Marta Vanderberg knew that she was dying. Deep within her pain-ravaged brain some small measure of consciousness remained. Even as she mindlessly howled and bellowed and whined her song of agony, even as her flesh cooked and her skin crisped and sizzled, she was aware of her impending death, and she prayed for her soul in the brief moments of cogent thought that came to her. Above all, she prayed that death would come quickly. She had never dreamed that a human being could suffer so much, could last so long under the unrelenting assault of carefully controlled heat. From time to time, the burly men who were tending her heard short snatches of amazingly normal speech, as she begged Jesus to take her to heaven. They thought it was wonderfully amusing!
Marta Vanderberg was being roasted alive on a turning spit. Her greatest horror, the thing that she dreaded the most and that caused her the greatest anguish, was not the slow torture she was suffering, nor the fact that she was dying. It was the certain knowledge that soon, as soon as she was done roasting, heathen savages would feast on her flesh. Marta would be eaten by cannibals!
When she and her late husband, the Reverend Justinus Vanderberg, had left Harlem for the South Seas, some of her friends had whispered to her, warning her of the dangers they would face. Marta had laughed at their fears! Were they not going forth to do the Lord's good work? Surely the Lord would protect them, provide for them. She had chided her friends for believing the foolish, exaggerated tales told by returning seamen, of massacres and tortures and cannibal banquets. What childish nonsense! This was the twentieth century, after all!
The steamer had deposited the Reverend and herself on a small island between Java and New Guinea, part of the Dutch East Indies. This island had no permanent white settlement, there being no great natural wealth worth exploiting. The people subsisted by fishing and farming, and collected a few tons of copra annually. The small ship that carried them to Tokaba Island had loaded the stinking dried coconut before departing. No ship would return until a year had passed, and the missionary couple would be on their own amongst the heathen until then. But with the serene confidence of the righteous and Godly, they had set out to fulfill their duty to the Lord.
The natives had seemed helpful , eager to please, and things had gone well at first. Dutch was as much beyond the linguistic ability of the islanders as their own incomprehensible gibberish was to the white missionaries, so all conversation was carried on in the pidgin English trading dialect common to that part of the world. The Vanderbergs had been chosen for this mission because they both spoke enough English to have a basis for the pidgin lingo. It was surprisingly easy to communicate through this odd language, once one got used to it. Soon the Reverend was leading his new congregation in strange but recognizable versions of the standard hymns, and delivering fiery sermons. More importantly, he was able to direct the natives as they labored to build the mission station and chapel. The men had smiled and laughed as they worked. They had kept their sullen resentment of the white intruders, and their childish religion, well hidden.
For her part, Marta had begun to work with the women of Tokaba to make them more proper in the sight of God, and to change their unhealthy ways. Marta had been horrified at the sight of the native women going about bare-breasted, often with nothing more than a tiny flap of woven palm fiber covering their most shameful part. Stiff cotton cloth had been brought along to help cover the nakedness of the natives, and Marta worked hard showing the women how to fashion it into fairly modest, sarong-like coverings. Marta fairly burst with pride to see her flock decked out in their new clothing. The natives had not let her see how they chafed and sweated in the unaccustomed restraint of the sarongs.
The natives were not inherently evil or malicious, and might have considered the missionaries to be a necessary inconvenience, something to be endured in order to avoid trouble from the Dutch authorities. But when the Vanderbergs began intruding upon their intimate personal lives, it was the last straw!
There were few secrets in the village on Tokaba, and little privacy in the communal longhouses. It wasn't long before the good Reverend and his wife were aware of the sexual practices of the people. They were mortified to see men and women mating like animals, like the monkeys in the forest, with the women on all fours and the men entering them from behind. It was outrageous! It was unholy! Worse yet were the games the adolescents played among themselves, with the benign approval of their parents. Boys and girls would masturbate, openly and without shame, and even perform the service for each other. The elders were surprised to hear the missionaries' protests -- would not boys and girls find a way to do these things secretly, if it was forbidden them? Was it not better for them to spend their energies harmlessly than to hold back their natural urges until rape and unwed pregnancy were the inevitable result? Penile insertion was taboo, strictly taboo, and the penalty was death, but it seldom came to that when the teenagers could satisfy themselves with their hands and their mouths. The people had been doing it this way since the beginning of time, and this sudden, unwanted intrusion by self-righteous foreigners was not to be taken seriously!
But when the Reverend Vanderberg persisted in his Holy crusade against youthful decadence, when he spied on the children and punished them for doing what was natural and good, the die was cast. The white devils were not to be tolerated -- they must die! The elders and senior warriors met secretly, at a hunting camp high on the mountain far from the mission. There was much discussion as to how and when and in what manner the whites would be put to death. Some were for simply clubbing them down and having done with them. Others spoke in favor of slow torture and a cannibal feast to celebrate the people's liberation from the foreign busybodies. Several of the elders spoke highly of Marta's plump body, saying she would be good eating. The Reverend's spare frame was sure to be tough and stringy, not worth cooking, they said. True enough, but the deed must be done in such a way as to allay official suspicion of foul play. Finally the witch doctor spoke up, saying he had an idea. After he had laid out his plan, it was enthusiastically agreed upon by the council, and put in action immediately. Tasks were delegated to various individuals and teams, and the preparations began in earnest.
