Tribe of Teeth

CW: Violence, gore (including dismembered bodies)

The floor of the hut was a muddy reddish carpet of carnage. A mahogany-colored arm lay against a curved wall, the dripping red sinews of muscle trailed from it like fat worms after a heavy rainfall.

Other body parts of varying sizes and shapes littered the rest of the dirt floor: a man’s entire leg, a woman’s foot, a small child’s hand still grasping a coarse woven hank of cloth, most likely from the adult woman’s primitive attire.

The couple had arrived at the small village in the wee hours of the morning after a long trek through the jungle. They carried baskets full of wedding gifts for tar’s cousin; this was supposed to be a time of celebration…of great joy.

Tar said to Dana, “Some sort of vicious animals…”

“No,” replied Dana firmly. “Animals kill to survive. This is pure madness.” Tears streaked her cheeks as she gently touched the forehead of a young girl whose terrified glazed eyes bulged from the force of her screams. “They had two children.” The young couple spoke in the language of their tribe---a melodious lilting forming of words punctuated by clicks and clucks…and hand signaling much like sign language. This was a trait unique to their own tribe, it came in handy when the need to be stealthy set in, whether when hunting…or being hunted.

Tar found his cousin’s head in the third hut. He smoothed the hair away from her young, once pretty face just to be sure it was her. Her new husband had to be the male in the hut with her. His long, lean body was nearly intact as if he’d not tasted as good as his mate. Tar jumped as Dana laid a hand upon his shoulder, he’d not heard her come through the entranceway. She crouched down beside him and held his shaking body. He whispered, “Just the two of them in here. Newlyweds and all…”

The hut had been decorated with monkey brush vines, the bright orange flowers hung in clusters like feathery ornaments. Gourds and wooden bowls filled with sweet-smelling hibiscus and delicate pale purple passion flowers surrounded the head of the sleeping platform. The down-filled quilt was splashed with blood and most of the cousin’s torso, hips, and legs still adorned with necklaces of flowers and colorful bird feathers.

Dana said, “I’ll finish in here. Go on and check the last two huts.”

Tar silently nodded, wiping away his tears as he stood.

After all the dwellings had been inspected and cleared of remains, they met at the last hut.

Dana said, “A pair of old people, one child…six people here in total. I counted twenty-four heads in all, five of them children.”

Tar nodded. “It’ll be dark soon.” Through the breaks in the canopy, the clouds had taken over the sky. Deep in the jungle darkness came fast. “That hut over there,” he pointed to the one opposite the center of the circle they stood in, “it’s the cleanest.”

The ferns and date palms and monstera whispered all around them as a mild pre-evening wind whipped through the jungle, bringing with it a welcome damp coolness. Tar and Dana were refreshed by it and looked forward to the shower the foliage spoke of. They both felt soiled by the very air, as if blood particles had invaded it and sought purchase in their pores. Tar absentmindedly rubbed his arms and Dana knelt over a bucket of water, first sniffing the contents, then cautiously dipping her fingers into it. She nodded and drank from her cupped hands. Tar came to her eagerly, his mouth was as dry as hers had been. Though the furtive whispers increased to howls high over their heads, there remained a hushed silence from the wildlife here. No birds squawked or sang, no wee beasties grunted or squealed…it was as if every living thing here had perished.

Light drizzle arrived as mist at first, then rapidly gained substance and became gentle rain. Very little of it penetrated the leafy green canopy above the village but eventually it dripped from the leaves and came down in fat drops. One of the huts had only had one resident, and elderly woman---a shaman of sorts judging by the vast assortment of herbs and teas and tinctures stored in hollow gourds and seed pods and bamboo canisters. Her hut was the least desecrated and it didn’t take Dana long to sweep the dirt floor clean of her blood while Tar removed the body parts and placed them in the hut where the couple had stored all the rest. They would burn the bodies when the rain stopped, which would likely be morning. Besides, they were exhausted.

Tar built a fire in the pit in the center of the hut with dry wood stored along the curved wall facing west. He said, “Must be a superstitious thing, all the villagers store their wood and dried animal dung the same way---facing west.”

Dana was plucking a fat curassow and replied, “Interesting. What else do they do?” She glanced at him with her large dark eyes.

Tar smiled, his dark, bearded face looking boyish in the firelight. Dana loved him for his curious nature. He was smart and noticed things, details most men would miss, especially in a traumatic situation as finding a village whose huts were strewn with body parts and puddled with pools of blood.

