THE WRATH OF PARAUMA By David Foster

The Wrath of Parauma

Date: 12th December, 1967

Location: The island of New Britain, off the Bismark Archipelago.

Status: It is day four, as the Eldridge expedition continues its trek

into the Nakanai Mountains.

The way ahead became noticeably harder. The team were trekking up hill 

now, higher into the Nakanai ranges. Seth Lincoln led the way, with a 

machete in one hand slashing away at the branches and vines that 

blocked the path. It seemed to him that he had only been along this 

path a month ago and had cut back much of the undergrowth then, but it 

had grown back with a vengeance. Even then, the city slickers, Nick 

Eldridge and Ursula Squire struggled to keep up with the pace that

Lincoln set.

The jungle, by midday was like a Turkish steambath. It wasn't just the 

heat but the infernal humidity. Ursula and Eldridge's clothes were 

saturated with sweat, and clung to their bodies making free movement 

awkward. Then there were the plants. Not just the vines and the 

underbrush, but there were palm fronds that could cut through material 

and human flesh like razor blades. Both of them had a series of 

scratches and cuts across their legs and arms. The trek into the 

depths of New Guinea was unlike anything they had encountered before.

The trees and the undergrowth seemed to be closing in on the party, 

consuming the oxygen. The atmosphere was tense and filled with 

electricity. Lincoln stopped dead in his tracks. The porters could 

feel that something was wrong. They dropped their boxes and bundles 

and stared forward with unbridled terror in their eyes. Eldridge was

confused. What was the problem? He stepped to the front of the column 

to see what the commotion was all about. A stone covered in vines 

blocked their path. He walked up to it and pulled back the vines, 

revealing a carved stone head with a horrific expression carved onto 

its face. The porters all jumped back.

Eldridge stared at the stone head in awe. It was about a foot wide by 

about eight inches deep and mounted on top of a stone plinth. The 

carved face was truly frightening, with what looked like sunken cats 

eyes, and its mouth was frowning with its teeth bared. The final eerie 

effect was created by some cleverly concealed, ancient engineering. A 

channelling system had been set up in the branches of the tree above,

and all the moisture would slew down a cleverly disguised gutter and 

run down over the head of the statue. The running water effect kept 

the face glimmering and through a trick of the light, the features 

would appear to move; almost pulsing, as if the weathered stone was 

living and breathing skin. The effect was horrific.

The native porters were clearly effected by its appearance.

“We're going to lose them soon,” Lincoln said in an undertone.

Eldridge turned and looked at the porters. The were talking animatedly 

amongst themselves. Eldridge couldn't understand a word, but didn't 

need subtitles to work out what they were saying. The stone head meant 

something to them. Something evil and they were not prepared to press 

on.

“Wamira,” Eldridge called. Wamira, the head porter walked over and

stood before Eldridge. “What is this?” he queried.

“Parauma!” Wamira said in a state of severe agitation.

“Parauma?” Eldridge repeated.

“Parauma. Pure evil. We cannot go on.”

“It's one of their superstitions,” Lincoln interjected. Then turning 

to Wamira he said with his finger wagging, “Wamira, you and your men 

have been paid good money to come along on this trip. You can't just 

hop off when you think things are getting tough. This stone head is 

nothing. It's just an old sculpture designed to scare people away. It 

has no power.”

“That is where you are wrong, Mr. Lincoln,” Wamira said. “This land is 

full of ancient evil. You may just see a stone head. But to us, it is 

a warning. The stone is here for a reason. We will go no further.”

Before the conversation could go any further, Ursula screamed. 

Eldridge rushed to her side.

“What is it?” he exclaimed.

“There,” she said pointing into the jungle. “A face. A strange 

horrible face, staring at me.”

Eldridge turned and looked in the direction she was pointing and then 

he saw it. A native, with grey clay caked over his face. It looked as 

if the face was made of stone. The native stood dead still as if he 

was a statue with a spear by his side. The porters began to wail. 

Eldridge turned again, and saw that the native was not alone. Four 

other natives, all adorned with the sinister grey death masks had 

circled the expedition. The porters, enveloped in a collective 

hysteria, ran off into the jungle. The grim-faced natives made no 

effort to chase them. Wamira still stood beside Lincoln.

“I told you,” Wamira said. “This is a place of great evil.” However 

Lincoln was not listening as he unshouldered his rifle and took aim at 

the nearest native. Without a second thought, he squeezed the trigger. 

The native dropped dead, the clay mask shattering as the bullet caught 

him in the forehead.

In retaliation a spear was thrown. Lincoln ducked, but Wamira was not 

so fast. The spear pierced through his chest. Wamira's jaw dropped as 

he staggered forward, swaying, before dropping to his knees. He 

slumped forward, but the shaft of the spear stopped him from falling. 

Dead, Wamira sat there kneeling with his head lolling forward.

Ursula screamed again. Eldridge grabbed her around the waist and 

dragged her to the ground as a spear whistled over their heads. 

Lincoln spun and took aim at the native who had thrown it and fired 

again. The bullet hit the native in the shoulder, tearing away a large 

chunk of flesh. The native did not flinch as if he was oblivious to 

the pain. The native then retrieved a knife from a belt fashioned from 

twine around his waist and advanced on Lincoln.

