The male warriors carried wooden clubs and daggers made from the shin bones of cassowary birds. Marind females, wearing necklaces of cowrie shells, carried naked children on their hips out to meet Jala and Ori, the sun god. They appeared from the forest darkness without a sound, like the manifestation of ghosts. Even the children were utterly silent.
... And we'd like to welcome you to Munchkin Land ...
Jala had a brief exchange with one of the warriors then turned to Grant. "Remain silent. They will take us to their camp. It is not far."
The camp, less than a hundred yards from the meeting place, remained invisible until the party stumbled into it. Grant could have passed within yards and have never seen the site. The Marind live in total harmony with the jungle. They clear no land, build no villages. Their simple huts are an extension of the forest ideally camouflaged for protection, built only as temporary shelter and abandoned when the tribe moves on.
Upon entering the makeshift village it became readily apparent the Marind were as awestruck by Ori, the sun god, as the Dhani had been. Even in the subdued light 150 feet beneath the jungle canopy Grant's blonde hair and blue eyes beamed and marked him as a being entirely outside the Marind's universe.
Grant was equally as stunned. He had been of the opinion that the Dhani were the most backward people on the earth. But here he stood in a culture far less developed. The Marind Amin ranked with the most primitive hunter-gathers ever existing. Life here was simple survival. No agriculture. No culture period on first impression. This represented the basest form of human existence. Yet Peter knew many of his fraternity brothers would be jealous of the Marind lifestyle.
"What?" Grant responded to the subtle elbow in his ribs. "I'm sorry, Jala, I didn't hear you."
From Jala's stern expression it was obvious to Grant that he had committed a serious diplomatic faux pas, an error not to be repeated. Jala then smiled warmly, though his eyes fixed on Grant remained deadly serious, and said, "The headman welcomes you and hopes you will attend the naming of his new son. He gave the last name he had saved to his nephew and now must hunt for another."
"Now? The dude's gonna off somebody now?"
"Not now. Not one of us. We are honored guests."
"But he's still gonna cap somebody's ass."
"I have no idea of what you are speaking, Peter. Please try to concentrate on the matter at hand. It is vitally important. The Marind plan a raid, soon. When a prisoner is taken he will be asked his name just before the beheading. It makes no difference what sound the victim utters, whatever noise is made is taken to be the name."
"Roll call around here must be a blast."
Jala continued despite his annoyance. "Great warriors like the headman may even save up a collection of names to be given as gifts to others. It is a noble and honored gesture."
"So in the interest of world peace how about I explain to the midget Dracula here the concept of Junior, the second, the third, ad infinitum and we...
"It is their way and we respect it, Ori. We do not belittle what we do not understand," Jala said with calm finality.
"Cool. So, what's the little dude want me to do?"
"Smile when you speak, Peter. It makes them happy to think you are happy in their presence. He wants you to attend the name-giving ceremony. Their hunt will begin soon. It is the rainy season and head hunting has mythological ties to thunderstorms. The fact that the child's birth came now is also a good omen. When the next storm arrives they will raid a nearby settlement and collect a name for the boy."
"All I have to do is watch the kid get named?"
"Yes."
"Tell the gentleman I'd be delighted to be his guest of honor."
The weather stayed dry, but the village buzzed with excitement. The medicine man predicted storms on the horizon. That meant a Kui-aha, a feast house, needed to be erected. A boar and several gibbons were killed, wrapped in palm leaves, and thrown into a fire pit to bake. Women gathered and prepared native fruits with wild rice. Several sago palms were downed, split open, and the pith beaten to a pulp, moistened and strained to make dough. In the rotten portion of the palm, the Marind found the larvae of beetles which were roasted by the thousands into a crunchy treat. All the prearrangements were made so that when the tribe returned from a successful hunt the celebration could begin immediately.
Even Peter offered a hand in helping and all appreciated his efforts, the help, his blond hair, and his bright blue eyes. The Marind Amin people were enchanted by the sun god from beyond the mountain peaks, especially the head man's wife.
"The headman says his wife has a request of you," Jala translated.
"Tell him anything the little lady wants is fine by me. Ori aims to please," Peter said.
"Do not be so quick, young friend," Jala warned. "It is wise to hear the task before agreeing to it. With the Marind, your word, once given, is your bond." Jala turned back to the Marind and heard him out.
