I could still feel the fish of two nights ago sitting heavy in the bottom of my stomach, waiting to leach out its toxins into my system and reduce my body to a screaming, quivering mess.
“Let’s go, Andy,” Rick mumbled, impatient.
“I’m right behind you, mate. Right behind you.”
Thirteen
We headed southwards for the second time that day, but this time in the aluminium dinghy, running closer to the shoreline, and sitting lower in the water than we had on the trawler. Rick perched himself on the bow, eyes fixed on the shore. He didn’t need the binoculars now, for we were never more than a hundred yards out from the rocky coast.
I steered us into the first of several bays that could have been the one we were seeking; the shoreline running back to steep cliffs from which the dog rocks could have fallen; and motored towards the narrow shingle beach strewn with heaped-up rows of sun-bleached coral tossed there by storm and tide.
“This dinghy makes more sense,” I said.
“Yes, mate. We’re getting a hell of a lot closer.”
“Not only that, Rick, but we can both check the area. What you miss, I might pick up.”
“Yeah, well, as long as you keep one eye .....”
It was then that we touched the first submerged rock as it skidded under the bow, scraping along the starboard side and just missing the propeller.
“Point taken,” I replied quickly before he could get another word in.
It was half an hour later that I hit the second rock; my eyes concentrating on the coast again; but this one didn’t let us get away so easily, shearing through the pin and letting the propeller-shaft race unrestrained. Ten minutes later we were on our way again, one blade slightly bent but not affecting the motor’s performance to any great degree: a gentle shuddering that would be all right as long as we didn’t run at full speed.
“What about that one?” Rick shouted over his shoulder a few minutes later, pointing to a jumble of boulders lying in a heap at the base of a high cliff. We were a hundred yards or so past the place marked as Rocky Point on the chart.
“No,” I replied, dropping the speed to a low idle. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t look anything like a dog. Uncle Max reckoned you could definitely see the snout sticking out.”
He grunted and shrugged his shoulders in resignation; but at least we had achieved something. I had remembered that the dog had had a snout; which meant that it couldn’t have been a bulldog. Some achievement!
******
Three hours later, our eyes sore and our backsides numb from sitting on the hard aluminium bench seats, we decided to call it a day and headed back to the trawler.
“Well,” Henry called down as we limped alongside, the bent propeller blade now playing havoc with the outboard and sending a continuous shudder through the dinghy. “Did you find it?”
“No,” I said.
“What?” he shouted again. “I can’t hear you. Turn the motor off.”
I cut the outboard as Rick grabbed the rope Henry threw down.
“No,” I said again. “There’s not even a blasted pile of rocks resembling a goddamn dog curled up asleep on the beach, much less a hound begging for its dinner!”
“Okay, okay,” he replied. “No need to go blasting my head off.”
“Sorry, mate. Got any cold beer in the fridge?”
“The last two stubbies.”
I passed the petrol tank up to him and then the outboard. I wasn’t looking forward to a repeat performance the following day, especially if there was no cold beer to come back to; but perhaps tomorrow would bring more luck. It would be Henry and me in the dinghy, and maybe his younger eyes might spot something we had both missed.
“Do you think maybe he had the wrong side of the island?” Rick asked after he had taken that first thirst-quenching pull on the stubbie.
“Who?” I replied. “Von Luckner?”
“No, your uncle.”
“Wouldn’t think so.” I put the stubbie back on the table, trying to make it last as long as possible. “The only thing that’s worrying me is that maybe Uncle Max had the wrong island.”
“How come?” Henry asked, eyes hooded with worry.
“Give me the chart,” I said, “and I’ll show you.”
He went up to the wheelhouse and brought it down.
“Okay,” I continued, the chart now spread out on the dining table. “Here’s Wakaya, and here, ten miles to the south-west is the island of Batiki, and eight miles to the north of us is Makogai.”
“But,” Rick muttered. “Surely your uncle wouldn’t have got the three of them confused?”
“Not if he’d been able to see the chart,” I replied. “But von Luckner seems to have kept that to himself. He was the one who told the others that they were off Wakaya, remember. For all they knew, they could have been off any one of half a dozen islands.”
“But they were captured at Wakaya the next day,” Henry declared.
“Yes,” I agreed. “There’s that, I suppose. Uncle Max would have known if they’d dropped the chest at one island and sailed through the night to another before they were taken prisoner. Shit! It has to be the right one! But where’s the bloody pile of rocks?”
We went out to the stern and dragged the dinghy back on board.
Henry straightened his back, stretched, scratched his stomach, and then said: “That yacht went past a couple of hours ago.”
“Which yacht?” Rick asked.
“The one we saw with the yellow bikini hanging from the mast stay.”
“Did he come in?”
“No, just kept on going up along the cost and around the corner. I think he’s probably gone into the harbour, though.”
“Well,” I said. “Just as long as he stays away from us.”
“Okay,” Rick said, interrupting thoughts of dusky maidens and tiny secluded islands. “Let’s get this bloody boat moving. I want to be back inside the reef before it gets dark.”
