“Bear?” Kari said, poking his head above deck.
“Ready for anything,” Kaz explained. I was glad we had some jargon of our own to throw back at him.
“Ah, yes,” Kari said. “You must always be ready in the Solomons. Even though there has not been much fighting on Malatia, the Japanese have landed there a number of times. They had an observation post at the north end of the island, working much as we do to warn of attacks.”
“What happened to it?” Kaz asked.
“Marines raided it,” Kari said. “There were about thirty Japs. Most were killed or captured. A few escaped into the bush but the Malaitamen caught up with them.” He drew a finger across his throat.
“They still land troops and patrol the island looking for Coastwatchers and radioing back intelligence,” Deanna said. “But they don’t stay long. They get no help from the natives and soon they’re out of food and ready to leave Malaita behind.”
“Do we know if there are any Japs there now?” I asked.
“You never know, mate,” Porter said from the bridge. “Always assume the enemy is right around the bend.”
The wind and waves picked up, and Kaz went below to the small cabin to be miserable. I stayed topside, staring at the horizon the way my dad had taught me, to minimize the pitching sensation. Soon we drew close to Malaita, the shore now visible and the water calmer. I clambered up to the bridge to get a better view.
“Is that where we’re headed?” I asked, as a cluster of huts at the water’s edge came into view.
“Wouldn’t go in there,” Porter said. “That’s Laulasi. Back when you Yanks landed at Guadalcanal, seven of your planes bombed Laulasi, thinking it was the Jap observation post up at Afufu. Killed twenty-eight people, mostly kids. So we don’t go to Laulasi much, and never with a Yank in tow.”
I watched the village as we motored by, wondering what it must have been like for people who lived such a primitive life to watch bombs dropped on their children. Not that dropping bombs was all that civilized to begin with.
Fifteen minutes later, Porter eased the boat toward a small bay, steering between coral reefs and letting the waves usher the boat into calm waters. Ahead, a river emptied into the bay, and Porter guided the craft to the cover of sheltering palms.
“That’s that,” he said. “Japs shouldn’t spot us from the air, at least.”
We debarked, Kaz wasting no time getting onto dry land. Vouza led the way into the bush, with Porter at the rear. We stayed on a trail along the riverbank for about a half mile, then went into the bush. The hot air was thick with humidity and the sunlight faded as we pressed on under the dense canopy and through the thick undergrowth. All around us vines wound around tree trunks and hung from branches, snaking up from black muck like parasites, choking the trees. There was nothing of the pleasant sea breeze that wafted over Tulagi here. The cloying odor of rotting leaves and wood rising from the mud assaulted our nostrils, and I was already soaked in sweat.
“Welcome to Malaita,” Vouza said, glancing back at us. He was barefoot, wearing only a lap-lap, and he looked totally at ease.
“Can you tell us where we are going, Jacob?” Kaz said, leaning on the cane as I gasped for breath.
“Kwaiafa,” Vouza said. “Up the mountain.”
“There isn’t a road?” I asked.
“Yes, there is road,” Vouza said. “But long way around. We take shortcut. You need rest?”
“I don’t,” Deanna said, taking a swig from her canteen.
“Not me,” I chimed in, wishing Deanna had wanted to take ten. We soldiered on.
“Where are you stationed?” I asked John Kari as we crossed a small river at the base of a thirty-foot waterfall. We stopped to scoop up the clear water and rinse our faces. The open air was refreshing after the jungle gloom, and even Jacob paused to stare off into the clouds. Or maybe he was on watch for Jap aircraft.
“San Jorge Island,” Kari said. “Off the coast of Santa Isabel, next island up the chain. Perfect for coastwatching; a nice mountain peak with a view of the Slot and plenty of bush to hide in.”
“Friendly natives,” Porter chimed in. “To us at least. Not like Malaita, not one bit.”
“Because of the bombing, you mean?” Kaz asked, soaking his cap in the cool water.
“No,” Vouza said, his eyes still on the sky. “Some Malaitamen still cannibal. High up on mountain.” With that, he climbed the riverbank and vanished into the lush green.
“Isn’t that where we’re going?” I asked as the group hurried to follow him. No one answered, and I ran to catch up.
“The villages along the coast have all become Christian,” Deanna explained as we came out of the thick jungle and assembled on a narrow footpath. “But the farther up the mountain, the more they cling to the old ways. Ancestor worship and occasional cannibalism, from what I understand.”
“It’s not occasional if you’re the one in the pot,” I said.
Vouza signaled for us to wait, and went ahead to scout.
“They’ll probably only roast your liver,” Kari said. “So don’t worry about being boiled alive.”
“Very funny,” I said.
“No, it’s true,” Kari said. “The liver, I mean. Malaita cannibalism is ceremonial, to show disdain for a defeated enemy. The point is not the actual eating of flesh, but taking an extreme form of vengeance. At least that’s what I have read on the subject.”
“Let us hope we can continue to rely on secondary sources,” Kaz said.
Vouza reappeared and motioned for us to get a move on. I thought I caught a glance of movement in the thick greenery, but then it was gone. I picked up my pace, forgetting about the rivers of sweat running down my back.
Fifteen minutes later, we came to a small gorge with a sluggish stream at the bottom. Three logs had been felled to form a crude bridge. On the other side, a half dozen or so native buildings stood in a half circle facing the stream. They were on stilts and thatched with palm fronds. Women and children gathered to watch our arrival.
Vouza led the way across the bridge. As I glanced back to make sure we were all there, six native men quietly stepped out of the bush. Not a single leaf or branch moved as they took to the trail and followed across the bridge, rifles slung on their shoulders.
The villagers gathered around Vouza and the six men flanked us, holding their rifles at the ready. Four British Lee-Enfields and two Japanese Arisaka models.
“What’s going on, Jacob?” I said, not certain if this was our escort or our guards.
“Japs,” he said evenly. “But far away. No wari.”
Deanna was the center of attention, the children swarming her and chattering in Pijin. Kari and Porter stayed with her as she set up shop on the porch of the largest house, where the armed men stood watch.
An older woman approached Vouza with leaves and flowers held in a thick, large leaf, rolled and tied tight. The fragrance rose up from her hands as Vouza took the greenery and spoke to her. It gave off a sweet, pleasant odor, like walking through a garden in bloom. They spoke in low voices while the woman patted Vouza’s hand, tears in her eyes. She walked away, ignoring us.
“Daniel’s mada,” he said, then held the bouquet to his nose and inhaled. “She wrap puchupuchu in taro leaf. Now, I take you to Daniel.” It wasn’t far, a few hundred yards from the village, but there was no trail or sign that others had come this way.
The smell hit us before we saw it.
Flies swarmed and buzzed as we approached a cairn of rocks. I swatted at the darting insects as I tried to make out what was protruding from the rock pile, breathing in quick, shallow gasps.
It was a head. Daniel’s head.
His eyes and lips were gone, all the soft flesh eaten or rotted away in the fetid jungle heat. The outline of his skull was clearly visible, hidden only by patches of dried skin. Kaz and I had seen death before, but this was something new. The autopsies I’d attended in Boston were nothing compared to what came next.