she make the arrangement with?”

  Nando looks as if he is going to burst into tears. “Dzil has made an agreement with Luca.”

  “With Luca?”

  “Yes, yes. Kyle discovered this from Kizo. It is not right to make secret arrangements without your mate. It is not right.” Nando drops his head and shakes it vigorously.

  “Calm down, calm down.” I hug him. “I’m sure they will work it out. Luca may be able to give her the juice, but I don’t think he’s the best choice of father.”

  Nando plunks down on the platform bench, flops over on his side, and lies in a fetal position. “Everyone says as soon as she becomes pregnant, she plans to discard my sister.”

  I sit down beside him. “That’s just malicious gossip.” I gently rub his buttocks and back. “Dzil’s a hard woman, but I’m sure your sister is able to reason with her.”

  “The shame Dzil has brou
ght upon my sister is unbearable.” Nando remains curled.

  “Maybe your sister would be better off without her.” I move both hands up to rub his shoulders.

  “Kyle will lose everything: the baby, the home she built, the land she cleared, and most of all, respect among other women.” He lifts his head to look at me. “Everything goes to the birth mother. A child must always be protected.”

  “But Dzil is not acting in the interests of the child. She is playing political games.” I shake my head.

  “It happens that way sometimes, and Dzil is a descendant of Tara, the deceiver. She knows how to arrange things for her advantage. When Kyle and Dzil became partners, the old people said she only wanted to use my sister’s good name and status. Now she will destroy it.”

  I stop rubbing and hold his shoulders. “We can take care of your sister if this happens.”

  “Yes, it is a brother’s number one responsibility to take care of his sister, but a woman must remain among the other women with her shame.” Nando sits back up.

  “Your poor sister.” I cup the back of his neck.

  “I had hoped that someday we would make an arrangement together.” He looks straight into my eyes, as if he is looking for my reaction.

  Suddenly Kizo bursts through the doorway of our cottage. “You must come. Luca is not well. He needs you.”

  “Is he hurt? Is he ill?” I ask, trying not to sound too concerned, but Kizo looks so desperate I can’t refuse.

  The climb to Luca and Kizo’s camp is steep, and Kizo, even though loaded with supplies, practically runs up the hill. I’m dripping with sweat by the time we arrive at a clearing with a little thatched hut built close to a fresh stream and a splendid view of the bay and fishing boats below.

  “Did you bring more grog?” Luca hollers from his hammock. “We are out, and I’m getting thirsty. I can’t spend the whole day in this hellhole without something to numb the boredom.”

  Kizo smiles at him, swings his heavy pack to the ground, then leans over to kiss Luca. Luca turns his face and pushes him away.