John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

Just as quickly as he entered, he exited, only miles away, close to the coast. The topography was vastly different and the smells and sounds of the ocean were apparent. No longer the sometimes claustrophobic greenery blotting out the sun, the oppressive dank of jungle humidity quickly sapping his strength and energy. Instead a wide open, sun drenched panorama greeted him with cool, fresh breezes that carried the refreshing smell of freedom and escape.

Stepping out from a natural stone outcropping, he stumbled towards the sound of breaking surf. He was dazed, like someone thrown from a horrific car crash, wandering about without purpose. Covering his face he wore a two week-old stubble and much of his ash white paint job had worn off and was scuffed and dirty. Hanging about his neck from a thin leather strap was a tiny leather satchel filled with miniature nautilus shells of every color. When he finally made the clearing, he found himself on a large rock-strewn beach. There in front of him stood four men. Three native elders and one white man.

He called out for help but found his voice all but gone. The man raced forward to help him and John collapsed in his arms. He pulled his head back trying to focus on his rescuer's face. 

"Can't be!" he thought. "Wharton?"

"Don't speak," he quickly said.

The elders stepped up, addressing the professor.

"Kua whakaturia tona aroaro te karaka i roto i te motini."

"(His presence has set the clock in motion)."

"Hoki te aha"

(For what?) asked Professor Wharton.

"Te hokinga nui ... kohikohi nga Repaima i te kuwaha. Me ia faaineine ia koe."

"(The great return... The giants gather at the gate. You must prepare him)."

"Ka tatou karanga a ka haere mai koutou?"

"(We shall call, and you shall come?)" the elder asked.

"E tatou."

"(We will)," affirmed the professor.

"Hohoro te haere, te whai ratou!"

"(Go quickly, one follows!)"

Professor Wharton shook his head. "Man, if this isn't Deja Vu all over again."

The three elders backed into the rocks and trees and in some Harry & the Hendersons camouflage moment, were swallowed into the background leaving no footprints. Unbeknownst to the pair, the "one" following was much closer than they had realized. But this was no ordinary guy. He moved with incredible speed through the thick underbrush and soon the sound of snapping branches could be heard.

As he drew ever closer, the now frantic thrashing was mixed with exaggerated, heavy breathing and punctuated with scary, animal-like grunts and snarls. Whoever or whatever this was, was clearly not racing towards them for a last-minute hug. Whatever its intentions, John and the professor had no intention of hanging around to find out.

Wasting no time, Professor Wharton straightened John up, slung his arm across his own shoulders and began to push him towards the water's edge where he had hidden a small skiff behind one of the barnacle-encrusted boulders.

It was low tide, so the small boat was now perched on the sand. The professor tried getting John to lend a hand in dragging the boat to the retreating sea, but John was still in some post-trauma haze and was of little help. Still dazed and somewhat oblivious, he stopped and looked over at the professor.

"Wharton?"

Right now, John was that annoying, drunk friend who stops in the middle of a busy street to light a cigarette.