Horror in Paradise

by Anthology

  But in Tahiti I met a man who owned an island, and when I told him that I envied him he offered to lend it to me. There was something so casual about the suggestion, like a man in a railway carriage who asks you if you would like his Punch, that I accepted at once.

  The island happened to be no more than a hundred miles away from anywhere else (that in the Pacific is cheek by jowl, no farther than Piccadilly Circus from Trafalgar Square), so that it was a wonderful chance to enjoy the satisfaction of proprietorship.

  I found a small cutter with a gasoline engine to take me over; I had a native servant whose extraordinary incompetence was only equaled by his unfailing good nature, and I engaged a Chinese cook—for I thought this was an occasion to do things in style.

  I bought a bag of rice, a quantity of tinned goods, a certain amount of whisky, and a great many bottles of soda, for the owner had warned me that there was no water on the island.

  I set my foot on the beach. The island was mine for as long as I chose to inhabit it. The beach really had the silver whiteness that you read of in descriptions of the South Sea islands, and when I walked along in the sunshine it was so dazzling that I could hardly bear to look at it. Here and there were the white shells of dead crabs and the skeletons of sea birds.

  I walked up through the coconuts and came upon a grove of enormous, old, and leafy trees; they gave coolness and a grateful shade. It was among these that the tiny settlement was built. There was the headman’s hut and another for the workman, two more to store the copra, and a somewhat larger one, trim and clean, which the owner of the island used when he visited it and in which I was to dwell.

  I unloaded my stores and bedding and proceeded to make myself at home. But I had not reckoned with the mosquitoes. There were swarms of them; I have never seen so many; and they were bold and fierce and pitiless. I rigged up a net in the veranda of my hut and placed a table and a chair beneath it, but the mosquitoes were ingenious to enter, and I had to kill twenty at least before I could sit down in peace.

  Here I took my frugal meals, but when a dish was hurriedly passed between the curtains a dozen mosquitoes dashed in and I had to kill them one by one before I could eat.

  I set about exploring the island. It had evidently been raised from the sea at a comparatively recent date, and much of the interior was barren and almost swampy, so that I sank in as I walked. I suppose what was now dry land had not very long ago been brackish lake. Beside the coconuts nothing much seemed to grow but rank grass and a shrub something like a broom.

  There were no animals on the island but rats, perhaps, and though throughout the Pacific you find everywhere the mynah bird, noisy and quarrelsome, to this lonely spot he had never found his way; and the wild fowl I saw were great black gulls with long beaks. They had a piercing, almost a human, whistle. I thought that in them abode, restless and menacing, the souls of dead seamen drowned at sea. They gave something sinister to the smiling sunlit island.

  But it was not till I had been on the island for several days that I discovered they were not the only sinister things there. I thought I had explored every inch of it, and I was surprised one evening to catch through the coconuts a glimpse of a little grass hut. I saw a moving shape, and I wondered if it was possible that anyone lived there.

  I strolled toward the hut and I saw what was certainly a man, but as I approached he vanished. I supposed that I had startled him and he had slunk away among the brushwood. But I wondered why he had chosen this lonely dwelling, who he was, and how he lived.

  The Polynesians are a friendly and sociable race, and I was intrigued to find anyone in that tiny island who needed solitude so much that he must live away even from the halfdozen persons who formed the island’s entire population. I puzzled my brains. It could not be a watchman, for among the coconuts there was nothing to watch and no danger to guard against.

  When I returned to my own house I told the headman what I had seen and asked him who this solitary creature was; but he would not, or could not, understand me. It was not till I was once more in Papeete that I found out. I thanked the owner of the island for the loan of it and then I asked him who was the mysterious man who seemed so to shun the approach of his fellows.

  “Oh, that’s my leper,” he said. “I thought he’d amuse you”

  “He tickled me to death,” I answered. “But haven’t you rather a peculiar sense of humor?”

