Cave Diver

by Jake Avila

  It was weak and fluttering, his breathing shallow. Examining the wound, Mia gasped. Impossibly, in just half an hour, a filament of angry red veins had sprung up to cover his entire chest.

  It must be a poison, she decided, annoyed that Singkepe’s superstitiousness was getting to her. It has to be.

  At the mission, they sometimes encountered the consequences of such misguided belief – innocent women scarred for life or horrifically murdered. In a culture where someone must be blamed for every misfortune, those without support networks were most vulnerable. Resident sadists used heated irons inserted into orifices, or burned people alive in front of a baying mob, to atone for perceived evils. Mia was aware the PNG government had only recently repealed its barbaric Sorcery Act. The legislation had sanctioned black magic as a plausible motive for self-defence, which meant it was essentially a get-out-of-jail-free card for murder.

  Still shaking her head, Mia prepared a fresh dressing even though it was futile; poor Frank Douglas was going to die.

  And yet Frank Douglas did not die, and after a night, and then another day of heat and discomfort, with the ship travelling further and further from help, the tracery of red lines tripled in area, spreading beyond his bandages, down his torso and up his neck. If Douglas was aware of what was happening, it was impossible to tell. Mia kept expecting to find him dead, whenever she woke from her broken sleeps. He was not getting sufficient liquids, but without a drip, it was only possible to trickle water carefully into his mouth. Meanwhile, there was no sign of Singkepe, and she sensed he was avoiding her, sending the scary tall guard in for supplies instead.

  Early on the second day after the attack, Sura appeared with Boerman. She wore a stylish shoulder holster containing a small automatic pistol. Combined with the green jumpsuit, it made her look creepily fashionable – terrorist chic. Mia wondered if that was what indeed she was.

  Sura peered down at Douglas and crinkled her nose.

  ‘How disgusting.’ She turned to Boerman. ‘You know, I’ve just realised what he reminds me of. We did a story on a grotesque, noseless primate on the Mekong River in Myanmar, which has a passing resemblance to Elvis.’ Sura indicated Douglas’s deformed nose. ‘Lacking a protective cover for its nostrils, the species frequently catches cold, and has to keep its head down during the constant rain.’

  Boerman seemed to find this hilarious, and laughed loudly.

  ‘Are you here to make jokes about a dying man, or do you have something useful to say?’

  Sitting herself down on the opposite table, Sura gripped the edge and idly swung her legs back and forth.

  ‘You worked with Doctor Paul Ford at the Ford Mission for three years, yes?’

  Mia hadn’t told anyone that specifically, which meant they’d been doing some digging.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you’re going back. Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand the question.’

  Sura smiled faintly. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Doctor Carter. Easy to see why the old man was keen to have you around. I wonder, though, what could he possibly have offered you to live in such a backwater?’

  Mia was confused, both by the question, and by the fact Sura was talking in the past tense.

  ‘Has something happened to Paul?’

  ‘Answer the question.’ Boerman came closer.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Mia snapped without thinking.

  Boerman’s cheeks flushed red as he showed her the back of his hand. Then Sura clicked her fingers at him, and he stepped back like an obedient dog.

  Sura was staring in a way that made Mia feel cold, despite the stifling heat.

  ‘Your situation is tenuous, Doctor Carter. While this may be unfamiliar to you, I strongly advise you to use your common sense and answer my questions.’

  Mia barely heard her. ‘Has something happened to Paul?’

  Sura sighed and nodded at Boerman, who stepped up, engulfed Mia’s right hand in a massive fist, and squeezed. The extreme pressure made her cry out. With his free hand he gave her a lazy slap across the face.

  ‘Think about what it would be like to never operate again, Doctor Carter.’ Twin bursts of scarlet had bloomed in Sura’s cheeks, and Mia knew she was getting off on her pain. ‘Now answer my question. Why are you returning to the Ford Mission?’

  ‘To work . . . I want to help the people.’ Mia was gasping with the pain. Boerman could crush the bones of her hand without even trying.

  ‘The people?’ Sura laughed mirthlessly. ‘Oh, spare us another deluded Western bleeding heart. With every arms sale, your culture ruthlessly propagates its ideology, yet you have the gall to smugly pass judgement on my country’s activities within its own territory.’

