TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

  “A lot to swallow?” Footy asked.

  “Yeh,” Mula agreed, “a lot ta eat—and swalla. I gotta tell you, some of me boys, they think you’re pulling our foots. They say we kill you now—you and the Jap.”

  Johnny and Footy had been sitting while Mula talked, but now they rose and gripped their rifles. Mula grinned.

  “Aw, yes, you got rifles,” he said. He shouted a command and his men bent back their bows, arrows steady. Mula smiled his black smile.

  “Now—if wot you say is true, you got no worries,” he said. “I hope wot you say is true, as the one-God is my witness!” Mula looked up and clasped his hands around his bow. He stared back at the white men.

  “But if you lyin’,” he said, “well, ya gotta die. You see that?” He looked solemn for a moment but then his smile flashed again.

  “If wot you say is true, then we’ll have a singsing—bloody big party, mates. We’ll kill some of me pigs, have a dance. We hate them Mambu! So ya see, you really our guests of honna. That’s how to look at it.” Johnny and Footy shared another glance.

  “Ok,” Johnny said, “but you say you can't go into the Mambu valley. How are you going to verify the facts?”

  “Berryfry dee fek,” Mula repeated. “That's good, I like that one.” He thought for a moment. “What does it mean?”

  “Verify the facts,” Footy repeated slowly. “It means, how will you find out what we say is true mate?”

  Mula conferred with his men. While he was doing that, Footy dug in his backpack and extracted a hand of bananas. He passed some to Johnny, who shared with the captive, and they began to eat. Mula’s warriors began to mutter unhappily. The Uhuli chief looked back and saw what the strangers were doing.

  “Aw, that’s bad form, mates!” he hissed. “Don’t eat without sharin’! The boys don't like that!”

  “Sorry,” Johnny said.

  “We didn’t know,” Footy added. They dug in their packs and passed out the bananas and kaukau. These went hand-to-hand around the group. The warriors went down on their haunches to eat, weapons nearby. Johnny drew a chunk of meat from his pack and looked at it suspiciously.

  “We took this from the Mambu,” he said to Mula. “Know what it is?” He gave it to the native who sniffed, then bit in. “This is pig, mate,” he said with his mouth full, “bloody good pig!” Mula ripped the meat in two and offered half back.

  “No, that's okay,” Johnny said hastily. “You go right ahead.”

  Mula grinned and passed the portion to his men. Johnny and Footy dug out all the meat and handed it over. There was a good deal of smacking of lips and grunts of pleasure. When it was done, Mula wiped the grease from his fingers on his chest.

  “Nothing as good as the food of your enemies,” he sighed as he stood up. “Awlright then, here's what we’re gonna do. Anda here,” he pointed to a young warrior with stringy hair, “he got himself a sweetheart near the Mambu valley. I tell him he’s longlong—crazy, I mean. He’s gonna get himself killed—but he’s a young bloke.” Mula said a few words in his language and the men grinned at Anda.

  “I’ll send him to talk with his sweetheart. Tonight he’ll find out wot's wot. You blokes stay with me in the Uhuli village. You fellas can hang onta your rifles, your pistols, your knives—bloke’s gotta keep his weapons. But you havta stay with us till we find out wot's wot. Right by you?” Johnny and Footy knew they must go through the Uhuli lands. And now they’d given away all their food and had to get more, no doubt from Mula’s people. They really had no choice.

  “Okay,” Johnny said.

  “Right by me,” Footy said. Mula looked at the prisoner.

  “One more thing. Can me boys have your Jap?” Johnny saw the prisoner’s eyes tighten.

  “When you say have him,” Footy asked, “you mean…?” he drew his thumb across his neck.

  “Could be,” Mula nodded. “That could very well be, mate. The boys came out for blood t’day, didn’t they? It would do them good. You consida it a fava to me.”

  “Well mate,” Footy said thoughtfully, “I reckon we can work something out.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Johnny mulled over Mula’s request to turn the Japanese over to him, and Footy’s willingness to go along. He looked at the prisoner and found him staring back. He turned his attention to the native.

  “I’m sorry, no can do,” he said politely. “He's our prisoner. And remember, he did fight your enemy yesterday.”

