In the Eastern Highlands near Mt. Gahavisuka, where the countryside is dramatic with wide fertile valleys, silver rivers, and the craggy razor-backed mountains that divide Papua New Guinea, a grass-thatched house stood on wooden stilts hewn from the surrounding rainforest. There in the crisp mountain air during a break in the relentless monsoons Kama Kerpi squatted on his haunches playing a bamboo flute.
The thin layer of gray mud which coated the charcoal skin of the Mudman’s sinewy body from the neck down was relieved only by a bright crimson streak of chicken blood painted down the middle of his torso from sternum to belly. His wiry hair stood wildly straight out in all directions and a scraggly beard hid his lower face. A broad heavy brow shaded his black eyes and a wide flat nose identified him as a member of the Asaro tribe, known for its fierce warriors. His clothing consisted of only a penis gourd of exaggerated length suspended from his waist by a leather thong. One could almost see the grassy musky funk that cloaked this man like a green fog.
Kama Kerpi set the flute aside and then picked up a green acorn-shaped betelnut, or buai as it was called in Pidgin. He broke open the brittle buai with his teeth, working the soft inner flesh similar in taste to a chalky banana, and then stuck it behind his gums. After a few quick chomps he dipped a mustard stick, or daka, in lime powder then inserted it into his mouth seasoning the buai and coloring it, along with his teeth, bright red. Eventually he spat out the remainder as a congealed red mass of fiber and fluid.
Kama Kerpi again took up his flute and began a mournful tune, the clear notes echoing among the trees. After a few minutes he glimpsed a sudden flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He stopped playing and studied the trees. Then from the quiet he heard a strange sound, “Hehihohow!” Again the flash moved, quickly, flying from limb to limb among the trees. Again, the haunting and lonely sound, “Hehihohow!”
Soon its source appeared – a most magnificent and extraordinary kumul, or Great Bird of Paradise, dazzling and more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld. It moved among the high limbs, darting through the morning sunlight.
When the majestic kumul came to a rare stop and perched on a high branch, Kama Kerpi observed that the back of the bird was a rust reddish brown, and in contrast its head a sunburst yellow and its throat an emerald green. From either side there hung long tufts of golden-orange feathers. The short velvet-like feathers in its trailing plumes and its beautiful collar showed it to be a male; the females, in comparison, being rather plain.
“Puss, Puss! Come kai!” he beckoned. Traditionally, this Pidgin expression was used as an invitation to engage in sexual intercourse. However, thinking he had no more effective way to communicate with the bird Kama Kerpi persisted, “Puss, Puss! Come kai!”
The Paradisea stopped swaying and called back with its very peculiar sound, “Hehihohow!”
Needing a lingua franca with which to communicate with the bird, and following his belief that music was the language that broke all barriers, the flutist resumed his gentle song. He played all day until sunset, even as the rain began to pour down on his head. From time to time he would call out, “Puss, Puss! Come kai!” But the kumul responded only with its dispassionate, “Hehihohow!”
<<<>>>
Kama Kerpi returned to his elusive muse day after day, watching the bird, fascinated with this wondrous being. All day it would fly incessantly from one tree to another, perching for but a few moments, concealing itself among the foliage at the least hint of danger. Rarely did it alight upon the ground lest it should become in the least soiled. Even at that, it bathed twice daily, and after performing its ablutions it would throw its freshly preened feathers up nearly over its head, so proud was this creature of its elegant dress.
Once, as Kama Kerpi approached its tree, the bird began to dance about in a light graceful manner, seemingly delighted at being an object of admiration. He smiled to see the kumul spread its wings and feathers, amused at the stylish bird so conceitedly regarding its splendid self from every direction. Yet to Kama Kerpi this vanity which inspired the bird’s every movement, the rapturous delight with which it viewed its enchanting self, its arch look when demanding his admiration, were all pardonable in a creature so richly embellished, so neat and clean, so fastidious in its tastes, and so scrupulously exact in its observances.
Sometimes after having imbibed a fair amount of buai, Kama Kerpi imagined himself as the bird flitting from one limb to the next. In this state he could look down to see his human self squatting there on the ground playing his flute. He could taste the insects and fruit the bird ate, experience the sensation of flying and even feel the bird’s need to remain ever-protective of its freedom and independence.
However, what he could not feel was any sense of affection emanating from his bird self toward his human self. Disheartened, he yearned for the bird to come closer, to commune with him in whatever way it could, to offer some response, some minimal acknowledgement of his affection.
After Kama Kerpi had squatted in the rain for four days serenading the bird, hoping to persuade it to come down from its perch, the bird suddenly flew off into the forest. Frustrated, he pitched his flute to the ground and his heart filled with a sense of sadness and loss.
Kama Kerpi squatted, rocking back and forth on his haunches, arms locked around his knees, focusing his thoughts on the kumul, wondering how he might be able to experience at least some degree of intimacy with the bird.
And then it came to him.
