Addison turned to him with eyes as cold and black as space. “The Lamotelokhai talks to you when you sleep. I know how to listen. I should be the one to see it, not my father.” Then Addison looked directly at Bobby. “You know how to listen, too.”
Bobby felt his face flush. “What do you mean?” He looked around at the others. “What about them?”
“They don’t matter.”
“Screw you, Addison,” Ashley said.
Carlos spat on the floor. “He’s brain damaged.”
Mrs. Darnell said, “Stop it! Addison’s not well. We need to get him home.” She eyed Carlos. “Can you understand that?”
Carlos shrugged. “Sure.”
Addison stared at them, but something about his eyes made it seem like he didn’t really see them—or didn’t care. “I am staying,” he said.
Mrs. Darnell closed her eyes. “No, Addison, we’re all going home.”
“It is wrong to go home now.”
Miranda spoke up. “How can it be wrong? Our families are worried about us. At least you have your parents with you.”
“They won’t want you there,” said Addison. “Not now.”
The back of Bobby’s neck tingled.
Mrs. Darnell said, “Sweetie, you’re scaring everyone.”
“Mother, you can’t remember.” Addison’s voice was louder now. He turned to Bobby and the others. “But they can.”
Mrs. Darnell looked like she might cry. “You’re not making sense. Please stop.”
Addison didn’t stop. He stood and approached Carlos. “You can remember. Before the pesua crashed. Gekhené pesua im-le. You saw the other airplane.”26
Carlos’s hands were fists. His brows scrunched up, like he was trying to remember. He closed his eyes. When he opened them they were wide with terror. “No!” he cried. “Roberto! He’s not…” His words turned into sobs, and he crumpled to the floor. He sat in the corner, crying and holding his hand like it was smashed all over again.
Addison turned away from him toward Bobby. “You can remember,” he said. “You’ll see.” He came nearer.
Bobby felt trapped. He backed up and almost stepped into the opening in the floor. He grabbed the rope ladder to keep from falling.
Suddenly Ashley was between them. She pushed Addison, saying something about how they’d be better off if he’d go back into his coma.
“You can’t remember,” Addison said to her. “But Bobby can.”
Bobby started climbing down the ladder—to hell with Addison and all the fighting.
Ashley’s face appeared in the opening above him. “Bobby, where are you going?”
“I want to be alone.” He heard Mrs. Darnell’s voice, protesting. “I’ll be back. Tell her not to worry.” He didn’t look up again.
After reaching the forest floor, Bobby sat at the base of a tree and rested his head on his knees. Why did Addison want him to remember the plane crash? Why was he talking about another plane? There was no other plane, and they hadn’t seen or heard any since the crash. He pulled up the memory, and like all other memories, the events appeared in complete detail. He was sitting in the hot plane, waiting to take off, hoping he wasn’t in trouble for making everyone late. Then they were flying over the mountains. He was talking to Mr. Darnell.
Bobby knew what would come next, and panic swelled in his chest. It was no wonder Carlos had freaked out in the tree house. Bobby tried to calm down. The plane crash was in the past. There was no reason to be afraid now. He swallowed hard and went back in time.
He stared out the window at the jungle below, listening to the engines. Mr. Darnell said, “I’m sure you guys have a great story to tell about your morning.” Mr. Darnell was kneeling in the aisle. “Yeah, I guess,” Bobby said. “Well, I want the full story tonight. That’ll give you guys a chance to get it straight.” And then it happened. Bobby’s vision blurred and everything went blank. The next thing he knew, he was staring at a stream of brown stuff streaking out of the plane’s engine outside his window. “Mr. Darnell,” he cried, “something’s wrong!”
It felt so real that Bobby was shaking, so he opened his eyes. He hadn’t remembered blanking out like that before. Intrigued, he took a deep breath and went over it again in his mind. This time he remembered more. There were strange shapes moving in front of his eyes. He couldn’t tell what they were. So he sat up straight against the tree and clenched his fists. He closed his eyes and put all his effort into the memory.