  “Fair dinkum,” Footy admitted. Mula considered this and slapped his thighs.

  “Awlright,” he said. “My boys’ll listen to me. But you watch him,” he warned, wagging a finger at the prisoner. “We have a score to settle with them Japs! The blood of our families and our missionary is on 'em.” He grasped his bow and arrows and stood, his greased body catching the sun.

  “Let's be off, shall we?” He had a last word with Anda, who waited while the others departed downriver. Then the young warrior turned and loped toward the Valley of the Cannibals.

  The three travelers and their entourage followed the river into the lower country. As they walked, Mula peppered them with questions—the purpose of their journey, their experiences in Kissim, and with the Mambu. Every time he said the name of the enemy, the chief spat red. Johnny and Footy recounted their journey. The Uhuli chief was keenly interested in everything to do with the headhunter valley, and the confrontation with Bumay.

  When they came to the part about the dead natives, Mula exclaimed, and insisted they describe the corpses in detail. He identified the men by name and looked grave.

  “Those are me scouts,” he said. “I sent ‘em ahead yestaday. Them sons-a-satan Mambu musta surprised ‘em. All we found was blood on the grass.” Mula spoke to his men and a discussion ensued, accompanied by groaning and even some tears.

  Late in the day, the forest opened onto a broad kunai plain. Beyond this was a field of gardens, laden with all kinds of vegetables. Mula explained that these were the Uhuli’s.

  His men cut stalks of purple-skinned sugar cane. The chief handed two-foot lengths to Johnny, Footy and even the Japanese. They copied the natives by stripping the tough outer skin with their teeth. They bit chunks of the white, fibrous interior and crunched them between their molars. Their mouths flooded with sweet juice. When they’d sucked the liquid out, they spat the pulp. Chewing and spitting, their flagging energy renewed, the party continued. Eventually they made out the Uhuli village in the distance, a town of huts among trees along the riverbank.

  “Home!” Mula sang. The usual ragged village mongrels came to bark. Running behind them were scores of warriors. From far off, they recognized their kin and shouts echoed across the distance. By the time Mula’s war party reached the others, women and children had joined them. There was a grand reunion. The chief turned to his guests.

  “Now I gotta tell them about me dead bruthas,” he said sadly. He began to shout in his language and the people grew quiet. Then a woman screamed, others began to wail, and all the people gave in to their grief. The newcomers were surprised to see Mula and his warriors sobbing freely, tears spilling down their cheeks. Slowly the procession moved on, arms around one another’s shoulders.

  They came to a wall of piled dirt, with logs across the gaps. They climbed these and were absorbed into an even larger crowd on the other side. They paraded by the Uhuli houses. These were different than any the travelers had seen so far. They were built on stilts of poles, sunk in the clay. There were eighty or ninety of them, Johnny guessed, ranged along the mudflat. Simple staircases, tree trunks with notches for steps, leaned against holes in the floors. The natives ran nimbly up and down them. A woman with a bundle of firewood her own size carried it on her head into her home.

  Mula led the way beyond the huts to a low hill. On it was what must be the mission. It had a cross of white-painted boards nailed to a peak of the metal roof. It was a huge, square edifice, with a steel water tank on one side, and an outhouse. The walls were gray panels, inset wi
th wood-framed windows and doors. They drew close and stopped.

  “This a happy time,” Mula said, “we like visitas like you! But this a sad time as well. We gotta say goodbye to our dead bruthas. T’morra—if Anda fartyfry your freaks, we gonna feel much betta! But tonight, I gotta send me poor one-talks to heaven. The people gotta get ready.”

  The crowd ground to a halt and Mula spoke to them. Again, the women set up a high pitched keening. Then the Uhuli dispersed, heading for their homes. Many of the warriors, including the war party, continued on around a corner of the building. Mula led his guests to the door. He swung it open on rusty hinges.

  “Welcome to the Lighthouse Mission,” he said proudly. Johnny led the way into the gloom. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust, and then they made out a combined kitchen and living room. Afternoon sun filtered through windows of louvered glass thick with dust, several panes broken. Mosquitoes and flies droned in the shafts of light. Mula came in last and set his bow and arrows with a collection of weapons against a wall. These included two rifles, Johnny noticed—an ancient muzzleloader and a Japanese model. Mula saw where he looked.