  When Mia said nothing, Sura looked disappointed at her lack of rebuttal.

  ‘Did Paul Ford ever give you any gifts? Cash, jewellery – gold, perhaps? I’m sure you’re aware he was an extremely wealthy man.’

  ‘You think this is about . . . money?’ Mia grunted through the pain. ‘Remote medicine is a vocation. Paul’s only extravagance is good Scotch.’

  ‘You mean, was,’ Boerman corrected her.

  The smug certainty in his eyes was like a knife to her heart as she understood they were behind the mission going silent. That it was the very reason they were here.

  At her stunned reaction, Sura stood up.

  ‘Let her go. She knows nothing.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Mia wasn’t just thinking of Paul – it was the loving staff and their wide family of patients. ‘Damn it, answer me, you evil fucking bitch.’

  Sura stared at her for a long moment before answering.

  ‘You know, Doctor Carter, I think seeing the look on your face when you find out the truth will be well worth the boredom of keeping your sanctimonious skin alive. Get your things packed up. We’re dropping you and Elvis ashore.’

  Chapter 25

  Thrown, battered and bruised, into his old cabin, Rob Nash seethed. His heart wanted to keep swinging, bring on round two, but his head knew his body wasn’t up to it. Not with two armed soldiers outside, who were highly agitated and probably as scared as he was.

  Nash lay down on the lower bunk and stared unblinking at the grey steel bulkhead, which quivered as the throbbing engines drove the ship. He was frightened for Mia and Frank. And he wasn’t buying the crap about eventual deportation. They were heading upriver, into the heart of fucking darkness, and the odds of coming back were diminishing with every nautical mile.

  Two awful days passed, with no outside contact except for the delivery of bottled water, snacks and noodle cups, and the removal of a stinking toilet bucket. The stony-faced PNGDF guard refused to speak, and Nash had no idea if Frank was still alive, or what had happened to Mia.

  The memory of how good her body had felt against his kept infiltrating his mind, setting up a churning turmoil of desire and guilt over Natalie. The familiar ache spread through his chest as he tried to conjure her being with his mind, but Nat was gone, and she was never coming back. Nash hung his head. It had only been a year . . . how could he be developing feelings for someone else?

  With ample time to brood, his thoughts turned homewards. By now Jacquie would be wondering why he hadn’t managed to get in touch. He could almost see her lower lip flapping up and down as she blew her fringe away in exasperation, then the forgiving shrug of her shoulders, because that was how it was with a brother who always turned up in his own sweet time. His parents would patiently accept this as the logical explanation while privately worrying themselves sick all the same.

  Nash made himself a promise. If he ever got out of this, he would never put them through this shit again.

  When at last the Albany’s forward momentum ceased, Nash knew they must be close to the border. He listened to the loud rattling of chains as the anchors were deployed. A minute later, they were cranked up again. He realised the Albany was dragging her anchors in the current,
and Kaboro needed several attempts to get them to bite.

  Kaboro. Every time Nash thought of the man, he felt gutted. He had seen the good in him. It had to still be in there.

  He heard the helicopter take off, then, soon after, it returned. A short time later heavy footsteps approached, the door was flung open, and Boerman filled the cabin with pent-up menace. Pointing a large automatic pistol at Nash’s stomach, the Afrikaner’s cold blue eyes assessed the likely threat. Nash was glad the big man’s face bore the marks of their confrontation, because his larynx felt as if it would never function the same way again.

  ‘Turn around, put your hands out.’

  A cable tie was slid over his wrists and Boerman reefed it up tight.

  ‘Where are Mia and Frank?’

  Boerman pushed him roughly towards the door.

  ‘Thought you wanted to dive the Hoosenbeck, Nash? About time you did some bleddy work for a change.’

  Mia steadied Douglas as the Jet Ranger banked steeply over the gaggle of grass-thatched huts. Hufi was a place she’d visited a few times, a quiet hamlet, last stop on the river before the Indonesian border. Her heart went out to the terrified villagers below. Regular victims of border raids by poachers and Kopassus, they were taking no chances with the arrival of the Jet Ranger, and were weaving trails in a dense field of taro as they fled. But why had Sura dropped them here? Beyond being an inconvenience, Mia could only guess they were leverage.

