Jungle of Bones Page 13

  “Hey, how are you doing, trooper?” Uncle Todd asked, reaching down and placing the folded American flag on Dylan’s chest. “We found you hugging this in the bomber.”

  Dylan ran his hand over the soft cloth. “Thanks,” he said, his voice scratchy. “That was the flag Grandpa talked about in his journal.”

  “Hey, Dylan. We were worried about you,” Quentin said.

  Dylan wanted to close his eyes to escape the stares. “I screwed up,” he mumbled.

  “How you feeling?” Allen asked.

  “Like a truck hit me,” Dylan said.

  The old man with the painted black body smiled at Dylan. “I must leave now,” he said. He stooped and touched Dylan’s forehead gently, then he walked to the ladder and began crawling down. Before his head disappeared, he called, “Good-bye, Deeeeloooon.”

  Dylan jerked his head up to look, but the man had disappeared. “Who was that guy? A witch doctor?” he blurted.

  “He saved your life,” Uncle Todd said. “He came and told our group where you were. Told us how he helped you find the bomber. Not sure we would have believed him except he knew the name Second Ace and he described you and the clothes you wore.”

  “I didn’t meet that old man,” Dylan said. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  Uncle Todd shook his head. “You must have. Maybe you were delirious. He said his name was Kanzi.”

  Dylan stared, wide-eyed, and shook his head. “No, no, no,” he stammered. “Kanzi was a young girl, younger than me. She said she was from a village called Maswa.”

  Uncle Todd shook his head. “Kanzi was definitely that old man. He said he started a fire for you, fed you, and led you to Second Ace.”

  The young village woman put her hand on Uncle Todd’s arm. She spoke quietly, with broken English. “No village called Maswa. Maswa means dreams. Kanzi, he be who he needs to be.”

  “What do you mean?” Gene Cooper asked.

  “Many people come here for bad reason. Some look for airplanes to steal engines or take money from dead people. Kanzi sometimes kills people with bad reasons. Kanzi knows you come for good reasons. That is why he lets you live.” She looked at Dylan. “Kanzi knows you have good heart.”

  Dylan shook his head. “I wasn’t crazy. Kanzi was just a young girl. She bit on my ankle and made it bleed because of the snake poison. She started a fire and brought me food. I know she was real.”

  The young woman nodded, toying with the reed bag she carried. “Kanzi is a girl for you because you need a girl to help you.”

  Dylan bit his tongue — he didn’t need any girl to help him! But even as the thought came to him, he knew he had needed Kanzi desperately. Maybe someone younger, with an innocent face and a sharp tongue to make him feel humble. That was exactly what he had needed.

  The bashful woman turned to Gene Cooper. “You needed old man painted with black to help you believe.” She raised her hands upward. “Maybe everything is real. Maybe nothing is real. Real is what we believe. We all believe different. I think today Kanzi comes to say good-bye to all of you.”

  Gene Cooper turned and stared at the pole ladder Kanzi had climbed down, then he turned back and spoke to Dylan. “Right now, you need a hospital. You were in rough shape last evening when we found you inside Second Ace, so we brought you here to Balo. If you’re up for it, we’ll carry you to Swagup today. Then we have a dugout canoe ready to take us back to Ambunti.”

  Uncle Todd stood nearby, unable to hide his worry and stress. When he spoke, his voice sounded angry. “If you’re still alive, a plane will take you to Port Moresby, where we’ll get you into a hospital until you can travel back to the US. We’re not going to rush things. You’ve been through a lot.”

  Dylan looked up. “Thanks, everybody, for helping me,” he said.

  “While we get ready, you get more sleep,” Gene said, motioning for the rest to leave.

  Dylan panicked. “Somebody stay here,” he pleaded.

  “I’ll stay,” Quentin said.

  “Is that okay?” Gene asked.

  Dylan nodded. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  As everybody left, Quentin sat down beside Dylan’s pad on the hard floor. He adjusted the mosquito netting. “Man, we looked all over for you,” he said. When Dylan didn’t answer, Quentin kept talking. “Our guides had three villages searching. It was like you disappeared into nowhere. One second you were there, the next second you evaporated. I thought you had died or maybe some critter had gotten you. I was thinking that if you had —” Suddenly Quentin stopped. “I shouldn’t be talking so much, should I? You need to sleep.”