It was known that both of the Vanderbergs kept journals. Often they had been seen writing down the day's events by lamplight in their "pastorage", as they called the grass and bamboo hut next to the chapel. The witch doctor had little understanding of writing, except that it was used to preserve the thoughts and speech of the writer, so that it could be read and understood by others later. Cunningly, he decided to use the missionaries' diary-writing as a weapon against them. He and his apprentices had gone into the forest to gather certain plants and animals. In particular he gathered a mushroom of insidious toxicity, the roots of a particular shrub, and as many of the big black palm spiders as they could find. He had a tiny shelter erected, away from the village, where he could concoct his formulas in secret. Meanwhile, plans were underway for a somewhat belated feast of welcome in honor of their guests.
The banquet was a great success, with the native women plying the Vanderbergs with the choicest delicacies provided by the sea and the forest and their garden plots. Neither of the missionaries noticed that each was served from distinct and separate dishes. The good Reverend actually enjoyed the exotic meal, and manfully tasted every one of the bizarre, but surprisingly tasty dishes he was offered. He didn't notice anything amiss, and it would have been difficult to taste a subtle poison amid the riot of spicy and unaccustomed flavors.
The Reverend Justinus Vanderberg did not fall ill until three days after the feast. The forest mushrooms he had eaten were very slow-acting! His body had concentrated the toxins in his liver and kidneys in a vain attempt to flush them from his system, and he collapsed suddenly in the middle of a sermon, helplessly writhing in pain as his vital organs slowly died within himself. He was taken into the pastorage, where Marta valiantly tried to nurse him. His alternate bouts of raging fever and bone-shaking chills, and the black mucus that he passed from his bladder, were the well-known hallmarks of blackwater fever, the most malignant form of malaria. Marta didn't know they were also the symptoms of acute mushroom poisoning! The witch doctor went to the bedside, and despite her mistrust Marta allowed him to assist her, and even came to welcome his help, for some of his herbal teas seemed to help the Reverend. She dutifully recorded the progress of the disease in her journal, praising the witch doctor highly for his compassion and tenderness. It was all the witch doctor could do not to smirk openly as he saw his plot working to perfection!
Some of his medicines actually DID improve the patient's condition, marginally and temporarily. Others were simply a different poison, administered to insure the desired outcome, which was never really in doubt. After five days and nights of hellish suffering, the Reverend Justinus Vanderberg finally wheezed his last tortured breath from his wasted body.
His funeral was touching, Marta thought. In her grief and heartbreak, she didn't see the triumphant looks exchanged between the native mourners. In her diary she described how the native women had comforted her, staying with her so she didn't have to face the first long night of her loss alone. The men had built a rough coffin from a packing case that had once contained the chapel's alter goods and the hymnals that none of the natives could use. They laid the Reverend to rest on the mountain slope above the village, in a pleasant grove of palms overlooking the sea. Marta knew that she would have to carry on alone until the next steamer arrived, for there was no way to send word of the tragedy to the authorities on Java. She found comfort by writing down her worries in her journal, unaware of the witch doctor's glee at seeing her do so.
She tried to continue with the civilization of the people, but found that they were less amenable than when the Reverend had been alive. Their male-dominated society put little stock in the wisdom of any woman, especially not a stranger with unbelievable religious stories and ridiculous notions about sexuality. Over time, she found herself isolated, except for a few loyal women who tried to help her as much as they could. She found herself acquiring a taste for the native foods, and her consorts made sure to keep her well fed. She also took solace in food, as people are often wont to do, and as a result she found herself rapidly gaining weight. She had been much younger than the Reverend when they had married, and now she was in her mid-twenties. Dutch girls tend to be on the plump side, and with her rich diet and sedentary lifestyle, she soon went beyond plump to actual obesity. She thought nothing of it -- hadn't her mother and grandmothers been fat, too? The natives watched her gain weight with great interest, but for a terribly ulterior motive -- a plump woman makes for easier roasting, and more tender, juicier eating!
One evening, a few hours after supper, Marta suddenly fell ill. The sudden bout of vomiting and relentless nausea terrified her, and she sent one of her women to fetch the witch doctor. She had come to trust him, even to consider him her friend. He asked her what she had eaten that night, but there had been nothing unusual. Perhaps the fruit had been a trifle bitter, she thought. The witch doctor nodded solicitously, not telling her that it was because he had steeped the fruit in an infusion of those roots of a forest shrub he had gathered. The first effect of this mild toxin was violent vomiting and unrelievable nausea. Soon this would be followed by unstoppable diarrhea, and it was. Marta screamed as her scalding intestinal contents burst from her body in spasm after spasm! She soon became too shaky to crouch over the chamber pot, and mindlessly soiled herself and her cot. It seemed that she must soon empty herself, from either end, but still she retched and shat and farted. The witch doctor helped her drink a little herbal tea, and her symptoms subsided enough for her to call for her diary and pen. She thought she had come down with cholera, and was sure she would die. She wanted to write down what was happening to her before it was too late. With a shaky hand, she managed to write that she had fallen deathly ill, probably with cholera, and that she was afraid of dying. This would be the last entry in her journal, which would be shown to the trading ship's captain when next he called. Unknowingly, she had signed her own death warrant, condemning herself to hideous suffering and the unimaginable horror of being eaten by cannibals!
