by Anbara Salam
She cut him off. ‘That is the Pastor,’ she said quietly.
‘The Past–? But it must be two in the morning – has someone fallen ill?’
She shook her head. ‘The noise, it’s Max.’
He gaped at her dumbly, trying to half start a word or two.
‘It’s not my turn tonight,’ she said. She turned to walk back into the room.
Jonson’s mouth opened. A chill slunk over his skull and into his jawbone.
‘Go back to bed.’ She turned to look straight at him now, her right eye pulsing in its socket. ‘Please.’
The next morning Jonson was jittery. He had barely slept. The Pastor’s wife had disconcerted him further by climbing into her bed and lying there with her back turned to the door, the candle guttering in its frame. Jonson had ignored her request, and walked out to the top of the hill above the church, the warm breeze spitting ocean salt in his face. He listened to the noise for another ten minutes, half starting towards the chapel three times before turning back on himself. Eventually he went back to his cot in Mission House and lay awake, hearing Max come back in sometime around sunrise. He dropped off to sleep soon after, waking late in the morning. His mouth felt dry, and he was still wearing all his clothes.
There was no one else in the house, and in the light of morning, the madness of the night before seemed like a dream. Perhaps he had been overreacting. He found Max cleaning a gas canister behind the chicken coop near Willie Kakae’s house. He was smudgy with grease, the very picture of normality. Jonson walked towards him until Max noticed and grinned.
‘Good morning, Jonson! You slept late.’
Jonson nodded in reply and took a seat on a log to the left. After a minute of silence, Jonson cleared his throat. ‘Pastor?’
Max gave an inviting, ‘Hmm?’ without taking his eyes off the oily rag.
‘Last night, I heard some, sounds – of distress.’ Jonson spoke slowly, choosing his words.
Max sighed and rubbed the rag between his fingers. He squinted up at Jonson. ‘You certainly did, Jonson. We are undergoing a period of distress at the moment. But we are fighting a winning battle.’
Jonson waited a beat before asking, ‘Against?’
‘You know very well against what.’ Max cocked an eyebrow at him, knowingly.
Jonson merely nodded, stood up, and walked away without saying anything. He made up his mind to leave Bambayot the next day. Mrs Hanlon, he thought, was she safe here? She was the Pastor’s wife, after all. Perhaps all this seemed normal to her. But then Jonson remembered her face in the darkness, the pulse in her eyelid.
24
Later that day, Max took Bea to Chief Bule’s hut, where the plantation workers were being kept. He collected her from the vestry, and together they walked to Rainson’s bushkitchen, where Takataveti was boiling taro for the captives. After much back and forth, Rainson insisted on wrapping a rope under the lip of the pot, and carrying it with them up to Bule’s hut. Max had never seen Rainson so much as boil water in all the time he’d been on the island, so his burst of domestic generosity was no doubt fuelled more by curiosity than altruism. Looking at the heavy pot, Max felt rather sorry for them, since it was not much more than animal fodder.
But they must have been hungry enough, because as soon as Rainson and his pot entered the hut, the Vietnamese man rose from the bench and stared at it longingly. Knox Turu, who had been guarding the runaways, stood up from the floor, and nodded to Max before slipping out of the door.
‘Some food for you,’ Max said in Bislama, motioning for Rainson to lower the pot to the ground. Bea was hanging back behind him near the doorway.
Lien watched the whitewoman carefully. She was not old. She seemed to be in her twenties or thirties, Lien thought. Her hair was brown. And her skin was brown. Could Trinh have been confused about the age of Marietta?
The hut was hot and airless, but Lien was shivery, and her skin tender with exhaustion. She and Thieu had sat awake all night, rigid with horror at the sounds from the bottom of the hill. Thieu thought maybe a battle had broken out between the villagers. After half an hour of sweating and pacing at the back of the hut, Lien had volunteered to wake Garolf, who was snoring on the bench. She nudged him gently, and he sprang up with fierce alertness and ordered her back into their corner.
‘No bathroom until the morning,’ he had said.
