Left on Paradise (48 page)

“Only the men.”

“Why couldn’t you wait for the General Will of the People to assemble? What was the hurry?”

“I guess,” Donovan said with a smirk, “they tried to escape or something. They’re damned cannibals. We can’t talk to them and they’re not going to make peace. What else could we do?”

Chuck and Jason moved beside the radical priest.

“Kill them all,” Jason said, “and let the worms sort them out.”

“You’ll give an accounting,” John now waved his arms and clenched his fists as he screamed, “to the assembly for this butchery. I swear it. This is no different than the cannibalism I saw on the other side of the island.”

“No?” Father Donovan yelled back. “Maybe we ought to plan a barbecue. I’d kill them all again if I could. No regrets for me.”

Now Steve returned from patrol and joined the conversation. His voice carried rage, though his fury was controlled and subdued.

“This isn’t combat,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “It’s murder.”

“Your first war?” Donovan taunted as he laughed out loud. “Or did you earn a Boy Scouts merit badge in strategy and tactics?”

“We took plenty of prisoners during the Gulf War.”

“That wasn’t war,” Father Donovan said. “It was a live-fire exercise. Nicaragua was war.”

At that moment, a muffled scream sounded from the trees and the three westerners hurried into the woods—where they discovered a teenaged native lying on her back, her wrists bound and mouth now gagged. The girl’s nose was bloody and eyes bruised, and she watched in terror as two northsmen (and one of their women) determined her fate.

“Mind your manners,” the northern woman told the arriving westerners. “They cast lots to see who’d do her first. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

One of the men started to unbuckle his belt, but immediately howled in pain when John swung the flat edge of his spade into the side of the man’s leg. A knee buckled and the man collapsed. His partner jumped back and the woman raised her own ax as John thrust his shovel forward—ready to brawl.

But there was no fight, for two more fighters quickly reinforced Steve and his compatriots when Ryan and a southern man hurried to the scene—the former actor now wielding two spears and his associate brandishing a large knife. Even after Donovan and two confederates arrived a few moments later, the balance of power continued to favor Steve and his allies.

“Put the weapons down,” Steve ordered the northerners.

“She’s war booty,” a northsman said.

“That’s a bit literal,” Father Donovan said with a grin as he joined his companions, “but I do like the pun.”

“No one touches the girl,” John said as he stepped closer to the girl and aimed the sharp of his spade at the chest of the northern man with an unbuckled belt.

“I’m with John,” Steve said. “There’s been too much butchery already.”

“They’re not real women,” a northsman said, “only cannibals. They won’t even care.”

“They’re human beings,” John said, “and they have rights.”

“They ate our neighbors.”

“Is she worth your life?” John said with a scowl. “I tell you this girl won’t be touched while I live.”

“You westerners,” Father Donovan scowled, “are nothing but damned bourgeois moralists. Like Russian liberals, you have no idea what it takes to make a proletariat revolution; and like American academics, you gave up on the socialist triumph too soon. Do you think politics is a debating society? Do you think we fought the Contras with ideas? Do you think we terrorized Reagan’s gunmen with quotes from
The Communist Manifesto
?”

“You won’t terrorize this girl with anything.”

“Suit yourself,” Donovan said, “and take her with my blessing. I’ve known monks who were less fastidious than you people.”

Viet lifted the girl to her feet and escorted her toward the LCVP—which had been moved closer to shore—with the help of Ryan while Steve and John argued with Donovan over the fate of the prisoners. After some banter, Donovan said that the math alone dictated a policy of extermination.

Steve asked him to explain what he meant.

“We brought thirty-something soldiers with us,” Donovan said, “and we have room only for our own missing neighbors.”

“One man,” John now dropped his chin and whispered, “was cooked and another eaten raw. Some were being smoked for preservation. No one else needed to see that gruesome mess, so we buried them.”

“There’s nothing to eat on this god-forsaken island,” Father Donovan said, “except human flesh. They’ll eat their own children if we give them the chance. You two are the humanitarians. Tell us what to do.”

“How many are there?” Steve said as he made his own quick count.

The other waited for his numbers.

“Eleven women and thirteen children,” Steve announced. “If we bury our dead on this island, the weight should balance out. These natives are skin and bones. And the sea is calm.”

“I’d bring,” Donovan said with a scowl, “our dead home and leave the heathen to eat themselves. There’s not a boy over ten still alive and they’d all be gone before they can reproduce. Problem solved.”

