by Owen Stanley
Moia and Madame Negretti had spent a daemonic afternoon slaving and hurling abuse at one another in their steam-filled kitchen, sometimes breaking out in mutual exchanges of flying toast-racks and saucepans, but eventually, in a lather of sweat and execrations, the great dinner for the most important guests was prepared.
But before they could be allowed to quench their belly-rumblings, the niceties of Culture decreed that they should endure an hour of chamber music, performed not for Southall, who was tone-deaf, but purely in honour of the occasion. The programme had advanced to a work by one of the more deranged of the Central European atonalists when the sounds of discordant singing and smashing glass slowly detached themselves from the music and heralded the arrival of Fletcher, disgustingly drunk, supported by Oelrichs and Moncreif, and coming to spoil the party.
The cellist was struggling with a recalcitrant solo passage, but from the agony of the sounds he was producing, he might just as well have had a pig between his legs and been castrating it. Fletcher observed in hoarse, but penetrating, tones that if that was supposed to be music he’d show them what sort of tune he could produce with a bow up the bloody fiddler’s orifice. The crudity of this suggestion brought a sudden silence over the gathering, disturbed only by Fletcher rummaging noisily among the dishes on the table. To ease the tension, Madame Negretti gesticulated to the quartet to get back on the job, and as they rapidly selected a more melodious diversion, she began introducing Fletcher to some of the bystanders one of whom, short, assured, glacial of manner and spectacled, evidently a journalist of progressive opinions, had pointedly ignored Fletcher’s intrusion.
“Ah, Mr. Crispin, you must meet Roger Fletcher, our Warden of the Goldfields.”
“Roger who, of where?”
“Are you bloody deaf? I’m Roger Fletcher, of never mind where.” Fletcher peered at Crispin more closely, and then fingered his collar.
“Is that dandruff, or ’ve yer been out in the snow?” He seized Crispin’s slender neck in a genial grasp. “Now I’ll bet there’s something yer don’t know about the kanakas on this island, eh,” and he shook Crispin vigorously.
“What’s that?” quavered the journalist of advanced opinions.
“They won’t stand for bloody dandruff, and that’s the truth. Only one cure for it.”
A large bowl of yellow custard caught his eye. “What’s that yer got there, Angelina?” Without waiting for a reply, he dipped both hands into the custard and began plastering it well into Crispin’s chestnut curls, at the same time explaining affably to a large lady next to him, who looked like a Russian discus thrower and who was watching, transfixed.
“Now, when yer get inter bed tonight break a coupl ’a eggs on his head and rub well into the scalp, see?” He was interrupted by the protesting discus thrower.
“We not married.”
“Never mind that. We’re all broad-minded here. The main thing is to rub the eggs well in before the eggs set.”
“He never come into my bed!”
“Well, when yer on the floor, or wherever yer do it, don’t forget the eggs, then in the morning it’ll all ’ave set nicely, then yer take a sharp axe and chop it off, and with a bit of luck yer’ll chop the bastard’s head off too! Ha! Ha! Ha!” He released the wretched Crispin, who, blinded with custard, stumbled over a chair and fell blubbering in rage and humiliation on the floor.
Madame Negretti had lived at Ungabunga long enough to take such pleasantries as a matter of course, but the guests had led more sheltered lives and either quailed, swelled with outraged dignity, or prepared to do violence to Fletcher. A man of the last category was Major Larsen, the officer in charge of the Dove’s helicopter: he was small, immaculate, and with a pair of malignant green eyes which glared indignantly at Fletcher and Oelrichs.
Madame Negretti, realising that the musical evening had been conclusively ended by Fletcher and that things were rapidly getting out of hand, authoritatively announced that dinner was served, and set about laying extra places for the unexpected guests.
“Well, my Lord,” said Oelrichs, in between mouthfuls of paté. “Are you satisfied with the Mission’s accomplishments so far?”
“There’s no need to call me ‘My Lord’,” said Southall, stiffly, “That kind of thing is rather out nowadays. But I’m very pleased indeed by what I’ve seen. Dr. Prout and the Mission deserve every credit.”
