Show Me The Sky

by Nicholas Hogg

  I have to face facts. I have to go back. Anything more than a light wind will dust over my tracks. A following rescue team could find the bike and not know which direction I’d gone. And there’s a chance if I dig into the creek bed I’ll find water.

  A chance.

  Please think of me as a fool and not a coward. I could crawl all the way back to France if I had the water.

  Midday. Strung my sleeping bag between the same two bushes I did yesterday. I move each limb as though I’m crawling across the surface of a heavier planet, gravity an agony. Only when I transcend the pain and build our cottage can I rise from the despair of returning to the creek.

  The first floor’s complete. A construction site now looks like a house. Next the beams for the upper floor, huge oak timbers the size of railway sleepers. They wait stacked on the grass by the kitchen doorway, my work for the afternoon crawl, after the last of my rice.

  A success on this dark day of backtracking – though a foul detail of survival I wonder if I should even share? For lunch I had rice and instant chicken soup. Cooked the rice with minimal water and the lid firmly on, and then boiled up more water for the soup. The ‘water’ for the soup was from my emergency supply in the Gatorade bottle.

  I think the culinary lingo is tart.

  This time I’m still hungry. And thirsty. There’s no after dinner slouch, no sitting back with a slackened belt. I’m only resting because the sun’s still too fierce. If I crawled now the sweat would drip from me like tears.

  Even though I’m returning to a wrecked bike and sorry corpse, I have to keep moving, crawling, inching along and adding bricks to our cottage, my arcadia from this gathering desperation.

  I’ve stopped because something has happened. Someone is in the creek. They must be. I’m still a kilometre from the bike, but I know someone’s there because a line of black smoke is rising above the bank. Maybe a rescue party making camp? Calling out to the missing with a fire?

  But what rescuers? No one’s expecting me. I’m not late because I’m not yet due to arrive. I must crawl on. It’ll be dark by the time I get there. And I’m lonely and wretched enough to shake the dead reverend by the hand. Even if he’s risen from the grave to warm his bones before the fire.

  Show Me the Sky

  26 November 1834

  The voyage was gliding, the waves and wind carrying us effortlessly onward, a toy boat on the breath of God, when the Caroline ran aground on a broken commandment: Thou shalt not steal.

  At an extraordinary meeting of the voyage committee, called for by Rev. Thomas, the steward of the supplies, it was announced that the depletion of the cheese stock could only be explained by thievery. Capt. Drinkwater was immediately informed, and on news of a villain on-board, assembled all men above deck. The crew listened in silence as their master requested the guilty man to step forward, promising a sparing of the whip, and also the wrath of his shipmates, for if no culprit put up his hand there and then, their quarters would be vigorously searched, ‘as though a legion of Viking horribles had thundered through their beds’.

  When no man volunteered his guilt, the capt., accompanied by his second officer, stampeded through the stinking billets, slashing hammocks and clothes with his swishing cutlass. We were quite a crowd gathered for this spectacle. Even the sabbath service does not congregate the population of the Caroline so excitedly.

  When the capt. appeared from below, shining with sweat after his furore, I wondered whether the vim of his search was simply a performance to display his authority and lack of tolerance for thievery.

  But no. With dramatic swagger the capt. took the forecastle and held aloft his shining cutlass, dangling from its glinting point a muslin bag of cheese. Gasps were followed by a deathly hush. The capt. called forth his second officer, a man almost wider than he is tall, and gave the command to his ears only, dismissing his executioner to the lower deck with a look of solemn satisfaction. The crew parted before this arbiter, as did the Red Sea before Moses, all in silent apprehension until finally the accused wretch was hauled across the deck to the feet of the captain.

  Never have I seen a man protest his innocence so vehemently, even in the eyes of living ingredients before a Fijian oven, begging clemency from a hungry chief. He even continued to shriek his truth after the butt of a musket was jammed against his nose, and it was only when the flogging commenced did his protests turn to yelps. The capt. dismissed the wives below, deeming the flogging ‘a sight not fit for the eyes of a lady’. Once the unfortunate was tied to the mast and stripped of his shirt, the Rev. Lilywhite gave up pleading for the punishment to be delivered in ‘a fashion more Christian than savage’.