“Hmmm, let’s see…” he added another chunk of wood to the blaze. “The hands. They tattoo the left one with a symbol, here…” he indicated the bit of flesh between the thumb and forefinger. “It looks like a cat’s eye, with a circle in the middle…”

“Like a human eye. Maybe to ward off evil? Like the Botsmoori tribe does.”

Tar nodded, “They’re probably related. Similar dark skin color…brown or greenish brown eyes.”

“They have pretty eyes.”

“Oh. They all have only four toes on their left feet.”

Dana stopped plucking and looked at Tar with wide eyes. The edges of his mustache lifted, and she knew he was trying hard not to laugh. “Oh you!” She threw a small rock at him.

He deftly caught it with his right hand, examined it, and said, “But seriously…this rock. It’s quite round and should be heavier…as if it were hollow.”

Dana stared with rapt attention. Something in her mind was waving little grey arms to get her attention but she couldn’t see it yet.

Tar found a larger stone with a sharp edge next to the fire, likely used for chopping branches or meat. He brought it down on the smaller rock which split in two upon impact. He opened it like an egg and by the roaringly bright firelight, they saw it was filled with sparkleness!

Dana ‘oohed’ and came over, gripping the naked bird by its feet. She squatted next to Tar who sat mesmerized by the glittering purple crystals encrusted around the insides of the rock. “It’s beautiful.”

Tar said, “Not as beautiful as you.” He kissed her deeply until she pulled away.

She said, “Not here. Not now.” She got up and spitted the bird to lay it across the upright sticks on each side of the fire.

Though the meal of roasted curassow and plantains was satiating, and the drops of rain on the hut’s roof relaxing, they would have to be satisfied to hold each other. There lay the torn-up corpses of 24 people three huts away.

The next morning as the sun filtered through the dense jungle foliage, Dana was pleased to hear birdsong again. The couple ate the rest of the roasted bird and set about the chore of building a large funeral pyre in the center of the circle of huts. There were remains from previous fires, including a large rock circle that they expanded to accommodate a greater blaze. They brought out all the wood they could find from the huts and used six of the sleeping platforms for the altar.

They were careful to stand downwind of the inferno and covered their noses with kerchiefs of woven cloth. Though they were carnivorous, neither one wished to smell the burning pork-like smell of the bodies. In fact, Tar’s grandmother had believed that to inhale that sort of smoke would be to inhale that person’s soul. He did not want to be haunted by screaming people for the rest of his life. Looking at Dana, he knew she felt the same.

It was late afternoon by the time the pyre was safe to leave. Starting a jungle fire was the worst offense to all the gods there was, even above murder. In some ways, it was murder on a grand scale.

Though the smoke drove jungle inhabitants off, they spoke up again as the last wisps of smoke dissipated in the pre-twilight air. Birds sang again and some squawked cantankerously. Wee animals scurried and squeaked, monkeys chattered excitedly high above. The world was returning to normal…

But the weight of this village’s destruction was heavy in Tar and Dana’s hearts as they packed their blankets and supplies.

The chattering of the monkey’s grew more shrill. Dana and Tar froze like stumps of wood, then ducked down into the ferns between two huts. They held their breath, expecting the snarl of a large cat to make its presence known and terrify those it stalked.

Silence.

Then…a wail. “WHAAAaaaaarrr!”

Tar said, “Jungle cat…”

“WHAAAaaa…waaahhhhh!”

Dana shook her head. “It’s an infant!” Her hands automatically signing as if there was a big predator in the vicinity. She leapt from the soft foliage and followed the wailing, Tar close on her heels but looking around warily. The jungle was eerily quiet again as if it really was a jaguar on a mission…or a pack of rabid villager-rending Tasmanian devils.

About thirty feet from the farthest easterly hut, the cries grew softer, weaker, as if the baby was falling asleep…or dying.

Dana swept through the crowded ferns like a swimmer in the Amazon River, veering left and right and growing frustrated at being so close…but the cries had ceased, causing her to scream agonizingly---the thought of finding a survivor amidst all the horror sent her mind reeling, “AAIIEEeee!”

“Hmmmfk-k-k. Ha.” The sound was like a chuckle, the non-words of a baby---there! Dana perked up as if she’d just sucked on a fresh coca leaf. Tar jumped in and corralled an armful of wide green fronds to reveal…the baby. It was nestled in a nest of dried grass, much like the aerie of a harpy eagle. Its arms were weakly flailing outwards as if seeking contact with another being, or animal, or anything to provide comfort.

Dana rushed in and Tar put a hand to her shoulder, “Be careful, it might be injured.”

