‘Goodnight,’ I said.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I want to read you something. Tim? Listen.’
I heard the rain on the thatch. The rain on the thatch, and the insects bumping and scrabbling against the pages of his book. And his voice, rising, growing sharper as he read.
BROWNE
In the following years, three comets were seen; and not long before the coming of the Spaniards a strange light broke forth in the east. It spread broad at its base on the horizon, and rising in a pyramidal form tapered off as it approached the zenith. It resembled a vast sheet or flood of fire, or, as an old writer expresses it, ‘seemed thickly powdered with stars’. At the same time, low voices were heard in the air, and doleful wailings, as if to announce some strange, mysterious calamity! The Aztec monarch, terrified at the apparitions in the heavens, took council of Nezahualpilli, who was a great proficient in the subtle science of astrology. But the royal sage cast a deeper cloud over his spirit, by reading in these prodigies the speedy downfall of the empire.
Such are the strange stories reported by the chroniclers, in which it is not impossible to detect the glimmerings of truth. Nearly thirty years had elapsed since the discovery of the islands by Columbus, and more than twenty since his visit to the American continent. Rumours, more or less distinct, of this wonderful appearance of the white men, bearing in their hands the thunder and the lightning, so like in many respects to the traditions of Quetzalcoatl, would naturally spread far and wide among the Indian nations. Such rumours, doubtless, long before the landing of the Spaniards in Mexico, found their way up the grand plateau, filling the minds of men with anticipations of the near coming of the period when the great deity was to return and receive his own again.
In the excited state of their imaginations, prodigies became a familiar occurrence. Or rather, events not very uncommon in themselves, seen through the discoloured medium of fear, were easily magnified into prodigies; and the accidental swell of the lake, the appearance of a comet, and the conflagration of a building, were all interpreted as the special annunciations of Heaven. Thus it happens in those great political convulsions which shake the foundations of society,—the mighty events that cast their shadows before them in the coming. Then it is that the atmosphere is agitated with the low, prophetic murmurs, with which nature, in the moral as in the physical world, announces the march of the hurricane:
‘When from the shores
And forest-rustling mountains comes a voice,
That, solemn sounding, bids the world prepare!’
When tidings were brought to the capital of the landing of Grijalva on the coast, in the preceding year, the heart of Montezuma was filled with dismay. He felt as if the destinies which had so long brooded over the royal line of Mexico were to be accomplished, and the sceptre was to pass away from his house for ever.
DALWOOD
‘You’re asleep, of course,’ Alistair said. I heard him move in his bunk, reaching towards the lamp. Then the pressure hissed out of it, the light drained away, and the rain seemed all the louder because of the darkness and because we would not talk any more.
‘I heard you,’ I said, inside the mosquito net I had arranged around me. ‘I don’t understand you, that’s all. Whose side are you on—the Martians?’
Then he said something that was covered by the rain. I couldn’t hear the words, but I heard the tone of his voice, excited, as if he was impatient with waiting for something. I pulled back the net and called across the room: ‘What was that?’
And he shouted, in the roaring dark, while the rain came faster and the palms thrashed. ‘We’re not alone,’ he shouted. ‘Ah, you thick lump, can’t you see it? We’re not alone.’
OSANA
When I woke in the morning the rain was still falling as it had been when I went to sleep, and I said to the policemen: ‘We shall not go today to Obomatu. Sleep some more,’ I told them. ‘I am going to sleep, and no work can be done without me.’
One of the policemen, Esau, said in Pidgin: ‘What is your work, bighead? Masta Alistair does your work.’
‘You shall see,’ I said. ‘Wait a little, Esau. You shall see.’
When we had eaten we ran to the resthouse through the rain. There were no people about it, only the two Dimdims and Kailusa and Biyu on the veranda. Even an ignorant village like Wayouyo could not be interested in Dimdims when the weather was like that. The people had stayed in their houses, and the smoke from under their yam-pots climbed from the eaves into the rain, making the air of the village blue and the grove cloudy.
‘It’s nine o’clock,’ said Mister Dalwood to the three policemen and me.