  Sir Arthur Grimble

  A Stinking Ghost

  With a degree from Cambridge University and further education in France and Germany, Arthur Grimble (1888-1956) joined the British Colonial Service at the age of twenty-six. On his first assignment he was posted to the Gilbert and Ellice Islands Protectorate, a remote possession in the equatorial Pacific. There he served for nineteen years, first as cadet and then, having proved his competence, as resident commissioner, chief administrator of both groups. Later he became governor of the Seychelles Islands, was knighted in 1938, and ended his career in the Colonial Service as governor of the Windward Islands.

  His experiences in the Gilberts, now the Republic of Kiribati, resulted in two volumes of recollections: We Chose the Islands (1953) (the British title is A Pattern of Islands); and Return to the Islands (1957). “A Stinking Ghost” is chosen from the latter volume.

  THERE were five European houses scattered through the whispering glades of the palm forest on Betio station in 1923. Two of these had been put up by myself in 1916; the other three were much older; and every one of them, according to the people of Betio village next door, was haunted. The basic trouble was not, I gathered, that they had all happened to be built on prehaunted ground; there wasn’t a foot of soil anywhere up the creeping length of Tarawa that wasn’t the lurking place of one fiend or another, and you had to take these as you found them. It was how you dealt with them when you laid out your ground plan and built your house that really mattered. If you didn’t turn on the proper spells—and how could you if you were a white man?—it followed as a matter of course that the ghosts or the elementals got in.

  One of the two bungalows that I had built had been occupied without delay by an earth spirit called Na Kun, who showed himself in the form of a noddy. He croaked “Kun-kun-kun” at you in the dark of night, and aimed his droppings at your eye, and blinded you for life if he made a bull’s-eye of it. The other house had a dog on its front veranda: not just a kamea (that is, a “come-here”), as the white man’s dogs were called, but a kiri—one of the breed the ancestors had brought with them out of the west when, shortly after the creation of the world by Naareau the Elder, they came to settle on Tarawa. I could never make out why everyone was so frightened of this beast. He never did anything, simply was in the house. For my own purposes, I came to the conclusion that he was like the “mopoke” in the celebrated Australian story, so deceptive that what I occasionally thought I saw on the front veranda and took to be something else actually was what I took it for, namely, a mongrel of the old kiri strain from the village.

  There was a cheerful tale among the villagers that, round about 1910, an aged friend of mine, a widely loved sorcerer who dealt in what was called the magic of kindness (meaning any kind of ritual or charm not intended to hurt anybody) had posted one of his familiars, the apparition of a gray heron, on the front veranda of a decrepit bungalow near the hospital. His intent, so the story went, was to get hold of a few medical secrets for the improvement of his repertoire of curative potions, especially those which had to do with the revitalization of flagging manhood. But his constructive plan was most untimely frustrated when the resident medical officer was transferred to another house, only just built, but nevertheless already haunted by a hag with two heads. This unpleasant creature made a most frightful scene when the wizard tried to take the new premises over for his inquisitive bird. I learned all these facts from a glorious burlesque show put up for me one Saturday night by the lads, young and old, of Betio village. The miming of the demon lady’s fury, her inhospitable gestures, the rout of
the sorcerer, and the total desolation of the heron left all of us, including the venerable gentleman himself, helpless with laughter. But, in the last analysis, behind all the mirth of that roaring crowd, there wasn’t a soul present except myself who didn’t accept both the familiar and the demon for cold and often terrifying fact.

  The oldest house on our station, the one we called the old residency, was a pleasant, two-floored structure near the lagoonside haunted by a nameless white beachcomber. This ghost was held in peculiar dread by the villagers, because they regarded it as earthbound for ever, its body having been murdered and left unburied on the beach for the Betio dogs to devour. That kind of revenant was always more iozvawa (malicious) than any other, everyone believed.