"His wife believes you possess the spirit of the sun. The clouds cover the heavens and still you glow with golden light. To have both the power of the storm and the strength of the sun on their side assures a successful hunt and a strong name for her son."
"She wants me to go head hunting with this pack of savages?"
"You cannot refuse."
"The Hell I can't," Peter shouted. "You can tell the man NO FUCKING WAY!"
"To refuse is to insult his wife. The husband will be bound to defend her honor. That is a mistake you do not wish to make, young friend. You must go on the hunt. But there is an additional danger that you need to understand. The medicine man is against your going."
"More power to him. Let's all defer to the voice of reason."
Jala snapped back, "Quiet, Boy. This is a deadly serious matter. The medicine man believes your radiance will cancel out the magic of the thunderstorm. The hunt cannot be successful. Our headman is inclined to follow that advice, but he will not go against the wishes of his wife. A compromise has been reached. You will go. If the hunt is successful, all will be satisfied. If no prisoners are taken, the child shall be named Ori. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"Unless I help them murder some poor bastard these cannibals are going to chop off my head?"
"Actually only the medicine men in these tribes are true cannibals. They usually wait until after the beheading and then cut off the arms and legs of the victim. The human flesh is eaten as an ingredient in magic spells; although sometimes it might be mixed with herbs as a medicine."
"Great, knowing the pharmaceutical nature of this makes me feel a whole lot better. I've got no choice. That's what you're telling me, isn't it? I'm dead no matter what happens."
"Unless the hunt is successful," Jala replied.
*****
The ceremony began at dusk. Jala instructed Peter not to refuse to take part in anything they requested of him. Honor had to be maintained. He was a member of the hunt and as such required to participate in all rituals. Darkness fell. Fires were lit. The Marind began to dance in circles around the blazes. They sang the avase, the head hunter's mythical song, accompanied by deep, rhythmically beating drums. The pounding tempo raced while the dancers whirled. Men broke across the circle, leaping through the flames, pulling women to the ground. Women, caught up in the spell, did likewise. Soon all the participants writhed in passionate promiscuity. Females jumped from partner to partner, driving the men into yaret, a frenzied state of courage. Peter too felt the madness as female after female mounted him. He silently hoped penicillin would cure the malady.
The orgy outlasted the night. At daybreak the entire Marind tribe set out for a nearby Papuan village. Women and children always joined the hunt. By indoctrinating them at an early age, the brutality and cannibalism became a normal part of life.
In less than an hour the head hunters reached the serenely sleeping village. Yelling at the top of their lungs, the Marind charged. Peter lagged behind, hoping to stay out of the slaughter, only to arrive at the height of the carnage. Though no one was killed in the onslaught, the Papuans; men, women and children alike were unmercifully beaten into submission. Next the warriors looted the settlement for canoes, stone clubs, provisions, precious stones and anything else catching their eyes. The captured Papuan children were given to childless couples to be raised as Marind Amin. This not only gave the couple joy, it increased the tribe's genetic breeding pool. Within minutes a successful hunt ended and a happy band of head hunters followed the yellow brick road back home.
"It is good to see you, my friend," Jala shouted as Peter appeared. Better yet to know your head will not adorn a tree."
"Yeah, I kind of like it where it is too. And all in all it wasn't too bad. Kind of like a Quentin Tarrentino movie. No worse than a Christmas sale at Macy's. It was definitely no 'Nightmare on Elm Street’ if you get my drift."
Jala stared blankly for a moment, then spoke, "The worst is yet to come. It is time for the feast and then the naming ceremony."
"So?"
"You are required to attend."
"I have to watch them kill all those people?"
"You must attend. What you look at is up to you. It is time."
They walked from their hut to the ceremonial area in front of the feast house. The Marind warriors had their prisoners assembled and waiting. A well choreographed ceremony was essential to the success of the naming ritual.
"Jala, where are all our Dhani? We aren't going to be eating any Pokey burgers, are we?"
"The Dhani are outsiders and not invited," Jala answered calmly.
"Some people have all the luck. I know, smile," Peter said sourly.
The headman saw them and rushed to extend warm greetings. "He thanks you for the good hunt and plentiful bounty. And he offers you a share of the wealth," Jala translated.
