Things Bright and Beautiful

by Anbara Salam

  As they entered the door of the church, Bea could see the benches had been pushed against the walls of the room. There were seven girls standing in front of Aru, who was strumming on his ukulele. Max put the hurricane lamp down on a pew on the left corner of the building, and pointed to the centre of the room.

  ‘Stand there, sweetheart,’ he said.

  Morinda crossed in front of Bea, and stood against the back wall. Bea turned towards the group. She didn’t want to look up, to catch anyone’s eye. She walked towards the centre of the room. The girls around her took a step back. Bea stood still. She kept her head bowed, and her arms clasped over her chest. She looked down at her feet. They were wet and dirty from the grass. She could see the faint muddy footprints she had tracked across the wooden floor.

  Aru began to play a new melody, and the girls started to hum. It was a song Bea recognized. A sweet song, about the light of God. Aru continued to strum chords as the girls’ singing dwindled. Over the music, he began to pray.

  ‘Almighty Jesus. We call on you this evening to grace us with the power of your spirit.’

  Murmurs of ‘A-men’ came from the girls.

  Bea continued to look at her feet. But from the corner of her eye, she could tell Aru was shifting his weight from side to side.

  ‘Lord Jesus Christ, we call on your powers of mercy, of justice, of righteousness.’

  ‘A-men.’

  ‘We call on your powers of healing. We ask you to come down, to bless all those here with the grace of your mercy.’

  ‘A-men.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Aru placed his ukulele down on one of the benches, ‘we beseech you to fill us with your healing spirit! We ask you to send us your wisdom. We ask you to come down this night. To fill us with your healing spirit.’

  ‘A-men.’

  ‘We are only sinners, oh Lord. We are only sinners but for your grace. Fill us now with your power to heal! To purify! To reject the power of darkness!’

  ‘Oh Lord, oh Lord,’ began the chorus from the girls around Bea. They were rocking slowly from side to side.

  The girls began to mutter.

  ‘Oh Lord, we beseech you.’

  ‘In the name of Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Almighty Jesus, help us.’

  ‘We pray, oh Lord! We pray you fill us with your holy spirit! We pray that you cast out the demon from within this child!’ Aru continued.

  ‘Oh Lord, help us, help us.’

  ‘We ask you to help us purify this child in Jesus! To save her from the power of the Beast! By your mercy!’

  Bea stood still, though she was disorientated by the movement around her. The girls were swaying. Some of them were whispering.

  Bea kept her arms clasped over her chest. She was acutely aware she wasn’t wearing any underclothes. Would they make her lie down? Could she somehow signal to Max that she wasn’t wearing any underwear? Would they allow her to go back to Mission House and dress properly?

  The noise grew louder. Aru was praying on his own now. Bea couldn’t pick out the words. They all jumbled together in one hush of whispers, of prayers, of humming. Bea stood rigid. She felt as if the room were spinning, and her own feet were far away from her. If she clenched her legs really tight, nobody would know she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  The girls began to move around the room. Someone was banging on the wood on the walls of the building. Someone was crying. Someone was shrieking, ‘I cast you out!’ over and over. Bea could see flickers of movement as people shook their wrists out at her.

  Aru’s voice suddenly shouted out above the din, ‘In the name of Jesus, I cast out Satan and all his evil works.’

  And then, Max’s voice. ‘Lord Jesus. We call on you to heal this weakness. Protect this child from the power of darkness.’

  Bea felt unsteady. She had almost forgotten Max was even there. It was the first time he had spoken since they came into the church. Had he been there the whole time?

  Bea clamped her knees together. She kept her head down. But someone was walking towards her. It was Aru. He was carrying something. A Bible.

  ‘In the name of Jesus,’ he whispered, and he put one of his hands on Bea’s forehead. He gently tipped her head back. He pressed the Bible against her forehead, and pushed her. Bea was forced to lean back against the brace of his other forearm. ‘I cast you out –’ he clamped the Bible tighter against her forehead ‘– in the name of Jesus!’

  Bea felt tears dribble out of her eyes and streak into her ears. She closed her eyes. She could smell the damp leather binding of the Bible against her nose. And then it was lifted. She felt somehow as if there were still a pressure against her face. One of the girls took Aru’s Bible from him, and handed him something. Bea’s head was still tipped back by his forearm. She felt the lip of a cup against her mouth.

