Things Bright and Beautiful

by Anbara Salam

  Her head twitched on its stalk. ‘He’ll hear you,’ she whispered. Her eyes were wide. She glanced towards the door of Mission House.

  Jonson touched her, lightly, on the elbow. She looked back at him.

  ‘I won’t insist. But I will be leaving tomorrow. This environment is not healthy. Your husband is not well. We need to arrange medical attention for him. I invite you to join me while I make arrangements. I do not recommend you stay here.’

  Jonson retreated back into his bedroom. He slipped off his shoes, and sat sideways across the bed. His limbs trembled as if he had been running. He reached through the mosquito net and lit a candle, picking up the copy of Gaudy Night he’d left under his pillow. The sounds of mewling and chanting ran through his head, and he couldn’t concentrate on the shape of the words. Through the chorus of terrible screeching, he heard their infernal dog trampling around softly in the vegetables outside his window. But no, Jonson remembered, closing the novel, Max had told him the dog had been killed. Jonson blew out the candle and crept across the room. There were hardly any cockroaches in the room – a sure sign there was a rat nearby. He peered out into the garden. It was so dark, he could hardly be sure he had his eyes open.

  But there was undoubtedly someone – a man, walking about in the garden and humming. Jonson could only make out the shape of his silhouette. He was sprinkling something on to the ground from a plastic bottle. Jonson swallowed. What if it was gasoline? What if it was one of the madmen from Hanlon’s church – come to set the house alight? He sniffed the air, but couldn’t smell anything other than the usual dank, honeyed smell of jungle. Perhaps the man was spying on him for the Pastor? Jonson felt himself colouring. What if he was dragged down into that nightmare at the bottom of the hill? He imagined himself surrounded by writhing village children, the whites of their eyes rolling in their heads, whispering, pointing at him, invoking Satan. Jonson left his room and almost jogged to the front door, catching sight of the man as he passed by the stoop. He paused in the living room, and peered out from a crack in the thatch as the man got down on his knees. The man was dressed in a white shirt and blue serge trousers, and Jonson vaguely recognized him. The man chanted under his breath, then got to his feet, brushed off his knees, and strolled back off into the darkness, still humming.

  Jonson lurked by the front door until he was sure the man had gone. Then he tenderly crossed the sharp pebbles to where the man had been sprinkling. He knelt and touched the earth. It was barely wet. He sniffed the air again, but it wasn’t gasoline at least – it must have been a potion of some kind. He glanced around in case the man was coming back, but the night was black, and still spinning with horrible wails. Through the sparse trees on his left, Jonson could see candlelight flickering through the weave of Chief Bule’s hut. He felt a sudden yearning for Garolf’s deep laugh and the musty scent of his coconut-oil pomade. He went back into Mission House and pulled on his shoes. An evening of exorcisms and potions and chanting might be totally normal for Mrs Hanlon. She was the Pastor’s wife – she had a certain kind of protection against this nonsense. But he was an outsider. There was no such protection for him. There was every chance the praying man had overheard his suggestions to the Pastor’s wife. No, he was not going to spend the night alone being circled and chanted over. Jonson crossed the village to join Garolf in Bule’s hut. Even a night cramped on a bench with the runaways and a baby seemed less subtly horrible than a night peering into the darkness around Mission House.

  26

  Max woke early, and went to the church to pray while the day was still cool. Two hours after sunrise, there was a clatter against the door frame as Willie Kakae ran into the vestry.

  ‘Pastor –’ He was breathing quickly and he looked awful. The colour had drained from his lips and eyelids. He was shaking. ‘Pastor, come quick, please.’

  Max rose at once and followed Willie out of the church. He was concerned by his tone, but also strangely mollified, since it had been some time since Willie had confided in him. Max had made many attempts to encourage Willie to come to services, but Willie always nodded energetically along to whatever Max said, then ignored him.

  Willie sprinted uphill ahead of him. Only half-dressed, Willie’s body was hard in the sun and he ran with large strides. Max was feeling his age. He hadn’t fully recovered from the fever, and his legs were stiff. When Max arrived at Bule’s hut, Willie was already standing outside, impatiently shifting his weight between his feet. He pointed towards the door of the hut, his arm trembling.