Now Dr. Morales pushed his way into the conversation. “That’s genocide,” he declared.

“Genocide of three dozen cannibals? I don’t think so.”

“A whole people group would be exterminated.”

“And good riddance.”

Steve put a hand on Dr. Morales’s shoulder.

“We’ll take them with us,” Steve declared. “It’s the only decent thing to do. It’s all women and children.”

“See,” Father Donovan said, “how things manage to work themselves out? If the men still lived, we’d have had to leave them all behind to eat or be eaten. As it’s said, God works in mysterious ways.”

The northerners walked away while Steve and the westerners returned to the battle site and spent the next hour burying those killed in battle (with Brent and Hilary numbered among them). John recited the Lord’s Prayer over their graves and Steve ordered a military salute at their funerals—during which Father Donovan conducted final sweeps of nearby islets. Though screams were heard from one islet, Donovan and his raiders returned with no prisoners and answered no questions. Afterwards, captives were loaded into the landing craft and guarded by the bloodstained veterans of Paradise. By midafternoon, John steered the motorized launch through the coral reef as the LCVP followed close.

It was a choppy return to New Plymouth, broken several times by the sobs and sickness of terrified natives—whose taboo against crossing the sea was being violated and whose untested stomachs churned. The soldiers of Paradise, however, showed little regard for the suffering of cannibals vomiting out the remains of family and friend and turned cold shoulders to the natives and their crying children, though one ill-tempered northerner knocked a wild-eyed and screaming girl to the deck and kicked her in the ribs. The hysterical native wept and wallowed in a pool of half-digested flesh for an hour. Only when the landing craft came within sight of Paradise did an eastern woman splash her with a bucket of seawater.

37

Hysteria and Humanitarians

John motored the launch into the murky waters of Paradise late in the afternoon. As soon as the dark-shadowed island was in distant sight, he abandoned escort duty and gunned for port—where loved ones awaited news of the expedition. There, he told a fleet-footed girl to sound the alarm atop Mount Zion as he briefed everyone close about the destruction of southern manhood and slaughter of his own friends—as well as the fate of those initially captured by the cannibals. He also explained that the General Will of the People was needed to deal with captured civilians. No one who listened uttered a word and only after his account was finished did villagers individually approach him with fear and trembling, asking if he knew the fate of loved ones. Some islanders soon wept from grief while others sobbed from relief. Young children wandered aimless, unable to absorb the shock of death and grief. A southern boy who had lost both parents wept inconsolably, but there was no one to comfort him and eventually he wandered into the forest.

The siren already wailed atop Mount Zion when the LCVP lumbered aground. Medical assistants brought stretchers to transport the wounded to the infirmary while the living embraced with unashamed hugs and kisses. John ran to base camp—where he learned that contact had been made with a yacht whose captain promised to relay any requests for medical assistance. On his own authority, John instructed radio operators to request immediate medical assistance, then returned to the beach to deal with the captives. Meanwhile, native women who deboarded the landing craft were contained to the beach by armed guards—where they and their children wailed, tore flesh, and pulled hair at the sight of an enemy so numerous and strong. Some trembled as they eyed roasting spits built on the beach while others watched a polyglot of races—every black or white or red or yellow or brown face fixed on them—stare in unforgiving hatred or inconsolable grief.

Some natives tried to make amends. A sharp-toothed woman in her twenties, visibly quaking in fear, stepped forward with her head bowed as she dragged a toddler through the sand and carried a baby at her hip—placing both before the citizens of Paradise before scampering back to her own people. The toddler ran as fast as he could toward his own people and even managed to slip past his mother by diving between her legs, but the baby just thrashed in the sand and cried. The mother pointed at him, cried out shrill sounds and unintelligible words, and motioned for her enemy to take the child.

“Oh lord,” Dr. Morales said, “she’s offering her child for dinner so we’ll spare her.”

Though the anthropologist returned the child to its mother with a few curt words, the woman backed away, pointing at the child and shouting to the people of Paradise. When none responded, she rolled the baby into the sand a second time and stepped away.

As the baby cried, a battle-tested northsman pushed the anthropologist from his path and approached the child—pointing with one hand and holding a hoe with the other.

“Pick it up, you damned heathen!” the northsman screamed.

The woman didn’t move.

