Wake of the Hornet

by R. R. Irvine

  Risking a breach in protocol, she whispered in Lily’s ear. “I think the dessert should be served before it melts.”

  Lily passed on the whispered advice to Yali, who immediately signaled the kitchen. Children came running through the bamboo curtains, ringing them like chimes, and began passing out the dessert to everyone in the meeting hall.

  While that was being done, Lily seated everyone along a pew-like bench. Nick found herself sandwiched between Lily and Yali, while her father and Curt Buettner sat on either side of Jim Jeban.

  By now, Nick felt totally spent. It was all she could do to sit upright and not collapse headfirst onto the table. When she closed her eyes, visions of frosty drinks overwhelmed her. By force of will, she shook off the mirage and raised her eyelids in time to see Lily’s granddaughter placing a Snickers bar on the table in front of her. Lily had a Snickers, too, as did everyone else at the table.

  “Thank you, Josephine,” Lily said to the girl, who immediately hung her head shyly. “You remember Nick, don’t you? Say hello.”

  “Hello,” the girl whispered without looking up.

  “Her mother says Josephine takes after me,” Lily said.

  “I can see the resemblance,” Nick replied.

  The girl risked a peek at Nick, then scampered off into the kitchen.

  “I think Josephine was trying to tell you something,” Lily said. “I agree with her. I know the look. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

  Nick eyed the Snickers bar. She needed something, that was certain. Her last decent meal had been in Berkeley. But the thought of a sticky, limp candy bar didn’t appeal to her. She nudged it gingerly and made a face.

  Lily laughed, tore open the wrapper on her own Snickers bar, and took a bite as if setting an example. As she chewed, her head nodded constantly. Finally, Lily swallowed and said, “You and your friends made a big hit tonight with your gift. We don’t often get such treats. When we do, we can’t afford to let them spoil.”

  Nick got the hint. To let the Snickers lie there would be a breach of manners. On the other hand, maybe Lily might welcome a second helping. But offering it to her, instead of Nick eating it herself, might also be impolite. It could also be misconstrued. And the last thing Nick wanted was to imply that the candy wasn’t safe to eat.

  She took a bite. She’d never been a Snickers fan. But this time the taste astonished her. It was pure ambrosia. Or maybe it was hunger that made the candy taste so good. Whatever the case, she didn’t care; she just chewed.

  By the time the bar was gone, pitchers brimming with native beer arrived. When everyone had been served, Henry Yali stood and proposed a toast. “To our new friends. Thank you for the gifts you’ve bestowed upon us.” He paused. “And to John Frum who sent them, as He sends us all things.”

  Lily leaned close. “You don’t have to worry about Henry. He’s a good Christian too.”

  Nick nodded and took a sip. The taste was familiar but unlike any beer she’d tried before.

  “It’s called Tuba,” Lily said. “It’s made from coconut sap and very cooling.”

  Nick emptied her cup and felt immediately refreshed.

  “Don’t be fooled by the taste. It’s got quite a kick.” Grinning, Lily refilled Nick’s cup.

  “There’s a price to be paid,” Yali told Nick abruptly.

  “I’ll be careful,” she said, thinking he’d been referring to the Tuba.

  He dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. “Gifts come with obligations. I understand that, but some of John Frum’s subjects may not be so enlightened as I am.”

  Nick glanced at Lily, hoping for a word or even a look that might guide her response. But Lily only smiled.

  “There are no strings attached to our gift,” Nick said finally. “We want only to learn your ways.”

  Yali shook his head. “There’s always a price. You may see it as nothing, but to us the cost might be more than we dare pay. For all we know, you may have come here to steal away our beliefs.”

  Buettner spoke up. “We know there have been visitors here before. Have they stolen from you?”

  “Tourists, you mean?” Yali pursed his lips. “To them, we aren’t real. They think we are only actors. So we oblige them and create the kind of life they wish to see. That way, whatever they steal is unimportant to us.”