"Tell him thanks, but no thanks," Peter said smiling.
"He says he understands. To a sun spirit their treasure must seem poor and unworthy. So he would offer you the greatest honor he has," Jala relayed.
"Okay, what? He's got a virgin daughter or something?"
"Peter, he is giving you the first head."
"You can tell the son of a bitch where he can stick the first head. I'm not going to... I'm going home. They're a pack of savages. Don't they know this is wrong? Killing people is a sin. I refuse to take part in their barbaric rituals. A drunken orgy was one thing. Actually capping some dude's ass... I mean someone who doesn't even deserve it. It's criminal. What about the Ten Commandments? Ever hear of jurist prudence? This is like Texas justice, man. We don't do this in California. Maybe in Stockton you might see a little of this, but not in the real California."
Jala shook his head in mild reproach. "It is not barbaric, it is life. To kill a man to steal his homeland, to take his life because he refuses to subject himself to alien beliefs or colonial authority, to end his existence because his appearance differs from yours - these are barbarisms. They are based in hate, rooted in fear, ignorance, and prejudice. Death becomes a tool for mercantilism. Do not call the Marind Amin culture barbaric when your own cannot pass the test.
"They do not kill in hate; nor in prejudice. A Marind would never understand your barbaric approach to life, your hurry to exploit and destroy your environment, or your preoccupation with and fear of death. They do not fear death for they do not exploit it. They live in harmony with all aspects of nature.
"Your values have no more place here than a Marind has on your Main Street USA. Though even there his values would be purer and less calculated. You are here. Live like you are here. Quit toting your American baggage and tossing around your western superiority. Afterward, if you must ask your western god for his forgiveness, then feel free to pick and choose your sins. Do not ask Him to forgive the Marind, for they have not sinned. Your conscious is your right. Here, the Marinds’ rights take preeminence. Respect them, Peter Grant. That should be your obligation. 'Do unto others’; is that not your belief?”
Grant felt the blush of embarrassment burning his cheeks as he toed the ground before him. Chastised, he spoke head lowered and voice in a whispered whine, "I feel like I'm the guest of honor at a mad tea party with George W. Bush and the Queen of Hearts; and everyone is shouting, 'Off with their heads. Off with their heads.’ I'm scared. Okay?"
"Peter," Jala butted in, "put your trust in me. You must smile and nod as I speak. I will try to remedy this with a solution acceptable to both you and the Marind Amin."
He spoke for an agonizingly long time as Peter smiled stupidly at the crowd. The Marind had been obviously agitated at the outburst, but his smiles and Jala's words cast a healing effect on their mood. The headman laughed and soon all seemed jovial and happy.
"I don't give a shit what you promised the little ghoul, I'm not chopping any dude's head off," Peter said with a smile plastered to his face.
Again, Jala cut him short. "There is no need. I explained to him and he agrees the spirit of the sun is the spirit of life. A sun god would never take the life of a human being with his own hands. Besides, the act might offend the god of the thunderstorms. But you gratefully accept the name and honor his child by bestowing it on him. It is a compromise? No?"
"They're going to waste the guy anyway. I go along or I'm dead too. Sure, what the hell. It just big business, high finance, double dealing; wouldn't old Dad be proud of me now."
"If that means you agree, excellent," Jala said. We shall sit at the front of the Kui-aha. They will take the heads at the end of the festivities. Just smile and act congenial. Get drunk if it will help. Peter, realize it is their way. Judge it so. Do not measure by your standards. They have no place here."
The crowd parted as the headman led them to the table and indicated their places. Peter recognized several intimately familiar female faces attending him. Coy smiles signaled open after-dinner invitations. Platters of wild boar, gibbon, sweet potatoes and fruits were placed before him along with flagons of palm wine. Peter passed the food, downed the wine. He stared into the dead boar's eyes and thought how strange it still had a head on its shoulders. The first screams echoing in his ears shook him back to reality.
He had no idea what the words had been; probably a middle name or something. Perhaps a curse at the head hunter's ancestry or maybe it was a Papuan plea for mercy. Though not translated, Peter still knew the blood curdling cry to be the last words of a man facing death. It hung in his ears, a statement transcending language. The following silence fell as heavily as the executioner's stone axe. The air pressed in. The weight of the heavens crushed down, freezing the moment in stop action. No breath, no noise. The night shifted to slow motion as the stone blade arced through the sky. Blood spattered the crowd. The Marind Amin went wild. Touchdown…
"The name," a whisper called from a thousand miles away. Receive the name, Peter," Jala hand squeezed life into Peter's, forcing him back to conscious awareness. "Smile and accept the name."
