by Cole Alpaugh
He rubbed the back of his sore head where the former god’s steel grip had seized him. “Hey, Willy.”
Willy squatted to put a hand on Dash’s bent knee. “You never believed I was real.”
The touch seemed perfectly human, warm and caring. The villagers stepped back, as if to make room for something they weren’t sure they were seeing.
“That’s not true.”
Willy cocked his head.
“Well, I always hoped you were real,” he admitted, embarrassed because Willy knew better.
“You’re a tough one to figure out, my friend. Most men would have knelt down and prayed for me to fix their broken wang.”
“Would you have done it? Would you have fixed me?”
Willy made a scoffing noise. “You would have found another dangerous crack to stick it in.”
Dash sighed. “You’re probably right.”
“I’ll miss you, Cracker. It can’t be the same after I take the big plunge.”
“What if it kills you?”
Willy glanced over the edge, specs of orange fire reflecting from his black eyes. The light above his forehead pulsed. “She can’t kill me. I’m pretty much indestructible as long as there are people who believe in me.”
“What about our friendship? What about the airplane seats?”
“There will be too many voices. I’ll have to stick to coming around once a month when the moon is black and humans can’t see me.” Willy looked down at Tiki. “Most humans, that is.”
“You really want to take care of these people?”
Willy shrugged his mighty shoulders. “I will if they want me to. They aren’t so bad. They just need their hope restored. That’s second on my to-do list.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Oh, it’s gotta work. Who can resist a good resurrection?” said Willy, standing back up and taking a step toward the edge of the slab. He leaned out. “You know what I see down there? I see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
“It’s lava, Willy.”
The enormous man turned and pointed at Tiki, who’d scrambled to bury her head against Dash. “That one’s a real cutie. If you take her away, there’s something you have to buy her.”
Dash nodded. “A kitten.”
“There are all kinds of good shots for allergies. You’ll get used to having one around.”
“I’ll buy her two. I promise.”
“I know you will, Cracker, I can read your mind.”
Chapter 35
The village was busy in the sleeping volcano’s shadow. There was plenty of bickering at first, everybody with an opinion over the design of their new totem. Manu wanted the fish heads up as soon as possible; he was anxious to keep their new god pleased. The hard part was the spiny dorsal fin arching over the carved face, and all those needle-like teeth meant raiding sticker bushes up and down the beach.
The haze and sulfur smell had lifted. Rain had scrubbed most of the ash, refilled the cistern. The taro crop was lost, but the fields had been turned and tubers planted. Fishing had never been better, skiffs returning with hulls heavy in the water and difficult to steer from all the whoppers that practically jumped into the boats. The drinking circle was unusually animated with tales of monsters that had gotten away, fish that dragged boats and chewed through the sturdiest lines.
Manu declared their island’s new name was once again its old name, words that translated to ‘No Hurry’ in English.
“Long live the people of Moku Siga,” said the old chief, lifting a full cup toward the volcano, his bloodshot eyes narrow and defiant.
As days passed under blue skies, time did seem to slow. The pace of life on Moku Siga began to live up to its name. Elders left the shade of their huts to sit cross-legged along the edge of the soccer field for the first time. They squinted at the mass of dirty children, crooked fingers pointing out grandsons and granddaughters. The old people hooted and cheered even though they didn’t understand the game.
Dash decorated the former love hut with washed up treasures. His most recent score was a Mr. Potato Head with eyes, one pink ear, and a mustache. Like the stars, moon, and the rain, the toy was a link to home. Enough of one that Dash hadn’t rebuilt the signal fire, at least not yet. His wang still failed him, but he was no longer fodder for the volcano. With the pressure off, maybe his wang would come around. Some of the new ceremonies had turned pretty spicy, and he’d felt a definite stir down there once or twice. He mostly steered clear of the drinking circle to keep the rest of him from going numb.
Willy accepted gifts. Villagers left a bounty of strung shells, woven vine wreaths, and lush bouquets of the sweetest smelling flowers. They switched to coconut milk when jugs of clap-clap were left untouched. Not a crumb of fresh octopus remained once the ink sacs were removed—that was Dash’s suggestion. And the people knew their virgins were their own to defile, and that their mighty new god would never go for that human sacrifice malarkey. This god had seen enough death, had no interest in any more graves being dug.