  Smiling, Yali spread his hands, a gesture of innocence. But the shrewd look in his eyes started alarm bells clanging in Nick’s head. Many an anthropologist had been suckered by so-called primitive peoples who told sophisticated lies rather than reveal their real way of life. One anthropologist had actually been convinced that an entire Pacific Island culture was based on the acquisition of yams. So it was quite possible that Henry Yali and his followers would spin similar yarns to protect their most sacred beliefs.

  Elliot caught Nick’s eye. She sensed immediately that the same doubts were going through his mind. He raised an eyebrow, cueing her that he intended to put his doubts to the test.

  But Buettner spoke first. “Would you be happier if a price were set here and now? That we pay you for your honest help?”

  “We are in your debt now and that must be honored first.”

  Ask for a house, Nick thought. A house filled with geckos.

  “I’ve heard stories,” Buettner began, “that your people originally came here from across the sea, that the currents swept them all the way across the Pacific from America.”

  Oh, no, not his Anasazi theory again, not now, not with the prospect of going back to those damned tents.

  Yali’s eyes went wide with amazement.

  “Modern men have ridden those currents,” Buettner persisted. “They’ve proved that such a journey can be made across the sea.”

  “Such men haven’t come here,” Yali answered.

  “What about red-feather money, then,” Buettner went on. “Early Americans used woodpecker scalps. That’s a bird with red feathers.”

  “We use American money now,” Yali replied.

  “All I want is to learn how your people found their way to Balesin,” Buettner said.

  “Memory doesn’t go back that far.”

  “But legends do.”

  “And that is the payment you want?”

  Buettner nodded.

  Nick gnashed her teeth and murmured, “A house.”

  Yali stared at her for a moment, then tilted his head to one side as if mulling things over. Finally, he stood, smiled broadly, and signaled the kitchen. “We offer you our native food in exchange for your American delicacies.”

  By the time he sat down again, platters of food were on their way. To Nick, the food looked vaguely Chinese. She recognized fish on a bed of rice, a noodle and fish casserole spiced with onions and shredded coconut, and what she guessed to be baked taro root. There were also side dishes of fried breadfruit and bananas, plus a number of items she couldn’t identify at all. Like all small island cultures, the main staple would be fish, or anything else that could be harvested from the sea.

  Nick thanked God for Pepto-Bismol, threw caution to the wind, and heaped her plate with everything in sight. As she dug in, Elliot turned to Yali and said, “If you treat us like tourists, our work here will be useless. Tourists seek their own enjoyment. We want to know you and your people. We want to record your ways so they will last forever.”

  “If I came to your country, would I see the truth?” Yali replied. “Would I understand your beliefs?”

  “Not if you came as a tourist. But if you lived among us, you might.”

  Yali laughed. “I understand now. You want to live in one of our houses.” He nodded at Nick. “Just as the young lady said.”

  Nick, who’d just bitten into a piece of meat from one of the rice dishes, stopped chewing.

  “Didn’t I predict it?” Yali said, his voice rising so that everyone in the room could hear. “Didn’t I say that they wouldn’t be able to cope on their own?”

  Around the room, heads nodded.
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br />   “We will pay for the privilege, of course,” Buettner said, snubbing the shaman by turning to the chief.

  “With what?” Jeban asked.

  Nick held her breath. It wasn’t her money, but she sure as hell hoped Buettner wanted out of the tents as badly as she did.

  “We could fly in more cargo,” Buettner said.

  The chief’s eyes lit up.

  Lily interrupted sharply. “Now is not the time or the place. We do not discuss such things at dinner. A meeting must be called first.”

  The chief bowed his head and Yali glowered but said nothing.

  Judging by the men’s deference, that right belonged to Lily. Or maybe to all the women, though Nick suspected that Lily held the true power as the island’s matriarch. Just where the dividing line was between Yali’s domain and Lily’s remained to be seen.

