Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

The prospect cast gloom upon them – six or even more months of abstinence, an eternity, a vast chasm of frustration. She laid a tentative hand on his knee.

  “Perhaps, Ned, if we are very, very careful?”

  “We can work something out.”

  “Is not ‘out’ that we want it!”

  Bright red roars of laughter; delicate, tender experimentation; achievement, satisfactory albeit increasingly acrobatic; a happy, healthy, ballooning Dry Season, far the best time for pregnancy, the humidity so much lower, temperature slightly higher but much more comfortable. There was great approval from the village and labour line where censorious eyes had deprecated the missus’ flat belly for the previous year and now welcomed this belated performance of wifely duty.

  In recognition, celebration, welcome, the village elders suggested that he might wish to be present when next the Duk Duks danced – not, of course, to share the secrets, but to be part of the ceremony from which women and aliens were banned, not merely to watch as an outsider. Ned accepted instantly – this was an honour not accorded to all, a recognition of permanence, in effect an invitation to remain.

  The real problem for Ned was that he had no experience to guide him. The Duk Duk Society was a cross between the Freemasons and the Catholic Church in its ethos, adherence to ceremony and absolute demands on the allegiance of its members. Ned had never belonged to any organised group of ritual users and could not see any significance in dressing in special clothes or moving in prescribed patterns or burning certain substances, chanting esoteric words and carrying specific symbols – it all seemed make-believe, like little boys playing pirates or cowboys and Indians. It would be much easier, he supposed, for missionaries or soldiers, with their uniforms and discipline and magic words and drill and praying – they had the right background and he had none at all.

  He had seen the Duk Duk and Tubuan figures, of course, dancing along the roads and tracks from village to village with their covey of acolytes trotting before and behind, hallooing at the tops of their voices so that women could be warned to hide away so as not to see their passing. The women had their own things, equally arcane and more efficiently secret inasmuch that the younger men never so much as suspected their existence, and would not exhibit vulgar curiosity about the men’s society – no doubt they knew all about it anyway. The Tubuan, or Duk Duk, themselves, they were different but apparently identical to the outside observer, was an eight foot tall bird-like costume and mask, cane framed and heavily covered in leaves as plumage, skirted to the knees, only brown shins and feet protruding to show humanity. The head was high and conical, with star eyes painted on with quicklime and betel juice. There were only vestigial wings, it was meant to be flightless. The costume was always new-looking, cared for, important; it was heavy and hot and must exhaust the wearer who might trot the Tubuan five or six miles between villages and then dance for hours at a feast, drugged and excited into a near trance.

  The Tolai held themselves aloof from the people they had driven into the mountains, would not intermarry, prizing their physical distinctions, particularly the ginger hair so common amongst them.

  Their habits of cannibalism were also distinctive, and unpopular amongst neighbouring clans, but – as they pointed out to the missionaries when they objected – there were no large animals on the Gazelle, was not, never had been, anything bigger than the fruit bat or the tree python and the goanna, and the fishing was not good. As well, as was known to everybody of any sense, the flying fox bat was commonly the familiar of the bush demons, and it was a very brave man who chose to eat of their flesh. Protein was protein, and what did not come from one source had to come from another – the children needed meat to grow up strong and healthy; also, and this was worth remembering, they said, they did not have problems with their youngsters, no juvenile delinquents in their villages, not while the cooking pot was ever ready. All in all, they suggested, cannibalism had much in its favour, provided you were sat on the right side of the dinner table.

  The Duk Duk Society acted as the main way of reinforcing this tribal identity.

  Ned was collected on the appointed day of feast and led to the edge of the village where head-high woven cane panels enclosed half an acre of cleared bush; he was sat with the oldest men in the shade of a grass roof to one side. The prime business of the day was to be ‘Beating the Boys’, a very serious matter, success in which was essential to any boy hoping to become a man. To open the proceedings, and emphasise how important they were, the women would dance Pinpidik before going away to cook.

