Left on Paradise (46 page)

“No doubt,” Joan said with a frown, “she’s helping somewhere. That girl’s going to end up in the streets of Calcutta with the Sisters of Charity if she doesn’t watch out. Probably christened Mother Heather Theresa. Charity and children and celibacy—how did we fail her? I can imagine her reciting the rosary and kneeling for the eucharist if she had the chance.”

“I can imagine,” Charles said with a laugh, “her becoming the eucharist if the job wasn’t already taken.”

“Shhhh,” Jose said. “It’s beginning.”

The islanders hushed as the chief raised a decorated coconut husk and smashed it against the totem. The coconut shattered and blood splashed across the base of the pole. Then the old patriarch fell to his knees and prayed aloud—his arms outstretched and eyes opened. When he was finished, he turned to his people and gave a blessing. The natives broke into shouting and laughter as two middle-aged women emerged from the trees: each one carrying a decorated turtle shell wider than her own spindly hips. One woman presented her shell at the chief’s table and another walked to the visitors—where she dumped shredded meat on their shell tables and motioned to eat. As the guests ate, she disappeared down the path, only to return a couple minutes later with more food. In this way, the women served ceremonial meat until everyone on the island ate. Only then did the women feed themselves.

The aroma of the meat was strong. Several of the islanders hadn’t eaten anything but fish or an occasional bird since arriving and the scent of roasted flesh came on strong. They tore at the slices of meat with their fingers and swallowed them almost without chewing. Only Lisa didn’t eat.

“This is really good,” Dr. Morales said. “You have to try it.”

Lisa shook her head.

“I haven’t eaten animal flesh,” the young woman said, “since high school. I won’t judge your lifestyle, but I’m no carnivore. I don’t even eat hamburgers.”

“Still,” Charles said, “I hadn’t realized how much I missed a good steak.”

“Me too,” Joan added. “Heather’s going to miss out.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Dr. Morales observed, “the helpers are always given a double portion. She’ll get more than any of us.”

“I’m her ex-father and I claim her share as payback,” Charles said as he grabbed the last piece of meat.

“Divide that with me,” Joan said, “if you know what’s good for you, since I’m the one who endured labor. Don’t try to expropriate the excess value of my labor for your own profit. Don’t be such a capitalist pig.”

Charles laughed as he tore the meat into thirds and shared portions with Joan and Karla. A moment later, he finished eating and wiped greasy fingers on his shirt as he reclined.

“That was tasty,” Charles said. “What was it? Goat?”

“No,” the anthropologist said, “I’ve had kid before. This didn’t taste the same and the strips were too long. Besides, the natives don’t have goats.”

“Beef?” Jose joked and everyone feigned a scowl.

“It wasn’t very strong,” Karla said. “I’d guess a sea mammal. Maybe dolphin or whale?”

Everyone nodded.

“I’d harpoon Moby Dick myself,” Jose said with a loud laugh, “to have another taste of this.”

Lisa punched him on the arm. “Some pacifist you turned out to be,” she scowled.

“Only with my own species.”

“Look at that,” Joan said, pointing to the chief’s table. “They’ve got more.”

“That isn’t a dolphin,” Jose said.

“It looks like a pig.”

“There can’t be boars here,” the anthropologist looked perplexed as he spoke. “The island’s too small.”

The others paid no attention. Ryan licked his fingers and Maria gnawed a bone into which the taste of the meat was deep cooked as the chief spoke out loud and pointed at his table while motioning for his guests to approach.

“He wants some of us to come forward,” Dr. Morales explained. “As guests, we’re allowed to feast from the goddess’s own plate. He says a plate has been prepared to honor us as gifts come from the gods and asks us to taste first to see that his people are worthy of their goddess.”

Deidra’s eyes welled with tears.

“This is just ...” She couldn’t find the words to express her joy and her sentence died unfinished.

Several islanders started forward, with Dr. Morales in front and Charles and Joan at his heels. Jose and Lisa came behind them, followed by Deidra, Karla, Ryan, and Maria. The others waited at their shells, too full to eat another bite. Only when the entourage moved within fifteen feet of the chief’s table did the anthropologist stop dead in his tracks—Joan and Charles running into him, their jaws dropped and eyes wide. Karla let out a squeal and Jose gasped. Lisa turned white. Ryan and Maria were at the end of the line and couldn’t see.

“The gods be damned,” Deidra shouted, “it’s a baby.”