  Dylan reached his hand toward Quentin until it touched the netting. “I don’t ever want to be alone again in my life. Please keep talking,” he said.

  When Dylan woke next, he was being lowered down the notched pole ladder, the same ladder the old man who had claimed to be Kanzi had crawled down. Dylan’s body ached, and he felt drained of all energy. Carefully, Uncle Todd and Allen placed him on a rough stretcher they had fashioned from two poles and some canvas. Two men from the village had been hired to guide them and to help carry Dylan through the jungle and swamp to Swagup.

  As they left, Dylan clenched his teeth against the constant jarring. It had rained most of the night, and each time one of the carriers brushed against a bush or a tree, a shower of water drenched the stretcher. Everybody took turns helping to carry Dylan, even Quentin. In the suffocating heat, sometimes they traded turns every hundred yards.

  Dylan tried to take his mind off the jarring pain by looking up at the steaming jungle. He smelled the trees, the palms, the mosses, and the heavy, pungent odor of decay. For the first time, he noticed how the smells were stronger after rain. And he heard sounds in a way he had never noticed, the rustling in the underbrush, wind blowing through the jungle canopy, and birds and insects chorusing with a piercing harmony. The sounds were beautiful.

  Suddenly, Dylan felt sick to his stomach and he turned sideways and threw up. He had never felt so rough in his life. Allen had put alcohol on the leeches to remove them, but the hot and cold flashes persisted. Dylan’s insect bites and sunburn covered his body with boils and welts. The thorns in his heels had infected and oozed pus. His arms ached from gripping the stretcher poles. Worst was his ankle, which was still swollen from the snake bite. He could no longer put weight on that foot. Even lying on the stretcher, it ached.

  Struggling to carry Dylan across a deep stretch of swamp, Allen Jackson lost his balance. Dylan found himself suddenly swimming to keep his head up. Uncle Todd helped Dylan back onto the stretcher. “Hang in there,” he said, his words sounding more like a command than encouragement.

  When Quentin took his next turn carrying the stretcher, he asked Dylan, “Why did you walk away from everybody?”

  Dylan didn’t want to think. “I was mad,” he mumbled.

  “Because of me?”

  “No. Because of a lot of things, most of which had nothing to do with you. I didn’t want to be here anymore.”

  Quentin breathed heavily. “Lots of times I don’t get what I want, but I don’t walk away into a jungle,” he said.

  “I was just being stupid,” Dylan admitted.

  Quentin was quiet for a moment. “Well, you found Second Ace,” he said finally. “And you survived. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d gotten lost. Freaked, probably. But you aren’t a screw-up. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Thanks,” Dylan said, his voice shaking. He closed his eyes tightly. He felt hot and wet. “That means a lot, Quentin.”

  To keep Dylan from falling off, Uncle Todd and Gene Cooper wrapped a rope around the stretcher, tying Dylan to it. Each time the team traded turns carrying him, they took a short rest. During one rest, Dylan asked in a coarse whisper, “Did you guys get what you needed at the bomber?”

  Gene shrugged. “We couldn’t spend as much time at the wreckage as we would have liked, because we had to get you out of there. We were able to establis
h coordinates for finding it again. Quentin found two sets of dog tags, and we took a number of pictures that will help with recovery.”

  “What happens now?” Dylan asked.

  “You get rest,” Gene suggested.

  “I won’t rest until I get off this stretcher,” Dylan said. “What happens now with Second Ace?”

  “A U.S. Marines recovery team will come in. That team will be made up of forensic anthropologists, a communications officer, explosive disposal officers in case there are live bombs, and a whole slew of other experts.”

  “What happens to the bones?” Dylan asked.

  “Everything they find will be taken to Hawaii for identification. Individual remains will be returned to their families. A separate memorial service will be held at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery out in D.C. for the remains that can’t be identified. That ceremony will honor and recognize the whole crew.”