Dash hadn’t spoken to Willy since being reeled back in from the volcano. Willy had been right about things being different. Gods heard too many voices to be lounging around in washed-up airplane seats watching birds dive-bomb fish. Willy’s big plunge had spoken volumes, had left no doubt where the real magic could be found. He’d put all those Acapulco cliff divers to shame with a quadruple twisting double backflip that elicited sounds of awe, delight in a place it didn’t belong. No head-to-toe tumble down the rocky interior; those giant leg muscles easily propelled his mass out over the fiery pond. Villagers dropped to their knees when the dragon’s eye went dark, the mountain’s breath having been cut off. The earth stopped shifting and the clouds began rolling away. A child whispered, “Weeleekonawahulahoopa,” and it was one of the loveliest sounds Dash ever heard.
“Weeleekonawahulahoopa,” Dash had repeated. “My friend.”
Not many people bothered looking up when a boy came charging out of the tunnel connecting the village to the lagoon. Dash did, because he’d been raised to expect unpleasant surprises, would probably never fully trust a higher being to watch over him, not even Willy. But he knew these people believed in their protector, had allowed peace to embrace them.
First the boy ran to the women at the main cooking fire, but was sent away with a slap to the bottom. Next he went to the women constructing the new fish head totems that were still missing spines and lures. They too scolded the boy, who was apparently told to knock off the tomfoolery and go play ball with the other children.
Dash stepped down from his love hut home when Manu emerged from his hut on wobbly legs. The chief looked a hundred years old, obviously suffering from another late night of hard drinking and long story telling, both shaky hands shielding the midday sun. When the old man strolled over to join him, Dash noticed Manu’s underpants were on backwards.
Tiki’s voice rose from the soccer scrum, firm and more confident since the night on the volcano. He watched her bend to pick up the ball, stopping the game around the frantic boy. The kids were all huffing, dripping sweat on the dusty field. “What’s your fussing about?”
The boy, also winded, took a half-minute to catch his breath. He pointed to the tunnel, eyes wild, as if he’d seen the devil. “They’re here,” he finally said.
The children were quiet enough to hear laughter coming from within the dark vegetation. Dash could make out English words spoken with an Australian accent, felt the hatred and revulsion surge, but didn’t leave Manu’s side. And none of the villagers stopped what they were doing. Not a single person moved to the center of the compound to kneel down for the white soldiers’ arrival.
Tiki had the ball tucked under one arm, was fingering her new necklace, a small coral carving of a strange looking fish head hanging from a thin strip of vine. She spoke to the children, who nodded and then dropped to their butts one by one. She turned her back to them, and marched toward the sound of boastful alien voices.
/> It was the first time Dash had seen the soldiers, or whatever they were. They were dressed in identical tan khaki shirts and pants, each with a rifle strapped over one shoulder. The man in the lead wore a sweat-stained bush hat, its loose cord bouncing against his Adam’s apple with each step of a heavy black boot.
Tiki intercepted the men halfway to Manu’s hut, stopping with her feet planted wide, ball on her hip. The lead soldier towered over the girl as he stood looking her up and down, wide smirk settling across uneven whiskers. He spit into the dirt and pulled a green bandana from a back pocket, then removed his hat to wipe his brow. He unfurled the bandana with a jerk of the wrist and ran the tattered cloth through his red hair.
“His orange hair,” Dash whispered, feeling a hand touch his arm and take hold of his bicep. Maybe it was there to hold him back, but more likely it was for support.
“Trust what you believe,” said the old chief in a voice as numb and broken as Dash’s private parts. “What will be, will be.”
The soldier was still smiling when he replaced his hat and tucked away the bandana. Tiki’s hands clenched into fists, and the ball dropped from her side. It rolled across the dark spot where the soldier had spit.
“I remember you, little one.” The red-haired man squatted, rifle butt touching the ground by his heels. “We could use a few like you to come for a ride in our boat. How ’bout you introduce me to some of your pretty young friends?”
A breeze tumbled dead leaves, made soft rustling sounds that drifted across the sunbaked compound. The villagers whispered, perhaps a new prayer, their backs turned to an old god. The jungle paused, insects stopping mid-chore, snakes forgetting their hunger, birds leaning close.
“I have a brand new friend,” Tiki said to the soldier, and Dash could tell from behind that her chin was tilted up, and he guessed that she was smiling. “His name is Willy.”
A shadow fell over the soldiers.
* * *
Cole Alpaugh is a former journalist, having worked at daily newspapers along the East Coast, as well as spending several years as a war correspondent in numerous hot spots around the world for Manhattan-based news agencies. His work has appeared in dozens of magazines, as well as most newspapers in America. He was nominated by Gannett News Service for a 1991 Pulitzer Prize. Cole is currently a freelance photographer and writer living in Northeast Pennsylvania, where he spends his afternoons watching his daughter hit fuzzy yellow balls and ski through slalom gates. You can find Cole online at ColeAlpaugh.com.