As we came through the break in the reef we saw the yacht lying at anchor in the tiny harbour. There seemed to be nobody on board and we passed well away from her, heading back to the buoy we had dropped early that morning. Henry let the chain run out; stopping it off when the piece of cord tied to the end of the third shackle appeared from the mouth of the hawse pipe.
“This whole thing is beginning to seem like a wild goose chase to me,” Henry mumbled as he rummaged around in the food locker, emerging with one of the tins of corned beef I had been thinking about earlier in the day. “Maybe your Uncle Max was just feeding you bedtime stories; tales of the seven seas to keep you amused and put you to sleep.”
“Bullshit, Henry!” I snapped back.
“Come off it, you two!” Rick said placatingly. “After all, it is a bit of fun; and if we weren’t here, we’d be back off Cairns hauling in a pile of stinking prawns and fighting for sea-room with one of the other trawlers. At least it’s peaceful here.” Then he saw the look on my face and remembered the staring eyes of the two Indians. “Oh Christ!” he swore. “Don’t say it’s all been for bloody nothing!”
I jumped off the bench. “Bloody hell! You two would be the biggest pair of quitters I’ve ever come across! We’ve only been looking for the bloody rocks for a day and a half, and already you want to throw in the towel and head for home! Christ, I’d hate to take you two out trawling for prawns.”
“Get stuffed,” Rick said, laughing. “Come on, Henry. What’s on the menu tonight?”
******
We left the lagoon early the following morning, and were anchored back around near Rocky Point at a little after eight; and, almost as though someone had wound the clock back twenty-four hours, the same punt came roaring around the headland.
“What do you reckon they want this time?” I asked. “More bloody fish?”
“Maybe they think we might have speared a few more and want them checked,” Henry said.
“Yeah?” Rick exclaimed. “Well, this time I’m tell
ing them to bugger off!”
I folded the chart and slid it into the drawer. “You can’t,” I said. “It’s their island; and if we upset them it could be us that gets told to bugger off.”
“Okay, but let’s get rid of them as quickly as possible. I don’t want the three of them hanging around out here asking bloody fool questions while you two go ashore.”
Henry and I had decided to walk along the shoreline this time, where we could that is, for some of it was steep cliff-face falling straight into the sea. We reckoned that the four-mile journey would take four to five hours, depending on how many times we had to go into the water to get around obstacles.
Rick was going to stay out on the boat and keep watch on us until we disappeared from sight around the curve of the island, which we figured would take a good two hours. Then he would head out to sea and follow us along the coast, letting the trawler drift offshore until we signaled for him to come in and pick us up.
If we couldn’t find the dog’s head on the western side of the island, we would have to go around to the other side and try all those bays as well. I didn’t like the idea, for it would focus even more attention on what we were doing. The locals might realise that we were searching for something and not just looking at fish and coral; and once they became curious the secret wouldn’t remain a secret for much longer.
I was determined to find that pile of rock, even if we didn’t find the Sea Devil’s chest; and I wasn’t giving up easily.
“They’re coming here, all right,” Henry muttered, interrupting my thoughts.
“Let’s see what they want first,” I said. “Before we try getting rid of them.”
The punt glided up smoothly again, but this time straight alongside as the fish expert cut the motor. It was the same three. One of them jumped on board holding a length of rope that had seen better days.
“Bula!” I yelled in greeting, just to show that I was picking up the local language; and received several bula’s in reply. “Come on board,” I added, which was superfluous as they were already over the gunwale.
The two who had been sitting in the middle of the punt were each carrying baskets woven from the leaf of a coconut palm. One of them passed his across to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
The basket held half a dozen round objects about the size of a big turnip, but dirty grey in colour.
“Dalo, turaga,” the fish expert said. “How you call taro.”
“What do you do with then?” Rick asked, peering down into the basket with some reservation.
“Just like potato, turaga. You cut the skin off and cut them into thick slices and boil them, or bake them in the oven, or cut them really thin and fry them in some oil.”
“Henry,” I said. “Did you get all of that?”
“Yep,” he replied. “I think we had some of the chips at the Tradewinds.”
I turned to the second Fijian as he held his basket out. I didn’t need to be told what they were – three large crayfish.
“We speared the urau for you this morning, turaga,” he said. “But you left before we could catch you.”
I passed the basket to Rick and turned back to the Fijians. All three looked sideways and down at their feet.
“Well,” I said. “This is terrific! Thanks very much. Can we offer you a cup of coffee while Henry puts some water on to cook the crays?”
“Ah, no coffee, thank you, turaga.”
“How about tea then?” I asked.
I had noticed that Kini and the other two girls had seemed to prefer well-sugared white tea to coffee.
“Yes, thank you, turaga.”
It was going to waste more time, but it couldn’t be helped. At the moment we were on the right side of these three and it was best to keep it that way. It might pay dividends if we had to start searching the whole of the island for the Sea Devil’s hound.
While the water slowly heated in our largest pot, the talk moved to the Fijians and what they did in the village. We learned their names, the name of their village, and that of the fish expert’s wife and his young son – the other two boys not being married.