  Nick speared another chunk of meat, which she’d yet to identify, and chewed thoughtfully. If only Lily’s meeting could be held tonight, then the tents could be abandoned without delay. But Nick knew better than to push the matter. That wouldn’t be polite, and the last thing she wanted to do was anger Lily.

  Sighing deeply, she popped another piece of mystery meat into her mouth.

  “Is the food to your liking?” Lily asked.

  “Delicious,” Nick assured her. “What is it?”

  “We serve it only on special occasions. It’s Spam. You must know it. It comes all the way from your country.”

  Nick forced a swallow. It was either that or gag. Spam brought back memories of her mother’s infrequent forays into the kitchen, several of which had ended in food poisoning. True enough, the Balesin version didn’t taste like Spam, not the way Elaine had served it, straight and unadorned from the can. But the thought of it was enough to turn Nick’s stomach.

  “Spam, you say,” Elliot said, coming to Nick’s rescue. “One of my absolute favorites. Hand over that plate, daughter, so I can finish your share.”

  Gratefully, Nick exchanged plates with her father.

  Watching the transfer, Lily smiled at Nick. “You didn’t have to eat it, you know. We wouldn’t have been insulted.”

  “You see everything, don’t you?” Nick said.

  “I can see that you’re different from the others who’ve come here.”

  “Have many tourists come to Balesin?”

  “Not many,” Lily conceded. “Not yet anyway, but someday it may be different. There has been talk of building a hotel on our island.”

  Nick blinked in surprise.

  “It’s one of Henry’s ideas. One of his dreams. If it comes to pass, he says, it will be John Frum’s way of making us rich like Americans.”

  At the mention of his name, Yali leaned closer, but that didn’t stop Lily from talking about him. “Henry says we can turn Balesin into . . .” She paused and looked shyly at Yali. “. . . a „getaway from winter.’ I think he read that in a magazine somewhere. Bringing Americans to Balesin has always been his plan.”

  “If we’re rich enough, we can buy all the cargo we need,” Yali interjected. “Then John Frum will come from America and stay forever.”

  “Will he come in an airplane?” Nick asked.

  “Of course, just like before.” He seemed surprised at her evident stupidity.

  Nick took a deep breath. She wanted to pursue the subject of airplanes, but hesitated. If housing was taboo during meals, what else might be off-limits? And just how far did Lily’s veto power extend?

  “Airplanes are my love,” Nick said. “I built models when I was a child.”

  Yali’s eyes narrowed. “To fly in?”

  Nick had wanted to fly away in them, to escape her mother’s dark moods. Time and again, she had soared in her imagination.

  “No, I only built small models,” she said, indicating the wingspan with her hands.

  Yali nodded. “They weren’t real, then?”

  “No, not as real as yours.”

  “What do you know of our planes?” Yali’s tone alerted Nick to go slowly.

  “Books have been written about such planes,” she told him. “They are seen throughout the Pacific.”

  Yali nodded. “There are those who try to delude John Frum. But He will not be fooled.”

  “I’d like to see your airplanes,” Nick ventured.

  Yali stood up. “They are not mine. They are John Frum’s.” Abruptly, he left the table and disappeared through the bamboo curtain.

  Nick turned to Lily. “Did 1 say something wrong?”

  “No one understands Henry all the time, but I think he went to get some airplanes for you.”

  Nick rubbed her eyes, causing them to sting all the more.

  “Take my advice, dear, and have another cup of Tuba and wait and see.” Lily laid a hand on Nick’s arm. “Everything’s been arranged.”

  As if on cue, conversation began to ebb until the hall fell silent. Around the room people started stamping their feet in a steady, regular cadence. At a nod from Lily, Nick joined in, remembering how as a child she’d stomped her feet at the movies, waiting for the feature to begin.

  Behind them the bamboo curtain rattled. Nick swung around to see children parading into the meeting room, led by Josephine. They moved in unison, boys and girls alike, in step to the beat of the stomping feet. It was half march, half dance, and almost certainly ritualistic.