Garolf had nodded straight back to sleep. As though it was the most normal evening in the world. Lien and Thieu gripped each other, holding Minh between them, as if it would somehow cushion the terrible shouting in the hills. Minh bawled and bawled, but Lien hardly knew how to comfort him. She could still hear the sound of the horror ringing in her ears. Girls, young children, crying out in pain. In fear for their lives.
Bea called out, ‘It’s hot, watch out,’ as the Vietnamese man advanced on the pot, but he didn’t hear, or didn’t understand. He put his right hand straight on to the searing lid. He drew back his hand and let out a string of rapid-fire words in a language Bea couldn’t understand. He shook his hand in the air and clamped it between his knees, gritting his teeth.
Bea jostled past Max into the hut, and gestured to the man to follow her, but Max launched forward and clamped his hand on her wrist.
‘Don’t touch him,’ he said.
Bea looked at him, dumbfounded. Was he so devout now that even Vietnamese curse words offended his ears? Rainson was whooping with laughter on the floor, trying his best to imitate the yelps.
‘But he needs to put his hand in cold water –’ Bea rotated her wrist in Max’s grip, ‘– I should take him to the well, or the stream.’
Max tightened his hold. He turned to Rainson. ‘You don’t touch them either. Any of them – not even the baby. They’re tabu. Do you understand? Unclean.’
Rainson immediately stopped laughing. He looked nervously back at the captives.
Max yanked Bea outside the hut.
‘What are you doing?’ She brushed him off her arm. ‘We have to help that man, his burn –’
‘There’s a measles outbreak in Sara, apparently it’s been going on for months. Garolf said at least six have died. We can’t risk an outbreak here. They could be contagious.’
‘Measles?’
Max hushed her and pointed mutely at Rainson, who was using a banana leaf to scoop taro out of the pot.
‘Maxis, he barely understands when you talk to him about the weather.’ She rubbed the mark on her arm where he had grabbed her. The smell of taro lingered in her mouth. Maybe, Bea thought, if she crept back there later, Garolf would let her have some of the leftovers.
Max pointed down towards Mission House and started walking off. Bea had to break into a light trot to keep up with him.
‘I don’t want anyone to panic. So not a word, do you understand?’ He bent his head a little closer to her. His face was strangely flushed.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Thieu examined his palm. It was still searing hot, and a white blister bubbled under the surface of the skin.
‘Are you OK? Is it bad?’ Lien touched him lightly on his shoulder.
‘It’s fine.’ Thieu pushed his hand under his other thigh to trap the throbbing.
‘You should have gone with her,’ she hissed into his ear. ‘We need to get her alone – to ask about the ship.’
‘You heard what the whiteman said.’ His words came out hollow. ‘We’re tabu. Untouchable.’
‘He’s a missionary. You know they’re always saying things like that.’ Lien squeezed his shoulder.
‘It’s the wrong woman.’ Thieu coughed, he could hear his voice catching. ‘She’s too young to be Marietta. This is a crazy place – those noises – it’s the wrong village. We must have come to the wrong village.’ He dropped his face on to his knees and began to cry.
Lien looked up as the sunlight dimmed. The large frame of Garolf appeared in the doorway of the hut.
‘Rainson, hello. Where’s Knox?’ Garolf said.
&nbs
p; Rainson gestured towards the village.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Garolf asked, pointing at Thieu.
‘He burned his hand.’
‘Bad?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Get one of the girls to come look at him. Or the Pastor’s wife.’
Rainson raised his eyebrows, and began to stand up.
‘Wait –’ Garolf sat on the corner of the bench. It sagged under his weight. Garolf nudged Rainson on the elbow with the tip of his foot, and gestured towards the steaming pot.
‘You shouldn’t sit there,’ Rainson said, scooping taro out of the pot with a banana leaf.
Garolf half rose from the bench, looked underneath his buttocks, then back at Rainson, perplexed.
‘The Pastor says to keep away from the Tonks.’ Rainson nodded towards them.
‘Because they’re heathens?’ Garolf sat back down. ‘He has to save them first?’ He pulled the banana leaf on to his lap.
