Dash in the Blue Pacific (6 page)

There was nothing in the sky but clouds and the
airplane cabin’s fading image. An old lady hunched over, hands
below the hem of her flowered dress, appalled by what he was doing.
He couldn’t stop himself any more than she could have stopped
praying. They’d faced death via two different paths. He should be
grateful his parts were still attached, and that he’d washed up in
a paradise inhabited by cranky natives instead of on the shores of
hell.

Where was the lady? Probably with Cindy at the
bottom of the ocean.

A girl was sitting in a patch of black sand
drawing with a twig when Dash hauled himself out of the water,
exhausted from fighting the slight current. Had she been there
during his examination? No cuts or scars, and it remained the same
pink color. But the entire package was devoid of feeling, tip to
testicles. He’d used his middle finger to flick the end, but felt
nothing. He’d shaken and tugged, then stopped to catch his breath
and fend off panic. He slapped his member against the water,
threatened and then pleaded for its forgiveness.

The girl’s large brown eyes found him, and he
was embarrassed about his drooping underwear and what she must have
witnessed.

“
Food’s not ready.” She tossed the
stick and wiped away her artwork. “I came early. Men are drinking
clap-clap and are all piss and wind.”

“
My name is Dash. The women said
you’d come.”

“
I’m Tiki. You looking for your
airplane?”

“
I don’t know what I’m looking for,
but it’s beautiful here. This is an island?”

The girl nodded.

“
I’m sorry the airplane killed your
fish. I was only a passenger.”

“
Not your fault. Manu says the
Volcano was angry. She threw a stone and made your airplane fall.
There’s another.” She pointed past him, and he turned to look up at
shiny hints of distant metal, long contrails beginning to twist
apart at their far ends.

He made old man sounds when he dropped onto a
mound of hardened lava, knees popping. “Did anyone else
survive?”

She shook her head. “You’re the only one. Fish
ate what the Sea God didn’t want.”

“
The volcano erupted?”

“
Just one stone.” She used her thumb
to indicate the barren mountain rising from the center of the
island, a soaring brown monolith producing a ribbon of white
smoke.

“
I’ve only seen volcanoes on
television.”

She leaned toward him to whisper, “She has a
bad temper.”

“
It’s incredible,” he whispered
back. “I guess the smoke means it really is active. That it’s
alive.”

She tilted her head at him. “How else would she
throw stones?”

“
Right,” he said, reasonably sure
the engines had been starved of fuel, or died from a catastrophic
failure of a bad wiring job. Or terrorists. “I guess that makes
sense.”

“
People who hunted for your airplane
pieces said we should move far away. They said the Volcano will
kill our village soon. Manu told them people can’t hide from a god.
God want to eat you, then you will get eaten no matter what island
you go to. Manu said those people had nice clothes and fancy boat,
but were dumb as shitter bugs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ever see
what a shitter bug does?”

He shook his head. “Has it been smoking like
that for a long time?”

Tiki shrugged, got to her feet. A pretty
child—maybe ten years old—with wide eyes and smooth skin, she had a
mass of thick hair halfway down her back, brushed to a deep shine.
She wore the same style underpants as everyone else.

She leaned in close again and lowered her
voice. “She smokes when she’s angry, which is most of the time. Her
temper is worse than boy warriors who drink too much clap-clap.
Warriors get angry because they have nobody to fight. Maybe it’s
the same thing for the Volcano God.”

“
The volcano wants to
fight?”

“
She is surrounded by water, has no
enemies. Eating people is the only thing left to make her
happy.”

The narrow trail of smoke was an unbroken line
connecting the mountain to the horizon. Would it bring rescue? How
far did it hold together for people to see? If it really came from
the mouth of a god, maybe it traveled all the way to where they’d
lifted off, the perfect white smoke mixing with the yellow smog
over Los Angeles. The thought made him feel less isolated, if only
for a few seconds.

“
Should be time for food,” said the
girl. “You look hungry as a volcano.”

She was looking up at him, smiling with a
flawless set of round teeth that he caught himself inspecting for
bits of human flesh.

* * *

The path brought them up a slope toward a thick
jungle, where soaring palms with clusters of heavy looking fruit
stood sentry. Dash had researched exotic honeymoon spots, read
trivia with regard to the number people killed by falling coconuts.
One writer compared the fruit to dangling bowling balls, taking
many more lives than great white sharks.

Tiki plunged them into humid darkness. Vines
hung from a low canopy that had been chopped into a tunnel, brown
cuttings lining the way. He struggled to keep up, legs and lungs
pushed to their new pathetic limits for a man who’d lived his
entire life in a mountainous state. Rivers of sweat poured from his
body, clumps of tiny bugs riding the rapids. He eyed the girl’s
bouncing hair as she skipped and did pirouettes, naked back dry and
insect free, apparently too young for the bra tops worn by the
cranky women.

The path leveled and they emerged into a sunny
clearing. He bent at the middle, grabbed at his sweaty knees,
suddenly sure his heartbeat would never slow. Through his straggly
hair, he could see they were at the perimeter of a village composed
of dozens of thatched huts. Busy brown people were doing chores in
similar Western-style underwear. A boy probably seven or eight ran
to Dash, who half straightened for a greeting. The boy grinned and
kicked him in the right shin, then turned and sprinted toward a
group of children standing around a lopsided ball.

“
What the hell?”

Dash hopped on one leg, but it gave out and he
fell hard. The ground was a layer of crushed shells that stuck to
his skin. He clutched his shin with both hands and waited for the
pain to ease.

Tiki squatted and picked away shards one at a
time. She patted the top of his head. “John John hates white people
and can kick pretty good for a boy. He’s our
goalkeeper.”

