Diffusion

by Stan C. Smith

  The tree kangaroo appraised the scene from above. It superimposed images of artifacts scattered about the area over a compendium of objects encountered in the past, but no matches were found. Mannerisms and gestures were likened to a database of known behaviors. Vocalizations, including the man’s stifled sobs, ran through audio comparison algorithms but failed to find their counterparts.

  The creature categorized the wreckage and survivors as new, unknown. These could be the ones they had been waiting for. Perhaps it was a misguided effort that had brought the strangers here, but that was of little importance.

  The tree kangaroo turned to a second creature clinging to a nearby limb, another mbolop. It grunted softly to draw the other’s attention and then gestured with one of its forelimbs. The other mbolop loosened its grip on the limb and gestured back an acknowledgement. It then bounded off through the canopy, leaping from one tree to the next. The first tree kangaroo remained, hiding amidst the foliage of the silkwood tree. Its clawed hand raked in a tuft of leaves, shoving them into its mouth. The creature chewed slowly, studying the sobbing figure below.

  After draining his pent-up emotions, Quentin felt the vigor of renewed resolve. He rose from the muddy ground and was startled by movement in the trees to his right. A human figure made its way through the dense undergrowth.

  “Hey!” Quentin stumbled over creepers and roots to close the gap between them. “Hey, wait!” The person paused. It was the Indonesian passenger. The man held one hand over a large bloodstain on the front of his shirt. Flies covered his hand and the stain, feeding on the blood. He looked at Quentin briefly and continued walking.

  “Are you okay?”

  The man stopped. “Murni, saya pergi ke Murni. Saya cari Murni.” He was ashen, staring at the ground, and he seemed not to notice the mass of flies. He then walked away.

  Apparently he was looking for the woman, named Murni. Her body was probably near the tail portion of the plane. If it were Lindsey, Quentin would do the same. So he watched the man disappear without trying to stop him.

  Quentin returned to the plane. With some seats removed, there was now more room in the cabin. Lindsey, Ashley, Carlos, and Bobby sat around the still forms of Addison and Miranda as if waiting for them to wake. The despair in Lindsey’s eyes told Quentin that things were no better.

  “How long do you think before they find us?” Ashley said.

  “I haven’t heard any search planes yet,” Quentin said. He considered this for a moment. “Listen, there’s no way to know how long it will take. It could be in the morning, or maybe not even tomorrow. I want you to remember something: you came on this trip because you weren’t afraid. You’re all tough. That’s why we’re going to get through this.”

  No one responded, so Quentin went on. “In a crisis the first thing to do is care for any injuries. The problem is, we don’t have first aid supplies. There had to be a first aid kit on the plane, and we know we have some supplies in our bags in the plane’s tail. The second thing to do is to find water and food. Lindsey, what did you have in your bag?”

  “I had a few things, a couple of water bottles,” she said.

  “So we have to find the rest of our stuff. There’s not much daylight left. I’ll search for the bags and first aid kit. You guys get this area ready for the night. Bobby, we’ll need seat cushions arranged for each person to sleep on.”

  Bobby nodded and stood up.

  Quentin considered the mass of flies feeding on the Indonesian’s blood and he looked at the torn edges of the fuselage. “If I find the other bags, we might have enough cloth to rig up something to keep the insects out of here.” The mosquitoes would get worse as the sun went down. They had taken Chloroquine for the last two weeks to prevent malaria and had planned to continue doses for the next month, but the remaining tablets were waiting for them at home. No other drugs or vaccinations were considered essential for the trip, but now that they were out of the highlands the risk of insect-borne diseases was greater. Besides malaria, there was encephalitis and dengue fever, and probably others Quentin hadn’t even heard of. Not to mention the risk of bacterial infection in their wounds, which could lead to gangrene.

  Quentin exited the plane and looked at the cracked branches above, trying to determine the plane’s path. His eye caught the glint of freshly exposed heartwood some distance beyond the wreckage. That had to be the direction. But the forest was remarkably dense, so he ducked back in and told Lindsey and the kids to listen for his calls.