‘Unclean,’ Rainson answered.
Garolf tipped his head back and laughed. ‘I’m sure he can clean them. It’s not him –’ he waved his leaf at Thieu ‘– who should be crying. The woman will be crying tonight, if he gets them in the church. The baby, too.’ He kicked Rainson gently on the shoulder. ‘Think the Pastor can find enough space for them? Or is the demon not hungry today?’
Rainson shrugged defensively. ‘The demons are always hungry. We need the Pastor to protect us.’
Lien cuddled Minh into her chest, smelling his soft hair. She pulled the leaf of taro on to the bench and balanced Minh on her right leg. She squeezed a crumb of yam into a paste and pushed the mush into Minh’s mouth. He opened his mouth into a tiny ‘o’, but some of the mush dripped out and on to his belly. She scooped it up and poked it back in his mouth. Thieu’s shoulders were still shaking, but she ignored him.
Her face was burning.
Demons?
Her baby?
25
Jonson stepped inside the nakamal that evening to find Garolf slumped against the back wall. Garolf was already heavy with kava, and nodded stiffly towards him. He sat beside him on the bench with a sigh, leant his head back against the bamboo, and closed his eyes.
‘I trust you heard the commotion?’ Jonson heard the question rise from his body, rather than consciously form it.
There were a few moments of silence before Garolf answered. ‘Everyone heard it.’
‘Care to illuminate me?’ Jonson opened his eyes, feeling a twitch flutter in his cheek. He crossed his legs. Then he thought better of it, and uncrossed them.
‘Dark prayer. They’re all kranki in this part of the island. The new religion confused people,’ Garolf said.
‘You knew about this? And you couldn’t have mentioned it before?’ Jonson goggled at him. ‘We were on that blasted boat for three days!’
‘I heard some stories.’ Garolf scratched his nose. ‘I didn’t think it would be this bad. It happens now and then.’
‘What happens?’
Garolf waved a vague hand, dismissing the question. ‘You heard it.’
‘No – what exactly happens? I need to know precisely.’ Jonson sat forward and pulled a shell of kava on the counter closer towards him.
‘See for yourself,’ Garolf offered, raising his eyebrows.
‘Not a chance in hell,’ Jonson replied, staring into the murky slime of the kava shell.
Garolf smiled, his gold tooth gleaming in the gloom.
Willie strolled into the nakamal, holding a plastic bucket of kava. Clearly he and Garolf were preparing for a long session.
‘Did you hear this dark prayer last night?’ Jonson asked him.
Willie inhaled deeply. ‘I heard it,’ he said.
‘And what do you think? Is this normal? How long has this been going on for?’ Jonson ran his fingers over the bare rim of the coconut shell.
Willie licked his lips and tipped his head to the side. ‘A long time,’ he answered finally.
Jonson slugged back the kava and spat on the floor.
‘Aru, he thinks Ukunu is here,’ Willie continued.
Jonson looked back at him in surprise, ‘But I thought Ukunu was good? A sort of good spirit?’ Jonson wiped his lips as the numbing effect of the kava began to slow down his mouth.
Garolf shifted in his seat. ‘It depends on what part of the island. In the North, Ukunu is good, in the South, he is bad.’
‘So Aru thinks bad Ukunu – he is here, in the village?’ Jonson asked Willie.
Willie paused. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Ukunu is here. Him, and the Devil.’
That night, Jonson couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t even bothered undressing. Just as the previous evening, he and the Pastor had eaten rice and boiled chouchoute while Beatriz sat on the other side of the table, her eyes glazed over. Jonson retired to his room as soon as the meal was over, claiming a headache, and climbed into the cot. Being inside the mosquito net helped to make him feel better, like he was a moth safe inside its cocoon. A couple of hours later, he heard the front door close as someone left the house.
A chorus of children singing began shortly after. And then the singing turned to muttering and chanting. The chanting turned to crying and laments, the laments turned to screams. The screaming went on and on, slithering around in the darkness. He heard gibbering and moaning, whispering, shouting and clapping, wails. It was a sickening din. He could hear it echoed in the hills above the village and spun back, distorted. It was even more of a frenzy than it had been the previous night.