The witch doctor asked what she had written, and she told him, confirming what he had expected. He told her that he would be careful to preserve her book, and her husband's, to give to the next white men who came to Tokaba. As yet unaware of how she had been duped, she thanked him profusely and handed over the journals to him. He did a little dance of triumph as he went to tell the villagers to begin the preparations for the grandest feast they had ever seen!
Only the very oldest of the people had ever tasted human flesh since raiding and cannibalism had been viciously repressed by the Dutch in the last years of the 19th century. Now, in the white man's year 1903, only the stories of the elders kept up the ancient tradition of feeding oneself upon the flesh of enemies. The people had not been above cooking and eating the dead bodies of enemies killed in battle, but this was second-best compared to one who had been held captive for a time, fattened and purged, then cunningly roasted alive. The elders grinned and licked their lips as they remembered the sweet, succulent taste of such rare food! Everyone was in a dither of anticipation, knowing that soon they would taste the forbidden flesh themselves! The elders had never eaten a white person, however, only natives from adjoining islands, so there was some debate as to whether the white woman would be as tasty, but the general consensus was that anyone so wonderfully plump must be a good candidate for the roasting spit.
The natives busied themselves with the preparations as Marta lay exhausted on a pallet in the chapel, driven from the pastorage by the foul mess she had made there. Surprisingly, she began to feel a little better. She knew that she had no raging fever, so she began to doubt her self-diagnosis of cholera. She still felt weak and shaky, however, and was content just to lie quietly on a clean bed. She had soiled her only nightdress, so she lay naked on the pallet, covered by a sheet. Her nudity, even in sickness, made her feel uneasy, as if the contact of the cool, smooth sheet against her skin was somehow sinful. Her ladies had cleaned her before putting her to bed, and she felt wonderfully safe and protected under their care. Her delusion hadn't much longer to last.
At daybreak, Marta was suddenly awakened from her peaceful sleep by the arrival in the chapel of a party of men. She was shocked to see that they had cast away the khaki shorts that the Reverend had forced upon them, and wore only the obscene gourd penis-sheaths of their native dress! Furthermore, they were bedecked with feathers and paint, as if ready to do battle! She drew the sheet over her head in terror at the sight of them, her feelings of well being slowly replaced by an icy, indefinable fear. She heard them talking and laughing as they stood over her, then felt the firm grips of their hands as they grabbed her. They ripped the sheet away and yanked her roughly to her feet, holding her arms so that she stood helpless in their midst. Her nakedness in their presence filled her with shame and self-loathing, and she squirmed as they eagerly fondled her body. They seemed fascinated by her buxom Dutch-girl's bosom, pinching her breasts and pulling her nipples as if milking her. She had never dreamed of being so degraded and abused. Sadly to say it was only the beginning, and she would soon find herself in such dreadful straits that her outrage at having her teats man-handled would soon seem laughable, even to her.
They dragged her outside, and led her down toward the lagoon. On the beach it seemed a festival was underway. Drums boomed and thudded in savage rhythm, and dancers stomped and swayed to the beat. It seemed that there were a great many large fires burning. As she reached the center of activity she noticed the witch doctor standing off to the side, and she screamed his name, desperately entreating her friend to help her. Her answer was the most malicious, evil grin she had ever seen on a human face, and her heart sank to know that he was not her friend after all. The warriors led her to a place where two posts had been sunk in the sandy beach, and numbly she felt herself hoisted up between them. Lengths of coarse palm-fiber rope were produced, and she was held in the air as her limbs were stretched and bound to the posts. Her arms were raised high and tied by the wrists to the posts, then her feet were pulled apart, spreading her legs obscenely before her ankles were similarly roped in place. She was stretched so tightly that she scarcely sagged at all when they left her hanging there. She had-never dreamed of such shameful, total exposure. Even her most secret place, the part of her body that no one else, not even the Reverend, had ever seen in daylight was exposed for all to gaze upon. And they didn't just look! Soon a line had formed, and the people came up to her one after another, to feel and fondle and probe her body. She squirmed in her bonds, trying to close her thighs, but of course it was impossible. Fingers delved between the lips of her vulva, pinching and poking and prodding her most intimate flesh. Again her big breasts were a major attraction, and soon they were bruised and sore from so much pinching.