  After moving into the forest he quickly lost sight of the plane. The understory saplings grew so close together in places that he had to force them apart. He made progress for perhaps a hundred meters, trying to keep a straight course. He felt isolated, vulnerable.

  “Can you hear me?” At first his call was followed only by the sound of flies.

  “Mr. Darnell, we hear you!” It was Bobby, his voice already faint and distant.

  He called back to Bobby to keep listening. He then pulled off his shirt, thinking of hanging it as a marker. Immediately the flies descended on the sweaty flesh of his back. This was insufferable, so he put the shirt back on. Scattered on the forest floor were long, rigid leaves of the sago palm. He gathered some of these and set them upright like a small teepee. Moving on, he stopped again when the crude marker was almost out of sight, no more than ten meters. He made a second marker, then moved ahead and made a third. Feeling some confidence, Quentin continued like this, trying to work his way in a straight line.

  After the fifth marker, he came upon a small clearing containing four sorted and neatly stacked piles of objects. There was a pile of bright red berries, another of yellow bird feathers, and another of iridescent blue beetle carapaces. The biggest pile contained hundreds of large brown acorns. In the center of the clearing stood an upside-down cone made of thin sticks, resembling a miniature hut. The floor of the clearing was a bed of green moss, meticulously cleaned of all debris except for the piles. For the briefest moment he thought the site might be man-made but then realized it was the bower of a male bowerbird. To convince females they were worthy, males created these impressive shrines of gifts collected from the surrounding forest.

  Something in the pile of acorns caught his eye. He stepped into the bower and picked it up. It was a small figurine, carved from a stone, an animal of some kind, perhaps a cuscus or tree kangaroo. It was stylized, like a totem carving, and the craftsmanship was striking. Its oval shape was close enough to that of an acorn that the bowerbird must have collected and classified it as such. Quentin’s pulse quickened. There must be a village nearby, perhaps with a radio and an airstrip. Encouraged, he dropped the figurine into his pocket and continued on.

  Before long, though, he’d constructed twenty markers and still had not seen the missing wreckage. The light was fading fast. They would have no first aid supplies tonight.

  In frustration, he called out, “Hello! Is anyone there?”

  A moment later, Bobby called out, “Mr. Darnell, we’re here.”

  Quentin suddenly felt disoriented. Bobby’s voice had come from ahead and to the right. Somehow he had almost doubled back to the plane. Defeated, he headed in the direction of the voice, leaving his trail of useless markers.

  Stumbling through the darkening tangle of vegetation, he called out again. Bobby’s reply didn’t seem much closer. Then he heard something else, like gushing water, but coming from all sides, and above. A drop hit his cheek and he looked up. Rain was making its way through the gauntlet of the canopy to the forest floor. The pattering became louder, and soon he was in the midst of a deafening downpour. There was no chance of hearing Bobby’s still-distant cries.

  Rivulets of rainwater ran down his face, reminding Quentin of his thirst. He found a large leaf and held it out flat with the pointed tip in his mouth. The rain gathered on the leaf and flowed onto his tongue. He called out, pushing his voice until it hurt, but he heard only the rain. He pointed at a tree in the direction
he had last heard Bobby and then made his way toward it. Halfway to the tree he picked out another directly beyond the first. Then he picked out another beyond that. He continued this way, calling out periodically but hearing nothing in return. The rain only intensified. It became so dark that Quentin could barely see trees just in front of him. He would have to wait for the rain to stop. In nearly total darkness, Quentin found a tree with knee-high buttress roots at the base. He slid to the ground, his back against the tree and his feet pointing to where the Twin Otter should be. He sat there in the mud, waiting.

  Exhausted by the most traumatic day of his life, uncertain that their son still lived, and feeling very alone, Quentin drew up his knees and laid his face and arms over them. In only one day his life had been shattered. In spite of this, Quentin felt deep within himself a need to survive. Not for his own sake, because the years of regret he faced were as daunting as this forest. Instead, he needed to live to ensure the survival of Lindsey and Addison, and the remaining students. For this reason, he would not give up.