“Pick up your baby!” The northerner aimed the weapon at the mother. “Pick it up now!”

Now the woman became hysterical, babbling with such speed that Dr. Morales didn’t even try to translate. As the baby cried still louder yet, the northsman grew even more agitated.

“Someone,” the man screamed, “better shut the little heathen up.”

When no one responded, the northsman became utterly enraged—now screaming and threatening the woman as he motioned toward the child in a dozen different ways. Still, the woman wouldn’t go to her child and the baby screamed ever louder until the northsman finally raised his hoe above the baby’s chest.

“This is its last chance,” the northsman threatened.

“I’ll take him!”

It was Kit who called out for the child’s life as she pushed through a crowd of onlookers and threw herself between the raging northsman and the crying baby. Only as she moved the child into the forest (where the baby’s cries were muffled) did the warrior lower his weapon. Only then did the native woman stop her pleading and protesting.

A few minutes later, the captive cannibals were driven inland and placed under guard in a meadow. When several islanders set food and water before them, the women scrambled to eat. Boys and girls who threaded between the feet of old women and young mothers alike (to grab a share of the food) received kicks and blows for their pains, though one of them occasionally would run off with a handful of food—fighting off his peers to keep everything for himself. Few, however, succeeded and only after all adults had satisfied their own hunger did the young secure a few scraps to eat. Even babies weren’t fed until their mothers first quenched their own thirst by lapping milk pumped into their cupped hands or suckling the teats of other nursing mothers (who soon received the same favor in turn).

Guards looked on the spectacle with evident disgust, cursing some natives and poking others with sharpened sticks to stop the worst abuses. Some of the women scurried from their sticks and others hissed in anger, but no matter how hard they poked and prodded, the guards couldn’t inspire the cannibals to a single act of Christian charity, human kindness, or maternal love.

Three hours after the militia’s return, a moment of silence was observed for the dead and wounded as the General Will of the People was called to order inside the large tent—the assembly dimly lit with lanterns. Steve briefed the assembly on the day’s fighting and asked for citations of bravery for several men. He singled out John, in particular, for several acts of heroism and humanity throughout the long day and commended the southern soldiers who’d suffered the brunt of the initial attack without breaking ranks. Upon his recommendation, the assembly awarded the fallen southerners a unit citation for valor and authorized combat ribbons for all veterans of the short war.

Only then did talk turn to even more difficult matters.

“There’s also bad conduct to deal with,” Steve said, “and I wish I wasn’t the man standing here.”

The assembly hushed.

“Several men,” Steve said as the kerosene ran dry in a flickering lantern and a shadow subsequently covered his face, “and one woman went AWOL this morning and one man deserted in the face of the enemy. They let others die in their place and exposed our people to greater risk.”

No one stirred as Steve continued.

“Not one of us,” Steve said, “came here to wage war. But we all voted—the democracy voted and the people willed—to fight. Can some of us be exempt from the draft because we have high-minded principles or weak stomachs? Will we let the sons of senators stay home while others risk defilement and death?”

Now Tiffany stood, her sons clinging to their mother’s legs as she spoke slow and deliberate, her eyes puffed and bloodshot and her face stained with tears. Her voice quivered.

“My children lost their father,” Tiffany said, “while other men ran away: men who left no children behind. Or wives or husbands. Or anyone at all. Punish them all. Unless they can bring Brent back.”

Other voices seconded her proposal.

Lisa also stood.

“I lost,” Lisa said, “my best friend Hilary. They say she might’ve had a chance if one of her neighbors ... her own neighbor, I say ... hadn’t run away in battle. I’ve always been a pacifist and I still respect a refusal to kill. But refusing to die is different. Let those who dodged the draft live with their own consciences, but anyone who ran away in battle has no place among us. He could have stood beside her without killing. Or even stepped between her and the savage. That’s good enough.”

Several northsmen holding flaming torches spoke next, most of them veterans of the one-day war. One wanted to brand draft dodgers with hot irons and flog Jose while others preferred to send cowards into permanent exile. One northsman even advocated capital punishment—though his proposal was greeted with silence by most villagers and caused Ryan to rise in protest.

“I might have died for Jose’s cowardice,” Ryan said, “while you were held in reserve. But hanging him, even if he deserves it, is no solution. It’s just more killing.”

The northsmen hissed.