  The unhappy man, so the story ran, had been killed on the site of the residency with a glass bottle by a fellow beachcomber named Tom, a generation or so before the coming of the British flag in 1892, which is to say, somewhere back in the late 1860’s. Nothing else was remembered of him except that he was wearing a sailor’s dark shore clothes and thick black boots when he came by his death. Or, at least, that is how his ghost was said to be dressed whenever it allowed itself to be seen about the house.

  The villagers talked about him so much and with such conviction that Europeans began to accept the haunt as a fact. It is hard to resist belief in such things when you are lonely and the whole air around you palpitates with horrified credulity. Good Father Guichard of the Sacred Heart Mission, bless him, came down-lagoon fifteen miles when Olivia and I arrived at Tarawa in 1916, especially to warn us against living in the house. But we did live there. We couldn’t see why the poor ghost, if it existed, should want to do us any harm. So we had our beds and the baby’s cot on the airy gable veranda where he was supposed to walk, clump-clump, in his great thick boots; and all the time we were there, we never saw or heard a thing or had the smallest feeling of his unseen presence.

  But when I was transferred to the central Gilberts in 1917, I found a house that gave me quite different sensations. That was the district officer’s transit quarters on Tabiteuea, built by George Murdoch, my predecessor in the central islands. It used to stand in a rustling grove of coconut palms by the lagoon beach, a hundred yards or so north of Utiroa village and about the same distance south of the big, whitewashed island prison. It was an airily built, two-roomed shelter of local thatch and timber, a heavenly cool refuge from the ferocious glare of sea and sand beyond the grove. I found it a cheerful place, too, all through the daylight hours, with the talkative Utiroa villagers padding back and forth along the road that passed it to landward. It changed, though, when darkness fell and the village slept. An uneasiness came upon it then. Or perhaps it was I who changed—I don’t know—only I couldn’t pass a night there without being haunted by a thought that something was on the edge of happening: something so imminently near, I always felt, that if nothing but one gossamer-fold of the darkness could be stripped aside, I should see what it was. The idea would come back and back at me as I sat reading or writing. Once or twice, it pulled me up out of sleep, wideawake on the instant, thinking, “Here it is!” But if it was, it never showed itself.

  Had this been all, I should never have had the place pulled down. Not even the horrifying odor that visited me there one night would have sufficed of itself to drive me to that extreme. You don’t destroy a house built by your predecessor—especially an old stager like George Murdoch—for the sole reason that it was once, for about thirty seconds in your experience, invaded by a smell you couldn’t explain. It was what George himself said to me afterwards, when I told him (among other things) how my dog had behaved, that set me looking for another site.

  The dog was my terrier, Smith. He was lying in the draft of the roadside doorway one night, while I sat reading. I wasn’t deeply absorbed because I was worried about Anterea, an old friend of mine, who lay ill in the village—so ill I was sure he wouldn’t last the night. Perhaps that made me particularly susceptible to whatever it was. Anyhow, I felt myself suddenly gripped, as I sat, by a more than usually disturbing sense of that imminent something. It had never had any particular direction before, but now it seemed to impend from the roadway. I was aware, also, of having to fight a definite dread of it this time, instead of greeting it with a kind of incredulous expectancy. I sprang up, staring nervously out into the dark beyond the door. And then I noticed Smith. Hackles bristling, gums bared, he was backing step by step away from the door, whimpering and trembling as he backed.

  “Smith!” I called. He gave me one quick, piteous look, turned tail and bolted, yelping as. if I had kicked him, through the seaward door. I heard him begin to howl on the beach, just as that unspeakable odor came sweeping into the room, wave upon wave of the breath of all corruption, from the road.

