Devil-Devil

by G. W. Kent

  ‘Come hurry-up, sister,’ she begged.

  Sister Conchita ran through the crowded huts to a space in front of the island church. There the malaria sprayers were huddled in consternation around one of their number, who was screaming in agony next to a large fire. On the ground, upside down next to the fire, lay a large wooden bowl. Desperately Sister Conchita tried to muster enough of her scanty pidgin to find out what was happening.

  ‘Whichway now thisfella—’ she began haltingly.

  ‘I speak English,’ said the large sprayer with whom earlier she had made eye contact, turning away from the others towards her. Impatiently he indicated the stricken man writhing on the ground. ‘We were boiling water for tea. Isaac knocked the bowl over and the boiling water has scalded him.’

  Isaac screamed again. The sprayers looked at him helplessly. ‘Bring him to the clinic!’ ordered Sister Conchita. The men did not move. Of course, thought the sister. They would never allow a woman to look after a man. To do so would go against tradition. Yet the stricken man was in urgent need of attention. She looked across at the big sprayer. His command of English was excellent; he must have been educated overseas. Had that taken him sufficiently far from the constraints of custom?Would he have the moral courage to allow her to help?

  ‘Do you know how to help your friend?’ she asked. The big man shook his head. Sister Conchita pounced. ‘Well, I do!’ she said. ‘Bring him to the clinic quickly. It’s the only chance he’s got.’

  The big man hesitated. Then, after what seemed to the sister a very long time, he nodded and turned to the other sprayers, talking urgently to them. The men shuffled their feet, plainly unwilling to move. The big man spoke again vehemently, waving his hands in the direction of the clinic. Finally two of the sprayers ran to the clinic and came back with one of the stretchers piled in a corner. Under Sister Conchita’s supervision they lifted the groaning man on to the stretcher and carried him into the clinic.

  ‘Put him on the table,’ ordered Sister Conchita. She waited until the men had done so and then made shooing motions with her hands. ‘All right, leave him with me now.’

  The sprayers looked at their leader. He nodded and said something in dialect. Dragging their feet the men left the room. The big sprayer remained. When Sister Conchita glanced at him he shrugged. ‘I must stay,’ he said. ‘They do not like leaving one of their own with a mary – a woman. I cannot leave him.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘If you must, you must. Perhaps you can make yourself useful. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jimmy.’

  ‘Stand over by the door while I examine him, Jimmy.’

  Bracing herself, Sister Conchita bent over Isaac. Carefully she cut away part of the sprayer’s sodden shirt, taking care not to remove any of the cloth adhering to his skin. It was plain that most of the water had been spilled over the man’s chest area and stomach. Already angry blisters were forming on his blotched skin.

  ‘We’ve got to cool his wounds,’ announced the sister. ‘That means training a constant flow of cold water over the afflicted parts.’

  ‘There aren’t any taps on the island,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘How can we keep a steady supply of water coming?’

  ‘This way,’ said Sister Conchita, and told him exactly what she wanted done.

  Five minutes later a long line of islanders was extending from the large concrete freshwater stand in the centre of the island to the medical centre. A variety of slopping containers of all sizes, from buckets to gourds, were being passed, hand to hand, from the stand to the door of the clinic, where Jimmy seized each one in turn and hurried over to Sister Conchita where he emptied it carefully into a small funnel held by the sister.

  The nun stood over the prostrate Isaac, carefully pouring a constant stream of cool water over him through the funnel. Jimmy ran to and from the door, taking the new, filled pots and returning the empty ones, to be passed back along the line to the concrete water stand.

  For a quarter of an hour Sister Conchita stood over Isaac, emptying the water over his quivering body, concentrating only on maintaining an even flow. The concrete floor of the clinic was awash, but gradually her ministrations seemed to be having an effect. Isaac had stopped whimpering and was gazing dazedly at the roof. After a time he made no sound at all, although he was still conscious.