Just don't look by the fire. They killed the poor bastard. They chopped off his fucking head. They're going to kill them all. All the pitiful innocent bastards are going to die. Take the name. Give it to the little vampire and get the fuck out of here. Jala can tell them the wine made me sick and I can get away. Okay, let's do it now. Suck it up. It’s fourth and goal and no time for pussies.
Peter forced a smile and raised his head. He locked stares with a dead man. The young Marind boy laughed, shook the head by the hair shouting the dead man's last sounds, then threw the skull to Peter. A screaming Grant touch passed the volley to Jala and fell backwards over the bench. The Papuan from Biak rose and majestically bore the severed head back to the circle. He chanted to the flames and then moved to greet the wife of the headman. Regally presenting her the skull, he repeated the last word name-rite and bowed. Backing away from her, he returned to Peter's side motioning for the youth to follow. No explanation asked or required; the panicked American trailed his guide to the Dhani hut, ducking quickly inside.
"We're dead, right? I blew it. I am so sorry. But the little bastard threw me that fucking head. I had a dead man’s head right in my hands. I freaked. Can you fix it?" Peter begged.
"It is done," Jala said.
"Done?" Peter said astonished. "What do you mean done? Like you can't fix it? Or like it’s over, we can go?"
"We leave in the morning."
"Wait a minute. You son of a bitch, you knew they were going to do that, didn't you? You said all I had to do was take the stiff's name. You never said a word about them tossing me his fucking head," Peter cried.
"The knowledge would have helped you?"
"Damn straight."
"To what end?"
"I never would have gone out there... and we'd both be dead. I get the picture. Better not give me time to think about it. Did I mess up too badly?"
"No more than expected," Jala chuckled. "I explained a sun spirit did not enjoy handling the dead flesh of a mere human. You passed the responsibility on to me, your servant. The Marind Amin seemed satisfied."
"I guess I owe you. Thanks,” Peter said sheepishly.
"No thank you is necessary. And to answer the remaining questions for your research; the ceremony continues until all the prisoners are executed. The extra names belong to the headman and he will save them. The skulls are cleaned and skinned. Eyeballs are gouged out and the brains are removed. Both are discarded, having no value. The eye sockets and nasal passages are stuffed with sago palm leaves. A rattan nose is stuck on and the cheeks are padded with clay. The skin is sewn back on with rattan fiber and the hair replaced to make the skull resemble as much as possible its former owner. Then all the heads are hung in trees around the huts."
"Trophies?"
"Certainly. Afterwards, another feast is held with rituals describing the greatness of past ancestors and glorifying the present warriors' might. These rites, as those of the Dhani and my people, are the mythical connection between the souls of this world and the next."
"The next what," Peter asked?
"The shadow world of the spirits," Jala said reverently.
"That's one party I can miss."
"You were not invited. The Marind fear your spirit blazes too brightly and would over-power the shadow worlds. You are too alien a god to mix with their dreams."
"That is fine by me. And in the morning, you get me out of here."
*****
The trek out of the Marind lands seemed short and uneventful. In three weeks they stood again in the Dhani village. Peter, gear packed, went to find his friends and say goodbye.
"I’d like to say it's been fun, guys, but I can't lie to you," Peter began. "There were times I was scared shitless. There aren’t many people I’d say that to, and I’ll deny every word if you try to sell the story to the National Enquirer. It’s a magazine… Never mind. Still, I'm glad I got to know you. I am going to miss both of you. I sure as Hell won't forget you. "
"You pretty damn good Yankee," the Dhani replied. "I say prayers for you. Someday you come back."
"I too shall pray for you, Peter Grant, the spirit of the sun. You have a fine head on your shoulders. Keep it there. And remember, young friend, ‘alon alon asal kelakon’... Go slow so long as the target is achieved. While any man would have known fear, you transcended yours. I believe you realized a truth. It was all I hoped to teach you. Let me explain:
I was educated by the Jesuits who gave me their knowledge in exchange for my soul. To look at me, I am Papuan. But beneath this exterior I am disconnected from my people. I do not belong in either world, native or western. I am an outcast in both, valued in both for my usefulness to each.