Dana nodded impatiently as if the words were obvious. In seconds she was cradling the infant in her arms. “Someone must have hidden um…” she peeked under the child’s thin woven covering… “this girl here.” Her face was full of radiant joy…so many emotions woven together in a tapestry of sadness, happiness, longing, greatfulness…

Tar understood all those feelings all too well. He too felt joyous at finding a survivor. And he too felt Dana’s joy…for they had been trying for some time to conceive a baby of their own. He wrapped his arms around them both. After a few minutes he said, “Come on, let’s go home.”

Tar fashioned a sling so Dana could carry the wee infant against her chest as they plodded through the jungle back the twelve miles or so to their own village. Every so often the baby girl would coo softly and snuggle deeper against Dana’s breasts and belly. It was pitch black by the time they arrived at their hut. Every one of the thirty-two tribe members were asleep. They had their own hut---they’d just married the year before. Eventually, her mother would move in to help care for the baby or babies she gave birth to. And perhaps her mother’s sister too. But that was then… and at this time of night it was just the three of them. The baby girl Dana started calling Taina, which meant star, for she was a shining star amidst much dark sadness. Taina drank very little of the goat’s milk offered, which confounded the couple because she had appeared to be weak with hunger. After all, she’d been hidden nearly a day and a half.

Regardless, the days following were filled with joy as the women of the small tribe gathered daily, bringing clothing, rattle-gourds, tinctures in milk, and so on. They all cooed and clucked just like babies themselves, and little Taina grinned at them and grabbed their fingers, most often sticking them into her little mouth, making them giggle.

She was an odd baby though. She didn’t drink much milk though after a few days was stronger in her gripping…and she smiled demurely but never grinned or laughed out loud. They all figured she was traumatized and perhaps feeling a little ill.

Much to everyone’s joy, Taina began struggling to her feet from a crawl. She was a true survivor---it was like she needed to prove herself worthy of living when the rest of that village had perished. The village of Guaranis clapped and urged her on. She gave them all hope that after such a tragedy as she’d been witness to, she was a happy, rounded, little baby.

After putting her to bed one evening, Dana said to Tar, “So, what do you see since our return, about Taina I mean?”

Tar sat for a few seconds, considering his words, “She was not one of their own. Her skin is the same brown color, but her eyes are paler green, nearly grey. Instead of dark or dark reddish color in her hair, she has light colors coming in…golden.”

Dana nodded encouragingly.

Tar said, “The biggest clue is that she doesn’t have the tattoo on her left hand.”

“But she’s just a baby, maybe too young…”

“One of the hands we burned was that of a baby’s. It had the symbol. The tattoo. This child was adopted by someone in that village just as we have.”

“Oh! That poor little thing…to have gone through so much,” Dana’s head dipped into her hands, her shoulders trembled…then she controlled herself for the sake of the baby and sat upright. “We will see to it this poor child has a loving family of the tribe, and us, and…and everyone loves her. She will be a beautiful force of nature amongst us.”

That became Dana’s mantra as the days turned to weeks.

Then, one early evening, after putting Taina to bed, Tar took Dana outside to a clearing through the jungle where the moon was visible. It was full. Dana said, “Oh, it’s so beautiful. Tar wrapped his muscular arms around her and said, “Happy birthday, my love.”

“You remembered…”

“Of course I did.” He pulled out a soft agouti leather sack---small and delicate.

She opened it and pulled out a dark leather cord on which hung a sparkling pendant---an amethyst crystal. Dana inhaled sharply, then squealed with delight as she put the necklace over her head, so the purple crystal rested upon her chest above her breasts.

As they made love in the darkened hut---the fire’s glow was embers now---Taina turned her head and watched them. As the embers died, the wee thing began to smile. As the smile grew wider, its teeth grew sharper...and longer...and pointed.

The next morning, Taina sat amidst a crop of soft feathery ferns. She looked around her at all the muddy red ground. It was solemnly quiet. Her wide, intensely pale green eyes pooled with tears. Then, she opened her wee mouth full of those nasty teeth and laughed. It was not the laugh of an infant.

It was the wicked cackle of an ancient being.

Behind her lay the huts. Oh, those saviors had been so kind. And so naïve. But her tribe was the one meant to survive. The only one. She stood on the stubby legs of a baby, but walked sure footedly towards the huts where the bodies were strewn and the air smelled of blood and gore. She sighed and inhaled deeply…then found a juicy upper arm to gnaw on.

She lived off the parts and blood for five days. Then, when she was full and fat, Trista hibernated, much the same way a bear does in the colder lands. She would wait for more humanoids to come. As she drifted off into a coma-like respite, she thought, ‘Taina’s a pretty name. But I am Trista.

Trista was teeth in her language.