Suddenly, from the depths of her soul came a dreadful terror of rape! She looked around and saw that the men were indeed sexually aroused, their penises hard inside the gourd sheaths, their eyes shining as they looked at her and touched her helplessly bound, naked body. In her hysterical fear she began to pee, and her mortification was complete as everyone laughed heartily at her! But she needn't have worried about being raped. Although the men were indeed curious about her, and would have liked to try her body, it was forbidden by custom. It was taboo to introduce the seed of the people into one doomed to be roasted alive. But this did not stop many of the men from removing their sheaths and masturbating as she hung naked before their ravishing eyes, and it seemed to Marta that the shame of being used in this manner must be almost as painful as if they had actually penetrated her.
She still did not realize what they intended to do with her, but she knew that whatever it was, it would end with her death. There was no mistaking the malice in their eyes, and furthermore she knew that what they had done to her thus far was an unpardonable offense, and they could never leave her alive to testify against them. Suddenly she remembered her diary, and what she had written in it the night before, and she wailed pitifully in the realization that her own written words would be used to explain what had become of her to the authorities. As far as any white person would ever know, she had succumbed to cholera. Now her husband's death from supposed malaria was also suspect -- she knew that Justinus had probably been poisoned by the natives. "At least," she thought, "he is not alive to see how I am being abused." She took some small comfort from that. It was about all the comfort she had left to feel!
Suddenly she looked up to see the witch doctor standing in front of her, accompanied by the chiefs of the village. The assembly grew quiet, and the drummers stopped their frenzied pounding. The sudden quiet was eerie, scarier even than the bedlam that had preceded it. Marta hung there, helpless and naked, waiting. Her hands were numb from the tight bonds, her arms ached from hanging. Sweat beaded her face, trickled down between her heaving breasts, shone in her exposed armpits and crotch. The sun was higher now, beating down with tropical intensity. "Why, I shall sunburn," she thought to herself, then almost giggled at the absurdity of the idea. Surely her pure white complexion was the least of her concerns at this terrible moment!
The crowd of natives seemed to be waiting for something to happen, a signal perhaps. It also was apparent that they were enjoying themselves immensely, relishing her helplessness and nudity. There was something supremely cruel in their demeanor, an animalistic meanness at having her at their mercy.
Marta spoke for the first time, to the witch doctor. "What ... wat Tokaba fella do to me? Please, no do dis ting ... let Marta down! Let Marta go! Marta never tell!"
The witch doctor smiled knowingly. "No good white she-pig cry! No go free, no tell Dutchmens! Tokaba fella got'em books, give to Dutchmens! Books tell Dutchmens white Lordy-lords die from sick, too bad! So sad for Tokaba fella, love white fella so much! White she-pig make'm chop-chop! Marta make'm good chow!"
The icy realization of his meaning filled Marta's soul with unspeakable horror, with unbearable dread. "Chop-chop? Chow? Marta no chow! Marta no she-pig! Marta Dutchmen gal! No chop-chop Dutchmen gal! No chow!"
As his answer the witch doctor pantomimed the act of eating, smacking his lips and rubbing his belly. "Marta cook slow! Good chow! Marta ccok'em longa time, den Tokaba fella eat'em! Tokaba fella eat'em Marta!"
He turned away, leaving her hanging there, still raving at him that she wasn't a sow-pig; that she wasn't meant to be eaten. He took no notice. It was really going to happen to her! These savages were going to cook her and eat her!
Suddenly an awful thought came to her -- they'd kill her first, wouldn't they? They wouldn't cook her alive ... would they? Could they? "Marta cook'em longa time!" The witch doctor's words hammered in her mind, over and over. "Marta cook slow!"
Marta subsided from her useless struggles, from her hopeless ranting. She was helpless. She was theirs to do with as they wished, and there was nothing she could do to prevent them.
The witch doctor was giving instructions to a group of women gathered nearby. Marta's heart sank to see several of her trusted "aunties" among them. She realized that these women would perform the task of preparing her for cooking. She was looking at the chefs who would make her ready for cooking, like a beefsteak or a fish. It seemed that her cooking was about to begin, for the women scurried away, here and there, and set to work. Marta desperately tried to recall everything she had ever heard about cannibals. The classic picture came to mind, the funny cartoon of a pith-helmeted explorer simmering in a big black cauldron while a black man spooned sauce over his head. There was nothing funny about this! Marta looked around as best she could from her painful vantage point, but she saw no kettle big enough to boil her in. What then?
And then she saw it, off a little way to her right. The big fire burning in a pit, a shallow pit, with a forked post made from the crotch of a tree on each end of it. She saw the long, thick bamboo pole lying
nearby. The pole had bamboo cross-pieces lashed to it at intervals. It had been specially made, for a specific purpose. It was a turning spit, and it had been made for ... HER! They were going to roast her alive on a spit, over a fire, like a suckling pig! The concept was too awful to bear thinking about, and she lapsed into a numbed daze, afraid to look again at the fire and the spit. Perhaps if she refused to believe it, it wouldn't happen? "This can't be real"... it must be a dream, a terrible nightmare! "Please, Lord, let me wake up! Jesus help me," she prayed, "don't let them roast me! Oh, God, please, NOT THE FIRE!"