  The lapun next to Ned groaned, poked him in the ribs and whispered to him to take a piss now, because there was a long wait coming; he must also keep his eyes open, because the women would get angry if they saw men going to sleep on their dance and bugger up the cooking.

  “What happens, then?”

  “Nothing boss! Bloody nothing, for a long time.”

  A double line of twenty girls and women shuffled onto the cleared area, dressed formally in thin, plain knee-length grass skirts, frangipani and hibiscus flowers gold and scarlet in their hair, each carrying bunches of green and yellow croton leaves in either hand. They ranged from newly developed twelve year olds to pendulous crones of vast age – one was said to be fifty. They ambled to a halt, coughed, spat, looked uncertainly at each other, settled their shoulders, nodded and began a high-pitched drone. A couple of minutes to get into the swing of it and they began to move.

  Ned concentrated, discovered that they were singing, stanzas of six to ten short lines, each repeated three or four times over. At the end of odd lines they took a pace forward and shook their leaves to the left; on even lines they stepped back and presented their garlands right. Each line was sung to the same four note tune.

  An hour and a half passed, very slowly, and then the women wandered off, duty performed. The men got up, stretched, nipped into the bush to relieve aching bladders, yawned mightily and made a show of inspecting the eldest amongst them, to see if any had died unnoticed in the tedium. Kulaus, young, green coconuts full of milk, were passed to the adults; the boys who had been watching at the side were left thirsty, privation being good for the young. When the men were refreshed a series of whistles went up the line to inform the Tubuans that the women were gone and it was right to enter.

  Four men set up garamuts, yard thick, tubular wooden slit-gongs carved from six foot lengths of tree trunk; others experimentally tapped their kundu hand drums, tightening the lizard skin coverings to tune them. Another small group sat down with lengths of dry bamboo and began to strike them with hardwood mallets to produce clear, ringing notes. A few minutes of cacophony and then they settled in together to serious business as the buai was distributed to all present and they began to chew the mixture of betel nut, quicklime and bush mustard.

  Betel – areca nut – releases a mild alkaline narcotic when chewed; it dulls hunger pains and produces a mild euphoria, a true poor man’s friend. Combined, however, with daka and quicklime, the mildness disappears as a blood-scarlet juice is produced. Spat out, the effect is of slight intoxication; swallowed, the user very rapidly becomes stoned out of his mind. Ned saw that the drummers were swallowing, noted that it seemed to improve their musical appreciation; they were now all maintaining the same rhythm. Glancing around the fifteen players he spotted two with advanced jaw cancers, knew that they would die within six months; it was probably unwise to habitually fill one’s mouth with quicklime.

  The Tubuans, a pair, possibly one was a Duk Duk, he did not know, danced in and circled the arena twice, swaying and nodding to all parts and people, giving no extra prominence to Ned, but not ignoring him either. They retired to a corner set aside for them where they hopped and jigged quietly, never still but taking no further part; in this particular ceremony their role was simply to cast legitimacy on the proceedings, to make all official by their presence. The boys had disappeared soon after the women had left, now stamped back in, knees raised high, feet thumping flat on the g
round, led by an elder, their teacher and mentor for the first manhood ceremonies. They were twelve and thirteen year olds, Ned reckoned, going by the few of them he knew, just pre-puberty, dressed in palm-leaf loin skirts only, the leaves woven together to make an adequate covering for all they had to hide. Their faces, arms and legs below the knee were powdered a thick matte white with lime – burnt coral, presumably. Each boy carried a bundle of canes, withies about a yard long and not less than a quarter of an inch thick.

  A number of ceremonially dressed men, one for each boy, joined them and the boy at the head of the line quickly knelt on one knee and raised one arm high, then the other. Each of the boys had a dozen canes and they remained silent and as casual as they could seem as each was used on them until it broke.

  “They dry the canes themselves, boss. If they get them just right it don’t hurt – too much – and they break first time.”