“I know we must do something,” Ryan continued, “since no one can be allowed to spurn the will of the community or to send someone to die in his place. I respect pacifism like any other man, but I had a cousin who was a conscientious objector—and who died in Vietnam as a medic saving another soldier’s life. Jose should have tended our wounded on the battlefield. Others might have survived. All I ask is that we stop the killing.”

“This isn’t the place to debate ethics,” Jose said as tears streamed down his cheeks, “nor the day. But I had the right to refuse to be part of a military machine. Today I watched boys cut the throats of grown men and saw children hanged. There was butchery and mayhem and I was right to refuse to participate in it. I’m not ashamed of my actions. I ran away from genocide, not from duty. I’m the one who deserves a medal.”

Jose sat down and a dozen red-eyed women stood up. A Latino woman from the south spoke first.

“I’m not debating the coward,” the Latino woman said. “I propose every draft dodger lose his citizenship and every deserter be exiled. Why should they enjoy rights they won’t fight to preserve?”

Several voices seconded her motion and the woman sat without further talk as Steve opened the floor to discuss what forfeiture of citizenship entailed. After several minutes, it was agreed non-citizens would be denied the right to serve in public office and vote in elections—island or village. It also was decided that the restoration of citizenship could be granted only by the General Will of the People. Though most conscientious objectors said little, Jose protested a great deal.

“This is too much,” Jose argued. “Even Nixon didn’t go this far. He let protestors go to Canada in peace. It’s tyranny and oppression and I refuse to accept it.”

“You won’t have to,” Father Donovan shouted from the shadows, “because you’ll be gone.”

“Don’t waste a boat on him,” a southern woman shouted. “Let him swim to Canada.”

“Cut it out,” Steve said. “We aren’t barbarians.”

“We are,” a burly northsman shouted, but no one laughed.

“We can put him on one of the motu permanently,” Steve said, “or we can send him home on our rescue ship.”

The audience fell silent at the unexpected news.

“Some of you haven’t heard,” Steve explained, “we’ve made contact with a yacht. Its captain has offered to evacuate our wounded. Probably to Hawaii. It’ll be here by tomorrow.”

The audience buzzed and Steve waited until the excitement faded before he continued.

“Let’s vote on Jose’s punishment,” Steve said. “Exile on one of our motu or exile to America?”

Though Jose begged to be returned to America (protesting that even the United States afforded more freedom than Paradise), it was decided by a margin of two votes that he should be exiled to an island—with southern widows arguing that banishment to America would be a reward rather than punishment. Afterwards, Father Donovan pointed at Jose as he projected his voice over the crowd.

“I propose,” the priest declared, “he be exiled to Roanoke Island where he can live with the memory of his cowardice.”

Several amens saluted this proposal and it was accepted. A few minutes later, Jose was bound with ropes to await execution of his sentence—openly sobbing as he was led away.

“There’s one final issue,” Steve announced a moment later, “and it’s the most serious yet. We nearly came to a fight over the fate of captives.”

“Why’d we bring the cannibals here?” a northsman said. “They’ll eat us in our sleep. Or they’ll eat their children on our own tables.”

Heads nodded and shouts sounded as Dr. Morales stood.

“These people are a living cultural artifact,” the anthropologist said. “We’ve never encountered anyone like them before and it’s important for future scholarship they not be compromised by modern society. We must respect their way of life and not stand as cultural imperialists. Though we’ve already killed almost every hope for the unadulterated continuation of their culture, if we return some boys and girls, perhaps they have at least a remote chance of reproduction and survival as a bastardized cultural legacy.”

Catcalls erupted.

“You killed my husband.”

“You murdered Heather.”

“Let them eat anthropologist.”

Dr. Morales sat down—his scholarship repudiated—and Father Donovan stood.

“We’re forgetting one thing," Father Donovan said. “Our own charter guarantees citizenship to every person living among us. If they stay, they vote—and we’ll bring a neighborhood of cannibals into the political process. I don’t see how our ideals can survive it.”

“We can’t send them back,” Ryan said, “or they’ll eat our dead and their living. And Jose.”

“Then we execute them,” Donovan said with a shrug.

“For what crime?” Ryan shouted, red-faced and angry.

“Not crime, but crimes.”

“Name one.”

“Crimes against humanity.”

“Cannibalism isn’t a crime against humanity.”

“That’s only because Hitler,” Father Donovan said, “was a vegetarian, so the Nuremburg Tribunal didn’t have to address the issue.”