  The burly second officer was no stranger with a cat-o’-nines, and blood was quickly drawn. I am long immune to the cruelties of man to man, but the missionaries quickly averted their eyes and descended to their quarters. Only the Rev. Thomas remained, craning his neck to peer over the shoulders of the crew.

  2 December 1834

  It was the punishment of the seaman, rather than his crime, which has cast a long shadow upon our sunny voyage for the last few days. The whole episode has been declared a taboo subject among the chatter of the dinner table. Last night the Rev. Lilywhite had to chastise the Rev. Thomas and cut short his graphic recount of the flogging. If I am not mistaken – bearing in mind a Fijian is skilled in reading the countenance of his company, for we live in a land where bad manners and poor etiquette is met with a meal of ourselves – the Rev. Thomas betrayed some glee at the severity of justice.

  If this bloodied back be a subject not fit for conversation, a horror unspeakable, then the missionaries to my cannibal islands must take a vow of silence now!

  5 December 1834

  Thank the Lord for His kingdom of the deep! The majestic sight of a hundred and more dolphins this afternoon lifted the downcast mood of the Caroline. Glory is surely upon these seraphs of the waves! Scourge of sharks and friends of sailors, they launched from the blue with acrobatic joy, splashing down then surfacing with the laughter of Heaven. When Rev. Jefferson informed me that a group of dolphins is correctly termed a school, I did not have to enquire why, for only children can abandon all for the mindless pleasure of play.

  Though seamen are no strangers to the wonders of the deep, many passed comment that indeed none had before seen such an abundance of dolphins swimming as one, and surely this be an omen of good fortune for the Caroline and its passengers – an auspice most readily heard by the reverends and their wives gathered upon the decks as audience to the impromptu show. Christians of the strictest compliance they may be, they are also quick to apply their private superstitions to the work of the Lord, whether contrary to what is written in the good book or not.

  10 December 1834

  Remarkable progress with the Rev. Stevens continues, along with what one may call a budding friendship. While we are from opposite ends of the earth, our skins as dark and light as night and day, we share a common sense of humour, along with a loving, yet questioning faith for the word of God. Where the Revs Lilywhite, Jefferson, and in particular the Rev. Thomas, deliver sermons as though they were authors of the bible themselves, the Rev. Stevens accepts that a literal translation is not always the true representation of the Lord.

  His theological reasoning is not his only endearing quality, as his energetic and youthful approach to life is equalled only by his gentle soul, a man who attends his wife as though she were the most delicate flower in bloom. It is also a joy to talk with him in my mother tongue, despite the range of our conversation being limited to his basic vocabulary. Numerous times his mispronunciation has produced much mirth, with mistakes such as, ‘Who is the dog of this island?’ and ‘How long have you been a banana?’ reducing us both to laughing fools. The Rev. Stevens always took these errors in good humour, and it occurs to me that those unafraid of their ignorance are quicker to learn than the proud and fearful.

  14 December 1834

  It is in direct contrast
to the character of Rev. Stevens that I must write of the Rev. Thomas, for when he addresses me it is as though I were the dirt upon the end of his shoe. I realise how lucky I am that it is not he I am escorting to Fiji, for he seems a man who has taken on God in fear and guilt, not love and light. He may hold the bible in his hand when he speaks, but it does not mean the words rest within his heart. A man of the cloth perhaps, I doubt he considers true the adage that ‘All men are created equal’. Before his eyes I am little more than an animal with a voice, the savage boy saved by God and England, my dark skin a label of stupidity, a rank of nothing more than upright beast.

  Only yesterday I was preparing a Fijian lesson in the mess when I heard the Rev. Thomas and the second officer in his quarters discussing my superior language skills. Thinking I would hear my first compliment from a man who had thus far spoken to me as though I were no better than his servant, I put my ear to the planked wall and listened. ‘Nonsense!’ I heard the rev. proclaim. ‘He is no more remarkable than a monkey in Covent Garden. Trained to work tricks for rotten apples.’