“…That’ll give you guys a chance to get it straight,” Mr. Darnell said. Bobby smiled, staring out the window. And then the blankness washed over him. It felt like that instant of dreamlike feebleness at the top of a roller coaster just before the plunge—helpless and barely aware. There was a shape there, just outside the airplane. It was confusing because the shape seemed so close. A flash of white; a curved edge of something dark; some bits of blue, maybe they were letters; several dark oval shapes in a row. And within one of the ovals Bobby glimpsed another shape. It was a face.
Bobby bolted upright, hitting the back of his head against the tree. Addison was right; there had been another plane. And someone in the plane had been staring right at him.
Muddy water of the Méanmaél churned past as the tree kangaroo made its way along the river’s bank. It emerged from the brush and stopped before eleven small mounds of soil and plant material arranged in two parallel rows. One row contained five, conspicuously missing the one mound that would balance the two rows. The mbolop relaxed its forelimbs, releasing a collection of sticks, bark, and leaves onto the ground. A second tree kangaroo appeared beside it and dropped a similar collection. And soon a third joined them, adding more collected items. The creatures pushed the loose pieces together, arranging them into a mound that completed two rows of six. The other two kangaroos hopped to the water’s edge, pushed their snouts under the surface for a moment, and then returned and let fly streams of water from their mouths onto one of the mounds. They returned to the river repeatedly to do this for the other eleven mounds. The first kangaroo, known now to the newcomers as Mbaiso, dug into its belly and pulled free a chunk of its own flesh. This it dropped onto one of the mounds. It methodically moved to each mound and did the same thing.
Finally, the tree kangaroos sat back and stared at the mounds. While the other two sat perfectly still, Mbaiso fidgeted. It understood the need for the task at hand, to periodically replenish the local Aiyal, the creature Samuel called a bandicoot. But Mbaiso’s thoughts were engaged with other matters. The new visitors were turning out to be surprisingly diverse, each of them revealing exclusive behaviors and abilities. This made it difficult to generate predictions. Any one of them could alter the course of events in so many ways, making for a most interesting and volatile situation.
The younger one called Bobby was proving to show some promise. Perhaps it would be allowable to push him in directions that could reveal more of his potential.
Mbaiso signaled for the other tree kangaroos to follow, and they left behind the twelve mounds, which were just beginning to change their shape.
Eleven
Samuel led Quentin to another tree house, and they climbed a rope ladder. Quentin removed his hiking shoes this time, and the climb was easier although this hut was even higher than where they had slept. Waiting for them there were two Papuan men Quentin had not seen before. One had multiple coils of white objects strung around his neck, making a wide collar that covered his shoulders and upper chest. The other had only a few strands of cord around his neck, with dark objects hanging from them. But in his hair were dozens of white cockatoo feathers, sticking out in all directions, similar to the green feathers worn by Sinanie. Both men wore short, functional penis gourds that were intricately painted or carved.
After appraising Quentin’s appearance, the men began questioning him. The questions came rapidly, and some of them seemed irrelevant to Quentin. Surprisingly, Samuel did not seem to have full command of the
tribe’s language. He would hesitate often, apparently querying the tribesmen to decipher their meaning. In Quentin’s opinion, this was a strike against the credibility of his claim of living with these Papuans for a hundred and fifty years.
“Gu laleo lai-ati-bo-dakhu. Lele-mbol-e-kho-lo?” the men asked for the third time. By now Quentin knew what it meant: “How are you coming to us, as a man or a spirit?” He had already told them he was a regular, living man.
“They believe your son, Addison, to have risen from the world of the dead,” Samuel said. “And they surmise, therefore, that you are, one and all, spirits.”
“Addison was cured by their medicine. They’re the ones who gave it to him. Why would they think he has come from the dead?” Even as he said this, Quentin remembered that Addison himself had said he had been to the place of the dead.
“Sinanie applied the ointment as a kindness to your wife, who was distraught over your son’s death. They believe the boy was already dead at the time.”
Quentin eyed Samuel. “Do you believe that?”
“I have seen many things I once believed impossible. But notwithstanding my opinion, I fear they believe you are a spirit, Quentin. Perhaps no amount of arguing will convince them otherwise. It might benefit you to simply concede.”