  ‘I think we’ve done it,’ said Sister Conchita, with relief, conscious of the aching of her arms. ‘At least Isaac’s not in so much pain now. I’ll cover his wounds with a dry dressing and give him some aspirins. Then we’ve got to find a way of getting him to a hospital.’

  She wrapped bandages around the sprayer’s body and placed a blanket over his unaffected legs.

  ‘You’ve done good work,’ said Jimmy grudgingly, standing next to her.

  ‘Not too bad for a mary,’ agreed Sister Conchita.

  Jimmy walked to the doorway and ordered the villagers to send no more water across. Suddenly it seemed as if he did not want to leave. He loitered in the doorway, avoiding the nun’s gaze. When he spoke it was in a rush of words.

  ‘You are a good woman, Sister Conchita. Everyone says that the Praying Mary is here to help us.’

  ‘If I’m allowed to.’

  The islander shrugged. ‘It is not easy. We must find our own way, not depend on others. All the same, this afternoon you saved Isaac because you were the only one who knew what to do.’

  ‘I was only able to help because you convinced the others that a mary was capable of taking charge,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘That’s the way it should be – working together.’

  ‘Soon, I think, it will be too late for that,’ said Jimmy, shaking his head. ‘Whitey must leave and give us a chance on our own.’ He raised a hand to forestall her reply. ‘This is not the time to speak of such things. Today you helped my team and I am grateful. It is custom that I must now do something to help you.’

  ‘I don’t expect—’

  ‘It is custom,’ repeated Jimmy in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Would you shame me in front of my men?’ Sister Conchita forced herself to shake her head. ‘Good,’ said the malaria sprayer approvingly. ‘You are learning, Praying Mary. Listen to me. This week we have been working along the coast. We visited Ruvabi mission and Deacon’s copra plantation. There has been much gossip about you in both places.’

  ‘I bet there has,’ agreed Sister Conchita with feeling.

  ‘And,’ went on Jimmy inexorably, ‘there has been talk that you are in danger.’

  ‘If you consider getting shot at in the swamp dangerous, I’ll go along with that.’

  Jimmy did not respond to the sister’s attempt at flippancy. ‘That was only a part of it. You have got involved in the smuggling. You will find it difficult to shake yourself free. Custom is involved, as well as theft. Be very careful. Do what your aofia tells you. He is the only one who can help you.’

  She should never have got involved with John Deacon’s attempts to take the glory shells out of the islands, thought Sister Conchita. Before she could question Jimmy, one of the other malaria sprayers poked his head around the door.

  ‘Boat come!’ he said excitedly

  Leaving the sprayer with Isaac, Sister Conchita and Jimmy ran down to the wharf. A government launch had anchored just outside the lagoon. A small rowing boat was pulling through the rocks of the reef, heading for Sulufou. Two uniformed seamen of the Marine Department were rowing, while a third sat in the prow, with several canisters at his feet. Most of the women, children and old men still left on the artificial island were streaming down to the wharf to greet the newcomers.

  ‘It’s Kovara, the medical orderly,’ said Jimmy as the rowing boat drew closer. ‘He’s come to take his monthly sick-call at the clinic.’

  Sister Conchita’s heart sank at the news. She looked back at the open door of the clinic and thought of the medical supplies she had appropriated and used so freely that day, without permission, and of the diagnoses she had made without co
nsultation. It had all seemed so right and proper at the time, helpful even. Now, with the bespectacled and rather prim-looking medical orderly being dragged in the dinghy up the beach by the two seamen from the government launch, the nun wondered if he would take the same free-spirited attitude as she had done to her random use of government medical supplies. Somehow she doubted it. It looked as if she was in trouble again.

  Kovara, the medical orderly, was now splashing through the shallows towards her. As he approached he was staring open-mouthed over her shoulder at the line of would-be patients waiting outside the clinic. Inspiration struck Sister Conchita, as it so often did in times of trouble. She raced to meet Kovara, taking his hand and shaking it gratefully.