  Unfortunately he is not the only white man who holds up the light to guide the way for others, yet himself stands in shadow.

  17 December 1834

  Whipped along by the wind and waves that crash into each other from two different oceans, the Caroline today began her turn east, beyond the tip of Africa. It is a war of attrition between the Atlantic and the Indian, for despite swells that rise as high as mountains to swallow their opposing brothers, ultimately they are joined, washed together as one. Each drop of rain that falls and splashes down hill and dale, gathering in the runnels, streams, and greatest rivers, is but emptied into a single sea.

  On the tilting deck Rev. Lilywhite led a short, salt-sprayed service, investing our care in ‘He who holds the wind in his fist’. As we prayed for providence to deliver us beyond the Cape of Good Hope, men scrambled and dangled in the rigging, wrestling sails and ropes from the gathering wind.

  19 December 1834

  After only two nights of tumbling sleep, rocked from my dreams by the warring waves, I can stand upon the deck without fear of falling over, for the temper of the Cape has abated quicker than both passengers and sailors could have hoped.

  Capt. Drinkwater reminded Rev. Lilywhite that we still had fathoms of sea to sail before the port of New Holland, and that a thanking of the Lord should be attended with further petitions for a safe passage. Thus once more the rev. gathered us above deck to acknowledge ‘He who makes the waves and blows the wind’. On completion of the prayer, the Rev. Stevens, in a moment of broken protocol between himself and the senior reverends, added a few words for the brave sailors: ‘lest we forget those who labour for our lives without thanks’. The Rev. Lilywhite audibly snorted, walking away mumbling words beneath his breath that I doubt complimented the deckhands sweating for his safe voyage.

  20 December 1834

  It is not Fijian custom to speak ill of those who cannot hear to defend themselves, but much of the lesson this morning with Rev. Stevens was spent discussing the Rev. Thomas and his peculiarities.

  An unkempt and shambling man, often with more dinner down his cassock than upon his plate, he certainly does not believe that ‘cleanliness is next Godliness’. Regardless, his appearance is a trite observation compared to what he considers faith. Though capable of repeating the scriptures word for word, it is a fiery sentence that the love of God inhabits when orated by the Rev. Thomas. His services are popular with the sailors because he chooses to dwell upon those passages coloured with sex and murder – of which there are many. At times I wonder if he is preaching the word of God, or the riddles of Satan. But just when his sermon has turned a blue sky black, he will transform the message into a lightning strike of the Lord, as though faith were a thunderbolt clutched in his fist, ready to be thrust into the chest of any who dare not believe.

  26 December 1834

  Christmas Day passed in a most joyous manner, with each and every voice on-board the Caroline singing in unison, no cloud between our song and Jesus Christ in Heaven.

  The forecastle, usually strictly reserved for ship matters and the telescope of the capt., was turned into a pulpit for the Rev. Lilywhite, perched above us in his garb of black like a landed raven. He thanked the Lord once more for the fair weather, and acknowledged that it was by His grace alone we were afloat, no matter how hard the seaman toiled – this was followed by a significant pause and noticeable look to the Rev. Stevens.

  Beyond the waves to Fiji, he concluded with a prayer for my people: ‘O Lord, see fit that the blackened souls of Fiji may be enlightened, and that where there is misery in ignorance of your name, we might bring joy.’

  Will it make his mission more difficult when the Rev. Lilywhite and his colleagues discover that our lives are not lived in perpetual fear and woe? How will my brothers and sisters behave when told that naked flesh is shame, that the glory of their body is a sin before the eyes of the Lord, that to lay with the wife of another man is a broken commandment, and that only God has the right to spill the blood of another?

  1 January 1835

  ‘A new year is upon us,’ announced the Rev. Stevens this morning, before enquiring as to what achievements I had declared to pursue over the following twelve months. If any other Fijian were faced with such a question of the distant future I doubt he would even grace it with a reply, for the day ahead is considered arrangement enough.