  Plain anger seized me as I stood. That was natural, I think. I had made myself a fine figure of fun, for whoever was outside, leaping to my feet and goggling like a scared rabbit through the doorway, a glorious butt for this nasty trick. It hurt: I forgot Smith and dashed out into the road. But there wasn’t a clue for eye, or ear, or nose in the hissing darkness under the wind-blown palms. I found nobody and nothing, until my running feet brought me to the fringe of Utiroa village; and there I heard a sound that stripped me of all my anger. It was the noise of women wailing and men chanting, mixed with the rhythmic thud-thud of heavy staves on the ground. I couldn’t mistake it. A Gilbertese bomaki ceremony was in full swing: some villager’s departing soul was being ritually sped on its difficult road from earth to paradise. I knew then that my old friend Anterea had not lasted the night, and I lost all heart for my silly chase.

  There was no taint on the air of the house when I got back. I fell asleep untroubled by anything but my own sadness. But Smith stayed out on the beach, and I couldn’t persuade him to remain indoors after dark for the few more days I spent on Tabiteuea.

  The rest of the story is George Murdoch’s. He had settled down to trading on Kuria Island after his retirement from the administrative service, so I took the next chance I could of running across to tell him of my feelings about the house, and Smith’s queer behavior, and the fetid smell someone had put across me.

  “So he’s been making friends with you, has he?” said George reflectively when I had finished. And, instead of answering when I asked who “he” might be, he went on, “From about the middle of Utiroa village to a bit north of the prison—that’s his beat. Aye, he’s a stinking old nuisance. But mind you, there’s no real harm in him.”

  “He,” in short, according to George, was an absurd ghost known to the villagers as Tewaiteaina, or One Leg, whose habit for several centuries it had been to walk—or, rather, hop—that particular stretch of Tabiteuea, every night of the year without exception, scaring everybody stiff who saw him go by. George spoke of him with a sort of affectionate irritation, as if he really existed. It was too ridiculous.

  “But, Mr. Murdoch,” I interrupted, “there’s a ghost for every yard of the Gilberts, if you swallow all that village stuff!”

  He eyed me humorously. “But there’s only one ghost who stinks, young fella-me-lad, and that’s old One Leg. Not that he plays that trick often, mind you. Just sometimes, for friendship’s sake. Now, if you’ll stop interrupting, I’ll tell you . . .

  “I’d heard nothing about him when I had the prison and the resthouse built where they are,” he went on, “otherwise, I might have chosen somewhere else. Or I might not. What’s the odds, anyway? The creature’s harmless. So there I was one dark, still night, with a prison nicely full of grand, strong lads up the road, and myself sitting all serene in the resthouse, enjoying a page or two of the King’s Regulations. I say I was all serene, you’ll note. The house had stood three years, and I’d never been troubled by the something’s-going-to-happen notion you’ve made such a point of. Sheer nonsense that, I’m telling you straight!”

  “Yes, Mr. Murdoch,” I said humbly.

  “Well, you’ll grow out of it, I suppose,”
he comforted me. “So there I sat, a grown man, with not one childish fancy to make a fool of me, when in from the roadway crashed that stinking thing and hit me like a wall. Solid. A fearful stench. You were right about that. Corruption and essence of corruption from the heart of all rottenness—that’s what I said to myself as I fought my way through it to the door . . . How did I know it came from the road, you say? What does that matter—I did know; so don’t interrupt me with your questions.

  “I’ll admit the uncanny suddenness of it gave me the shudders at first. But I was angry, like you, by the time I reached the road. I thought some son of a gun was taking a rise out of me. So I dashed back into the house, snatched up a hurricane lamp and started running hell for leather towards the prison. The reek was as thick as a fog that way, and I followed my nose.

  “I hadn’t gone far, though, before I heard a patter and a rush from ahead, and a great ox of a prison guard came charging full tilt out of the darkness and threw himself at me, gibbering like a cockatoo. As I struggled out of his clutches, I caught something about someone called One Leg who’d gone hop-hopping past him into the prison yard. Well . . . there was my clue. ‘Is it One Leg that raised this stink?’ I shouted. ‘Yes,’ he screamed back. ‘One Leg. . . the ghost!’ I only stayed to call him a blanky fool and belted on.