  Two dead bodies were lying on the floor.

  Garolf was sprawled out on his back with a gaping slit over his throat. Dark blood had clotted in lumps across the wall and splattered over the gravel. Jonson was sitting with his back against the bench, as if he were merely dozing. His head had slumped forward, and the back of his skull was a splintered mush of pink and black. A circle of fat, buzzing flies were crowning his white hair. A broken pot was shattered on the floor, and there were livid marks on Jonson’s forearms where it must have cracked against him. A chorus of ants swarmed over the bodies. The hut was filled with flies doing frenzied somersaults in the ripe stink of putrefaction. The men couldn’t have been lying there for long, or the insects would have stripped them clean.

  The Tonkinese were gone.

  Max was breathless. He gripped the door frame. He closed his eyes as the room wavered. He thought he might be sick. How could this have happened in his own village – on his watch? His stomach twisted. This was an act of pure evil, committed during his guardianship of the village. All his efforts – everything he’d done – had been for nothing. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and covered his mouth.

  Max swallowed, as tears burned in the back of his throat. He had let Jonson down. He had let Garolf down. He had let the village down. He had done everything in his power to protect them from the darkness – the breathing, lurking badness in the hills.

  But Satan had found a way – found a chink in their armour – and slunk into the village.

  Max tightened his eyes shut. His heart wrenched in pity. This was no way to die. Jonson was a Christian at least, thank the Lord. But Garolf – the poor man had been a pronounced heathen. Max offered a prayer for the man’s soul.

  Max left the doorway and approached Willie, who was sitting on the ground, rubbing his head, over and over. ‘Can you find Chief Bule?’ he asked.

  Willie nodded, not meeting Max’s eyes.

  Max put his hand gently on Willie’s shoulder. He knew Willie and Garolf had been friends. ‘He was a good man. A great man. Let us pray together for his soul.’

  Willie looked up at him with doleful red eyes. He dipped his chin in soft acknowledgement. They were silent a moment, and Willie wiped tears away from the base of his nose.

  Max gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Find Bule,’ he said.

  Willie stood up, and took a step back. He half tripped over something lying on the ground, and Max caught him by the arm. Another pot lay on the path to the hut. A trail of red ants leaked from under the lid. Willie steadied himself, and looked back at Max once before running off into the bush to find Bule. Max crouched down and stared at the pot. It was their own kettle from Mission House.

  Bea had been there.

  What was he to do? She professed to be saved, but he knew. He knew, even if she was blind to it. After all, he had been vulnerable to those influences, too, once. And despite his best efforts, the darkness inside her persisted. It followed her into the village, into his dominion, spreading evil whispers in the hearts of the unsaved. Those murderers had escaped. Two innocent men, dead. And he could have prevented it. If only he had tried harder, to cleanse her. To drive out all things dark and lurking. He would have to take control.

  Max strode back to the centre of the village, his heart hammering. Sale, Rainson’s youngest son, was cantering around in the bush near Bule’s hut, riding a stick.

  ‘Pastor, look,’ he squeaked, as Max walked towards the
church, ‘it’s an aeroplane.’

  ‘Sale, bang the ching,’ Max called to him.

  Sale dropped the stick and looked around him. ‘But – Moses?’

  ‘You do it.’ Max nodded.

  Sale broke into a grin, and ran off in the direction of the ching.

  The hollow beats of the drum echoed in the hills.

  27

  Bea woke before sunrise, and saw that Max had already left for church. She knocked on Jonson’s door, but there was no response. She wondered if Jonson had already gone back to his village. She boiled a pot of rice, sliced three bananas on top, and left it to cool while she dressed. She carried it to Bule’s hut for the runaways, but the hut was silent, with no smoke from the bushkitchen. She tapped on the side of the pot with a stick to let Garolf know the food had arrived, and left it outside on the path in case she woke the baby.

