The Envoy

The jungle heat clung to me like a wet blanket, making every breath feel thick and heavy. My skin was slick with sweat, and the relentless buzz of cicadas filled the humid air. The machete glinted in the late afternoon light as the madman lunged toward me again, his bloodshot eyes wild with fury.

My heart pounded in my chest as I barely dodged his strike. The blade cut through the air so close that I felt the breeze against my ear. The sound was sharp and final, like death announcing itself. Betel Nut juice stained his lips a deep crimson, giving the appearance of a feral beast foaming at the mouth. His intoxicated state made him unpredictable and immune to reason.

I kept my voice calm, though fear clawed at the edges of my mind. "One tok, stop lon hurt," I pleaded in Pidgin English, hoping to reach whatever shred of humanity was left in him. But his eyes, glazed with madness, saw only a threat before him.

He screamed something incomprehensible and charged again, this time bringing the blade down in a wild overhead swing. Instinct took over. I stepped inside his attack, my senses narrowing to the single goal of survival. My hand found the worn leather scabbard inside my right jungle boot, and in one swift motion, I drew my skinning knife.

The blade met flesh, sliding in with shocking ease. Hot, sticky blood gushed over my hand, and I followed him to the ground, keeping the knife in place. The jungle seemed to hold its breath as his life drained away, the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat slowing beneath my palm.

I stared into his face, contorted with rage and confusion. He didn’t seem to understand what was happening, didn’t know that he was dying. His mouth opened as if to speak, but only a shuddering breath escaped. I pulled the knife free, and a final gush of blood darkened the earth beneath him.

A wave of disbelief washed over me. How had it come to this? My hands, slick with his blood, trembled as I stared at the lifeless body before me. I had no idea who he was or where he had come from. Only that he had tried to kill me, and I had stopped him.

Half an hour earlier, I had been knee-deep in another nightmare. The acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh hung in the air as I sprinted toward the fire. Two small boys—no older than eight and ten—were bound together, their hands tied as flames licked at their skin.

"Ososo!" I screamed, my voice raw with urgency. "Get over here!"

Without waiting for help, I plunged into the blaze, ignoring the searing heat against my arms. The younger boy was wailing, his voice high-pitched and desperate—a sound that at least gave me hope that he was still in the fight. But the older boy was deathly silent, his wide, glassy eyes fixed on something far away.

I grabbed them both, the rough rope biting into my hands as I pulled them free from the inferno. Smoke stung my eyes, and the heat stole the air from my lungs. I collapsed onto the dirt, gasping for breath as I frantically patted out the smouldering embers on their clothes.

"Come on, stay with me," I muttered, my voice breaking. The younger boy clung to me, sobbing into my chest, but the older one just stared into nothingness. His skin was blistered and raw, and I feared the worst.

Ososo finally appeared, his face grim as he took in the scene. "We have to go now," he said urgently, glancing toward the jungle. 

I came ashore from the banks of the Fly River in the Territory of Papua and New Guinea as it was known then, making my way toward a small village. Only half an hour earlier, I had rescued two small boys, from a fire where they had been thrown. Their hands had been tied together before they were cast into the flames.

I had pulled them from the fire, shouting for my head boat boy to help me. As I looked at the elder boy’s face, I feared for him. The younger one was crying—a relief, as it meant he wasn’t in shock like his older brother. I didn’t fully understand what constituted shock, but the older boy said nothing; he only stared wide-eyed into nothingness.

Ososo explained to me that their father had tied them together and thrown them onto the fire to teach them a lesson. They had let their father’s pigs out of their pen—an act that could have destroyed his prestige within the village. There were always more children, but pigs were much harder to come by.

The boat cut through the murky waters of the Fly River, its hull barely disturbing the still surface. The rhythmic hum of the motor echoed in the vast silence, broken only by the occasional screech of a cockatoo hidden deep in the jungle canopy. The air was thick with moisture, clinging to our skin like a second layer.

Ososo sat at the bow, his gaze fixed on the endless stretch of brown water ahead. Behind him, Howard and PB tended to the surviving boy, while I steered the boat. The younger child was curled up on a woven mat, his burnt skin covered in a mixture of ash and herbal paste that Ososo had applied earlier. His shallow breaths were steady now, but my chest tightened every time I glanced at him.

The older boy was gone. He had slipped away during the journey, his fragile body unable to withstand the trauma. The crew had wrapped him in a piece of canvas and carried him into the bush to bury him beneath a tangle of vines and ferns. I didn’t go with them.

I stayed by the canoe, my hands trembling as I stared at the bloodstains still crusted on my knuckles. The image of the father’s lifeless body haunted me—the madness in his eyes, the warm gush of his blood on my hand. But it wasn’t his death that gnawed at my soul.

It was the boy.

His wide, unseeing eyes stared back at me every time I closed my own. I had killed his father, but I couldn’t save him. The weight of that failure pressed down on me, and for the first time since arriving in Papua New Guinea, I felt completely lost.

Ososo’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "We bury him good," he said quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "No spirits come back for him."