“Will it help us get to civilization if I’m a spirit? If so, then fine, I’m a spirit. We’re all fucking spirits.” So far Quentin hadn’t given a single answer that seemed satisfactory to them.
They asked if Quentin had come because of the Lamotelokhai. Samuel explained that the Lamotelokhai was the source of the ointment. Quentin answered that he had no previous knowledge of the stuff. They asked if he were the creator of the Lamotelokhai. Quentin told them no, he had no idea what it was or where it came from.
The questions continued, and Samuel translated.
“What message from our ancestors have you brought us?”
Quentin repeated that he was a real man, and had no message for anyone.
“You have brought hurt with you. Did you come to kill us?” Samuel explained that shortly before the plane crash, one of the Papuans had been hurt and another killed.
Quentin said he knew nothing about that, and he meant them no harm.
“Can you be killed?”
Quentin answered yes.
“When we kill you, will the world end?” Samuel explained that the end of the world was a concept deeply rooted in their belief system. They believed this event to be inevitable.
Quentin said, “Are they waiting to kill us because they think it might end the world?”
“Quite the contrary,” Samuel said. “The one man who will end their world is the same man they will most definitely allow to live.”
Quentin shook his head at this illogical answer. “Help me out here, Samuel. How can I convince them to let us leave?”
“I believe there are two ways that you may be safe. The first would require you to be the very man they believe will someday come, the man who would end their world. I doubt that to be the case. The second would require you to remain here, as I have. And there are ample doubts regarding that, considering the size of your party.”
Quentin felt panic beginning to well up from his center. “Then we’ll find our way out of here on our own. We won’t tell anyone about this village.”
Samuel shook his head, frowning. “They would not run such a risk. Surely you can see that. Consider the great lengths they have taken to remain concealed.”
Apparently they would have to escape without the Papuans’ knowledge. This seemed impossible, but again Quentin began running assorted scenarios through his mind.
The questions continued. The Papuans wanted to know if they themselves would now grow old. They wanted to know if more spirits would come. And they wanted to know if Quentin was an ancestor of Peter.
Samuel explained. “Peter was a poor fellow who ventured up the river perhaps half a century ago. He was a brave man, whom the indigenes spared for a short time before ultimately deciding his fate.” Samuel shifted uneasily.
“I thought you said we were the first ones allowed to come to this village besides you.”
“I was reluctant to discuss Peter. His was an unfortunate circumstance.”
“What happened to him?”
The Papuans addressed Samuel before he could answer. Samuel frowned, and as they talked, he became increasingly distressed. Were they debating killing them? Quentin eyed the opening in the floor and considered making a run for it. But he would never get Lindsey and the kids safely down from the tree house and out of the village if the Papuans truly meant them harm. He was at their mercy.
As they talked, Quentin focused on an object hanging from the white-feathered man’s neck. It was familiar. It was a carved animal, similar to the one he had found the day of the crash. Though he was uncertain of what effect the action might have, he pulled the figurine from his pocket and held it out to them. “I found this. I think it might be yours.”
The Papuan men stared at the figurine and made no move to accept it.
Samuel’s voice grew tighter than before. “Quentin, I do not know how you obtained that, but it will not—”
“Nu lefaf! Yu be-khomilo-n-din-da. Ya nokhu wola-maman-é. Nokhu solditai imoné khomilo.” The white-feathered man spoke with such force that Samuel became quiet.27
Samuel turned to Quentin. “This council is concluded. We must now go.”
Bobby tried, but he could pull no more detail from his memory of the other airplane. It had happened so fast. And he seemed to have fainted or blacked out at the time. Was the other plane the cause of their crash? Bobby was pretty sure a mid-air collision would do more than just cause an engine to leak and then catch fire. It didn’t make sense. He rose to his feet to return to the tree house before Mrs. Darnell blew a circuit. There was movement in a nearby patch of saplings. Bobby saw two brown eyes gazing at him from the brush.
“Mbaiso! Where’ve you been, boy?” He held out his hand.