If God heard her prayers, there was no sign of it. The women were coming now. It was beginning!
The witch doctor had spoken to the elders, picking their memories of the proper way to roast a plump woman alive. First, her body must be purged, her guts emptied so there would be no shit to foul the sweet meat. After all, her tripes would be some of the choicest eating! The purgative poison he had slipped her the previous evening had worked well, he knew. At the end, clear water was bursting from her anus as fast as she could be induced to drink it. The amount of poison had been small, and what had not been passed in vomiting and shitting would by now have been sweated out of her. Now that her inside was cleaned out, it was time to see to the outside. There had been some debate among the elders as to the necessity of removing the long-pig's body hair prior to roasting. Some said the cooking fire would see to it, except perhaps for her pubic hair, which would be somewhat protected. But since it was well known that a woman's sexual organs were some of the tastiest tidbits of all, would it not make sense to clean them of hair? After all, no one would think of broiling a pig without first singeing it clean! Also, her arms, legs, and armpits were unspeakably hairy, unlike the Tokaba people who took care to pluck out this offensive hair. No, the white sow must be properly singed! The trick was to be careful in doing so, so as not to kill her prematurely. Her head hair was long, but it could be protected. It was dangerous to burn off the head hair, and besides, the witch doctor wanted it for a trophy.
The women came to Marta and placed wooden stools around her, so they could easily reach her. Marta quailed, squirming anew, but she was helpless. One of the women held up a pot of gluey red clay from the mountainside, and another woman mounted a stool and began to apply it to Marta's head. She tucked the long, reddish-blonde hair up into the mass of clay until all was covered, smoothing it carefully until Marta seemed to be wearing a helmet. The clay that had spilled onto her body was carefully rinsed off. Several women began washing her down with seawater, scrubbing her with coarse palm-fiber brushes until her skin glowed pink. "Like my mother washing the dirt from a potato!" Marta thought. She tried to push the idea out of her mind, but it stayed with her. Like a potato ... a potato ready to be put into the fire! They left her alone for awhile, and the sun and the breeze soon dried her skin, leaving a fine crust of dried salt behind. "They have salted me!" she realized. "I've been seasoned!"
One of the women came up and tested her, to see if she was dry. Except for the interior surfaces of her sex organ, she was quite dry. Even her pubic hair was crisp to the woman's touch. She was ready for he next step, the singeing. Marta watched as several women came to her, each bearing a long, dry palm frond. "Now what?", Marta thought. A fire was crackling merrily nearby. Marta could feel the heat of it, although it was not close enough to be painful. But it was close enough for the first woman to extend her dry palm leaf to it, setting the thing afire. As Marta stared in disbelieving horror, the woman carefully swept the burning frond up Marta's left leg. The hair of her leg crackled audibly as it burned away, but the sound was soon drowned in her shriek of terror and pain. She remembered how the butchers back in Holland had scalded pigs to remove their bristles before butchering them. She had seen the natives do the same thing to their own swine, except that they singed off the hair. She knew then what was happening.
One after another, the women took their turns applying their burning palm leaves to her body. After each burning, they rubbed her skin to remove the burnt stubble. The friction of their rough hands on her scorched skin was a fresh dose of agony to Marta's overloaded senses. They took their time. They were slow and careful and thorough. Soon only one spot on her body had not yet been burned clean, and the realization of what was coming next galvanized Marta into fresh spasms of struggling. She felt a woman's fingers tugging at her pubic hair, pulling it out so that it would be best exposed to the flames. "Oh, God, no! Not there! Please, not between my legs!" But Marta's cries went unheeded, and soon were lost in her most anguished screams yet, as the flaming palm frond was held between her straining thighs. Her pubic hair flashed up and was gone, leaving her tender pink lips exposed and scorched and painful. Again a rough hand rubbed away the stubble, and again a flame was applied, to make sure of the job. Again Marta shrieked her pitiful misery to the heedless ears of the natives. The men were masturbating again. The sight of her torture had aroused them anew!
More salt water was brought, and again she was carefully rinsed to wash away the last ashes of her body hair. The cool water was a comfort to her, and for a moment she was grateful to them. Her comfort was short-lived, however. She opened her eyes to see several strong men coming to her. They were carrying the spit. It was time! "Dear Lord have mercy on me! Sweet Jesus take me now ... let me die now, merciful Christ!" Never was a prayer more heartfelt, nor more in vain!