<<<>>>
Early the next morning Kama Kerpi filled a clay bowl with fruit, insects and snails and then placed it on one of the lower branches of a nearby tree. Soon the bird returned, darting about among the branches near the bowl. Eventually it approached the bowl and daintily consumed its contents.
Patiently, each day the Mudman gradually moved the bowl closer and closer to where he sat in front of his house playing his flute, impervious to the relentless rains, serenading the heavenly being as it accepted his humble gift.
“Puss, Puss! Come kai!” he called to the bird. But still the bird rebuffed him with an unsatisfying, “Hehihohow.”
Oh, how his heart ached to be close to the bird. Never had he seen such beauty and grace and elegance. Never had he known such a feeling as he had discovered in his heart for this creature. But oh, how aloof this bird remained.
<<<>>>
Early one morning at the end of spring during a brief respite from the seemingly relentless rain, having once again set a bowl of food at his feet, he began to play his flute, only this time with an upbeat and happy tune.
Soon, the Great Bird of Paradise came into view, appearing as a heavenly light among the tree limbs.
After some time the bird abandoned the safety of the trees and appeared as if it might approach the bowl. Kama Kerpi reached into the bowl and scooped up a collection of insects and fruit and then extended it with trembling fingers toward the kumul. “Puss, Puss! Come kai!” But the bird kept its distance, responding only with its empty, “Hehihohow.”
Kama Kerpi lowered his head and closed his eyes. He shook the food from his hand then picked up his flute. From his instrument there arose a slow haunting sound, a new melody that resonated among the trees, a tune he had never before played and had never before even heard. Kama Kerpi performed with his very soul, the music flowing from his heart and all the while growing louder though he continued to play quite softly.
Kama Kerpi began to hear the familiar soft clucking tittered by the kumul as it searched for insects, the sound seeming quite close to him now. Mind racing and heart pounding, he opened his eyes to see the much adored Great Bird of Paradise standing there directly before him. Kama Kerpi inhaled deeply as his heart swelled to the point of bursting. Careful not to make sudden movements, he slowly reached into the bowl and again filled his hand and gently extended it toward the kumul. Chest convulsing and tears flooding, with trembling voice he whispered, “Puss, Puss, Come kai.”
The kumul flitted about for a moment, then settled and sang once, “Hehihohow.” Then it took one step forward and ate right from the very palm of Kama Kerpi’s hand.
THE END
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I just liked this “grass-thatched house stood on wooden stilts”.
I thought the opening paragraph was well-written.
I didn’t like the word ‘funk’. It broke the flow for me.
I really liked the way you ended it all. It was easy to read and entertaining.
“His wiry hair stood wildly straight out in all directions and a scraggly beard hid his lower face.” – this sentence really irks for some reason.
I feel the following might be better.
His wiry hair stood out wildly in all directions, and his scraggly beard hid his lower face.
A very touching rendering of an event.
Your descriptions of the Eastern village and Kama Kerpi are exceptional. The discription of the “majestic kumul” is amazing. “A mournful tune” sounds like something i would write. I like how you contrast your feelings with that of the bird. Okay, the story is pure poetry. Your flow is amazing. Damn i so envy your fluent grammer. What is there to improve? Nothing. I have reviewed it carefully and think its flawless. I am jelous of you though. HAHAHAHA. Oh, the ending is good. The bird was tamed. I believe the whole story is metaphoric and has many layers. This is why it is so outstanding. Sandi K. If there was an 11 on here i would give it to you.
Most of what distracted me during the story was incessant description. If this world needs to be described in detail, do so before introducing the main character. Once we meet him the story should only be about him and his goal.
Very good story, I found it pleasurable to read and an overall unique concept!
The world was made for people like you who help people like me see it through a magnifying glass, thank you for that!
Kama Kerpi. I wish I had see him heard his music. I saw something like you described on the discovery channel but I don’t think his gourd was exaggerated!
I never ever read short stories, I have ADD and can’t maintain the attention but I read this and it was beautiful! I ALMOST cried. You should definitely publish it, you are a brilliant writer! I rarely give 10’s but you my friend deserve much more for this masterpiece!
On a very serious note, I am sure you realize your luck and the journey you have had but it isn’t without cost. You were given these special “senses” in order to share them with others much less fortunate. I am honored to know a person like you, thank you for this rare opportunity to visit the world!
How similar to english those males speak! “Puss, Puss! Come kai!” LOL
Interesting story and the exotic feel of it is a strong positive. The flautist and the bird of paradise coming together is nice. Of course the conflict is more of a spiritual nature and one wonders if Kama will overcome his longing and his determination. It is engaging.
On more particular notes, the “Puss, puss come kai” sexual reference puzzles me, particularly used on the bird. Gotta say, I wondered what K. might want to do to the critter once it came close enough. Also the sound the bird made was a distraction for me. I found myself trying to mentally approximate the sound every time I encountered it and losing the story every time that happened. Good luck with your story.
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