And so it was. A roasted baby of a month or two lay on the table: its skin seared from burning and its joints swollen from cooking. The chief twisted an arm and the well-cooked limb snapped like a dry stick. When the old chief handed it to Dr. Morales, the anthropologist neither moved nor spoke. Lisa wept and Jose backed away. Karla stared at the cooked child and Deidra fell to her knees in horror. The others froze where they stood.

Joan found her voice first. “Oh lord,” she screamed, “where’s my baby? Where’s my little girl?”

As soon as Joan looked at the chief’s table, she saw a tightly bound wrap of brown hair—still sporting Heather’s scarlet ribbon—draped over a side. She screamed from horror, her eyes wide and hands covering her mouth.

“Damn me,” Charles cried out, staring wild-eyed at the grease stains on his clothes. “Damn me. I’ve wiped Heather on my shirt.”

As Charles ripped his shirt off and flung it away, the bewildered chief jumped to his feet—his eyes offended and confused. Just as he began to protest this grave insult, Charles sprang forward and landed a blow to his jaw and both men tumbled from the impact. As the chief fell into the bloodstained totem pole with Charles atop him, one of the chief’s sons thrust a lance into the white man’s back—near a kidney. Charles gasped and the man struck a second time, now driving the spear into the base of the attacker’s skull.

Charles moved no more.

By the time the mortal wound had been inflicted, the meadow broke into a brawl as the second son heaved his spear into Joan’s back and she fell writhing in pain. Dr. Morales kicked the youth in the groin and pushed him into the table—which crashed upon the chief even as screams and shouts came from every direction and the deep alarm of a conch bellowed. Almost immediately, rock and coral flew at the visitors and Deidra was struck in the head—falling to the ground, mute and unmoving as blood pooled around her shoulders. The remaining citizens of Paradise raced for the boat as stones flew fast and fear grew strong.

Indeed, they fled without reflection or hesitation—with those nearest the danger running the fastest. Jose was the first to leap into the landing craft and immediately fired its engines while others dove into the boat and began to raise its ramp. By the time the slow-running Dr. Morales clamored breathless into the boat, natives were swarming the beach—rocks and spears in hand. Wood and stone pinged with harmless noise into the sides of a landing craft built to shield rifle fire. As the boat started to sea, a spear flew over the closed ramp and struck Karla in the neck.

She bled out a few miles east of Paradise.

35

Reactions and Readiness

Sirens wailed from Mount Zion soon after dark. News of the disaster crossed the island within the hour and everyone marched for New Plymouth at the double time. The motorized launch was sent to pick up Ursula and Sean, as well as others from the west and north districts who tended children or couldn’t walk fast. Afterwards, Jason borrowed the boat to retrieve Father Donovan from exile. As the crowds assembled, there was neither laughter among adults nor play by children. Fear gripped the grown-ups and shock disseminated even to the youngest among them as citizens gathered in small groups of distraught idealists. Whenever too many people came together, someone walked away of his or her own accord, unable to bear too much human companionship.

Less than two hours after the alarm first sounded, emergency generators were fired to power two floodlights that illuminated the main tent and it wasn’t long before everyone, including the previously exiled Father Donovan, took a seat. Ryan addressed the citizenry from the lectern, wasting no time with formalities or frivolities.

“The facts are these,” Ryan announced. “Karla was hit in the neck with a spear and died on the trip home. Charles was left wounded on the island, presumed dead. Deidra and Joan also were left wounded. The doctors can’t even guess whether their injuries were mortal. Heather apparently was served as dinner. We’re also missing Ashley from the north and Stuart from the east village.”

Steve stood. “Let’s go get ‘em.”

Several men gave a hurrah until Ryan raised his hand to request the floor to silence them.

“Charles,” Ryan said, “struck their chief and Morales hurt one of his sons. We’re not going to be greeted with handshakes.”

“Stuart’s my next door neighbor,” Steve declared. “I’m going to get him and the others.”

More shouts echoed through the hall.

“We don’t even know if they’re alive,” Ryan replied.

“I’m not,” Steve’s voice boomed, “going to give the damned heathens time to cook my friend.”

Ryan said nothing as Steve walked forward.

“My motto always has been to live and let live,” Steve said with clenched teeth and rolled fists, “not surrender and be eaten. We need to save our friends. If we won’t do it, who the hell will?”

Jose raised his hand.

“You’re talking war,” Jose shouted. “Let’s solve this peacefully. Let’s send a delegation.”

“Fine,” Steve said, “and let’s paste them with relish.”

“That’s not funny.”

“We don’t have time to debate,” Steve said. “There’s barely enough time for action.”