  When all the canes were gone, just so much firewood littering the ground, the boys reformed their line and danced gravely round the arena, leaping and prancing freely to show that they could ignore trivial discomfort and deny pain. They left proudly, knowing they had shown up well. There was no applause, for they had done nothing out of the ordinary.

  “What would happen if one of them failed, started to cry, say?”

  “They don’t fail, boss.”

  “Never?”

  “Never! The odd one might die in an accident in training, might not be able to make it to the ceremony, but they never fail when they’re actually being beaten.”

  There was nothing to say to that – it made sense. A boy could only become a man, there was no other way to go, nothing else was possible; if he could not become a man, then he could not grow up. A boy had to succeed, or die, one way or another, in the process of trying.

  The Tubuans danced back into the centre and were joined by various groups of men, parading and chanting in what seemed to be, and might have been, total disorganisation. Towards mid-afternoon things quietened down as participants noticed they were hungry. The Tubuans left, or stored their costumes safely away – they simply disappeared and Ned had more sense than to ask – and the women reappeared with mumu parcels. Those still conscious, and aware of the location of their mouths, ate.

  Reef fish, taro, pit-pit, aibika leaf, all steamed in coconut cream, wrapped in banana leaves in an earth oven – bland, repetitive and limited in nutritional terms. Ned liked the flavours and in any case needed something to get the bitter tang of buai out of his mouth – he had had to chew out of courtesy – but it was easy to understand why European food, even from tins, was in such demand amongst the earning population. Strong, distinctive and enjoyable tastes, both sweet and savoury, made a wonderful change from the monotony of boiled and baked roots.

  His hosts informed him that there would be another ceremony in their village towards the end of the year, hoped they would have the pleasure of his company. Ned smiled his thanks but pointed out that he should be celebrating the birth of his first-born before then and would, of course, expect them all to join him as his guests, village and labour line separately on different days. They were honoured to accept – men only, they supposed?

  “Everybody, down to the last child,” Ned replied.

  They smiled and volunteered their wives to assist with the cooking.

  Ned made a quick head-count – sixty adults and one hundred and fifty various sized juveniles. They would hope for European dishes and had the massive appetite of people used to low-nutritive value staples; his own prestige demanded that they should stagger away bloated. Six hundredweight of rice, a can of fish each, another of bully beef; three full-grown pigs and as many chickens as he could lay his hands on. Gallons of tea, with sugar and tinned milk. They would have to have some familiar tastes so he would buy top quality taro from the hills – Singapor and Kong-Kong – as well as bananas and tapiok roots – the women could prepare them, tapiok having the ability to poison the whole village if not steeped and roasted correctly. As well there should be lollies for the piccaninnies – sweet candies, a great treat for youngster who had an almost sugar-free life. For the men, half a pound of black twist tobacco, European Virginia unacceptably bland; to the women and girls, bright lap-lap prints, generous lengths of the best cotton in brilliant emeralds and scarlet.

  It would be expensive, but well worthwhile for it would bind the baby into the network of claims and gifts that bound the clan together, would make the little one an important figure in the land and a true part of it.

  Early in August Ned moved Jutta, fit but immense, into Kokopo. His police successor, Inspector Reilly, had brought a young wife with him who had diffidently offered her services; they were not particularly friendly, had little in common, except that they lived in the bush and so shared all problems together. The distinction between rich planter and mere policeman disappeared in times of need – Ned only became aware that the barrier existed as it was, temporarily, removed – he had not realised that he had become one of ‘them’. Considering the matter he decided that he liked it, it was good to be on top, treader rather than trodden upon, hammer instead of nail. He left Jutta at Reilly’s quarters with instructions for a runner to come out as soon as anything happened – he could not stay away from the plantation for days at a time, for a week or even two.

  A messenger came at dawn a bare week later, called him urgently to the mission hospital where he was met by surgeon, priest and Jutta’s three friendly sisters. There was an argument going on, broken off as he dismounted and stepped onto the verandah.