“And do you think the people will live up to expectations?”
“Well, of course. We’ve shown them the benefits of civilized life, you don’t imagine they’ll turn their backs on them now, do you?”
“Don’t you feel that it might have been a good idea to teach them to read first?”
Southall was becoming restive under this cross-examination, and said, brusquely:
“No, I don’t. All recent research has shown that education is really about learning to live together in a community, developing tolerance and understanding, and this is the true basis for a civilized society. Book learning is all very well, but it’s tainted with élitism, and I’m afraid that it’s too often been a specious excuse for prolonging colonial rule.”
He turned his attention pointedly to his neighbour on his left, filling her glass.
“I did not hear your name distinctly,” said Larsen. “‘Ollis’, did you say it was?”
“Oelrichs, Oelrichs, old chap, but I’m English in spite of it.”
“So. And your friend, what is his name?”
“Ah, Major,” interrupted Prout, beaming with tipsy malice. “We’re honoured by the presence of Mr. Roger Fletcher, Roaring Roger to his friends, I believe. Late ruler of this island, and still Warden of the Goldfields.”
“Ruler, you say, Dr. Prout? Is this the man who has defied United Nations authority for so long?”
“What?” Fletcher looked up from a turkey carcase, shreds of meat dangling from his lips and beard, “What’s that you said?”
“I said,” repeated Larsen, “that you are the man who has defied the authority of the United Nations.”
“Too bloody right, I have. I’ve been waiting a year for you dozy bastards to fall arse over tip, and tonight’s the night. ’Aven’t you lot been wonderin’ where all yer brown brothers ’ve got to, eh? Should’ve been swarmin’ in like wasps round a jam jar!”
He reached out for a bottle of burgundy and took a long swig. Prout frowned, and shook his head.
“There’s just been a slight misunderstanding over dates. We’ll soon have everything straightened out.”
“More than a slight misunderstanding, mate, and it’s you lot that’s going to be straightened out. Flattened out, more like! Do yer know why they ’aven’t come? I’ll tell yer. There’s been a ruddy great cargo cult roarin’ away in the mountains the last six or eight months, right under yer noses, and that’s the only reason they ’aven’t slung yer all out on yer arses already.”
“Rubbish! Rubbish!” responded a chorus of voices.
“And who started it all off? That twerp Daubeny. The bloke who gave ’em man-traps to catch their supper. ‘The cannibals’ friend’… jeez! Anyhow, they were tryin’ to figure out why Prout wanted ’em to build shit ’ouses, see, when up comes Tristram, like the young genius he is, and as good as tells ’em that crap turns into money and goodies, if yer know what ter do with it. They put two and two together and made seventeen, like they usually bloody do, and next thing they’re beaverin’ away diggin’ a set o’ thunder boxes yer could drop the Queen Mary down and bustin’ their guts tryin’ to fill ’em. It was those mugs at Laripa that got the bright idea. They’re all up there now, lyin’ awake like kids at Christmas, waitin’ to see what Santa’s bringin’ them. Sun up tomorrer, they’ll be down those ’oles like flamin’ ferrets to dig up the loot. And by Christ, if they don’t find it, they’re gonna be down ’ere askin’ you lot some very nasty questions!”
He grinned at them with ferocious glee.
“Absolute piffle,” sniffed Prout. “How do you know al
l this, unless you’ve been stirring them up?”
“I been kicking around up there the last week or so. Turned up another cargo cult at Lavalava. They got pissed off with Laripa runnin’ the show and wanted to do their own thing. So they got the bright idea that the toys in Erny’s store were some kind o’ seed, and if yer planted ’em with the right spells they’d grow inter bloody full-sized Cadillacs and steam-rollers, and God knows what else. And they’ll be goin’ crook tomorrer mornin’ too.”
“For my part,” said Southall, “I have the utmost confidence in Dr Prout’s judgment. Must we listen to any more of these illiterate ravings?”
Fletcher rose in his chair, dribbling burgundy into his beard, plainly meditating some atrocity against the Guest of Honour, when Prout diverted his attention.