  His guilt and conviction were finally pushed away by the sympathetic veil of sleep. In the gray moments between states of consciousness, Quentin saw his father, kneeling in the forest, sobbing. After years of believing he had brought enlightenment to the Papuans he so loved, he had witnessed the truth. It was the first and only time Quentin had seen him cry.

  Dad, I have failed too.

  Five

  Bobby awoke thinking someone had called his name. But he heard only birds chattering in the forest outside, and then another of Miranda’s moans. The plane’s cabin was now gray with the light of morning. The rain had finally stopped.

  He wiped his eyes and looked around. The others seemed to be sleeping. Miranda’s eyes were closed, but her moans never ended. Carlos was curled up at the front of the plane where his brother had been crushed. He had barely spoken since the crash. Ashley was stretched out next to Miranda. Ashley’s wavy hair was clumped and tangled, and Bobby stared at her, wishing he could see more of her face.

  Mrs. Darnell slept with her arm around Addison. Addison still hadn’t moved a muscle. Maybe he had died already during the night. Bobby was glad Mrs. Darnell had finally fallen asleep. He’d heard her crying through most of the night. They had yelled for Mr. Darnell until they could hardly talk. Then Mrs. Darnell had simply sat down outside the plane, soaked with rain. Finally, Bobby and Ashley had convinced her to move inside.

  Bobby wondered what his own mom would do if she were here. She’d probably be a basket case. She hadn’t wanted him to sign up for the trip—said it was too dangerous. But he’d worked hard for the money, and finally she’d given up when Bobby’s dad gave him two hundred dollars toward the trip. Bobby’s mom gave up on a lot of things, including his dad. He just wouldn’t grow up, she’d say whenever Bobby asked why she’d left him. Now his dad was going to college, and working two jobs. That seemed pretty grown up to Bobby.

  Bobby had to pee, so he rolled to his side and drew his legs up.

  “Hey! Are you there?”

  Bobby sat up. “Mr. Darnell!”

  Mrs. Darnell lifted her head. “Quentin?”

  Bobby scrambled out of the cabin. The air was wet but it smelled fresh. Mrs. Darnell came out behind him, followed by Ashley and Carlos.

  In a few minutes they spotted Mr. Darnell fighting his way through the jungle. He hugged Mrs. Darnell like he had been lost for weeks. He was soaked and covered with mud and streaks of blood from scratches. But he was back.

  Mr. Darnell explained how hard it was to move through the forest, and that he’d slept under a tree. Then he got very serious. “How are Addison and Miranda?”

  Mrs. Darnell frowned, and they both went into the plane. Ashley followed them, leaving Carlos and Bobby outside. Carlos just stood there, his normally brown skin looking pale. Bobby fidgeted in silence. He tried not to look, but his eyes kept moving to where the bodies of Russ and Roberto lay. He could see legs and feet, speckled with flies. Carlos was looking at the same spot.

  “Sorry about Roberto,” Bobby said. “He was nice. Awesome guitar player.”

  Carlos looked away “Yeah. Maybe I’ll get his stuff.”

  Bobby didn’t know if he should laugh and decided not to. He imagined it must be awful to have a brother killed. Bobby had never lost anyone, unless you counted his dad moving out. He had never even had a dog that died.

  “How’s your hand?” Bobby said.

  “Hurts like a son of a bitch. My fingers are fucking smashed.”

  Bobby changed the subject again. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Mostly thirsty.”

  In the night they’d managed to drink some rainwater, but it hadn’t been enough. Bobby figured there must be rainwater sitting in pools in the leaves on the ground, maybe even in some of the pieces of the plane. He asked Carlos if he wanted to help collect it.

  Carlos shrugged and nodded. “I just got one hand.”