The spit had been carefully made up for her. Again the witch doctor had asked the elders how they had seen it done years ago. The best posture for the long-pig was something like a slight spread-eagle, so that her limbs would be equally exposed to the heat of the fire. Therefore, the spit would require cross-pieces at certain intervals. A sturdy bamboo pole had been brought down from the mountain, four inches around with walls nearly an inch thick. The carpenters had used red-hot irons to burn holes through the pole at the places where cross-pieces were needed, then short lengths of lighter bamboo were driven through the holes and lashed tightly in place with palm-fiber twine. There were four crosspieces, located for her wrists, waist, thighs and ankles. Once bound to it, Marta would be helpless and unable to move, and perfectly exposed to the heat. When it was ready, the spit had been laid in shallow water in the lagoon and weighted down with stones. It was important for it to be well soaked, otherwise it might burn and break before the sow was finished cooking. It had laid in the water for three days and nights, so it was ready for use. The pole was ten feet long, amply long enough to hold Marta, even with her arms extended past her head. At each end, two additional short sticks had been inserted at right angles to each other. These were the handles that would be used to keep Marta slowly revolving over the fire. It was most important that she be evenly broiled, front and back. The forked stakes in which the spit would lie had been the subject of much debate. How tall should they be? How close to the fire must the long-pig be for best cooking? How close was too dangerous, for a slow death was required for best results. They had finally made the poles chest-high to a man, more for ease of turning the spit than anything else. Marta would be high enough above the fire to breathe fresh air, yet well within the zone of intense heat.
The men came to Marta's stakes and laid the spit carefully across two of the wooden stools. The sow was clean, and must not be allowed to soil herself. As they reached up to begin untying her, Marta's bladder gave way again. As dehydrated as she was, it was a pitiful little stream of pee, bright orange in color. The men waited for her to empty her bladder, then a woman came and carefully washed Marta's vulva clean again. Then she was taken down and carefully carried to the spit. Her feet and hands smarted terribly from returning circulation, but soon they were bound again. They laid Marta on the spit and held her hands back above her head, lashing her wrists tightly with seawater-soaked palm rope. More rope was wrapped around her waist, cinched tightly to the cross-piece at the small of her back. At the elder's suggestion, two strands of wet rope passed around her full breasts to hold them close to her chest, otherwise they might flop around too much as she revolved. Since her nipples were choice morsels, and must be exposed to the heat to be properly crisped, the ropes were carefully located to leave her large pink aureoles bulging from between them. Next her thighs were lashed to their respective cross-piece, just above her knees. Her legs were slightly spread, so that her hairless vulva would be exposed to the heat. Already there was much heated arguing amongst the warriors, as to who would get to taste her broiled sex lips! A daintier morsel than anyone had ever enjoyed, and everyone clamored for a taste! Finally, her ankles were tightly tied to the final cross-piece, and her bondage was complete. More seawater was dribbled over her bindings, to make sure they would not burn away.
Marta wept quietly as she realized that in a moment she would be roasting, slowly turning and turning over a bed of coals. An odd thought came to her, unbidden. "How will I taste? Like pork? Or perhaps more like monkey meat?" She giggled, a little hysterically, at the idea. She began to fear that she was beginning to go insane. "But perhaps that would be for the best?", she wondered. Her sudden, slightly crazed laughter surprised the black natives, and they regarded her with fresh interest. Perhaps the white sow was a brave woman, to laugh after being put on the roasting spit? But the moment soon passed, and it was the last time Marta ever had anything to laugh about.
Now the witch doctor returned, and carefully inspected Marta's body, making sure she was clean and hairless. He tested her bonds, and found them secure. Then he called for several women who waited nearby with pots full of fresh herbs from the gardens. They gathered around Marta, expectantly. The witch doctor took one clay bowl, filled with an emulsion of finely crushed herbs and fresh water, and held it to Marta's parched lips. Surprised by this seeming act of kindness, she drank thirstily, for her body was dried out after her sickness the night before, and the long morning spent hanging between the stakes under the tropical sun. She was given another bowl of the tea, this one made with salty water, although not as salty as straight seawater. She tried to express her gratitude. "Thank you ... I mean, tankee! Water good ... Marta tirsty!"
The witch doctor smiled at her. "No tankee! Water no good! Water make'm yum-yum!" Again he smacked his lips and rubbed his belly. With mounting horror, Marta understood. The herbal concoction had been intended to season her flesh from the inside! She had just been stuffed like a Christmas goose! The allusion was made complete when the waiting women began to stuff her lower body openings with more freshly chopped herbs. While one held the lips of her sex open, another pushed wads of the fragrant leaves up inside her vagina. When she seemed to be filled, a smoothly whittled stick was used to pack the herbs in even tighter, making room for more. Marta cried in pain and misery as she felt her secret orifice being methodically filled with seasonings. Then the process was completed when her rectum was similarly filled. She was able to take a lot more up her anus, and again the stick was employed to make sure she had taken all she could hold. Then small, round sea shells were pressed against each opening, and a band of wet rope was passed from her back to her belly to hold the plugs in place. She could feel her nether lips bulge outward as the rope was cinched tight. Like her nipples, her lips had been bound to better expose them to the broiling fire.
Marta had never imagined such helpless misery, such incredible dread. She knew that the preparations were now complete. She had been purged, washed, singed and seasoned. Now they would put her on the fire! Her thoughts were disordered. She tried to imagine how it would feel to be over the slow fire, turning and turning, but her mind could not conceive of it. She would learn the terrible truth firsthand, soon enough!