  ‘With this holy water I cast out the powers of darkness,’ Aru said.

  Bea’s arms were still crossed over her chest. She tried to look sideways at Max but her eyeballs hurt in her skull. She pressed her lips together. She would not drink from that cup.

  Aru’s hand gripped her at her waist, not unkindly. He began to pour, and warm liquid ran over her mouth. It dribbled down her chin.

  ‘Drink, and be healed!’ Aru whispered to her. ‘Cleanse yourself from the power of evil.’

  Bea’s back and legs began to shake. More tears dripped towards her throat. She felt as if she might fall backwards. She raised her hands to push away at the cup.

  Max came to stand by her. He placed his hand over Aru’s on her forehead. He pressed one finger softly into the spot between her eyebrows. He leant his head down towards her. She could feel his stubble against her ear. She wanted to rub at where it was tickling.

  ‘Sweetheart, please,’ he said softly into her ear, ‘it’s for your own good.’

  Bea felt her body shake harder. She turned to Max, her lips opened, and Aru began to pour the warm, salty seawater into her mouth. Bea struggled for breath. She shook free of Aru’s hand, and tried to take a step backwards. She doubled over, retching. A few grains of rice splashed on to the wood. She wiped the sticky corner of her mouth. Her tongue was crawling. She could feel the salt burning in her nostrils.

  Max held her gently under the elbow. Bea looked up at him and he smiled at her. She leant against him. He brushed the hair away from her neck, and nodded at Aru. Aru came to stand by her, and placing his hand on her forehead, tipped her head back. Max cupped the base of her skull with his hand. Bea began to cry in earnest now. Her body shook against them.

  Aru poured again. ‘We purify you in the name of Jesus! In the name of the Lord we cast you out.’

  23

  Jonson and Garolf squatted on the corrugated-iron roof of the Reunion as it bobbed south. Garolf was an Advent Island celebrity, and alongside the whiteman and the family of Vietnamese captives, they made something of an impression on the boat. The captain came up on to the deck to greet them with handshakes and nervous smiles, as if they were visiting dignitaries. Jonson looked out at the white fingertips of coral poking through the green ocean, and wondered who was steering the ship. The runaways and their baby were shuffled into a sort of makeshift pen at the front of the boat, surrounded by wooden crates.

  Garolf and Jonson crouched on a pandan mat under the awnings by the engine, fanning themselves and eating slivers of warm laplap. Jonson sniffed suspiciously at the fetid water in the drinking bucket, and instead resigned himself to Garolf’s private supply of kava. Garolf explained to Jonson in a connoisseur’s language the virtue of this particular vintage of kava, which had been fermented from top-quality roots, mixed with the most acidic water on the island, and chewed by the purest pre-pubescent boys. Jonson couldn’t tell the difference between the good stuff and the usual putrid swill, but he drank it anyway. There was a reason nakamals were so dark, he realized. Drinking kava in the daytime splintered light through his skull and he felt perilously close to a glittering, ringing headache. He and Garolf lounged
in the shade as the boat rolled through the rippling water.

  Jonson thought of Beatriz Hanlon. What would happen to that poor woman if the Pastor died? Would she go back to wherever she had come from? Perhaps missionaries received a form of pension for dangerous work in the service. Jonson ran his finger over the tip of his bushknife experimentally. Not quite awake, but not quite dreaming, he imagined Bea might come and live with him. She could live in the spare room, perhaps take on some of the housekeeping duties. Transported by this fantasy, he dozed in and out of consciousness for hours.

  The boat finally crawled to a stop downstream of Bambayot village in the late afternoon. Whoops of appreciation echoed all along the coastline, as villagers celebrated their arrival. As the boat anchored, Jonson tentatively stood up, and brushed off a fine dust of white sand that had settled into the creases of his jacket. He took off his shoes and socks, and clambered down into the water, which was as warm as a bath in the shallows. It felt incredible. Slim silver fish sparkled in the still water. He looked back to Garolf, who touched his forehead in a pantomime of Jonson’s own habit of raising his hat. Jonson walked unsteadily towards the shore, carrying his shoes in one hand, while Garolf helped to unload crates from the boat.