“What’s all this got to do with our celebrations? I don’t see any connection at all.”
“There’s a bloody good connection, as they see it. Yer’ve been tellin’ ’em that come tomorrer all their troubles are over, it’s goin’ to be a new world, like all their birthdays’ve come at once, and all that bullshit, so they reckon yer must’ve meant that it’s the day when the goodies arrive.”
That was true, so far as it went, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Fletcher had also told the Moroks that Prout intended to betray them, and that come the promised day, they would find nothing in their Houses of Filth.
The rest of his remarks were drowned in noisy abuse and general uproar. Prout leaned over and shouted in Fletcher’s ear.
“I don’t believe a word of this. It’s just a vicious lie to upset the Mission in the hour of its success.”
“It’s nothin’ to do with me, mate. Yer lot got yerselves inter this. Yer buggered up the fort, the gaol, the police, so the place is fallin’ apart. Yer can put it back together tomorrer mornin’. When it comes to the crunch, yer’ll find a fort’s a bloody sight more use than a gas works.”
He got up and wandered round the table in search of more wine, while the babble of angry voices raged around him. Collaring a bottle of port, he tore the leg off a goose and munched at it for a few minutes, washing it down with long gulps from the bottle. His eyes wandered hazily over the assembled guests, until they fastened on a strikingly lovely girl, with long black hair and pneumatic bosom, in a dress that was both scarlet and revealing. Leaning over the table he extended a greasy hand to her.
“I didn’t get yer name. I’m Roger Fletcher. Enjoyin’ yerself?”
“It’s hardly what I expected,” she replied, coolly, “But I suppose it’ll be a good story for my grandchildren one day.” Fletcher’s eyes were riveted on the heaving globes of her bosom, and his face split in a lecherous grin.
“You’re the first decent lookin’ sheila in Ungabunga for donkey’s years. How about stayin’ on?”
“Staying on? If you’re right about tomorow there won’t be much to stay on for, will there? Anyway, I have to leave with Daddy in a couple of days.”
“With who?”
“My father. Lord Southall.”
“Shit. Is he yer old man?”
“Yes. And I don’t like the way you talk about him.”
Fletcher lay across the table, leering at her, sweat streaming down his face.
“I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about yer.”
“Well, why don’t we talk about you instead? I can see why they call you Roaring Roger, anyway.”
“No yer flamin’ well can’t. At least, not while I’ve still got me strides on.”
He clambered fully on to the table and stood there, swaying and stumbling among the dishes in his muddy riding boots, with wine and food splattered down his khaki shirt. Waving his bottle he bellowed at the horrified crowd.
“They call me Roaring Roger because I go to bed with a Rooaaring Roger! And I wake up in the night with a Rooaaring Roger! And I get up in the morning with a Rooaaring Roger! Put me to stud! I can breed!”
Then he collapsed unconscious among the plates and tureens.
Chapter XV
As Fletcher had predicted, the Moroks spent a restless, expectant night awaiting the dawn, and voices continued to murmur spasmodically in the huts and men’s houses throughout the mountains until the sky started to lighten, around six o’clock. As dawn arrived, smoke began to filter out from under the thatch of the huts, as the fires were blown to life, but everyone’s excitement was too great to think of eating.
At Laripa, Malek marshalled his warriors for a ceremonial procession to the House of Filth, and as they donned their tall headdresses of paradise plumes, he consulted with Garang on the auspicious moment to unveil their riches.
“When the sun striketh the Peaks of Karama, then shall all be revealed,” declared Garang with an air of authority. At about half-past six the warriors were ready, their women clustering at the rear, all carrying several capacious string bags to bear away the wealth that would shortly be theirs, laughing and chattering. Even Nyikang had found the strength to crawl from the men’s house, and tottered beside the resplendent fighting men, as with shout and song they began their procession.
Arriving at the House of Filth, on Malek’s signal, they began demolishing it with axes, in wild enthusiasm. When the posts and beams were all cast down, and strewn around the hole, Malek forgot the speech he had intended making, so great was the general fever, and he also forgot his dignity as a chief, and joined in the removal of the timbers over the hole. The smell which arose from it was not reassuring. Malek struck a heroic posture at the edge of the pit, as his supporters fastened him into a crudely improvised harness.