  Hartono carelessly set down too close to the huts, destroying several thatched roofs in the process. In the front passenger seat, Singkepe shot him a dark look. Opening the door, he helped Mia unload Douglas on the rough stretcher, followed by several boxes of supplies and the medical kit.

  Once Hartono had departed, an unnatural quiet settled over the abandoned village. The chickens and pigs had also fled, and there were no birds in the trees. Mia cleaned the sweat from her sunglasses. Although early morning, there was a static feeling in the sticky air signalling the imminent arrival of the wet season.

  ‘They’re watching us.’ Singkepe was scanning the line of trees through his binoculars.

  ‘Can you blame them?’

  Across forested hills, the mission lay no more than two days’ march west, and Mia stared longingly across the ridgelines. Paul might be dead, but there was still a network of villagers up there who might be able to help. She glanced at Singkepe.

  ‘You know dumping us here is the same as putting a bullet through Frank’s head? What he needs is a hospital. I know of one not too far away. Couldn’t we take him there? I would pay you well.’

  Singkepe would not meet her eye. ‘I think bush medicine his best chance now.’

  They heard the chopper lift off from the Albany, invisible below the line of trees 600 metres away. When it turned upriver, Mia guessed it was headed for the Hoosenbeck. She wondered if Rob was on board, and whether she would ever see him again.

  After a time, they heard voices, and a small group of villagers straggled in, mostly women in old Western clothes, some old men, and a string of naked children. Singkepe called over an old man with a knobbly stick, who flashed yellow tusks in a nervous smile.

  ‘Westap algeta man go?’ Where are all your men?

  ‘Sampela go wok awe, sompela pinis.’ He nodded mournfully at the forest. ‘Indo nogut.’

  Between war, poverty and crime, Hufi was a dying hamlet. Singkepe gave the old man some cigarettes and asked if there was a witch doctor in the village.

  The old man nodded excitedly. ‘Ya, ya! Strongpele majik-dokta klostu hia.’

  Mia knew ‘close to here’ could mean anything from the next hut to fifty kilometres away.

  ‘Longwe wokabaut?’ she asked.

  ‘No tasol,’ the old man said, pointing west. ‘Sikismail, sikismail!’

  He called over the oldest child, a skinny barefoot boy of about ten, clad in a pair of old football shorts. Receiving his instructions, the boy looked nervous. Ten kilometres through the jungle to fetch a terrifying sorcerer was a daunting proposition. Mia reached into her pocket, found half a roll of mints and handed them over. The boy beamed at her and, without another word, shot off with a trail of smaller children clamouring for a share.

  She checked Douglas. Only the faintest movement could be seen in the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘We need to get him under cover,’ she told Singkepe.

  The old man led them to the haus tamberan, an ancestral worship house. The structure was a tetrahedron, looking something like a sail from the Sydney Opera House. The facade was dilapidated, the thatch in disarray. A faded motif of pointed ellipses edged with triangles, and a worn row of carved ancestral clan spirits, were further testament that the hamlet had fallen on hard times.

  ‘No misis kam in hia,’ the old man apologised at the doorway. No woman allowed.

  Mia had always found it intriguing that a culture built on the primacy of male gender constructed its places of worship in the shape of a vulva. The symbolism was ideological. As a male-gendered space, women were forbidden to cross the threshold. It was a demonstration of power – of male possession of the womb, with ritualised combat against the evil spirits which existed in menstrual blood, so feared that women were banished during menstruation, for fear of contamination.

  Singkepe brandished a few kina and the old man reluctantly let Mia enter. Inside, the atmosphere was dry and cool, and there was an ingrained odour of smoke from decades of ritual. They laid Douglas down on the beaten clay floor. It seemed a fitting space to meet your maker. The soaring ceiling functioned architecturally, like any place of worship – designed to cow the visitor and induce a feeling of reverence. It was made of a complex latticework of hundreds of flexible bamboo poles lashed together, covered in overlapping dense layers of sago spathe. Without maintenance, chinks of sunlight were breaking through, where rats or birds had stolen material for their nests.