She vaguely heard the chief babbling in the incomprehensible gibberish of the natives. He seemed to be making a formal speech. He finished speaking, and the gathered natives exploded into an unbelievable hubbub of shouts and cries. A song was begun, a song of victory, as ancient as the sea and the mountain. Many times it had been sung as an enemy was about to be put on the fire. It had not been heard for a generation, but everyone knew the words, instinctively, it seemed. The drummers began pounding with renewed energy. The dancing warriors stomped and whirled and shook their spears at Marta. Their victory was complete, and soon they would feast upon her sweetly seasoned, slowly roasted flesh!
Marta, bound to the spit, aching in her guts from being stuffed, felt herself begin to move. Four strong men strained to lift the spit, then they held her high overhead as they marched with measured tread toward the fire pit. The people cheered as she was taken to the fire.
Marta knew she was about to die, in the most painful manner possible. She stared around as she was carried to the fire. The brooding mountain had never looked so green as now, the sea and sky so vividly blue. She did not want to die! She did not want to slowly broil alive over hot coals! She did not want to be eaten by black savages! "Please, God ... please, not like this ... not the fire ... no ... no ... oh, please, no!" Her plea was quiet, almost reverent, more to herself than her Deity. It did her no more good than had any of her other prayers.
She turned her head and looked down as she reached the fire pit. The pit was somewhat shorter than the spit, yet amply long enough to completely underlie her stretched body. The bed of coals glowed red and gold and orange even in the midday sun. At the edges, fresh sticks of wood burned with eager licking flames. As they turned to embers, they would be pushed with canoe paddles to replenish the coals directly beneath her body. Flames would not caress her naked body, but she would be bathed in the intense radiated heat of the glowing coals.
The carriers paused a moment as the witch doctor offered a benediction. He asked the Gods of the sea and the sky and the mountain to witness this sacrifice, that they may be as filled with her roasted flesh as the people themselves. Then he looked deeply into Marta's anguished eyes for a long moment, before nodding to the men holding her. They carefully lowered the spit until it rested in the forked stakes.
For a moment, Marta lay there silently as the incredible heat surrounded her body. It seemed to touch her everywhere, but was especially intense against her back side, for they had laid her down face-up. Soon she came out of her shock, and she began to scream. She would gasp in a great breath of hot air, then empty her lungs in one long cry of the deepest possible anguish. Again and again she screamed, and the natives cheered to hear her agony expressed so vividly. Everyone wondered how it must feel to be lying there over a pit of coals, and soon fingers were busily working as both men and women masturbated themselves to the eloquent chorus of her cries.
Then the men, her chefs, gave the spit a half-turn, and she hung face downward over the fire. Again they left her there for a time, to allow her skin to heat up. Her cries were less strident, for she had trouble breathing the superheated air, but her agony, if anything, was even more intense. Her bulging, bound nipples seemed to be especially exposed -- they felt like two burning embers being pressed to her breasts! She felt her vulva lips begin to cook, and that was the most exquisite agony of all! "Dear God", she thought, amid her screams, "I'm in Hell! I'm in Hell!" And she truly was.
Now the men began turning the spit, steadily, with a measured cadence. They began to chant a working song, to keep themselves in time. Round and round went Marta, and soon she developed her own rhythm. As her face came up from the fire, she would drag in a great breath of air. As she continued around, she would let it out in a single, long, loud cry. Again and again and again. "AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEGGGGHHHHHH!!!" (Gasp) "EEEEEYYYAAAHHHGGGHHHH!!!" (Gasp) "AAAARRRROOOOOHHHHHH!!!" (Gasp) "YYEEEEOOOOWWWWWWW!!!" On and on and on it went. From time to time, a coherent word or phrase could be discerned. "GGAAAWWWDDDD!!!! OOOHHHH MMMYYYY GGGAAAWWWWDDDDD!!!" (Gasp) "AAAHHH!!! YYYAAAHHH!!! (Gasp) "JJJEEEEZZZZUUUUSSSSS!!!!" (Gasp) "JJJEEEZZZZUUUSSSS HHHAAAVVVEEE MMMEEERRRCCCYYYY!!!!" (Gasp) "WWWAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAHHHHAAAAHHHHAAAA!!!!"
By this time her skin was sizzling, crisping in the heat. Now her chefs produced long-handled brushes of the versatile palm fiber. Dipping them in clay pots of coconut oil, they applied the rich emollient to her seared naked body. The oil ran and spread in the heat, and soon her entire body was coated with it, gleaming in the bright afternoon sunshine as she went around and around and around. By this point, her skin, which had turned bright red almost immediately, was beginning to become brown. The heat had penetrated deep into her flesh. She could feel the juices bubbling inside her thighs and arms and belly and buttocks. She was cooking rapidly. "Surely I must die soon? I can't survive much longer, can I?" The coconut oil dripped from her body into the coals, raising brief puffs of acrid smoke. As the coals under her died down, fresh embers were pushed to the center of the pit, and more wood was laid carefully at the edges of the fire. The process was slow, controlled; scientific in its precision. It was working better than the witch doctor had dared hope! The sun had been at the zenith when she had been laid over the fire, and now it was easing down toward the horizon. Marta had been roasting, cooking, broiling for hours! Hours and hours!