  After several minutes of silent contemplation, I surprised both the rev. and myself with a candid reply. I first answered that of course I wished the mission to be a success, and that the light of the Lord illuminate the shadows of my darkened land. The rev. had time enough to utter an ‘Amen’ before I continued – perhaps where I should have stopped. I told the rev. that I prayed daily for the deliverance of my people from the soulless ways of the white man who lives with God in his head but not in his heart, he who is a slave to the ticking clock, he who chases metal and paper, he who makes a life collecting more things for his home than could be found in a whole village, he who would have his brother sleep on the street while his house had empty rooms.

  I could have talked until the day was out, but I looked in the eyes of the Rev. Stevens and saw his gentle and mild face now anxious and perplexed. Then he turned away from the cabin to the porthole, to the azure sea blazing. After several minutes of silence, just the slap of waves against the hull, the incessant creak of a thousand caulked and fastened planks, the rev. turned back to the room. ‘My dear Nelson,’ he said softly. ‘I could not agree more. We love to talk about progress, industry and civilisation, but so often these words come at a cost to the soul, an affront to He who created us. But Fiji …’ The rev. paused and clasped his hands, as though I were the entire kingdom of islands right there before him. ‘Fiji is a chance to start from the beginning, a land not yet poisoned by the vices of the modern world, of money and greed. We are returning to Eden, to a man and woman in their utter nakedness, lost of body and spirit, no God to instruct what is night and day but us, you and I, blessed to speak with His voice. Yes, we step on to the shores of your darkened land with the burden of a great responsibility, as the sole bringers of light, the knowledge to create a new world. But fear not, in my, sorry, our hands, it is a righteous power.’

  With this final word he actually glowed, his face danced upon by the sunlight reflecting from the sea. He rocked back and forth upon his stool like an excited child. Only when the sound of splashing disturbed the reverie did I feel excused to move. I stood at one porthole and the rev. the other. We watched a shoal of flying fish leap and skitter across the waves, scattering from a flock of diving gulls that hovered, swooped, and pierced the ocean like arrows. Not once did they fail to surface without a silver prize glittering in their beaks.

  12 January 1835

  Nearly two weeks since my confession to the Rev. Stevens, and I have not once sat with my journal.

  Why this is so, I am uncertain. Though much of my thin
king has been forward rather than backward, away from the land that has put the pen in my hand, their words in my mouth. And while expressing my fears to the rev. seems to have left him energised, more studious than ever with his Fijian lessons, I wake with a shadow of apprehension at my side. I am once again fearful of what tomorrow may bring, that this very ship will be anchored in my bay, that a man as meek and good-natured as the Rev. Stevens relishes himself as ‘a bringer of light’, and speaks about the future Fiji as though he himself were its creator.

  18 January 1835

  Despite my affection for the dolphin and its joyful dance above the waves, I am not so in love to refuse a slice of its delicious meat, and was most pleased this afternoon when the midshipman stuck several with a harpoon and handed them to the cook. But, it was with a degree of disgust from our fellow diners that the Rev. Thomas and I tucked into a fine steak this evening. To add insult to those who had lost their appetite, the Rev. Thomas thence called upon me to support his opinion that if we eat but one of God’s creatures, then all must be considered sustenance. Rarely offered the stage at the dinner table, I was disappointed that my estimation did not venture further than the delicacies of turtle soup, as the Rev. Lilywhite quickly ceased my oration: ‘To talk about turtle with the taste of potato in one’s mouth is distracting to the palate.’

  With the benefit of hindsight I feel that this were a saving interjection. Only now do I see the trap of conversation that the Rev. Thomas had laid – by accident or intent I am not decided. Beyond dolphin and turtle, the only flesh more prized by a Fijian is that of his brother. A subject more abhorrent to the white man I have not yet discovered.

  28 January 1835

  During the course of last week, most commonly in the dying heat of late afternoon before dinner, as I took my stroll to the quieter corners of the Caroline, I was joined by a most unlikely conversation partner – the Rev. Thomas. This man, who has treated me as some underling stowaway, seems to have actively sought out my company, broaching subjects from the creation myths of Fiji, to the wedding-night rituals of newlyweds!