  Frank Douglas was now on the very edge of death. The poison had colonised his entire torso and neck, and advance parties were travelling down his extremities in thin red lines. There was nothing Mia could do beyond sponge him down.

  Half an hour later, a burst of excited shouting heralded the return of the boy. Drenched in sweat, he announced the shaman’s arrival. A ripple of trepidation swept through the village. Many of the older women picked up children and disappeared into their huts.

  Covered in white and yellow ochre, the witch doctor entered the haus tamberan with suspicious eyes. His aggressive demeanour was augmented by an elaborate headdress of razor-sharp boar tusks and a huge cassowary claw speared through his septum. Around his neck were rows of cowrie shells, bird of paradise feathers, and strange nondescript tokens which looked like dried animal parts. He wore a traditional skirt of grass leaves, and carried a woven bilum or sacred bag, swollen with magic potions and herbs.

  Noting his vicious-looking battle scars and missing finger, Mia realised a man of his age and experience might well know the chief of the local tribe near the mission.

  The shaman came up to them and stared into their eyes. Singkepe flinched, while Mia averted her eyes respectfully. He gave her a disparaging sniff.

  ‘Woman in haus tamberan . . . nogut.’

  ‘We will go,’ agreed Singkepe at once.

  ‘Please, wait a minute.’

  Haltingly, in the local dialect, Mia asked the witch doctor if he knew Kinsame. His dark eyes widened in surprise as she explained her connection, and that it was important that the soldier not know what she was saying, because she needed rescue.

  The witch doctor glanced sidelong at Singkepe before nodding.

  ‘Orait, you stap. Nau lets fiksim dispela.’

  Together they crouched beside Douglas and Mia removed the bandage.

  On seeing the wound, the witch doctor exhaled sharply.

  ‘Supsup bilong banara?’

  Mia nodded and took the cassowary arrowhead from her top pocket.

  ‘Dispela.’

  Frowning, he op
ened his bilum, and withdrew a large semi-dried plant leaf which he used to carefully pick up the claw. She asked why the one residing in his nose wasn’t dangerous, too.

  ‘Hia muruk gutpela.’

  He was telling her that, in this region, the cassowary was not considered evil.

  Taking a sliver of obsidian, the witch doctor proceeded to cut hair from Douglas’s head, chest and pubic zone. Rolling it up in a small ball, he placed it on top of the folded leaf. After slicing a neat cut on his forearm, he drizzled on blood. Next, he placed a handful of dried herbs on top.

  ‘Wokim faia.’

  Singkepe threw across his lighter.

  The flames flared with a crackle, giving off a foul odour of burning hair, cassowary skin and herbaceous oils. When they went out, the witch doctor rubbed the charred claw vigorously between his filthy hands, spitting repeatedly to work up a gluey paste. Mia had an inkling of what he was going to do with it, and every molecule of her Western medical training cringed.

  The witch doctor began chanting a rhythmic drone, which set up a vibration between Mia’s eyes. Poor Singkepe put his hands over his ears. Strangest of all was the effect on Douglas. For the first time in hours, he opened his eyes and seemed aware of his surroundings. Mia knew that imminent death could presage a brief return to consciousness. It was often the only chance families of the terminally ill got to say goodbye. She wished Rob were there.

  Placing the ball of black putty on Douglas’s open wound, the witch doctor forcefully massaged it inside the cavity. Mia felt sick. Yet Douglas showed no sign of pain. If anything, he seemed eager for it.

  ‘Mi wok pinis.’

  Standing up, the witch doctor wiped his filthy hands on his grass skirt. He stared at them expectantly. Mia quickly gave him the first thing to hand – a digital thermometer from her top pocket – and he winked.

  ‘Arrgghh!’

  At their feet, Douglas stiffened into a full body spasm as he bellowed a blood-curdling scream. Mia stared in horrified disbelief. The wound was pulsing before her eyes, the dilated veins writhing like sago grubs thrown on the coals for dinner. It was impossible, like a Hollywood special effect. She went to assist, but the witch doctor put his gnarled hand out and pulled her back.