Marta was much weaker now. Her screams were not as long or loud or lusty as they had been earlier, but they were no less heartrending. Even some of the warriors began to feel sorry for her. Discussions sprang up around the pit, debates raged over how much longer she could possibly live, and to what degree her flesh had cooked. Was she done yet? That was the burning question on everyone's lips. The natives hadn't eaten all day, in anticipation of the feast, and all were ravenous. But still Marta broiled, and turned, and cried.
Marta was quite insane, absolutely mad. In her pain-induced psychosis she carried on conversations with Jesus, with the witch doctor, with her dead husband. Her mother appeared to her, although her eyeballs had long since shriveled in their sockets. Inside her mind, she could still see. She asked her Mother to take the pork out of the oven -- surely it was done! But Mother sadly shook her head, and added wood to the fireplace, and Marta screamed anew. For Marta had become the loin of pork that sizzled and baked in the brick Dutch oven of her childhood home. Then, amazingly, she found herself in the bridal bed with her husband, and she felt his maleness fill her secret passage, fill and fill and expand and expand until she surely must burst. But it was not the Reverend's penis inside her, it was the stuffing of fragrant herbs that was swelling in the heat of her belly. Finally, mercifully, she began to die. She felt it coming. She welcomed it, embraced it, drew it to her like a lover.
"Death, sweet, merciful Death," she murmured softly, "what kept you? I've been waiting for you ever so long!" She felt herself going numb, and the incredible agony subsided. Astoundingly, she began to feel cold as the life left her body. Suddenly she was free, floating above the fire pit, looking down at herself as her richly browned, sizzling body turned and turned. The black natives shone with sweat. To the side she saw a long bed of fresh palm leaves laid on the ground, and she knew it was the table from which her body would be served out to the waiting throng. Around it were arranged pots of boiled rice, platters of roasted taro root, and heaps of fresh fruit. She looked longingly at the fruit -- a papaya would taste so sweet to her parched throat! But the feeling passed, for she realized that she was finally beyond all pain and suffering. She rose higher, floating, flying away, and saw the great shining light in the sky, which was not the sun. Then she knew. Her time in Hell had not been for naught. God had heard her prayers after all, and she was going to heaven.
The Reverend Justinus Vanderberg was waiting for her at the opening of the long, dark tunnel. The light gleamed at the far end, beckoning her. He took her hand, and together they entered the long, spiral passage. She had never known such peace.
The witch doctor studied the still-broiling, still-revolving body. The white sow had stopped screaming. She no longer breathed. She was dead. Her spirit had departed, he could feel it distinctly. He took a long, thin, sharply pointed stick, and told the turners to stop. He thrust the stick into the thick flesh of her buttocks, and felt it sink in deeply, almost without resistance. Bright clear juice ran from the puncture. As nearly as he could tell, she was done. Her skin was crisp, brown as a nutshell, broken here and there where the heat had split it open. Her nipples were incredibly crisp, still thrusting outward, although the cords holding them had smoldered away. The major bonds still held, but for how much longer he couldn't guess. It was time to take her to the table! Now the feasting would begin!
The exhausted chefs summoned one last effort, and lifted Marta's roasted corpse from the forks. Gently they bore her to the palm-frond table, and laid her down. The people gathered, anxious for their first taste of this once-in-a-lifetime delicacy. The cords holding her to the spit were severed, and her body collapsed onto the bed of leaves. Carefully he directed the warriors in the carving. The choicest bits would be divided, so that almost everyone would have a taste of something, whether it be eyeball, nipple, or female sex. For himself, he appropriated Marta's left inner vulva lip, the head chief taking the right one. He popped the morsel into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth. It was incredibly delicious! Everyone seemed to be nodding in agreement. Never had they tasted anything so delicious! Soon the butchers had dismembered the body, separating the limbs from the torso. She was so thoroughly cooked that she seemed to fall apart. Everyone tried a piece of this, a taste of that. Her buttock and thigh meat was rich and juicy, still a little bit rare. The body cavity was opened, fragrant steam rising into the evening air. The herb stuffing had worked perfectly. Her steam-cooked guts were perfectly tasty!
When her chest was opened, the witch doctor was surprised to see that her vital organs had scarcely been affected by the heat. The lungs looked almost normal, and the heart was still quite raw. Probably the heavy flesh of her back, and her big breasts, had served to protect her heart and lungs, much to her misery. Likewise the helmet of clay had kept her brain from dying too soon. He decided to keep the heart, lungs and brain as they were until tomorrow, when they might be baked in a layer of clay for one last delicate repast.
One thing was certain. Now that they had had a taste of properly fattened, carefully roasted human flesh, they must have it again! Perhaps a raiding party to Raragora Island might yield a juicy long-pig or two? Or maybe the Dutch would send them another couple of missionaries to replace the Vanderbergs? Now that was a satisfying thought!