I nodded, unable to speak. Grief clung to me like the oppressive heat, and I knew it would be a long time—if ever—before I could shake it off.

We arrived in Ipico just after dawn. The village was already bustling with activity, the air thick with the scent of fish and wood smoke. Women in bright woven skirts carried bundles of taro root on their heads, while children chased each other through the narrow dirt paths.

The clinic was a modest building made of corrugated iron, and a male nurse greeted us at the entrance. He took one look at the boy and motioned for us to follow him inside. I watched as he cleaned the burns and applied fresh bandages, his hands steady and methodical.

"I'll do what I can," he said grimly, "but he's got a long road ahead."

With the boy in the nurse's care, I had no excuse to delay the inevitable. I made my way to the Assistant District Commissioner’s office, my stomach twisted in knots.

Job Wotherspoon sat behind a battered wooden desk, his face flushed from the heat or perhaps from the perpetual indignation he seemed to carry. His thinning hair was plastered to his forehead, and he regarded me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

After I recounted the events, his expression darkened. "Do you know about the payback system here?" he asked, his voice heavy with authority.

"I've heard of it," I admitted, though the specifics were vague in my mind.

"Then you know you're in deep trouble." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a grave whisper. "The family will come for you. It's tribal law. Either you negotiate a settlement, or they’ll kill you. And I don't think you'll make it out of the country in time."

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. "Is there anyone who can mediate?"

"Your boat boy, Ososo. He seems sharp."

But Ososo shook his head when I asked him. "No, boss. My tribe and theirs—no good. Blood will spill."

I felt my hope slipping away until Howard, the ever-cheerful youngest member of our crew, spoke up. "I can do it, boss. My tribe and theirs—ok."

Reluctantly, I agreed, and we arranged to meet the tribe on the dockside that afternoon.

The heat inside the shed was unbearable. Sweat poured down my back, soaking through my shirt. The headman sat calmly on a crate, a massive bone through his nose and a serene expression on his face. His younger men, however, were restless. They paced up and down, their weapons gleaming in the dim light. Bows and arrows, spears, and machetes were on full display, a clear reminder of what could happen if the negotiations went south.

Howard stood beside me, smiling as though we were at a Sunday picnic. "All good, boss," he whispered. "They just want to scare you."

"Well, it's working," I muttered through gritted teeth.

The headman finally spoke, his voice low and measured. Howard listened intently, nodding at intervals. But as the conversation dragged on, the younger men grew more agitated. They shouted and gestured wildly, accusing me of being a "whitey killer of locals." I dared not move, even as sweat stung my eyes. Any sudden gesture could be mistaken for hostility.

Then, just as I was sure the tension would erupt into violence, Howard broke into a wide grin. "All settled, boss!" he announced triumphantly.

Relief washed over me. "What do I owe them?"

"Not many, boss. Just three pigs."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Three pigs? That's doable."

Howard beamed. "Plus another three for friendship forever."

"Wait, what? That's six pigs!"

"Yes, boss," Howard said cheerfully. "Only six pigs."

"Where the hell am I supposed to get six pigs?"

The headman spoke again, and Howard's grin widened. "He will sell them to us so we can give them to him."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Howard, how much does he want for the pigs?"

"Very cheap, boss. Only $1,000 each."

My heart sank. "That's $6,000, Howard. Are you insane?"

Howard shrugged. "And one million dollars for the tribe's friendship."

I nearly lost it. Grabbing Howard by the hair, I pulled out my knife and pressed it to his throat. His eyes went wide with horror.

The headman and his men watched with curiosity, as if this was all part of the entertainment.

"Howard," I growled, "where am I going to get six pigs and a million dollars?"

"It's ok, boss. Just give him a hundred dollars now and promise the pigs next week."

Somehow, against all logic, it worked. The headman beamed, shaking my hand vigorously. We broke up as jolly good fellows, and I paid him the hundred dollars.

The sun was dipping low over Ipico when we finally left the dockside shed. The heavy, stifling heat had given way to a warm breeze that rustled the palms along the shore. The tension from the negotiation still clung to my body, but the relief of leaving that shed alive was palpable.

Howard strutted beside me, clearly pleased with himself. "All good, boss! Big deal of the year, eh?" he grinned, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

"You call that a big deal?" I hissed, trying to keep my voice low. "Six pigs and a million dollars? Howard, that's daylight robbery!"

"Only a hundred dollars now, boss," he said cheerfully, as though that solved everything. "Pigs can come later."

I shook my head, still seething. "And where do you think I'm going to find six pigs, Howard? They don't grow on trees."

He shrugged, his grin never wavering. "Maybe we catch some wild ones?"

I stared at him, incredulous. "Wild pigs? You want me to go hunting in the jungle with a million mosquitoes just to settle this madness?"

Howard laughed as though I'd suggested the most absurd thing in the world. "Jungle pigs no good for the headman. They want fat, juicy pigs for family honor."

I sighed, feeling the weight of the impossible task pressing down on me. I couldn’t afford to pay the Headman $6,000 for the pigs. My next check from the sale of crocodile pelts wasn’t due for another three weeks—so what to do?