  The surgeon cut through the priest’s welcome.

  “Mr Hawkins, you have a son, a healthy boy, nine pounds of him. Your wife has come through this birth, though we were extremely worried at one point, but it would be most unwise for her to have another child. She must come to the operating table soon, there is repair to be done; I have delayed for your arrival because I want your permission to make her safe for the future.”

  The surgeon had been an officer of the German Army, seconded to Vunapope by arrangement with the occupying authorities who had agreed that it would be ridiculous to deprive the colony of his services by making him a prisoner of war. It was possible to bend the rules out in the bush, even Colonel Holmes accepting that it was practical occasionally to be unconventional. It was rare, and fortunate, for the hospital to have any more than a volunteer, temporary, young intern; Jutta had been lucky.

  Ned was unable to assimilate all that the surgeon said; his first great worry was assuaged and he could not take in what was being asked of him.

  The priest began to speak, was angrily hushed by the doctor - they had obviously quarrelled already.

  "Look, doctor, I'm sorry, would you say that again? Jutta is alright? She will live? She will be well?"

  "Ja. Unless something unexpected happens - puerperal fever can always occur, but there is no reason to expect it. She should be perfectly well within a few weeks. The babe is a strong boy."

  "Good!" Ned was relieved, could start to think. "That's all that is important. You say she must never have another child? Right! So be it! Bugger more babies, there's enough of them about as it is. Look, do you need to tell her? She's very young and she might blame herself, or something silly, and she's on her own, no mother to talk to. Let her think that it's just luck - plenty of people have only the one, and we'd been nearly three years wed before this one came along."

  "Of course, there is no need for her to worry herself. I am sure that the father will agree and will not wish to disturb her."

  "Man should not interfere with God's gift. I am sure that Father Joe, if he were here, would forbid you to take this course."

  Father Joe, it transpired, was three day's walk down the coast, visiting an outstation and quite out of contact.

  "He is not here, and I am - and he would have difficulty in forbidding me my own operating table, bearing in mind my rank, sir! I may know too little of God, but my acquaintance with medicine is somewhat more
profound than his. In the unlikely event that a baby should come to term, then the delivery would be her death, as would be a late miscarriage for that matter. You may wish to take religious advice, Mr Hawkins, a protestant priest, perhaps."

  The surgeon, an officer and a gentleman, flinched as he was told what any and every priest might do with his advice.

  "Quite so, sir. Your sense of humanitarian decency should be applauded, if not perhaps the way you express it. I must go to work. You may see your son now, your wife at five o'clock this afternoon. Good day, sir!"

  Ned viewed the red-faced, amorphous, bawling blob of humanity, hastily declined the offer to hold him - he was far too tiny and fragile, there was nothing to hang on to. He was faintly perplexed, amazed that he should have been even part responsible for this. He accepted the sisters' extravagant congratulations, had just sufficient nous not to make a disclaimer, to comment that his role had been easy and enjoyable.

  Jutta was tired, triumphant, uncomfortable but very pleased with the result of their joint endeavour. In a thin thread of a voice she asked of names - they had never finally decided, mostly because of superstition on Ned's part, fearing to presume against the gods. He had never been a lucky man, he believed, and should not take a chance now.

  "George Frederick Hawkins. Your father was Friederich, wasn't he?" He let her assume that his father had been George - he might have been, it was a common enough name.

  "Ja, I would like that, even though he was... You are a good, kind man, my love."

  She dropped off to sleep, smiling as the sister took George Frederick from her breast and shooed Ned away.

  It was two weeks before Jutta brought the baby home, another fortnight before she was fit to work in the house. A nursemaid had been hired from the village and had taken the bulk of the work off her, and particularly woke at night as necessary. Jutta was able to find motherhood rewarding and enjoyable, and, avoiding the utter exhaustion that was the normal lot of the unaided young housewife, was quickly able to regain her strength.