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord you’ve come, Mr Kovara,’ she gabbled, hoping that she was not overdoing the helpless little woman bit. ‘I don’t know what we would have done without you. One of the sprayers has been badly scalded. I’ve done what I can, but he needs to be taken back to the Auki hospital at once, under your expert care. Please, it’s urgent!’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ faltered the orderly. He gazed in dismay at the open door of the clinic and the table strewn with bandages and ointments. ‘Who—’

  ‘Please,’ begged Sister Conchita, ‘it may be a matter of death. Please turn the launch around and tend the poor man on your way back to Auki. I’ll make sure that your clinic is looked after.’

  Kovara still looked reluctant. Jimmy broke the impasse. He issued rapid orders to his fellow sprayers. Two of them ran to the clinic and emerged carrying their scalded co-worker on the canvas stretcher. Without looking at Kovara they bore the stretcher to the rowing boat in the shallows and loaded it gently on board.

  ‘Get him to Auki now,’ growled Jimmy.

  Still the medical orderly hesitated. Jimmy and the other malaria sprayers advanced on him menacingly. Kovara took a pace backwards. In a moment he had scuttled to the dinghy and, his healing instincts taking over, was bending solicitously over the man on the stretcher, as the two seamen rowed them back towards the launch.

  ‘Thanks again,’ Sister Conchita said to Jimmy.

  ‘Just take care,’ said the malaria sprayer. He shivered despite the heat. ‘This is a funny part of the Solomons. You never know what’s going to happen here.’

  He issued orders to the other sprayers and they struggled into their backpacks and equipment before continuing with their work. Thoughtfully Sister Conchita walked back to her waiting patients. It seemed common knowledge that she was in danger. The only problem was that she still had no idea what it was or where it was likely to come from.

  14

  CAVE OF DEATH

  Kella reached the waterfall in the high bush by late afternoon, eight hours after he had left the plantation to start his ascent into the mountains. For the most part he made good progress up the steep and tangled paths beneath the trees. He was aware of being watched constantly from the undergrowth by many pairs of eyes. The hidden bushmen would recognize his police uniform and with luck would probably allow him unimpeded passage, as long as he did not transgress any of their customs.

  The days of constant outright warfare between the bush people of the interior and the saltwater men of the coastal villages had passed, but there were still brawls between men of the two cultures when they met at the markets, where fish were exchanged for taro.

  Sometimes, even today, a party of coastal warriors would raid the gardens of the interior. In return, bush fighters would attack and hole canoes left on the beach. Occasionally these fights would lead to a death or two, but they were seldom reported to the police authorities in the capital. Kella had always done his best to prevent such pitched battles. Until his recall to Honiara he had been having some success with his peacemaking endeavours.

  He toiled through a solid wall of green vegetation. The thick grey trunks of the banyan and betel nut trees were almost obscured by trailing green vines and creepers falling in unlikely creases like stained and holed curtains. Bushes and tall grasses struggled for supremacy between the trees. Green snakes were inching their absorbed way up through the interlocked boughs in search of nesting birds.

  Surely Peter Oro would never have ventured so far from the salt water? The youth was probably staying with wantoks down on the coast and would return to the school when he felt like it.

  When he reached the waterfall he walked across the grassy plateau to a vine bridge leading to the sacred cave hidden behind the thundering torrent. He took a torch from his pack and dropped the pack on to the ground before starting to cross the swaying bridge, pushing his way through the booming avalanche of water to the dry calm of the cave beyond.

  He switched on his torch. He saw the rows of skulls along the ledges of the faatai maea. He knew that he was in the presence of a vast orchestrated slaughter. Once a great bush chief had been buried here. According to custom, fifty of his bodyguards had been slain so that they might accompany him into the next world, and their heads brought to the faatai maea, as the Kwaio people believed that a man’s spirit resided in his skull. The remains of the bodyguards had stayed in the cave ever since, a memory of the bloody past.