He picked up his Delta lantern torch and jiggled it to settle the batteries inside the cartridge. It was shaky, but it was working. He crept outside the Pastor’s bedroom and put his eye to the thatch in the door. His wife was in there, sitting up in the bed completely still, staring out of the window on the opposite side of the room. At least she was inside the house, and not down there in that tumult of madness.
He closed the front door carefully behind him and walked to the crest of the hill above the church. At first, he hadn’t intended to turn the torch on, rather to quietly approach in the darkness. But thick cloud covered the moon and it was sheer black outside. He tripped on loose pebbles, and set his foot upon the tacky density of what he hoped was a slug. He turned the lamp on and lit the path. As he grew closer to the noise, he could see there were already a couple of people standing at the top of the hill. His courage paled, and he almost turned around. But they would have seen the torch. He walked towards the figures. Adrenaline rushed through his body so quickly his ears rang.
‘Who’s there?’ he called to the two men, hoping he had simulated sufficient confidence in his voice.
‘Turn that light off, you’re hurting my eyes,’ someone whined.
‘Willie?’ Jonson switched off the torch.
‘It’s us,’ Garolf answered, but his face was turned towards the church.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jonson asked him, feeling inexpressibly relieved. He walked over to stand next to them.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Garolf answered. Jonson could feel, rather than see, Garolf shrugging casually in the darkness, as if they had gathered for a midnight feast.
‘This is –’ Jonson broke off. He couldn’t think of the right word. ‘This isn’t good.’
The three men stood on the hill watching the spectacle within the building. The church was illuminated by candlelight and in the low glimmer they could see a group of children inside. Their silhouetted shapes moved strangely, as if they were fitting. Some of the children lay on the floor, jerking and writhing, shrieking and sobbing. Yet other children stood over the bodies, praying and crying, chanting and calling on God to release their spirits from evil.
Two more men quietly joined them on the hill. Willie greeted them, but Jonson didn’t know who they were. No one seemed in the mood to make introductions. Jonson turned his torch back on and flashed it over the building, trying to pick out the faces of those inside. He caught at least two adults, and one wh
ite face. No doubt this was the Pastor.
The noise coming from the church began to quieten. The screaming simmered down from frantic to fraught, and the sound of a grown man’s voice could be heard. And then there was a distinct change in atmosphere.
The children began to whisper. Lying on the floor of the building, they started to crawl towards the window, creeping, like snakes. In the flash of the torchlight, Jonson could see the whites of the children’s eyes reflected in the darkness. It sounded as if they were hissing. Jonson had to listen carefully for half a minute before he could comprehend the words. ‘Ukunu,’ they were whispering. ‘Satan.’
Then Jonson understood. The children weren’t invoking the Devil. Rather, they were identifying him. The children were staring directly at them, and naming them Satan. The children were talking about him. His wrist felt weak. He turned off the torch. Goosebumps on the flesh of his arms brushed against Garolf’s warm skin. No one felt much like staying on the hill.
Willie took the two strangers back to the nakamal, and Garolf and Jonson walked in silence back to Mission House. Garolf bade him goodnight, and went off to Bule’s hut to relieve Rainson and Knox, who were guarding the Vietnamese couple. Jonson went into Mission House, and knocked on the door frame of the Pastor’s bedroom. Through a narrow gap in the doorway he could see a candle burning inside the room.
‘Mrs Hanlon?’ he whispered at first, before remembering he was actually trying to rouse her. ‘Mrs Hanlon, it’s I. A. M. Jonson. Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’ She came to the door. ‘I thought I could hear someone in the house,’ she said. She was pale in the lips.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her, almost afraid of the answer.
She nodded.
‘Mrs Hanlon, we – is this –? Are you quite content with this arrangement?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘Will you permit me to assist you? I would very much like to accompany you back to the North.’
She flinched away from him.
He felt a blush rising. ‘I give you my word, you will come to no harm. You can inform the Pastor, or you could leave him a note. It need only be for a little while –’