  Jonson climbed the Bambayot hill, wondering where to look first. The Mission House, or perhaps the church? There was every likelihood he would find the poor fellow in a hole in the ground next to the stream, along with the other missionaries who had expired in the line of duty.

  Before long, a circle of children had surrounded him, shouting hellos at him as if he were an animal in the zoo. Their motion was disorientating after the rise and fall of the ship.

  ‘Where is Pastor Hanlon?’ he asked one of the older children.

  She opened her eyes wide and turned to the gaggle, as a flurry of consultation began in a mixture of languages.

  Jonson thought perhaps the chap was dead, after all.

  ‘Where’s the whiteman?’ the girl shouted up the hill, towards a pair of young twins sitting at the top of the bank. ‘His brother is looking for him.’

  ‘I’m not his –’ Jonson began, before he stopped himself, shaking his head and sighing. Really, what was the point?

  The twins came scooting down over the top of the hill, gliding on the soles of their feet in the dust, grinning with the jubilant responsibility of knowing more than an adult.

  ‘The church, the church,’ they chorused, unnecessarily pointing towards the church building. One of them gripped Jonson round the wrist, to escort him there even more efficiently.

  Jonson peered through the doorway of the church, where the tall figure of the Pastor was bent over a book, absorbed in sewing the white pith of the pages back into the binding.

  Max looked up, disturbed by the shadows of the twins who were excitedly scampering in the doorway, whispering his name.

  Jonson felt himself deliberately compose his own expression, to hide his surprise. The Pastor had clearly only just about recovered from a serious bout of illness. His clothes were loose on his frame, and his eyes were puckered by red, puffy flesh. His beard had been shaved off – recently, if the pale smudges around his chin were anything to measure by. He looked gaunt and shiny and distinctly unwell.

  ‘Pastor Hanlon, delighted to see you have recovered.’ Jonson walked towards him purposefully, his hand outstretched.

  Max stood up from the chair with a squeak, took the hand and gave it a firm pump. Jonson had forgotten how tall he was. Even depleted by fever, the man was impressively large.

  ‘How on earth did you know? Yes, I am quite well, it’s great to see you.’ Max clapped another hand over Jonson’s and held it there.

  ‘Mrs Hanlon sent me word, through Tarileo. I thought perhaps I could be of assistance.’ Jonson removed his hand and discreetly wiped it on his trousers.

  ‘How decent of you, truly!’ Hanlon bobbed his head in time to his own words. ‘I am fit as a fiddle now.’ He beamed, outstretching his palms to the heavens. ‘Praise be!’

  ‘Praise be,’ Jonson echoed meekly, unsure if that were the appropriate response. ‘And Mrs Hanlon? I trust she is well?’ Jonson was suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. He eyed the plastic beaker on the table.

  Hanlon looked solemn, and dipped his chin. ‘My wife –’ He looked to the right, breaking off his thought.

  Jonson shifted his weight from foot to foot. Perhaps he had made a dreadful faux pas, and the wife had since contracted malaria and died. He felt a lump of guilt in his throat, as if his covetous daydream had precipitated some tragedy.

  ‘My wife is on the road to well-being,’ Max completed, turning his head back to Jonson. ‘She is in the vestry, praying.’

  Jonson was relieved, although a little embarrassed, as if he had pried into an intimate revelation about her toilette. He supposed people did pray, but he preferred the details of it to remain private. He couldn’t imagine Mrs Hanlon in the act of prayer. That woman was halfway to a wild heathen, with her demonic dog, and muddy feet. Perhaps she was overjoyed by her husband’s return to health, and had experienced a grateful spasm of piety.

  Jonson looked back through the doorway to the village. ‘I say, where is that animal?’

  Max looked at him in confusion.

  ‘The beastly thing that loves visitors. By now it should be trying to pick my pockets.’

  Max tipped his head back. ‘Oh, New Dog. Well, I’m afraid there was something of a –’ he coughed ‘– canine supper, in Kumuvete.’

  Jonson grimaced. ‘Ah. Well, probably for the best.’