“I go now, to fetch you tidings of the red men’s treasure.”
Four strong men began to lower their chief into the stinking gloom of the latrine. The men had to stand back to avoid being dragged in themselves, so the only indications of his progress were the thuds and periodic falls of earth as Malek descended. Suddenly, a clamour of muffled shrieks and yells broke the tense silence, and the men began to haul Malek up. Twenty seconds’ grunting exertion dragged him back to the light of day, and the audience fell back as their filthy, dripping, malodorous leader sprawled over the edge of the hole, weeping with shock and mortification.
“Aaaaahh! Ekeh! Ekeh!” breathed the crowd, in growing shock and horror. Garang quickly seized the initiative. Breaking his staff over his thigh, he shrieked:
“Betrayed! Betrayed! Tikame spoke truth indeed. We are deceived. The red men have lied!”
“By my mother’s bones, we shall take mighty vengeance,” roared Malek, wiping at himself ineffectually. “To arms, to arms!”
In every village the same scene was being repeated, almost simultaneously, and the valleys resounded to the long drawn cries of rage, as village called to village its dismal tale of humiliated expectations. In a couple of hours, after some notably uncharitable speeches given by the chiefs at the expense of the Mission, all the warriors had discarded their ceremonial feathers, and assuming their war plumage of black and scarlet around their brows, began silently padding toward their enemies, their minds filled with visions of blood and destruction.
At Lavalava, Abuk and his men, distraught with grief and disappointment, had cast aside the corroded, peeling toys with petulant fury and, eyes glowing under heavy brows, took up their weapons, their clubs, their quivering spears, their massive black-palm bows, and came down like a torrent along the track, crouching and hissing in their traditional war dance.
The sunrise that had brought humiliation and despair to the Moroks was, for Prout, the Dawn of Reason on his very own day, Bastille Day, the final liberation of Elephant Island from its long night of superstition and the tyranny of the past. He and Phyllis were up early, and after a nutritious breakfast to sustain them for the challenging day ahead, went down to Hut 27 where a special meeting of the Bastille Day Committee had been convened. Tristram had slept badly, worried by the absence of the people and by Fletcher’s claims at dinner the previous night, and as soon as Prout arrived he burst
out:
“Surely, Dr. Prout, we ought to do something to check up about this story of a cargo-cult?”
“I’m really surprised, Tristram, that you should have taken Fletcher’s outburst quite so seriously. The man was soused. It was pure mischief-making. The only remarkable thing is that the illiterate oaf had ever heard of cargo-cults—probably got it from Oelrichs—but we must never underestimate the extraordinary cunning of the uneducated. It was nothing more than a prank intended to disconcert us in the hour of our triumph,” he said, with a reassuring smile.
The rest of the committee loudly agreed, and Prout went on.
“Fletcher is just an absurd reactionary who can’t accept that his little conservative world is collapsing about his ears, doomed by the progressive forces of history. I have absolutely no doubt that everything we have worked so hard for is falling into place, and that by the end of today, we shall feel dizzy with success. But there are still some events in the programme that we need to sort out, and since the people aren’t here yet, we shall have time to discuss them.”
He was referring to such problems as the recent demand by Rebeccah Bloom, as Secretary of Political Consciousness, that there should be a tableau vivant representing the defeat of colonialism by the oppressed peoples of the world, which clashed in the timetable with Noreen Hiscock’s Greek dancing and had sparked a vicious dispute between the two ladies. This, and other matters, required Prout’s urgent attention before the ceremonies could begin. Lord Southall was a silent but increasingly impatient observer of the proceedings as they droned on. He, too, had been reflecting on Fletcher’s remarks of the night before, and by eight o’clock he finally intervened.
“It would ease my mind considerably if we could at least find out where the people are, and what they are doing.”
“But of course,” replied Prout, looking up briefly from his paperwork, and rather relieved to be rid of Southall’s brooding presence. “It might be quickest if you asked Major Larsen to take you in the helicopter.”