  As soon as the sun rose, Bea walked down the Bambayot hill towards the beach at Noia Saruru. The sore on her right hand had never quite healed after her baptism at Hot Wata, and the skin was puffy and hot. Her legs felt wooden, and her left kneecap kept locking up underneath her. She and Max had decided she should only swim early in the morning, so she wouldn’t be spotted walking around in wet clothes. She passed Willie’s nakamal on the left, and walked heavily through the sand near the mango trees.

  She bunched her island dress between her knees and waded into the warm water. It was a gorgeous temperature, slightly below the heat of her body. The water was so clear she could see her long brown toes wiggling underneath her, and the sunlight catching in the folds of the dress. It was perfectly still, and a shoal of apricot-coloured fish spun around her in circles. She was too tired to swim properly, so she turned on to her back and floated. She could smell the mango blossoms on the shoreline trees. The flowers drifted in the air and landed on the water, sticking on the surface like sprinkles on a pudding.

  She felt swollen and heavy from her plate of rice and bananas that morning. The past few weeks had not afforded her much chance to eat, and her stomach felt strangely tight after a full meal. As long as Max was watching her, she was supposed to be ‘fasting’. But she took green oranges from the bush whenever she could invent an excuse to leave the house. Sometimes she ate raw beans from the garden. But still, all her clothes were horribly loose. Mabo-Mabon kept asking her if she had worms. Santra hadn’t been by the house in weeks, or else maybe she could have brought her some food in secret.

  Bea felt her face beginning to burn from the sunlight reflecting off the water. She paddled back towards the island, and waded back to shore. As she reached the sand she wrung the water out of the extra cloth around her legs, so it wouldn’t stick to her body. She walked up the beach towards Noia Saruru. The sand coated her wet feet in gritty little socks. She wished she had her bushknife with her, feeling strangely naked without it.

  She passed the couple of huts at Noia Saruru, and climbed up to the rock pool near the waterfall. She walked through the mud around the base of the pool, then with considerable effort clambered over the hot rocks fringed with green algae. At the top, she launched herself into the deep grey pool at the bottom of the waterfall. It was icy cold. A thick froth of white water from the falls surged over the edge and pummelled against her skin. She kicked herself vigorously around in a circle, unbraiding her hair and letting it float darkly around her. She imagined slipping out of the heavy dress and paddling naked.

  Bea hoisted herself out of the pool, and avoiding her stiff fingers, pulled herself on to a ledge on the left of the waterfall. She began to walk slowly back up the hill towards Bambayot. Max would be looking for her by now. He became worried when she was away from the village for too long. Perhaps he had always been this anxious and she had never noticed? She thought back to how he had clung to their bag of rice on their first boat trip to the island. And now, he clung to Aru. She stretched out her stiff shoulder. What would he want from her tonight – more prayers? More holy water? No matter how dutifully she stood and prayed and fasted, he appraised her devotion, and then asked for more.

  Maybe she would go up North with Jonson. He could contact Peterson, the District Agent. He had seemed normal enough in Vila. Maybe he could convince Max to take a holiday, away from the island. They could sleep late, eat tunafish sandwiches. She thought of the dingy hotel with the peeling paint they had stayed in when they first arrived on Efate. What a luxury that seemed now.

  Bea walked up towards Bambayot. The tops of her thighs were chafing on the damp fabric and she itched to pull her underpants away from the skin, but she daren’t risk it within sight of the village. From the slope she could hear a commotion from the village. A woman was wailing. It seemed as if there were a lot of people on the hill, outside their houses. Like a festival. Bea wondered if maybe it was Christmas Day, and she had lost track of what month it was.

  Mabo-Mabon appeared from the bush further along the coastal path. She was waving delightedly, then began to run towards her. Bea had never seen Mabo-Mabon running, not ever. Not even the time when Jinnes had set her bushkitchen on fire. She was holding her breasts in place with one elbow as she jogged. With the other hand she was waving. Bea wondered how it could possibly not hurt her to run on the sharp pebbles of the path. The soles of her feet must be so tough. Bea started waving back, perplexed. She felt self-conscious in her wet clothes.