Dash looked beyond the girl at women tending
black pots suspended over wood fires. Others swept dirt from
interiors or sat weaving fibrous material into coiled piles. Nearly
all the women appeared pregnant. He gave his shin one last squeeze
and Tiki stepped back.

“
You really don’t eat people,
right?”

He had seen all the movies where an explorer is
met by a greeting party, strings of flower leis draped over his
head by dutiful, bare-breasted women with lowered eyes. Intricate
carvings and valuable beads were gift wrapped in wide green banana
leaves, left at his boots. Drums would thump in the background—some
official tune for an honored guest—a line of hula girls with
swaying arms off to one side. Men in traditional face paints would
hold bamboo weapons to port on the other.

None of this happened. Nobody except the one
mean little boy had taken any notice of Dash, who struggled to his
feet, brushing away shell fragments.

Tiki led them across the village compound to a
gathering of men sitting on the ground outside the largest hut. The
group was in a shady spot, circled beneath a narrow palm growing at
a steep angle. The girl cleared her throat for their attention then
ran off to where children were playing. Dash noticed their eyes
were all glassy, each man suffering a slight wobble as a cup was
refilled from a wood jug and passed around. Outside the circle were
more jugs. Two were apparently full and ready, while four lay spent
on their sides.

“
Sit, Cracker, before another child
knocks you over.” It was a voice Dash remembered, the Australian
accent cut into short bursts. The chief was directly across the
circle, the oldest looking of the bunch. Elevated by a stack of
large leaves under his rear end, he was the only one not sitting
directly on the crushed shells.

“
Thank you very much.” He brushed
his hands, then stepped forward and dropped to his butt when the
circle parted to make room. “My name is Dash.”

“
I am Chief Manu.”

Dash offered his best polite smile. “I’m
honored to meet you.”

“
There is no honor left, only age,”
said Manu, who leaned toward a muscular young man next to him—one
of the warriors, Dash guessed—and spoke in the native language. The
warrior nodded once, hopped to his feet, and left the circle.
“Other business,” said the chief, waving a hand. “Time for rest
will come when our bodies are cast into the sea.”

“
I’m grateful that your people took
care of me.”

“
You killed our fish,” said the old
chief.

Dash looked around the circle. Some were
nodding enthusiastically, while others seemed nearly comatose,
leaning hard, hands planted for stability. The man with the cup
took a sip and swallowed. He then spit into the remaining liquid
before passing it along to the man on his right. The ritual was
repeated.

Outside the circle, Dash saw the warrior emerge
from one of the huts tugging a skinny teenage boy. Difficult to see
in the harsh glare was the cord binding the teen’s
wrists.

“
Your airplane poisoned our lagoon,”
said the chief. “Even men who came dressed in white bags and used
big towels did no good. They brought barrels of medicine for the
water and dirt, but made nothing better. Your people did not bring
our fish back to life.”

“
I was a passenger,” Dash said, an
innocent victim up until that point. “I was on my honeymoon. Row
22, seat F.”

“
Your honeymoon killed our
fish.”

Dash opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak. The
chief’s face was so wrinkled it was impossible to read. Maybe they
were going to eat him out of spite.

The man to Dash’s left spit into the cup and
handed it to him. It smelled like lamp oil with a hint of rotten
fruit. “Makes you strong,” said the man, words slurred but chin
jutting proudly. He stuck out a bent arm, flexed a rubbery bicep.
“Keeps them little sprogs from kicking your arse.”

Dash took the cup. As he did, he watched the
teenager manhandled across the compound, the big man jerking hard
on the cord, impatient with the boy’s resistance. The man slapped
the back of the teen’s head twice, sending him to his knees once.
The warrior stopped at a pile of large stones and wood stumps just
shy of the soccer players. The children ignored the pair, but
shifted their game to the far end of the field.

It was a mouthful of sugary high test gasoline
that closed Dash’s throat, made his stomach muscles contract. He
shook his head furiously while trying not to spill, knowing the
punishment for such an offense might very well be death.

The circle of men snorted and laughed, clapped
their hands when Dash finally managed to swallow and keep it down.
He remembered to spit into the cup before passing it along. He
caught his breath as the laughter died. His throat was coated in
something similar to candle wax. “Your island is beautiful,” he
said, nearly barking the words while trying to relax his gag
reflex.

“
Used to be called Moku Siga, which
means No Hurry. Now it is called Valelailai,” the chief said,
holding the cup while another man poured it full. He took a sip,
swallowed, and spit. “Men of white cracker god called it that and
the name stuck. No big deal. One name is good as any.”

“
It’s a pretty name.” Dash’s legs
were cramped from sitting pretzel style, what his ancient
kindergarten teacher had called ‘criss-cross applesauce.’ “What
does it mean?”

The chief took a much longer drink, then spit
another phlegmy gob. “Means toilet. That’s what white people called
our home. We need to talk about the fish you killed.”

Dash watched the warrior force the teen back to
his knees, then reach out to untie the cord. The big man stayed
close, made growling sounds into the boy’s face and began jabbing
his finger at the top of one stump. The boy looked down, unmoving
for a few seconds, and then obeyed. He lifted his right hand and
placed it flat on the stump’s surface.

The warrior reached for a stone twice the size
of the soccer ball.

“
I’m sorry about the fish,” said
Dash.

The men on either side of Manu leaned forward
and spoke in their native tongue—angry, rapid-fire words, their
hands flailing and nearly hitting the chief. They were the largest
and youngest of the group, broad shoulders, and matching black
underpants, the same as the man terrorizing the boy on the field.
Dash’s stomach rolled over when they turned and pointed at him.
Their eyes were wide and accusing, lips pursed in the same manner
as the old lady in the aisle seat.

“
They think we should sacrifice
white man to the Volcano,” Manu told Dash. “Only way to make fish
come back.”