Mister Dalwood sat in a chair on the veranda with an impatient face. But Mister Cawdor, in his chair, was reading a book and took no notice of us when we came.
‘It is the rain, taubada,’ I said to Mister Dalwood. ‘We had much trouble because of the rain.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Mister Dalwood, speaking carefully, and the policemen laughed.
Biyu was waiting behind Mister Dalwood’s chair. Biyu looked out across the clearing and said: ‘It rain, taubada,’ and then was so pleased with himself that he could not stop smiling, because he had said it in English.
‘Is it?’ said Mister Dalwood. ‘Hey, everybody. Biyu says it’s raining.’
That made the policemen laugh again, and the stupid Biyu was filled with shame and went away, and even Kailusa, who did not like him, seemed sorry.
Suddenly Mister Cawdor closed his book with a noise and looked angry at Mister Dalwood. He said: ‘Listen, will you stop trying to score off the kid.’
‘Well, he’s such an idiot,’ Mister Dalwood complained. ‘Anyway, hell, who pays him?’
‘Some time I’ll have to tell you about shame in this part of the world, Mister Cawdor said. ‘That’s if you don’t want to see him shinning up a palm and jumping off.’
When Mister Cawdor said that, Mister Dalwood went red like a flower and seemed more shamed even than Biyu, though no one had laughed at him. He said: ‘Yeah. Sorry. You don’t tell me enough.’ And Mister Cawdor looked at him for a moment quite kindly, and then opened his book again.
‘You’re all right,’ Mister Cawdor said, while he read. ‘For a Dimdim, anyway.’
Mister Dalwood did not answer, but gazed at his shoes and moved his shoulders like a modest man.
The policemen had not understood what the Dimdims said, but they saw Mister Dalwood’s shame and were interested and sorry for him. Policemen and boat-boys are always fond of Mister Dalwood, because he is so childish and so strong. So the policemen went and squatted down beside him, and whenever he looked towards them they smiled very kindly, till I thought that Mister Dalwood would jump up and knock their heads together in his bad-temper.
Suddenly Kailusa said: ‘Taubada, people are coming.’ So we turned to see, and through the rain we made out four or five men crossing the clearing, moving at the pace of a very old man. Benoni was the first of them, and then we knew who was following, because in his hand he had the big yellow lime-gourd of Dipapa. But Dipapa’s head was hidden under the rain-mat that Boitoku and another old man held over him, so that we saw only his bent body and the ebony stick with which he walked, and the body of Metusela in his khaki shorts holding Dipapa’s arm.
‘Something must be up,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘He never moves from that platform in front of his house.’
Mister Cawdor stepped down from the veranda and went out into the rain to meet Dipapa. He stooped in under the rain-mat and spoke. Then he took the old man’s other arm, and they all began to walk again, very slowly, towards the resthouse.
Kailusa and I sat with our heads low, pretending not to see, while the Dimdims pulled and pushed at Dipapa to get him up to the veranda. The old man was shaking. He fell into Mister Cawdor’s chair, holding tight to his stick, and the shaking of his hands moved the stick like wind.
‘Dipapa,’ Mister Cawdor said, ‘sit, rest. I am glad to see you here.’
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‘My thanks,’ said Dipapa, who was out of breath.
‘I have some good betelnut,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Kailusa, go and get it.’
‘By and by,’ the old man said. ‘By and by I will chew. Taubada, I am here to speak with you.’
‘Yes, good,’ said Mister Cawdor. ‘Speak, then.’
But the old man was too tired, and he glanced towards Benoni and waved with his hand.
‘Well, Benoni,’ Mister Cawdor said, turning. ‘What does your uncle have to say to me?’
Then I noticed Benoni’s face for the first time. He was moved, he looked wild.
‘They have come, taubada!’ Benoni cried out.
And when he said that, Mister Cawdor’s face changed too, and was excited and still.
‘Who has come?’ asked Mister Cawdor, very quiet. ‘Benoni, I do not understand your talk.’
‘The star-people,’ Benoni cried. ‘They have come to Budibudi.’
Boitoku went Ssss, and the other old man shook his head, not believing. But Metusela believed. His eyes were huge and his big mouth smiled and smiled while he looked from Mister Cawdor to Benoni to Dipapa.