  Kella remembered, with no lessening of the pain, the last time he had entered the cave of death, six months ago, to recover the body of the murdered missionary. He drove the thought from his head and tried to concentrate on his surroundings. The beam of his torch scoured the walls and roof of the pagan shrine. It settled on a ledge at the back. The carved outcrop was bare. Kella directed the beam around the interior again before he was satisfied. There was no havu in the sacred cave.

  Back in the sunshine of the plateau the police sergeant conducted a rapid search of the area. The only addition since his last visit was a large, newly constructed hut on the edge of the bush. Kella glanced inside. It was unfurnished. A dozen coconut husks were scattered on the floor. In a corner a bowl of liquid stood fermenting. A mosquito net lay, tidily folded, on the floor. Presumably the owners had not yet moved in.

  He walked back out on to the plateau and lay down on the grass to dry off. If the havu was missing, along with Professor Mallory, it could mean that both the icon and the anthropologist were together somewhere.

  Despite the laws forbidding their export, some very distinguished academic visitors to remote areas of the Solomons had not been above spiriting away precious relics and impregnating local girls at the same time. It was possible that Mallory had stolen the carving and was now hightailing it back to Honiara and a Solair flight out of the Solomons.

  Yet how could Mallory have got past the guards of the sacred cave? Kwaio tradition decreed that anyone attempting to steal one of its relics would be slain and his body placed by the waterfall as a sign of payback. The fact that there was no corpse in evidence probably meant that Mallory was still alive somewhere.

  Kella was roused from his reverie by the sound of a soft hiss, the Solomons way of warning someone courteously that a newcomer had arrived.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Kella opened his eyes and looked up. A young woman was smiling shyly at him. She was light brown in colour, very beautiful, with long black hair. She wore a simple print dress. A Polynesian, judged Kella; she was probably from Sikaiana.

  ‘Hello,’ he answered, almost overwhelmed by the woman’s radiance, highlighted against the background of the waterfall and the trees far below. He held out his hand. ‘My name’s—’

  ‘Kella, Sergeant Kella,’ smiled the young woman, shaking his hand. ‘You lectured to us about law and order when I was a student at the British Solomons Teachers’ Training College in Honiara. We were all most impressed. You were the first big man who ever bothered to come and talk to us. My name is Elizabeth Adomea. I am the village schoolteacher. You don’t know how good it feels to be speaking English to someone again.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a school in these parts,’ said Kella, puzzled. There were very few schools in the high bush area.

 
‘The Melanesian Mission sent me to open one,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ve only been here a couple of months.’

  The Melanesian Mission was the Anglican Church in the Solomons. They must have thought highly of the young teacher to send her so far from home into such a wild area. It must be lonely for her, which probably accounted for her eagerness to greet him.

  ‘What are you doing here, sergeant?’ Elizabeth asked, frankly curious. ‘You’ve frightened the village people. All day they have been calling to each other about you, using their kuku talk.’

  ‘I heard them,’ said Kella. Kuku was the name given by the inhabitants of the Kwaio territory to the long-drawn-out cries they used to make messages travel for long distances.

  ‘Why didn’t you hide like the others?’ asked Kella.

  ‘Do I have anything to be afraid of?’ she asked softly. ‘You must be hungry and thirsty. Come back to my house.’

  The deserted bush village was in a clearing about half a mile north of the waterfall. There were thirty or forty huts in two straight lines, facing one another. Cooking fires smouldered outside some of the thatched houses.

  Kella looked on as Elizabeth deftly made a meal of taro pudding, mixed with ngali nuts, over her fire.

  ‘No meat,’ she joked. ‘I wouldn’t like the police sergeant to think that I was giving him long pig just because he was in the bush.’

  Long pig was the name given to human flesh. Many saltwater people thought that bush dwellers were cannibals.

  ‘I would only eat someone I had killed myself,’ Kella informed the schoolteacher with mock gravity. ‘That way his mana would enter me and make me strong.’

  ‘Eating these people wouldn’t do you much good,’ said Elizabeth contemptuously. ‘They are ignorant and dirty.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Kella, choosing his words carefully and watching how they affected Elizabeth. ‘Pazabosi has great mana.’