“And so begins every war,” Jose shouted, “every first strike. Every act of violence. There’s never time to reflect. Not until everyone’s sobbing over tombstones.”

“There really isn’t time tonight.”

“We’d better make time,” Jose said as he shook his head in dismay, “or we’ll end up as dead imperialists.”

“If,” Steve snarled as his face exploded with rage, “you want to take the launch to negotiate for the lives of our people, do it. We’ll applaud your bravery and bury your bones when we get there—that is, any left uneaten. We’re loading the ship and bringing our friends home. I ask the assembly for the right to lead an expedition to save our people. As some of you know, I’ve seen war before.”

The motion was seconded by at least fifty hands even before Ryan could submit the proposal for review. Debate was entertained.

Jose was the first to object.

“I amend,” Jose said, “the motion to request that a peace delegation be sent instead. In keeping with our principles. We’re becoming the militarists we hate. The Americans also claimed a right to redress the sinking of the
Lusitania
and the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Look where that led.”

“To Parisians singing
La Marseillaise
,” someone shouted, “rather than
Deutschland über alles
and Hawaiians speaking English instead of Japanese?”

Jose’s motion was voted upon, but received only five votes, so he tried again.

“I vote,” Jose said, “we amend the motion to rescue our people, but not to hurt any indigenous peoples. Don’t we believe every culture is equal and there are no taboos? We have the right to save our skin, but not to punish someone else’s bad taste.”

Shouts and threats rang through the assembly hall until Steve raised his hand to signal the crowd.

“We don’t have the time,” Steve shouted, “to debate this. Let’s vote and move on.”

Jose’s second motion also failed.

“Now let’s vote upon the original motion,” Steve said.

“I amend,” Jose said as he again took the floor, “the original motion placing Steve in charge. I’d like to form a committee to screen applicants for an officer corps. We need ethical men and women in charge of our soldiers.”

“Damn it, Jose,” Steve growled, “you’re deliberately stalling. We need to vote and move on. No more amendments. Voice vote. All of those in favor of sending a rescue party, say yea.”

A loud yea thundered through the assembly hall.

“Nay?”

Several half-hearted votes were cast.

“The LCVP,” Steve said, “will hold a platoon. That’s two from the staff and eight from each neighborhood. Volunteers to the front.”

Sixteen men and eight women stepped forward. Among them were Ryan, John, Sean, Viet, Brent, and Hilary. Steve counted off the volunteers before turning to his fellow islanders.

“I’m going too,” Steve said, “so we need nine more volunteers.”

One man and one woman from the north stepped forward.

“Very good,” Steve said. “Seven more. If it comes to fighting, we can’t let ourselves be outnumbered by the enemy. We need to fill that boat with every fighter it can carry.”

No one stepped forward, so Steve told the volunteers to assemble by neighborhood. When they had done so, he took a quick count.

“We need,” Steve said, “two westerners, two southerners, and three east villagers to even out the levies.”

When no one volunteered, Steve implemented a draft—starting with his own people.

“The east village,” Steve declared, “volunteered four men and one woman. I need three women to fill its quota. Cast the lot.”

The women who drew short sticks moved to the front and Steve next turned to the southerners—drafting two women. Only after the northern village had fulfilled its quota did Steve turn to the west village and observe that the western quota remained short two persons.

“We’ve lost,” John stepped forward to explain, “one man and three women already. We have no one else to give. We can’t have mothers fight alongside their husbands or Olivia leave her daughter. Kit’s no warrior and Ursula’s pregnant. Heck, Sean’s fighting with an injured leg. That leaves Lisa and Jose—and they’re both avowed pacifists.”

“So am I,” a voice from the mass of volunteers said.

Lisa dropped her eyes and blushed.

“
A fair-weather pacifist,” Jose shouted out for everyone to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, “but we need two people. We can let the mothers stay. Give us Kit and Ursula.”

Though both women stepped forward, Kit grasped the younger woman by the arm and patted her friend’s pregnant belly before stepping further forward alone.

“She counts for two,” Kit said, “so we’d be over our quota.”

“We need one more,” Steve said.

“Draft Jason,” a westerner shouted. “Let the criminal fight.”

“I can live with that,” Steve answered. “He’s close enough.”

“You can’t draft Jason,” Jose shouted, “or anyone else. The charter protects every citizen from compulsory military service and can’t be abridged. We’ve all sworn it many times.”

Steve faced the assembly.