  As one, the children thrust their right arms into the air. Their upraised hands held model airplanes. The models were crude, carved of wood with no painted features. But they all had two engines like the mock-ups on the landing strips that Nick had seen from the air. The placement of the wings, high on the fuselage, reminded Nick of the Widgeon. But there was no sign of pontoons. Then again, there weren’t any wheels either.

  Nick clenched her teeth in frustration. They should have brought video cameras to record the ceremony. She leaned around Lily, tapped her father’s shoulder, and mimed the act of taking pictures.

  He shook his head at her, a reminder that using a camera was always a risk. Its presence could inhibit one person while bringing out the show-off in another. Or it could cause sacred ritual to be edited on the spot. Or worse yet, there was always the chance of violating some key taboo.

  As if on cue, the children spread throughout the room, though Josephine remained near the head table. At her lead, the dancers stopped where they were and began turning in slow circles.

  Suddenly, the beat stopped. Left-handed, the children tossed small bundles into the air, all the way to the rafters. There, the bundles blossomed into small parachutes, which floated down carrying cargo. Josephine’s bundle landed on the table near Nick. The cargo was a small reed container, no more than an inch square.

  Were the children recreating today’s cargo drop from the Widgeon? she wondered. Or was this a longer-standing ritual? If so, how far back did it go? World War Two seemed the most likely answer, though to know for sure, Nick would have to identify the type of airplane being used.

  Applause broke out. At the sound of it, the children scurried to retrieve their parachuted cargo and then retreated behind the bamboo. Only Josephine left hers where it was, in front of Nick.

  “It’s her gift to you,” Lily explained.

  The reed container rattled.

  “Open it,” Lily said.

  Nick looked inside the tiny box. She wasn’t certain what she was looking at. For a moment she thought the box held nothing but a small, round green stone, then realized the stone was actually corroded metal, about a quarter of an inch wide with fragments of material adhering to it. The material was brittle and slightly curled, possibly leather. If so, the green metal could be an eyelet of some kind.

  She turned and looked at Lily, who seemed surprised. “My grandchild has given you her most prized possession,” Lily said. “She believes you are the forerunner. Perhaps she is right.”

  She closed Nick’s hand over the box. “You must guard it with your life. It has great power.”

  Nick caught
Yali staring at her. The look on his face startled her. It seemed both sly and covetous at the same time. What was so important about the tiny piece of metal? Certainly metal was hard to come by in the islands. Perhaps that was why Yali so obviously prized it.

  Next to her, Lily laughed.

  CHAPTER 15

  April 18, 1942

  The North Pacific

  He knew it was time. He could feel the aircraft carrier pitch as she turned into the wind. He felt sorry for the poor bastards in the sixteen B-25 bombers cramming the flight deck. Eight hundred miles in weather like this and not enough fuel to make it back, even if the Hornet could stick around. He shook his head. At the same time he envied them. They were going to show the Japanese Empire that it was as vulnerable as the United States had been at Pearl Harbor.

  The loudspeakers came to life. “Air crews, man your planes.”

  The colonel was already at the fuselage door of the last plane in line when he arrived. The colonel was talking to an angry-looking pilot.

  “This is Captain Robert Johns, your new navigator,” the colonel said, introducing him to the pilot.

  He offered his hand.

  “What happened to Lawrence?” the pilot snapped.

  “Bob, this is Captain Watson,” the colonel continued smoothly, ignoring the question.

  Watson gave Johns an appraising look, then shook his hand. “What happened to Lawrence?” he repeated. Johns liked the pilot’s persistence. It showed that he cared about his crew.

  “Don’t waste time asking questions.” The colonel held out his credentials: U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps. “Captain Johns will brief you once you’re on your way.” He handed Watson an envelope. “Here are your orders. From this moment on, you are to take your instructions from Captain Johns. Is that clear?”

  Johns could see that the pilot wasn’t happy and he regretted that the colonel had been so officious. It was important that the crew work smoothly together. He would now have to overcome their resentment.