I have witnessed your spirit grow, Peter. That night in the Marind village you had a glimpse of the truth. A truth you never would have perceived unless you had endured that long and arduous trek. Do you know the nature of that truth? Some things are simply because they are. There is no right or wrong in the world. There is only circumstance and point of view. When we refuse to impose outside values on present circumstance, we can see the truth above reason. View all things in the light of truth, Ori, not in the shadows of prejudice and you shall truly illuminate the world. You have a gift about you. Learn to use it. Goodbye," Jala said. He turned to leave but hesitated.
“If I may impose upon you, Peter; I have a request."
"After what we've been through, I owe you, man. You name it and it’s yours.”
Jala laughed. "You will never heed my warnings, young friend. Such is the way of westerners to take the plunge without finding out when last the sharks were fed. Do me this then. On our journey you were like a new pup. Born blind, you felt your way about trusting in some providence to protect you. Then your eyes began to open. Keep them open.
"You demonstrated the ability to learn, even if twice burned. Now rise above the narrow-mindedness of ignorance. Learn to accept without critical evaluation that which your prejudice does not allow you to understand or falls in your estimation beneath you. Westerners hide in comfortable choices when confronted by the unknown. They ignore that which they cannot conquer, imposing personal emotions on matters of fact which are beyond emotion. Truth is universal. Culture is not and should not be. Circumstance dictates culture. Truth existed long before man's choice to label it, to place values and ownership upon it; perhaps even before man himself.
"You have witnessed truths of people who accept the universe without question. Things beyond their capability to understand are the province of gods, without a right or wrong to it. They are too unsophisticated to deal in falsehoods concerning cosmic forces. Sun and wind and rain are their concerns, not how many angels can sit on the head of a pin.
"Their innocence, Peter, is their beauty. It is also their Achilles heel. Your culture, with its wealth and self-assuredness, can overwhelm them if you allow it to be imposed upon them. So you must weigh the worth. Will you accept that truths too primitive for your acceptance are still vital or doom these innocents to the on-rush of a world they cannot fathom? Think on this before you speak with your people. Will you do this for me?"
"It's what I came to do," Grant said taking the other's out-stretched hand. "It just took a Biak and a Dhani to show me what I was suppose to see.”
They said their goodbyes. Jala and the Dhani group headed back for the village. Once again Peter Grant stood alone on the same high central plateau where he'd landed, listening to the sounds of the cenderawasih birds. The same birds, he wondered? Was he even the same Peter Grant?
The Beechcraft arrived. Peter departed. As the hours passed he worked on his reports. He thought about Jala's request. The Dhani had been the most primitive people he'd ever seen. They were more backward than his mother's Arkansas hillbilly relatives. And yet compared to the Marind Amin they had a well-developed society, a social structure with permanent settlements and agriculture. How could they both be stone-age people? Was there, like stone-age and then remedial stone-age for under-achievers?
The Marind Amin had nothing they couldn't carry on their backs. But they seemed on the whole a lot happier and better adjusted than his mom's bridge group, who sat around discussing their analysts and dissecting that day's no-shows. Did the Marind have a culture? Yes, at least as much as some of the frat brothers he knew.
The Dhani were Papuan, members of an extensive tribal culture. Some members were obviously more socially advanced, like those on Biak who worked and traded with westerners every day. They had received education, religious instruction, material wealth, advancements in health care and become participants in modern society. They had law and social structure.
But Pokey had said law and social structure was what brought the Dhani their greatest conflicts. And his group, primitive as they seemed, felt superior to the Asmats who were cannibals. And the Asmat cannibals were culturally superior to the Marind Amin who scared the shit out of everybody because they were so damn primitive and so nobody messed with them. Who was right?
Maybe it was Jala. He insisted the rules and regulations of outsiders don't belong here. That makes sense. Try explaining to a Marind that he can't cross a path when nobody's coming just because a sign says "Don't Walk." He'll think you're crazy. But any fool knows the only time for chopping off heads is after a thunderstorm. It makes perfect sense. And there, somehow it did.
We want their gold and oil