James Benn - The White Ghost

“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.

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.