“First,” Steve declared, “the same assembly that ratified the charter can amend it, including any anti-abridgement clause. Second, we were thinking only of an organized military force, not an emergency situation to save our own citizens. So let’s get back to business. Can someone second the motion to draft Jason to fulfill the west village quota?”

Several voices seconded the motion and a voice vote was taken. After Jason’s name was added to the rolls, Steve turned to the assembly and asked if there were any final considerations.

“I won’t fight with drafted women,” John said as he stepped forward and spoke with disgust in his face and anger in his voice, “when there are men in this assembly who need to join our ranks. You know as well as I do half of these women will freeze if it comes to real fighting and most will prove too weak. It’s not like we have time to broaden their shoulders and harden their chests. As it is, we’ll double casualties for man and woman alike if we take them. Kit couldn’t hit a softball hard, let alone a human being. I won’t fight beside her.”

Several other voices joined in.

“It’s chicken shit,” one man said, “my wife stays at home.”

“Wussies,” another grumbled.

Two women were pushed toward their chairs by irate husbands and three others walked away on their own; Kit sat down after John told her to.

“We need to leave now,” Steve threw his arms in despair. “What do you propose?”

“A draft for the vacant positions,” John said, “a draft of men. We keep only women who really want to fight—and can do so. This isn’t high-tech combat. It’ll be cracking skulls with axes and clubs, not pushing fingers to buttons or pulling triggers.”

Several men and most women among the volunteers groaned.

“Who’s eligible?” Steve asked.

“Every man among us,” John answered. “We have no 4Fs.”

Jose jumped up in protest. “That’s not fair,” he shouted. “I don’t want to fight. It’s militaristic, it’s sexist, and it’s a macho stereotype. Hell no, I won’t go.”

“Fair enough,” Steve said, looking straight at John. “We’ll count off and draw numbers. Those picked go. No debates.”

John nodded. “Anyone object?”

Several voices did object, so a vote by hands was ordered. Only eighteen people voted against the proposal. The vast majority approved and every man then counted off. Lottery numbers subsequently were written on a slip of paper and dropped into an empty knapsack—from which Steve selected draftees. To his dismay, Jose was the first man chosen and found no support for his complaint that compulsory military service violated the charter. His continued protests were ignored as the majority turned against him.

Indeed, draftees and volunteers alike were given two hours to draw supplies, complete training, and report for duty. The supply shed at New Plymouth was opened as an armory and its tools offered as weapons: axes, shovels, hoes, machetes, and knives. Steve told every soldier to sharpen two wooden spears and collect one large stone and several smaller ones. Rudimentary combat techniques and self-defense moves were demonstrated by former soldiers and martial arts students before the four squads elected officers to lead them into battle, if necessary.

While weapons were selected, training conducted, and farewells said, Steve and John drafted a battle plan—with Dr. Morales providing geographical and cultural intelligence. It soon became evident a night attack would be futile since tides and reefs made navigation perilous. If the landing craft were grounded, they might be butchered on the beach or otherwise stranded on the island. It was decided to wait for daylight to clear the reefs safely and land as an organized force under a functioning command. A dawn attack was planned and word sent that the LCVP would depart at two o’clock in the morning.

Using a sketch of the atoll drawn by Dr. Morales as a basis for operational planning, Steve and John decided to deploy and fight as neighborhoods, both to facilitate a fighting spirit and foster effective communications. The basic plan was to send three squads forward to secure the beach and reconnoiter the island while holding a fourth section in reserve to defend the boat. Once the plan was drafted, Father Donovan and other leaders suggested several useful changes. After modifications were approved, Steve drew an army surplus blanket from the stores and found a quiet place to rest while John searched for a bite to eat. Lights out was ordered four hours before scheduled departure, though one fire was permitted for islanders suffering the night’s chill. Couples stole into the woods for private embraces or caressed near the flickering flames of burning wood. Alarm clocks were set for two o’clock in the morning.

The state of Paradise was at war.

“Heather was a nice girl.”

Kit sat beside John, her head propped against his shoulder. A dim fire burned through some trees as she talked through the dead of night. A piece of dried bread had been tossed aside.

“It’s horrible,” Kit whispered. “They’re horrible.”

“I’ll give her remains a Christian burial, if I can.”

Tears rolled down Kit’s cheeks. “Her parents too,” she whispered. “For her sake. If they’re dead.”

“She once asked me to adopt her,” John said after a pause. “If I’d been her father, I wouldn’t have let her go.”

Kit touched his cheek. “Don’t blame yourself,” she whispered. “She had parents whether they wanted to be or not. No one could have replaced them.”