  Mabo-Mabon called out, ‘Beatriz – come, come!’ She almost ran straight into her. Mabo-Mabon’s breath was hot in her ear. She rapped Bea on the shoulder and pushed her back towards the ocean. She stopped, looked back at the village, and spat on the ground. ‘They’re dead. Mr Garolf. He’s dead.’

  ‘What? But I just saw him –’ Bea felt unsteady. She looked around her for somewhere to sit.

  ‘No!’ Mabo-Mabon pulled her up by the arm. ‘The whiteman. He’s dead, too.’

  Bea’s vision went green. She gripped Mabo-Mabon’s forearm. ‘Max?’

  ‘No, no – the other whiteman.’

  ‘Jonson? What? But –’

  ‘Yes.’ Mabo-Mabon raised her bushknife and mimed slitting her own throat. ‘Like pigs.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Bea put her hand to her mouth. The other arm gripped on to Mabo-Mabon. ‘But how did this happen?’

  Mabo-Mabon shook her head, as if Bea’s question had entirely missed the point. ‘They are looking for you,’ she said.

  ‘For me?’ Bea’s knees began to shake.

  ‘They say –’ Mabo-Mabon blinked, then looked her in the eyes ‘– they say they need to find the devil in the village.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  28

  Bea climbed uphill. The bush was dense, and webs broke across her face. She thrashed in front of her with the bushknife. The air was close and humid; she couldn’t draw enough of it into her lungs. She took strides as wide as she could manage, trampling through wet plants and deep, gummy puddles. Loose rocks rolled in the mud, and the earth was slippery with dew. She needed to get up to the old colonial house. From the top floor she could see downhill, down to the village. She would see them coming.

  Bea’s right foot caught in a divot in the earth and she careened forward, grasping for a branch but instead catching hold of a barbed vine. She cried out as a stab of pain shot through her right leg into her buttock. She groped at her ankle, convinced a shard of bone would be sticking through the skin. But it wasn’t broken. Probing in the mud, she guided her right foot out of the snare of a tree root. As she moved, a wave of nausea rolled into her throat. She let out a sob of frustration. She fell back on to her behind and tentatively rotated her foot in the air, the muscles in her calf quivering. There was blood, she could smell pennies. She dabbed at the wetness on her shins, but the blood was already drying into a thin tidemark. It was coming from her right hand. Holding her palm up in a column of moonlight, Bea saw the vine had stripped a belt of skin from the middle of her palm and lacerated the side of her little finger. She pulled out several sharp barbs from her hand, as her palm lazily oozed bloo
d.

  The bushknife had flown somewhere as she tripped, and Bea crawled forward, trying not to push the open scratch into the mud. As she crawled, her right leg rotated in its socket and the spear of pain jabbed into her lower back. She took a deep breath. She needed that bushknife. She patted blindly in the mud for it, groping at wet leaves, the hollow shell of a snail, then hard wood – her heart lifted in relief. But it was a nodule of tree root. She crawled further, scrabbling around in the earth. A dim glint caught her eye. The blade of the knife reflected a sliver of moonlight. She lunged for it, as if it might disappear if she took her eyes off it for even one second. Relief drummed through her chest. She stood up on her left leg only, dragging the right off the ground, and stabbed the bushknife into the mud. Propping herself up on the knife, she took a stride forward, and sagged. She was going to have to switch the knife to her bad hand. The handle stung in the palm of her hand against the cut, but no matter.

  Slower now, she climbed the hill towards the colonial house. She rested on her left knee, took a step on the right, dug in the knife, hoisted up the right leg. She travelled for a few minutes, but kept catching her island dress. Above the waist, it was so large it was basically a smock, but the seam underneath her knees snared her at each step. She sat back in a squat, and dug the knife between her legs to cut the fabric, and ripped a strip of material away. She rested the knife carefully on the earth, and wound the strip round and round, over her right ankle. It was cushioned now. It was fine. She hoisted herself back up and began her scrabble-climb-knife-scrabble up the hill. She made a game of it. She breathed in on the left leg, out on the right, in on the left, out on the right. She counted ten breaths. Then stopped for three. Then on. Blood from her hand dripped down the handle of the bushknife. On for ten.