Meanwhile, Eldridge had shunted Ursula to the cover of a tree. He 

unholstered his pistol and started firing at the natives who were 

circling their position. Eldridge shot one of the natives, felling him 

before he could throw his spear.

“Your gun!” Eldridge yelled. Ursula looked confused. “Use it!” he 

added. Ursula unholstered the pistol from her hip and shakily she took 

aim. Another spear flew overhead as she squeezed the trigger. The 

bullet grazed the natives forehead, leaving a large red gouge, but the 

shot did not stop him from advancing on their position. Eldridge 

hurriedly fired another shot at the native, hitting their attacker in 

the arm. However it did not stop him from moving forward. This wasn't 

right. The natives didn't feel pain.

Lincoln leaped up from his position and swinging his rifle like a 

club, bludgeoned the advancing native. The native's head spun from the 

force, but it didn't stop him advancing. Lincoln, dropping his rifle, 

grabbed at the native's knife hand and twisted it towards the man's 

stomach. Then spinning, and with an elbow to the native's neck, he 

forced the man's head and chest down towards the knife. Lincoln then 

kicked free, only to see the native turn and face him, with the knife 

still embedded in his chest.

Lincoln scooted across to his rifle once again and picked it up as the 

native advanced on him once more. Lincoln lifted his gun and at point 

blank range fired at the native, right between the eyes. The native's 

head exploded, and the body fell motionless at his feet.

Then he felt pain across his should blades. Only a glancing blow, but 

it was enough to make him drop his rifle. Another native had crept up 

and thrown his spear. The throw was wide, a glancing blow, but 

none-the-less still gouged a tear across his back.

Eldridge was still engaged in his own battle. Despite the bullet 

wounds, the native produced a knife and advanced towards Eldridge and 

Ursula. Eldridge stood and rushed at the native, throwing a wild right 

at the man's head. Normally a right, thrown with that much force at an 

opponent's head would have been brutally effective, however, maybe 

because of the clay mask or the man's lack of sensation, the punch did 

little to slow the advance. The native brought the knife around in 

front of his body and lunged at Eldridge. Eldridge threw himself to 

the right and rolled out of harms way, scrambling to his feet as the 

native turned and moved towards him again.

Eldridge was ready. He had noticed that the native did not move 

quickly. It was the man's singularity of purpose and ignorance of pain 

that made him a threat. Eldridge feinted a left hand jab, and as the 

native shuffled to the side, Eldridge stepped back and kicked the 

knife from the man's hands. Moving quickly, Eldridge threw another 

punch, his fist landing on the native's bunched shoulder, before being 

gripped in a vice-like hand and twisted. Only a quick jab with his 

free hand to the man's abdomen saved Eldridge's arm from being 

wrenched from its socket. Eldridge jumped clear.

Another native moved out of the dense undergrowth and moved towards 

Eldridge from behind with his knife at the ready. Ursula watched him 

advancing and from her position, crouched beneath a tree, aimed her 

pistol. Her hand was shaking, but she had to fire. She squeezed the 

trigger, the bullet flew low and obliterated the man's knee. He

toppled to the ground, but still using his arms to drag him forward, 

continued to move towards Eldridge. Ursula stood and ran towards the 

man, pulling the trigger. One shot. Two shot. Three shot. Then click. 

Her pistol was empty. Thankfully the first shot had hit the native in 

the head and he was now dead. She stood over his dead body shaking 

uncontrollably.

Eldridge was still engaged in his own struggle. He found it hard to 

believe that a man who was so severely wounded still had so much fight 

in him. A quick pace backwards had Eldridge off balance and a heave of 

the native's arms had him off the ground. The native twisted and 

threw, and Eldridge's spread-eagled body sailed through the air. He 

landed with a heavy thud, the air forced from his lungs.

Lincoln had picked up his rifle and picked off the second last of the 

attacking natives. He rushed to Ursula's side and pulled her away from 

the conflict. Then he took aim, but Eldridge and the native were 

moving too quickly for him to get an accurate sight. He may just as 

well hit Eldridge as he would the native. It was up to Eldridge's wile

and cunning to take care of the final assailant.

Eldridge scrambled to his feet, and in a blinkered rage charged at the 

native, his shoulder forcing the native back into a tangle of vines. 

The native flailed wildly trying to break free. Eldridge grabbed a 

vine and twisted it around the man's neck. Then he began to pull. The 

native's arms began to thrash as his body fought for oxygen. Ursula 

looked away in disgust. She couldn't watch. Eldridge kept heaving on 

the vine. The man's eyes began to bulge, and his tongue protruded from 

his mouth. Slowly the native stopped struggling. The flailing stopped. 

His limbs went limp, his knees giving way, and he hung there, 

entangled in the vines like a morbid Christmas decoration. Eldridge 

stepped away and then dropped to his knees exhausted. He gulped in 

fresh air.

“They weren't human,” he panted.

* * * * *

BIO:

David Foster likes spy stories and has been known to talk about them

at length on his blog : Permissiontokill.com