“Does your whole family live on the island, Sekove?” Rick asked the fish expert.
“All except my young sister, turaga. She stays at home in Suva with my uncle. She is going to be a nurse at the CWM hospital next year.” He smiled proudly. “It will be a much better job than being a house-girl like most of her friends. Her best friend is already a nurse.”
“What’s her name?” Henry asked.
“Her name, turaga? Ah ..., Maria, turaga.”
Henry looked at him for several moments, nodded his head, and then went back to his bubbling pot.
I figured that perhaps the time was now ripe for a little subterfuge, now that they were comfortable with us and we with them. I asked Henry to open a tin of fruit cake, and watched as three pairs of eyes lit up.
“Here, have a piece,” I said.
Sekove took a thick slab and grinned. “Sa vinaka, turaga.”
“How long have you all lived on Wakaya?” I asked.
“All our lives, turaga,” Sekove replied. “Except for Malakai.” He pointed to the one who had handed me the basket of crayfish. “He went to Levuka for a year to work on the wharf, but he didn’t like it.”
“Well,” I said. “You might remember a yacht that came through here about fifteen years ago. A big yacht with two masts?”
“What name did the yacht have, turaga?”
“Mary II,” I replied and had to try hard not to smile as Henry nearly choked on his coffee. It was the name of the trawler he had left before joining us on the Sally May.
“Mmm, no, turaga.”
“I guess you would have been pretty young then?” I added.
“Yes, turaga. Fifteen years ago? Only eight.”
“I was on that yacht,” I continued, and watched as Rick’s eyebrows went up even further, still not aware of where I was taking the conversation. “I would have been only a few years older than you.”
“You have been here before, turaga!” he exclaimed, pleased that I had returned to Wakaya for a second time.
“Yes, with my father and a few other people, but we only stayed for two days. The other people wanted to go on to another island. I don’t remember its name.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, although I don’t really remember all that much about Wakaya. I know I should, but it was such a long time ago.”
“Yes, turaga.”
“But I do recall my father and me swimming in a little bay somewhere around here. It’s stuck in my mind all those years. There’s a pile of rocks shaped like a dog, like a hound with a pointed nose, begging for food.”
As if a light switch had suddenly been turned on, both Rick and Henry’s faces changed from bafflement to complete understanding. Henry started to grin and I covered it up by passing the fruit cake around once more.
“I’ve been looking for the bay, but the rocks don’t seem to be there any more.”
“Yes, turaga.”
Was this the single negative, the double negative, or what? Were the rocks there, or gone?
“You remember it as well?” I asked, holding my breath.
Sekove finished chewing on a large chunk of cake as the three of us waited in silence.
“Oh yes, turaga; but it has gone now.”
“What happened?”
“Some more rocks crashed down from the cliff and smashed into na koli, the dog, and broke him into pieces; but the rocks are still there if you want to see them.” He looked at his two friends. They grinned. “We can take you.”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “It’s too much trouble for you.”
Rick nearly choked on a piece of cake.
“No, turaga,” Sekove said, and then turned to his friends and began rattling off in Fijian. He smiled back at me. “We can go now if you like. We can all go in our punt.”
It was almost all we could do to stop ours
elves from leaping up from the table and bursting out through the saloon doorway and jumping down into the punt; but I forced myself to sit for that extra half-minute, stirring a few crumbs around the table top, and then stood up.
“That would be great,” I replied finally, accepting his offer. “But I’ll come by myself if that’s all right with you. Henry wants to finish cooking the crays and Rick’s got a few things to do on the boat.”
We walked out on deck, the Fijians first and then me, with Rick prodding me in the back. I waited until they had climbed down into the punt.
“Just a minute,” I called down to Sekove. “I’ll need my sunglasses.” I spun on my heel. “Rick, where did you put them?” I gave him a nod and followed as he turned and went back inside.
“Why the hell can’t I come?” he demanded.
“Because I don’t want it to seem important to anyone else but me; and besides, I want you to get a bearing on us when we head in to shore. You might have to head out to sea to do it, okay?”
“Right, mate. Shit, that was a bloody smooth bit of talking!”
“No problem, mate,” I replied, grinning from ear to ear. “No problem at all.”
******
“There it is, turaga!” Malakai, the youngest of the three, the one who had worked at Levuka, yelled back to me over the sound of the noisy outboard. “Over there!”
He was pointing towards the jumbled heap of rocks to which Rick had drawn my attention the previous afternoon: the heap I had told him didn’t look anything like a dog; and it didn’t, not any more; but it must have at one time. I looked at the cliff above, and now that I knew it for what it was I could make out the long faint scar where the original fall had come from, the one that had formed the begging hound. Out to one side was another gash, but this one wider and shallower, and eating into the edge of the original scar. The more recent rock-fall had crashed down on to the dog, scattering its components over the narrow stretch of stony beach.
The scar that Uncle Max had told me about had become blurred and partly hidden by tough sea-grasses in the fifty-five years since he had been there with von Luckner. It had been the absence of that jagged recess that had confused me almost as much as the jumbled pile of rocks.
The Stone Dog Page 17