‘I think you are mistaken,’ Mister Cawdor said; but he sounded as though he too believed, and was glad. ‘I do not think there are people in the stars.’
‘Taubada,’ Benoni said, ‘at Budibudi my uncle has a plantation of betelnut, the plantation of the chief. Three men live at Budibudi and care for the chief’s plantation. E, yesterday my uncle sent two men in a canoe to get betelnut. For you, taubada, a present for you. And the three men are gone. Nothing else is gone, taubada, not their pots, nor their mats. Yams were cooking in one pot, though the fire had burned out. The two canoes were pulled up on the beach, and there were no footprints, no marks anywhere. Because those men have gone, taubada, with the star-people. They have gone into the sky.’
I did not know what to believe. It made one afraid. And so many people everywhere were talking about the star-machine.
All the time Mister Cawdor was looking at Dipapa, with the same quiet face. ‘Well, Dipapa,’ he said at last, ‘what is your mind?’
‘I do not know,’ the old man said. ‘I do not understand.’
‘You believe in the star-people?’ Mister Cawdor said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Dipapa. ‘Many things change. Today the Dimdims are here. Tomorrow, maybe, the star-people.’
All of a sudden Metusela cried out a word, and everybody turned and stared at him.
‘What did you say?’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Metusela, what did you say?’
‘Angel,’ cried Metusela, looking mad and happy. ‘Those star-people, their name is angel. Now they come. Again they come. Ai! My belly is moved, because of those angel-people.’
‘Des’,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Enough. There are no star-people. Those three men had another canoe, they went in their canoe—somewhere—Vaimuna—I do not know. But we will hear of them. Or else they are drowned. Then we will not hear of them. But they did not go into the sky. Akh, Benoni, you talk gammon.’
‘Taubada,’ Benoni said, ‘you go, you see.’
‘Yes, truly,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘We will go in the Igau, I and Misa Dolu’udi. We will search Budibudi, and we will ask for those men in all the islands. And I think we will find them, and you will be ashamed of your crazy talk. Now give me their names.’
‘You do not believe?’ said Benoni, looking into Mister Cawdor’s eyes. ‘You do not believe in the star-people?’
‘No, my friend,’ said Mister Cawdor.
And then Benoni sighed. ‘I think you want to tell a lie, taubada,’ he said.
‘Osana,’ said Mister Cawdor, as if he did not hear Benoni, ‘get those men’s names, write them down. That is all. Well, Dipapa, shall we chew?’
But the old man was gazing across the clearing, through the rain, not listening, and he muttered to himself: ‘Now who is coming? O, Boitoku, who is that?’
Suddenly Mister Dalwood jumped to his feet, shouting: ‘Hey!’
All the policemen laughed. They were laughing at him and at Saliba, who was running so violently across the clearing, swinging her breasts and skirt. Over her head a big taro-leaf was nodding, held by the stalk, and the rain-drops bounced off that shiny green roof. She came bounding up on to the veranda, gasping and dripping and hitting herself on the bosom, which shook.
‘Wim!’ she panted. Then she noticed Dipapa, and sat down with a bump on the floor.
‘Salib’, be careful,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘The Government’s house is not so strong as Rotten Wood.’
‘You talk gammon,’ Saliba screamed, laughing and panting.
‘Alistair, what does she want?’ said Mister Dalwood, whose face looked as though he wished that Saliba would not talk and laugh so loud.
‘I don’t know,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Salib,’ what is your business?’
‘O!’ cried Saliba, beating her bosom. ‘I think I am going to die. Taubada, Misa Makadoneli has sent you some writing.’
‘Good, then,’ said Mister Cawdor. ‘Let me see.’
‘It is here,’ Saliba said, feeling in the waistband of her skirt. ‘Wa! It has fallen.’ She began fumbling about between her legs, and everybody stretched his neck and looked, even Dipapa. But Mister Dalwood did not look for long. His face went red and furious, and he turned away.
‘E!’ cried Saliba. ‘It is here.’ She took her hand out of her skirt and gave a piece of paper to Mister Cawdor, who opened it and read.