  They found two zip-lock bags and a plastic rain jacket of Miranda’s. Bobby tied knots in the ends of the sleeves so the sleeves could hold water. But finding water that looked clean enough to drink wasn’t easy. Water was pooled in the wrecked metal, and they poured what they could into the bags. But the water was brown with dirt and oil. Then they found a jagged piece of the cockpit filled with water that had turned red from hacked-up muscle and skin still stuck to the metal. After that they dumped out both of the bags.

  Water was indeed trapped in leaves on the ground, but only small amounts. After tediously collecting nearly a half bag this way, Bobby could see that Carlos’s hand was killing him. “You want to take a break? I can do this for a while.”

  Carlos held out another leaf. “Just hold the bag open.”

  Leaf by leaf, drop by drop, they worked without saying much more. The first bag filled up and they sealed it and set it at the base of a tree. The clouds disappeared and the forest started to heat up. Water seemed to hang in the air, like rain that wasn’t falling.

  As Bobby sealed the second full bag and set it next to the first, there was a sudden wave of pattering raindrops. At first he thought the rain had started again, but the pattering lasted only a few seconds, and it came from one place in the trees above them.

  “Look at that.” Carlos pointed with his mummy-wrapped hand.

  Bobby squinted. An animal jumped and sailed toward them to another tree. The branch shook, letting go another shower of rain. The creature eyed them for a second and then launched itself again. Now it was above them, clinging to a tree no fatter than a baseball bat.

  Bobby realized it was a tree kangaroo. Its shape was similar to the larger ground kangaroos, but it was the size of a big house cat. Heavy haunches and an arched back made the front part of the animal, the forearms and head, seem small. Its rust-colored eyes were low on its face, just over a short snout, and although its body was mostly dark, its face was golden. Most impressive was its tail, longer than the whole body and mottled with brown and tan fur. The tail hung straight down, like its only purpose was to impress. The creature eyed them, its pointed ears cocked in their direction. Then, clinging to the tree with its forearms, the tree kangaroo pumped its back legs. The tree shook, bringing a shower of rain down on them.

  “Hey!” Carlos said, drawing the word out as if scolding a toddler.

  Without taking its eyes off them, the creature pumped its legs and showered them again.

  Clean rainwater ran from Bobby’s hair down his face. “He’s trying to help us.”

  “Probably trying to scare us off,” Carlos said.

  The creature responded by shaking the tree again, dropping more water on them.

  “I’m telling you, Carlos, he’s helping!” Bobby pulled out the plastic jacket he had tucked in his pants and spread it out. He didn’t have to wait long. The creature shook the tree again and water fell onto the jacket and ran into the knotted sleeves hanging below.

  “The water here is
gone,” Bobby said. “Let’s see if he’ll do another tree.” He moved to a different spot. Carlos grunted and followed. The tree kangaroo scuttled up the tree and leapt from one branch to another until it was above them. It then shook the branch hard, sending a drenching shower onto them and the open jacket. Bobby could now feel the weight of the water.

  Bobby shouted back to the plane, “Mr. Darnell, you have to see this!”

  Quentin watched the tree kangaroo. The creature’s fearless behavior could mean humans had influenced it, but perhaps that idea was a manifestation of his need for a connection between the animal and their survival. He pondered this as they stood watching the performance. Suddenly he remembered the figurine he’d found in the bowerbird’s nest. He pulled it from his pocket and studied it. The resemblance was unmistakable.

  “There must be people around here,” he said. “Maybe it’s been trained to do this.”

  “Then there must be a village nearby,” Lindsey exclaimed.

  Silently, Quentin processed the implausibility of the creature being trained. The only animals domesticated by Papuans were pigs and dogs. Rats lived in close association with them, but even those were not so fearless. Tree kangaroos were marsupials, and he knew of no marsupials anywhere that were domesticated or trained to do any helpful tasks.

  The tree kangaroo continued shaking water onto the waiting jacket. As Bobby moved from one spot to another, so did the kangaroo. The animal’s behavior was so methodical that Quentin finally allowed himself to believe humans had trained it.