  “It’s too bad this didn’t happen years ago,” Dylan remarked. “Grandpa could have been there.”

  “It’s hard finding wrecks in the jungle,” Gene said. “The PNG government doesn’t want them removed, saying they’re a part of their country’s history and could bring tourist money to the region. Local chieftains often think they’re sacred because of the dead. For some crew members, the memories are too hard. And —” He shrugged. “Some people just don’t care anymore.” He looked at Dylan, who was still clutching the folded American flag. “Do you want me to put that flag in my backpack?”

  “No,” Dylan replied. “I’m going to be the one who takes it home. It belonged to Grandpa.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” Gene asked.

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Dylan said.

  “Whatever you do, I’m sure it would have made your grandfather proud.”

  Dylan grew silent. He hadn’t made anybody proud with anything he had done. “There’s so much stuff I didn’t know,” he said.

  Gene gave him a curious look, allowed a guarded smile, and then nodded. “Okay, everybody, let’s hit the trail again. Swagup isn’t getting any closer.”

  By the time they reached Swagup, the setting sun cast long shadows. Everybody had reached the end of their endurance. Even holding the flag was now a struggle for Dylan. When they helped him from the stretcher, his leg gave out and he fell hard to the ground. His swollen ankle had doubled in size and pained him terribly. Huge beads of sweat dripped from Dylan’s face, and his body burned with fever.

  “You’re in a bad way!” Gene exclaimed. “Let’s get you lying down where I can check you over.”

  “I’ll help,” Quentin volunteered. He and his father helped Dylan up and carried him to the pole hut where they would all sleep that night. It took everybody to lift Dylan up the steep ladder to the main floor. Carefully Gene took Dylan’s blood pressure and temperature, then examined every inch of his body.

  Dylan rested, listening to everyone talk. Hearing voices again was sweet music. There were times in the jungle when he had thought he would never again hear another human voice. For a short time, Dylan passed out. When he awoke, he found the team gathered in one corner of the small hut, whispering to each other.

  Dylan called out, “Hey, what’s the big secret?”

  “It’s nothing,” Allen said, turning. “Just planning tomorrow.”

  Dylan watched the family who owned the pole hut as they prepared the evening meal. He realized how kind and giving the villages of Papua New Guinea could be. He had come over here afraid of cannibals and headhunters, thinking everybody was backward and uncivilized. What he had found was kindness. They didn’t have to help a stupid teenager from America. His life meant nothing to them. But again and again complete strangers had helped their team. During the last week, Dylan had come to feel that he was the one who was uncivilized. He was the one whose world was all screwed up.

  Quentin interrupted Dylan’s thoughts, bringing food. “Here, eat something,” he pleaded. “You need to do everything you can to help your body recover.”

  “I’m already better,” Dylan said.

  “No you’re not!” Quentin said forcefully, as if he knew something that Dylan didn’t.

  Reluctantly, Dylan forced down some cooked sago and salted fish. The rain water he drank in the jungle was better than the water here. This stuff had iodine from pills Allen Jackson added to kill germs and bacteria.

  Villagers kept crawling up the ladder to peek at the white boy who almost died in the jungle — the one who had met Kanzi. By bedtime, Dylan felt really rough. The infection in his leg had grown worse. It hurt to even touch his ankle.

  Before going to sleep, the team gathered around Dylan. He could tell from their faces that serious news was coming.

  “Dylan, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you have bad gangrene in your leg,” Gene said bluntly. “That means your cells are dying, and bacteria have begun to grow in the tissue. The hospital may have to amputate, or it could kill you.”

  “You mean cut my leg off?” Dylan exclaimed.

  Gene nodded. “It all depends on how fast we can get you to Australia. Sydney will be your best chance now. Not Port Moresby.”

  “That’s what you guys were whispering about,” Dylan said.

  Uncle Todd nodded, his expression grim.

  Dylan’s chest felt suddenly tight. The small hut seemed to press inward. He couldn’t believe this. His eyes grew hot, and it took all his strength to hold back his tears. “This wouldn’t have happened if Mom hadn’t sent me to your place. It’s all her fault!” he blurted.