  Max put a finger on his lips. ‘Perhaps don’t discuss that with Mrs Hanlon.’

  Jonson nodded. He gratefully accepted a beaker of water from Max, then left him in the church, wearily trudging back to the Reunion, to help Garolf with further unloading. After all that, it had been a wasted journey of sorts, and it would take at least a week to walk back to the North. He lasciviously imagined the spare bed he would receive in the Mission House that evening, safely protected from the bellows of Garolf’s snoring.

  Jonson was surprised when he came through the door of Mission House three hours later to find Hanlon himself stoking the fire in the kitchen over a steaming kettle.

  ‘Good evening!’ Max hailed him from the hearth. ‘Would you like warm water for your evening bath?’

  Startled by his easy domesticity, Jonson nodded. After three days on the water, his clothes and hair were faintly crunchy with salt spray. He carried a china jug into the spare room and sponged himself down. When he was freshly shaved and less saline, Jonson sat at the table in the front room of Mission House, while Max poked about in the fire. Max had been ill for so long he was vague about the latest news in the area, but they debated the possible fate of Garolf’s runaways.

  Half an hour later, the door swung open to reveal Mrs Hanlon. She gave such a jump her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘Mr Jonson,’ she said.

  He stood up, unsure whether he should offer her his hand. She stood in mute astonishment, and he watched, perplexed, as she stared at him. ‘Madam,’ he tipped his head at her. This seemed to break her reverie.

  ‘You came?’

  The childish gratitude in her voice made a flush rise into the tips of his ears. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She looked almost as dreadful as Hanlon did. She was much thinner, and her hair was tied back from her face in a severe bun that made her crooked nose even more pronounced.

  The Pastor came through into the living room, and spooned boiled chouchoute and rice on to Jonson’s plate. Mrs Hanlon sat down opposite them at the table on an upturned crate. She was watching her hands, which were poised in front of her as if she were at the piano. They were scaly and blistered, textured with patches of burnt skin. A black-and-crimson tropical sore across the fingers of her right hand forced her to hold it at an odd angle.

  ‘Will you be dining with us?’ Jonson asked, hoping she would stay and help to save their faltering conversation.

&nbs
p; She didn’t look up.

  ‘Mrs Hanlon is fasting at the moment.’ Max smiled widely at Jonson. ‘It’s good discipline for the spirit.’

  Jonson looked back to the woman, who was pressing her fingertips into the surface of the plastic tablecloth. Every now and again, she lifted her fingers to examine the smudgy prints they had left behind. She raised her eyes to meet Jonson’s. She looked at him blankly, as if she were a floating, dead fish.

  Jonson suddenly lost all appetite. The rice sank in his throat. ‘That’s admirable of you, Mrs Hanlon,’ he stammered.

  She licked her lips, slowly, but said nothing.

  Jonson pressed his fork into the pile of rice, his stomach squirming. These two were barmy. They had both caught DeWitt’s jungle fever in their brains. He decided to start his travel back to Bwatapoa sooner than he’d anticipated, perhaps the next day. It could be contagious.

  It was pitch black when Jonson awoke. A scream crawled through the darkness and scribbled itself into the centre of his stomach. He sat up, blinking cold sweat out of his eyes. His heart was racing. Another, shorter scream rang out. His hands were shaking. He tried to light a candle, but he held the match too straight and it smoked out straight away. When it finally caught, he was aware the night was not as black as he had thought. Through the window he could see a white light flickering at the bottom of the hill. A refrain of girlish screams warbled across the village. Jonson dressed, too fraught to notice the cockroach that had climbed into his trouser leg. He swung open the door of the bedroom and stepped into the corridor, coming almost face to face with the Pastor’s wife in the darkness. He let out a high-pitched yelp.

  She was standing completely still, in a clear state of dishabille, clad in a loose nightgown with a large grey patch darned across the front. Her feet were bare. She was holding her arms across her stomach.

  ‘Mrs Hanlon! You startled me.’ He tried to look behind her into the room, in case the Pastor was in there, and had overheard his ladylike squeal. It appeared to be empty; a candle was burning by the bed. The howling grew louder. ‘Can you hear – that noise? We must get help – the Pastor –’