Vouza grabbed the head and twisted. A cracking sound marked the severing of the neck from the spinal column. Kaz turned away. I wanted to, but the scene was so unreal I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“This is ravuravauni,” Vouza said, standing over the cairn which presumably enclosed Daniel’s body. He waved his package of leaves at the flies zooming around the head.
“The grave?” I asked.
“No, no grave. Only hed is important. Only hed matters,” he said, tapping his own skull. He unrolled the leaves and flowers and began to stuff them into the mouth, eye sockets, and nasal passages. “Good puchupuchu,” he added, rubbing the remaining leaves into his hands. “Now Daniel ready.”
“For what?” Kaz asked, steadying himself on Jack’s cane as he stepped closer.
“Clean,” Vouza said. “We go down to the beach. Then you lukim Daniel’s hed. He sit in the sun for few days, then go rest with ancestors.” He carefully wrapped the head in the giant taro leaves and tied it off with vine. Holding it under one arm, he took his rifle in the other and started off. We trotted along after him, glad the puchupuchu had done its job.
“There,” Vouza said as we neared the village. Farther up the hill were a group of small wooden structures. They were steep-roofed and decorated with necklaces and other garlands. Inside, protected from the elements, were stacks of skulls. “Ancestors.”
“Fascinating,” Kaz said as we hurried to keep pace with Vouza. “This reminds me of Hallstatt, an Alpine village in Austria.”
“Austria is probably the last place this island reminds me of,” I said.
“They share a similarity,” Kaz said. “Lack of proper ground for burials. Hallstatt is perched between a steep mountain and a deep lake. People can be buried in the church graveyard for only a year. Then they are disinterred and their bones deposited in the church crypt. The skulls are prominently displayed. I happened upon a disinterment procession when I was touring the country. Quite festive, actually.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We haven’t seen much cleared land. Those giant roots and vines would make hard going for a gravedigger.”
“Yes,” Kaz said, warming to his theory. “And the climate is perfect for rapid decomposition. The combination of salt water and sand makes for a viable cleaning agent. We should be able to make out Daniel’s wound quite clearly.”
The path to the beach took us down the other side of the mountain, to the eastern shore of the narrow island. Waves broke over a coral reef, sending sprays of saltwater into the air. Before us stood open ocean, the great South Pacific. The view was marred by nothing more than a few white, fluffy clouds and the horizon looked a million miles away. The wind off the water was refreshingly cool after the trek from the village, and Kaz and I plunked ourselves down as Vouza unwrapped the head of Daniel Tamana.
The odor of death wafted up on the breeze as he peeled away the taro leaves. He wordlessly removed the puchupuchu and carried the head into the water, giving it a thorough soaking. Then he rubbed the fine white sand all over it, seemingly oblivious to the decayed skin and flesh sloughing off. More water, more sand, more rubbing, followed by careful, delicate scraping with his knife. I wondered what had happened to the brain matter, but we remained silent, aware that this was a funeral ritual as sacred as any church service.
“Daniel is ready,” Vouza said, setting the skull on a taro leaf and placing it before us. The surface of the bone was clean, the smell of decay nearly gone. Vouza turned and walked into the water, bathing himself, rubbing gobs of wet sand over his hands.
“Here,” Kaz said in a whisper that seemed appropriate to the moment. He placed a finger in a depression on the rear of Daniel’s skull, behind the ear. “His parietal bone was evidently struck.”
I took Jack’s cane and held the round knob at the top against the indentation. It was a perfect fit. A killing blow.
“Cane blong Jack?” Vouza said, standing over us with his rifle in hand.
“Cane blong Jack,” Kaz said. “But it might not be the cane that killed Daniel, or someone other than Jack could have used it. It might have been given to Jack to frame him for the murder.”
“Maybe,” Vouza said. “Maybe not.” He lifted Daniel’s skull from the ground and placed it in the cleft of a rock overlooking the beach. “Morning sun work on Daniel. Three, four days, he be ready to join ancestors. Nice and clean, white like teeth. Come, we leave him alone now.”
What took a half hour going down took three times as long going up. Finally we came to the village, where Jacob Vouza received another warm welcome. He seemed much loved by his people, or perhaps it was because of the ceremony he’d conducted. Or both. Deanna was finishing up with her last patient, a child with a laceration on his leg. Deanna sprinkled sulfa powder on the wound, singing to the child as she wrapped a bandage around the thin limb.
Porter and one of the natives were engaged in a rapid-fire Pijin conversation. He was pretty good at it. The native indicated the general direction of our boat, and I was able to make out “Japan fella” but nothing else.
“A Jap pilot was shot down over the Slot,” Porter told us. “He parachuted and landed close to shore near our boat.”
“What about the Jap patrol?” Vouza asked.
“They’ve been spotted on the coast road from Malu’u,” Porter answered. “They must have seen it, too.”
“Good,” Vouza said. “We get pilot and kill many fella Jap, too.”
“We should get a move on,” Porter said. “It’ll be dark in a few hours.”
Vouza nodded, accepting a drink of water from a gourd given him by the old woman we’d seen earlier. Four of the native men trotted off across the bridge and melted into the bush.
“Are you sure we can handle that?” I asked. “We’re not exactly a combat patrol.”
“Most assuredly,” Kari said with a grin, the excitement causing his voice to rise. “There is a ten-thousand-dollar bounty for every live pilot we bring in.”
“Even split three ways, it’s damn good money,” Porter said. “Sorry, mate, only goes for Coastwatchers.”
“Don’t let me stand in the way of cash money,” I said, with more bravado than conviction.
Vouza said his goodbyes to the villagers and made for the bridge. We followed to the cries and laughter of children saying goodbye to Deanna, trailing us as we crossed the ravine.
“You’re popular everywhere you go,” I said.
“Who doesn’t like Amelia Earhart?” she answered.
Our exchange drew a muted hush from Vouza. Deanna unslung her carbine, and suddenly the jungle seemed even more threatening than ever.
We stayed on the path this time, wending our way down switchbacks until mountain steepness gave way to rolling hills. I saw one of the natives come out from the bush ahead and talk with Vouza before vanishing again. We had an escort. Which meant there was something close we needed protection from.
I unsnapped my holster.
Twenty minutes later we came to the river, probably the same one we’d crossed farther upstream when we went cross-country. Vouza motioned for us to wait, and we moved into the underbrush along the riverbank. I drew my automatic, feeling the sweat in the palm of my hands. I looked at Vouza, who put a finger to his lips. He didn’t need to tell me twice.
I caught a glimpse of movement across the river. I raised my pistol. Vouza shook his head no, lowering the barrel with his hand. I finally made out the figure more clearly. One of the men from the village, followed by the three others. The villager silently pointed downstream, to where a series of large, flat stones made for an easy crossing. Vouza nodded, and led us to the spot. But we didn’t cross.
The natives moved along the riverbank, jumping from stone to stone, not making a sound. Before coming opposite to our position, they climbed the riverbank in swift, fluid movements, their brown skin streaked with shadows as they filtered into the dark green jungle, gone before I could blink the sweat from my eyes. Then I understood.