I watched Mister Cawdor’s face. He was very angry. Too angry even to swear.
‘Well?’ said Mister Dalwood, turning back. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Short and sweet,’ muttered Mister Cawdor. ‘The King of Kailuana writes: Sorry, old man: wireless message. They want you back at Os’twa immediately with ‘Igau’, Osana and policemen. Some visiting bureaucrats. What a farce. Stay here tonight. Yours aye, MacDonnell of Kailuana.’
‘O-o-o-o-o,’ went Mister Dalwood. He was not too angry to swear. He swore for a long time, and banged his head on the veranda-post, and even Dipapa laughed.
BENONI
In the afternoon everything that had been put up was taken down, and everything that had been unpacked was packed another time, and the Government went away. ‘We will come again,’ said Misa Kodo to my uncle, ‘soon.’ And my uncle nodded, still squatting on the veranda of the resthouse, out of the rain, with Metusela beside him, and looked after Misa Kodo, while he mumbled Misa Kodo’s betelnut between his gums.
At the head of the line walked Saliba once more, the writingmachine on her head, a rain-mat covering it. Misa Kodo and Misa Dolu’udi followed one by one, in their pink clinging clothes, the rain running down their faces. Their faces were bad-tempered, and they did not talk, as if they were bad-tempered with one another. But Osana and the policemen were making jokes and laughing, and once Misa Dolu’udi turned back, angrily, and told them to stop, and then the bad-temper and the quietness went all along the line.
When they were leaving the Wayouyo lands I ran up beside the Dimdims and said: ‘Goodbye, Misa Kodo. Goodbye, Misa Dolu’udi. When will you come back?’
‘Soon,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘A week, two weeks. Our work was not begun.’
‘Will you go to Budibudi, taubada?’ I said. ‘Will you see?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In the morning, we will go and see.’
‘Taubada,’ I said, ‘say to Misa Dolu’udi that I regret him.’
‘Yes,’ Misa Kodo said. And he called back some words in English to Misa Dolu’udi. And then Misa Dolu’udi said: ‘So long, mate,’ and hit me on the shoulder with his hand. But it was not like a game any more, it was not like the evening before, and in a moment Misa Dolu’udi had dropped his hand and walked on and forgot about me, as bad-tempered as when I spoke.
I watched them go, and I thought that I was sad. I thought then that I was sad. A’i.
They went winding away into the rain. The rain was grey and green, and at la
st so thick that it was like smoke, and I could not see even the white clothes of the Government any more.
SALIBA
And when we came to the house again, suddenly I had a feeling. The land around the house had all turned to mud and the rain rattled on the iron and the house was like a drum. I put down the machine on the veranda and went to the cookhouse where Naibusi was. ‘O Naibus’,’ I said, ‘we are home, we have come.’
‘They are wet,’ Naibusi said, ‘the Dimdims?’
‘E,’ I said, ‘and their good white stockings are covered with mud. They say they will drink hot water and rum.’
‘Good, then,’ Naibusi said. ‘Salib’, what is the matter?’
‘I do not know,’ I said. ‘I am nervous.’
‘You are nervous?’ Naibusi said. ‘Madwoman, you talk gammon. You were never nervous.’
‘I think I will go away,’ I said. ‘I think I will go back to Wayouyo, tonight. There is something in this house.’
‘It is your house,’ Naibusi said, ‘where you were born. Salib’, I think you have a fever.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it is not that. But something else. Something that I know. O Naibusi, I know I am going to be very unhappy.’
Then Naibusi was worried, because I was crying, and she had not seen me cry for so long. She kept saying: ‘Salib’, Salib’, des’,’ and patting me, and still I went on crying and could not say why. I could not tell Naibusi because I did not know. All I knew was that the house was unfriendly and might hurt me.
MACDONNELL
Well, I said, it’s good to see two young chaps who know how to make use of a rainy afternoon. I hadn’t known that they were there. I had been lying on my bed, after a nap, listening to the weather, and then reading, and so the daylight had leaked away, one long racket of rain. But when at last I came out on the veranda, at a quarter to six, there they were at the table, in pullovers and swimming trunks, tight as ticks and twice as miserable.
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