  Uncle Todd spoke sharply. “Don’t you dare blame your mom or me or anyone else for what happened. You will never know how hard it was for your mother to call me for help. You’re the one who pulled this dumb stunt in the jungle that almost killed you.”

  Dylan felt a sudden shame. This was the first time he had seen his uncle show real anger. He knew Uncle Todd was right, but he had wanted desperately to blame someone else. Being mad had always been easier than looking in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Uncle Todd hesitated as if wanting to say something. Then he turned to leave. “We leave early to take a dugout down the Sepik to Ambunti. Get some sleep — you’ll need it. Hopefully we can fly you direct from Ambunti to Port Moresby instead of going through Wewak. Your leg may depend on it.”

  Quentin remained beside Dylan’s mosquito netting after the rest left. When the gas lantern was turned off, Quentin sat down on the floor. “Are you mad at me?” he whispered in the dark.

  “No,” Dylan whispered back. “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t have any friends back home. Dad tells me I talk too much, and that I always act like I know everything. It’s not like I know everything, but I do know a lot of stuff. Once a guy stopped me in a store and —”

  “Your talking didn’t give me gangrene in my leg,” Dylan interrupted. “Not yet.”

  “A person couldn’t get gangrene in their leg from talking unless you sat on that leg. Maybe then the leg could lose circulation and —”

  “I was just joking,” Dylan said. “Go get some sleep.”

  Quentin allowed a shallow laugh. “Uh, oh yeah, you were just joking.” He stood and paused awkwardly in the dark. “I really hope you don’t lose your leg.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be okay.” As Quentin turned to leave, Dylan whispered, “You helped save my life. Nobody would do that except a friend.”

  Dylan thought he heard a sniffle in the dark. “That’s cool,” Quentin said, disappearing into the darkness with a small flashlight he had turned on.

  Dylan reached down and felt his ankle. It was hot, swollen, and numb as a post. He had a sick feeling inside as he stared up into the darkness. Already somebody snored loudly.

  Dylan slept little all night, tossing back and forth, grimacing. Each time he rolled over, his ankle made him cry out with pain. Between the nausea, pain, fever, and chills, the dark night b
ecame a living hell.

  When the team rose before daylight, Dylan felt numb with exhaustion. Once again he was lowered down the ladder and carried the short distance to the shore of the Sepik River. Gene insisted that he eat some fruit and cold fish left from the night before. They placed Dylan in the middle of a large dugout canoe, stretched out on the bottom where there would be the least movement. In minutes the outboard engine fired up and Dylan felt the boat being shoved out from shore.

  Riding down the river was much easier than being carried on a stretcher. Occasionally they plowed across the wake of another boat, but mostly it was calm

  “It’s a race against time,” Uncle Todd shouted to Dylan above the engine’s steady drone. “We hired the fastest boat and paid him extra to keep her at full speed. We won’t find out until we arrive in Ambunti if they were able to arrange a plane direct to Port Moresby. Pray they can!”

  Dylan clenched his teeth against the constant pain and wondered if the ride would ever end. Every half hour, Uncle Todd leaned over and gave him water. After a time, Dylan lost the ability to focus on what was happening around him. Now he endured each second, holding on to his sanity as if clinging to the edge of a cliff. How much longer could he hold on? What would happen if he couldn’t? What choice did he have?

  When Dylan was certain the trip would never end, the boat slowed and motored ashore in Ambunti. Already, Allen Jackson was calling to somebody on the riverbank to check on the airplane. Dylan heard other voices, then Allen shouted, “Great. We’ll have him there in fifteen minutes.”

  Again, the movement made Dylan grimace with pain, and once more, he threw up, this time mostly fluids. Uncle Todd stretched a mat out on the floor of a small van but it didn’t soften the jarring as they bounced down the rough road, headed for the airport beside the river. All Dylan could do was pinch his eyes closed and moan. He knew everyone was trying to help him, but it was killing him. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone to die? At least then the pain would end.