The tree kangaroo stayed put. Then out of the brush came a second tree kangaroo, which Bobby recognized as the true Mbaiso. “Whoa, you brought a friend?”
Mbaiso hopped to his hand and sniffed it. Bobby tried petting his head like he would a dog, but Mbaiso ducked to the side. Suddenly there was a third tree kangaroo. The two newcomers sat a few feet away, watching him. Bobby settled onto the ground and crossed his legs, face to face with Mbaiso. “I know you can talk. Can your friends talk too?”
Mbaiso scratched an ear with his hind leg.
“Parrots can talk, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. But you do, don’t you? If I could just understand, maybe you’d tell me what the hell’s going on here.”
Mbaiso settled back on his haunches. His two companions moved a little closer.
“Can you teach me?” Bobby moved his hands in a nonsense attempt at sign language.
Mbaiso cocked his head, watching Bobby’s hands. And then he began moving his front paws. The movements were controlled and definite.
“How’d you learn to do that?” Bobby tried repeating Mbaiso’s signs. Because of the shape of the creature’s hands, there were no finger movements. The memory of the sequence ran through his mind on demand, and he simply copied it. It was easy.
They continued this way—Mbaiso showing, Bobby repeating. The new kangaroos moved closer until they sat just behind Mbaiso.
Bobby finally dropped his hands. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Mbaiso tried again, but Bobby just shrugged. Mbaiso’s forepaws began digging into the fur on his belly, as if scratching an itch. He scratched deeper. Bobby stared at the digging claws as they pushed their way through the skin. One paw disappeared. Bobby looked into Mbaiso’s eyes, but the creature seemed unconcerned. Finally the paw appeared again, holding a wet lump of pink innards.
Bobby’s voice was a whisper. “What did you do?”
Mbaiso held the lump
of flesh out, and it quickly changed from pink to tan. Mbaiso held the stuff toward Bobby’s face.
“What? What do you want me to…” But Bobby knew, and Mbaiso confirmed it by leaning forward and touching the lump of flesh to Bobby’s mouth.
Not a good idea, Bobby told himself. But before he could talk himself out of it, he pinched it up from Mbaiso’s paw and dropped it into his mouth. He chewed it a few times. It had the texture of gritty mud, with a bitter and metallic taste. Not what he expected from animal flesh. So he closed his eyes and swallowed.
“Okay, now what?”
Quentin descended the rope ladder, put on his shoes, and waited for Samuel.
“Your presence here has disturbed my indigene hosts more than I dared to believe,” Samuel said when he reached the forest floor. “Tell me, Quentin, how is it you have come to possess an mbolop talisman?”
“I found it in the forest, in a bowerbird’s nest. The day our plane went down.”
“Your choice of occasion to produce this find is unfortunate. I wish that you would have consulted with me beforehand.”
“I thought they might want it. So what do we do now?”
“It is not you and your party that concerns me so much now.” Samuel seemed to struggle for the right words. “You must understand that these indigenes, as with other lower civilizations, have deeply-held beliefs that, although unrefined to us, guide them in their lives.”
If Samuel was lying about his age, he was going to great and offensive lengths to be convincing. “That would be considered an old-fashioned attitude in my world,” Quentin said.
Samuel raised his brows. “Would it?”
“We’ve come to realize that the people of unrefined cultures are just as intelligent as anyone else—more intelligent when it comes to some things.”
Samuel seemed to contemplate this. Then he waved his hand dismissively. “Regardless of their inherent capabilities, uncivilized peoples subscribe to doctrines based upon their beliefs. This is true throughout the world. But here—here among the indigenes to which we are both now bound—there is a force at work. It is a force I can scarcely hope to understand after many years of study. Savage tribes of the world believe supernatural forces are at work in their daily living. Commonly these notions are simple and unwarranted. Our Papuan hosts, in contrast, believe in the supernatural because here it is real. I assure you of this. Whether the force is of nature, or from beyond the natural world, it is one of great magnitude. And so the indigenes’ beliefs should not be ignored. Matiinuo, the elder with whom we have just met, has told me with the firmest conviction that he believes the world is coming finally to an end. Never before have I witnessed such passion in his words.”
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