  “Yes mate, I got rifles, but no bullits. I need bullits,” he added hopefully.

  “Sorry mate,” Footy replied. “We don’t have ammo to fit those guns.”

  “We’re low ourselves,” Johnny added. Mula sighed.

  “I need bullits,” he repeated, “and many utha things.”

  The kitchen was dominated by a cast iron stove. Beside it was a rough counter made of two-by-fours and planks. A metal sink emptied through a short pipe over a hole in the floorboards. Dirty plates and cutlery were piled up. A metal bucket of water stood nearby. The kitchen table was a sheet of plywood nailed to posts. Six store-bought wooden chairs were arranged around it. Deep in the gloom was a soiled and sagging sofa and chair, with an old packing case for a coffee table.

  Along one side of the main room was a wall with two doorways in it. Through the first, the door itself hanging by one hinge, the men saw a mattress on the floor. A half-naked native girl was in the process of rising from the jumble of sheets. She cradled a baby, while another child sprawled beside her.

  “’Ello love,” Mula called. He turned to the men. “This is where Masta Billy and the Missis lived. I keep it good, till we get a new missionary. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the chairs.

  Johnny and Footy took off their packs and leaned them and their rifles against the wall. They sat at the table with Mula and the Japanese. The woman approached. She wore a cloth skirt in a floral pattern gone gray with dirt. The baby suckled her breast and another boy, naked except for a string around his waist, trailed her, knuckling his eyes.

  “This is me wife, Makamalingatopa,” the chief said. He saw the consternation on his guests’ faces again and grinned. “The Masta and Missis, they called her 'Miriam,’“ he went on. “You call her Miriam. They called me ‘Mark,’ but well—now I'm Mula again. These here are me sons. Luke, he’s got six Christmas—and the baby, he's Billy—one Christmas. I named him after me missionary.”

  “Welcome to de Lit Hass Missin,” Miriam said. She offered what might have been a pretty smile, if not for the black teeth. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Oooo, tea? Right! Good on ya, Miriam,” Footy enthused.

  “We gotta problem,” Mula shook his head. “No tea. Not for a long time now.” He said something to his wife, who looked crestfallen.

  “Aw, no worries, mate,” Footy said, sounding heartbroken.

  “We got water!” Mula perked up.

  “Right, water it is,” the pilot sighed. Miriam dipped an assortment of chipped glasses and cups into the bucket and passed them around. Mula spoke rapid-fire in his language as she worked, apparently telling her about his trip. He began to cry again, and she sobbed as well. Soon he cheered up, and then was laughing between his sentences, pointing to the white men. They heard the words, “Bumay” and “Mambu.” Miriam giggled along.

  “I tell her about our dead bruthas,” he said. “And your good yarn—killing Bumay and them sons-a-satan!” He lobbed a gob of buai and almost hit the hole under the sink. It splashed down among similar stains.

  “Sorry,” he said shamefacedly. “We don’t spit in the house.” Suddenly he scowled at the prisoner.

  “Now I tell you why I don’t like these yella fellas! When his lot come to me village—many times—we hide in the bush. The Masta and Missis, they hide with us. But one morning them Japs come early—in a motorboat. There’s alotta guns.

  “They come into the mission and grab Masta Billy outa bed.” Mula pointed towards the bedroom. “They drag ‘im outside—and shoot him. Wickid bloody Japs!” he yelled at the prisoner. The man dropped his eyes and stared at his bound hands on the table.

  “Me an’ me boys—we watch—but they got the guns. Masta Billy an' the Missis—they good people. They sent me to Australia, ya know, before the war.”

  “Yes,” Footy murmured, “Adelaide.”

  “Adelaide,” Mula agreed. “The Lighthouse Church. I learn bloody good English at the school.

  “But them Japs—they keep Missis Sarah inside the house. She scream a long time. They bring her out. She got blood on her legs. She see poor Masta Billy—dead-finish!” Mula shook his head and tears splashed again. Miriam cried, and the boy, Luke sobbed with her. At last the chief wiped his nose on his arm, careful not to soil the feather protruding from the end.

