The Cuckoo Colloquium

28 - Pete

In the grayness of the morning mist, he hunted with a sharpened spear.

"We'll eat well, mates," Pete whispered with a sure nod, stepping silently through the thick flora ahead of the two teens, who came to watch, like cubs behind their mother. They followed in his footprints, as he told them to do, so as not to break twigs.

Pete was shirtless, and he fluttered quietly through the undergrowth like a moth. The jungle had become a magic elixir for him; his senses had become acute again, and he swiveled back to the kids and put a finger to his lips ...

The boars were snorting on the other side of some fallen trees.

He crept closer. Another step. Pete could make out the high-pitched grunts of a baby; that's the one he wanted. Roast boar was a delicacy on the menus of even the five-star hotels.

Pete took one more step, shifted his weight, raised his spear,..

The small question of marksmanship remained-Could he throw the crude weapon with accuracy? He thought so. Slowly, he leaned over the downed tree and hovered over the three boars ...

And for that moment Pete saw himself in a picture, some old daguerreotype photograph of a bygone age. All he needed was a headpiece with horns to appear the consummate warrior-just before he hurled the spear, just before he killed ...

"La-la-la-la-laaaa!"

Sudden music resonated through the trees, some preposterous pop song in a language of gibberish. And the three boars screeched and jumped like panicked roaches, charging will-nilly from underneath the fallen tree.

Pete bowled over first, then Windy, then Pinky Bell, her pink fanny pack flying high, and her wallet, her money, her photos, her cards, came fluttering down like confetti at V-Day as the boars disappeared into the forest behind them.

Flat on his flipside, Pete was crestfallen. "Well, answer it, then."

Pinky Bell pulled a pink cellular phone from a pocket in the pack, the ringtone merrily chirping some youthful Japanese tune.

Pete sat up, grumbling at the ill-fated turn of events, and picked up the spear he had mislaid in the disturbance.

"Moshi-Moshi?" he heard her say into the phone several times.

Then the boy grabbed the phone from her. "Hello, hello?" He fiddled with it, but appeared to get no reception.

"A man was speaking French," she said, stooping to pick up the cards that had flown from her wallet.

Nothing made any sense to Pete. "What would the blasted French be doing out here? And cell phones don't work in a jungle-there are no towers."

The girl just stood there in her no-nothing witlessness, staring from Pete to the phone, and then back at Pete again.

Meanwhile, the strange camel they were calling Personal Growth-for lack of anything better-gave an impatient "PFFFFFFFFFFFF" from back in the clearing.

Pete would get them home, sooner or later-he was sure of that. They'd get help, everything they needed-at the village. All the familiar landmarks were guiding him right in like beacons on a runway-the mountains to the east, the same, snaking river to the west; it didn't matter that it was nearly seventy years ago.

He began whistling the tune again, something he knew as Colonel Bogey. The camel also seemed to know where they were headed, and it often led the way as they trooped south, gaining altitude as they hiked. The trees grew higher, and the forest grew darker, and the rain fell in steamy drizzles.