Ososo pointed his head in the direction of the village.

“What?” I asked.

Again, he gestured toward the village with his head.

“Ahh, you mean there are pigs in the village? How much do you think they’ll want for them?”

Ososo rolled his eyes as if to say, What is wrong with you? Then I got it—he had no intention of us actually paying for the pigs.

We hatched a very cunning plan—or rather, a desperate one, though at twenty years old, I couldn’t tell the difference. These pigs belonged to the Australian government. They were distributed to subsistence farmers to supplement their income and provide meat for their families. One of the most prestigious jobs in the village was caring for the pigs because it meant first access to the dung, which provided heat for cooking and, when properly rolled, made an excellent floor for huts. Burning it also kept the mosquito population down. A good deal all around.

Avoiding detection by the pig minders wasn’t going to be easy. So, Ososo decided we should put on a show to keep the village occupied while we “relieved” the ADC of a few of his pigs.

The fourth member of our team was, without a doubt, one of the strongest men I’ve ever known. We called him PB—short for Pretty Boy. He had muscles that could put a bodybuilder to shame and a devastating smile that made the Maries (local girls) go weak at the knees. The only other person who had that effect was me, but only because I was different—I was white. In most places we traveled along the mighty Fly River on shooting expeditions, local people had never seen a white man before.

The plan was simple. We would put on a performance, challenging the village’s strongest men to outmatch PB. Word spread quickly. We gathered an assortment of thick branches, some as big as small trees, and rocks the size of beer barrels. The event was set for dusk—right after the evening meal and at the start of betel nut chewing and beer drinking. A potent combination if ever there was one.

We arranged to meet the Headman on the outskirts of the village, where he would take possession of the "payment." PB would lift a weight, and the villagers would try to match him. The Maries would gawk at PB’s muscles, while the village boys took advantage of the distraction to flirt with the girls.

With the crowd thoroughly entertained, Howard, Ososo, and I crept toward the pig pen. We cut out six pigs and herded them out, but they promptly disappeared into the bush—never to be seen again. Clearly, we needed a better plan to keep them together.

Ososo cut vines from the nearby trees, and we tried again. While rounding them up, I stepped into the biggest hole full of pig shit, sinking up to my crotch and filling one of my boots in the process. That should have been enough to swear me off pork for life.

Eventually, we managed to hobble the pigs by tying their legs together. We herded them to the shed where the deal was done, praying the drunken noise from the village was enough to drown out any pig squeals. The Headman’s face lit up when he saw them. Ososo made sure he understood that he needed to make the pigs disappear quickly—and he did.

Back at the show, PB was lifting a rock that should have been impossible to lift. Watching him, I considered renaming him "Pocket Rocket" after that mini Bulgarian weightlifter who could lift more than his own weight.

Then Job joined me. He took one whiff and said, “Jesus, man, did you shit yourself?”

“Of course I did,” I replied. “You think I smell like this all the time?”

I assured him it was actually Howard who stank, but Howard just smiled.

Seeing Job reminded me that I shouldn’t be around when the missing pigs were discovered. The show ended, and as expected, no one in the village could match PB’s strength. I didn’t know what his reward would be—until he showed up at the boat with several of his latest conquests in tow.

“PB,” I said, “they’re very nice, but we have to go before morning.”

“Okay, boss,” he said, “but a bit of fun first.”

“We don’t have time.”

PB looked offended. “Hey, boss, which one do you want?”

A generous offer from a happy crew. And remembering that there had been no Marie the night before—after being on the water for so long—I figured, why not? After all, I had scrubbed myself raw getting rid of the pig stink.

We got away about two hours later, heading back to where we’d come from. A happy crew, a belly full of village chicken, a resupply of essentials from the nursing outpost, wind in our hair on the river, and an obligation met. Life was good.

Then a sobering thought crept in.

One day, there would be a reckoning over the loss of those pigs. The bastards would never believe I had only taken six. And I knew that the loss of the older boy—and the death of a man at my own hand—would stay with me for a very long time.

My next payment from the sale of crocodile pelts wasn't due for three weeks. There was no way I could afford six pigs, let alone the ransom they were demanding.

As we sailed back down the Fly River, the tension that had gripped me for days finally began to ease. The pigs were gone, the debt was settled, and we were alive. But the events of the past week had left scars I wasn't sure would ever fully heal.

I thought about the boy who had died, the madman who had forced my hand, and the surreal negotiation that followed. Papua New Guinea had shown me a side of life I had never imagined—a place where survival depended not just on strength, but on understanding a complex web of culture, honor, and respect.

Ososo sat beside me, cleaning the .303 rifle with quiet precision. Howard hummed a tune as he polished his knife, still oblivious to the chaos he had nearly caused. PB steering the boat.

"You did good, boss," Ososo said after a long silence.

I glanced at him. "You think so?"

He nodded. "Still alive. That's good enough."

I stared out at the endless stretch of water, knowing that he was right. Sometimes, survival was victory enough.