  “The Japs, they drag her to the boat. Then, you sons-a-satan buggas!” Mula shouted at the Japanese, who flinched back. “You grab our women—eight women! You find our pigs! Seventeen pigs!” The prisoner stared away while Mula glared into his face. At last the chief turned back to Johnny and Footy.

  “They rob our gardens—take all we got! Then they go.”

  “What happened to Missis Sarah?” Footy asked.

  “No idea, mate,” Mula said sadly. “We plant Masta Billy in the ground. Then we went afta them Japs—the Uhuli way—quiet-like. We look for Missis Sarah a long time—the Missis, and our women, and our pigs. But the Japs, they gone.” He shrugged.

  “We know some Japs still around. They hide inna jungle. A lotta them, they go downriver, long-time finish. And Missis Sarah—she gone-finish.” Mula went from anger to deep sadness again, and began to bawl loudly. Miriam, Luke and even the baby began to howl as well. Not knowing what to do, the three newcomers looked uneasily away. At last Mula pinched his eyes with his thumbs and spoke.

  “Now you tell me why we don’t kill this fella?” he asked, pointing at the Japanese.

  “I hate the Japs as well,” Johnny told him. “But this man surrendered. You know what that means?”

  “Yeh shore,” Mula said. “He give up to you. You kill him if you want.”

  “No,” Johnny said. “That’s not how it goes. He’s a prisoner of war. We have to take him back. The Aussies will lock him up until the war is over.”

  “Bloody right,” Footy said.

  Mula worked his fingernail between his teeth and noticed the horizontal slant of the sunlight.

  “Time for the news,” he announced, scraping back his chair.

  “The news?” Johnny repeated.

  “What are you on about?” Footy asked.

  “I got a wireless!” Mula said, grinning broadly. “I get all the news from Sydney. That’s Australia, mates! I know them Germans finished in Eeew-rope. They say the Japs finished quick-time now. Come along, let’s have a listen!”

  The men stood, and Johnny motioned for the Japanese to come. Mula led them to the second door in the wall. The chief went into the dark room, struck a match from a box, raised the glass and lit a hurricane lantern.

  “Masta Billy's office,” he explained as the yellow glow revealed the interior. The men saw a wooden desk and office chair, with four more like the ones in the kitchen against a wall. A Royal portable typewriter sat on the desk, although there was no paper to be seen. Beside it stood a radio in a carved wooden cabinet. Jo
hnny whistled.

  “All this, Masta Billy hide in the jungle from them Japs,” Mula said. “But now—no Japs.” He shrugged, and raised the lantern to display a curious contraption. It was a bicycle mounted on two sawhorses, the front wheel removed. The rear wheel had no tire, but a rubber belt went around it. This stretched to a metal cylinder with a pulley, attached to the wall. From that, alligator clipped wires ran to the radio.

  “This how we gen-rate the juice. You want a go?” Mula asked Johnny.

  “Sure,” he said. He climbed on and began to pedal.

  Mula set the lantern on the desk and turned a knob. It clicked, and light faded up behind the radio glass. A wave of static rose, and Mula fine-tuned it. Suddenly, music burst out—the strains of an orchestra. He made a fine adjustment and the whistling lessened. There was a crescendo of horns and rolling timpani, and it faded away. The dispassionate voice of an Australian announcer came on.

  “Good evening. This is the World News from Sydney, New South Wales. It is Monday, August the 6th, 1945.

  “The world leaders who attended the historic Potsdam Conference near Berlin in Allied-occupied Germany, are returning home.

  “One of those in attendance, President of the United States, Harry Truman, met with King George the Sixth at Plymouth in England. President Truman is reported to be en route to America by sea.

  “As announced by the Potsdam Declaration, Germany will lose every nation it took by force since the Nazis came to power. In addition, the nation will be stripped of a further twenty-five percent of all the land it possessed back in 1937.

  “Efforts have begun to carry out the Potsdam provision for the demilitarization and ‘denazification’ of Germany, and for the prosecution of hundreds of war criminals.

  “The Potsam Declaration has also demanded the, quote, ‘immediate and unconditional surrender of Japan,’ end-quote. We have a response from Tokyo. Premier Suzuki has repudiated the demand, in an official statement to the effect that the enemy nation will, quote, ‘take no notice,’ end-quote, of the demands of the Allied leaders.