by Jim Musgrave
"In order to perform the sexual and religious fertility rites, we need to have our initiates in a more receptive mood. Their inhibitions must be lowered, and these drugs give the user a most phantasmagoric state of mental bliss. They are concocted from a certain mushroom, which grows inside the craters of the volcanoes on the island. These are given to participants by the Shamans during the ceremony. It will be your duty to keep guard over this storehouse of magical mushrooms."
Yes, it was my new job, and I did it. Where else was I to go? They brought me my food, and I began to experiment with the drugs. At first, I took only a small bit of drug. I saw the compartment where I was begin to expand and to contract as if it could breathe! Colors began to vibrate, and I could feel an inner excitement about everything around me. As I increased my intake, my illuminations became more fantastic. I no longer felt I was a prisoner. I was a Shaman! I saw into the depths of life and extracted a magical meaning! It was a much more fulfilling experience than alcohol had ever given me.
I did not tell my captor about my new religious powers. This secret was my own to enjoy. The mushrooms grew in small containers deep inside my cave. I was the keeper of magic, and I was soon to be an official participant at the fertility rights of the island! I no longer cared who would be chosen as the sacrificial lamb. It was meant to be, that was all I knew, and I was the high priest of the order.
I now wear human and animal bones all over my naked body. I have many designs painted into my skin. My favorite is a likeness of the Black Bird Man himself. His wings cover both of my thighs, and his head is on my navel. In some way, I truly believe, I am infused with his holiness.
Chapter Sixty-One: Anna Cameron-Greene's Journal
September 14, 1863
My fear is not for my own safety but for my baby's life. When we were taken to the dark caves, I told my husband not to worry, but he began shouting at our captors and threatening them. They had to bind him up on our trip over here. When Dana and I envisioned our private paradise, we certainly did not foresee such a disastrous place! The land is barren, as are the minds of the people who live here. Thankfully, they had an old woman who is proficient in child birthing, and she visits me every other day. Her hands are chafed from work in the Orongo village, but she is gentle and seems concerned about my welfare. Even though she speaks no English, we are able to communicate as women through physical gestures and pantomime. Our sex has been able to take care of these matters for thousands, perhaps even millions of years, and I do not doubt I can bring my child safely into this new world, such as it is.
I have listened to the men conversing about our plight, but it concerns me little. I seem to have retreated into a womblike existence, and my identity resides with the growing miracle inside me. My complete obsession is to protect this child. If we are to survive this, it will be my child who will become our legacy. My husband is a sensitive soul. I am afraid all of this may damage him irreparably. I need this child to make it through. My being inside this prison cell lets me sense my young one's presence so much more astutely. In Psalms it is said, "Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward." My reward is coming, and I must make certain it is a comfortable delivery. Oh God, deliver me from this evil so that I may do what's best for my infant! I will give up everything to save this child—even my own life.
This Professor Garvey is insane. First he speaks about each of us serving this false god, this Bird King, and now he takes my husband away from me and our future child. What kind of monster is this Garvey that he would wrest husbands from wives and leave a mother alone to care for a child?
I have changed so much since I found out I am with child. No longer do I think of myself. My entire consciousness focuses upon this growing human inside me. I am a vehicle for God, and God will punish me if I do not do my best! Those who come between me and my duty will taste the wrath of God!
Chapter Sixty-Two: Dana Greene's Journal
September 25, 1863
It seems rather ironic that we have been captured and imprisoned. We all left America to find a new paradise, and this paradise has become our torment. The real irony is the fact that little Chip, our orderly aboard the Monitor, has become a native god, and I, once the captain, have become a powerless hostage. I am more concerned about my wife, Anna, as she is with child. I keep shouting at these fiends that if she is harmed in any way I will kill them all. They just laugh.
Perhaps I have spent too much time with my nose inside poetry books. I did not believe the world could be this cruel and uncaring. Captain Ericsson believes this shaman, Father Perez, to be behind all of our travails. When Perez made his speech to us in perfect English, pacing in front of our cells inside the cave, Ericsson determined he was on a quest for complete power over the island and its natives.
I see that Ericsson and Sinclair were also trying, in effect, to become Bird Men. They wanted power as much as this priest does, but I suppose they were surprised a bit by this Perez character and his confession that he was, in fact, one Professor Garvey from the United States. He made us realize we had all been fooled by the island and by the natives who live here. Captain Ericsson tells me the powerful in the world have always been this way and that they will continue to give us false illusions in order to control us. War, he says, is the ultimate example of the grand illusion.
One night, when Captain Ericsson was certain Sinclair was asleep, he told me about how he thought Sinclair was going to use Chip in his plot to take over the island, but that Professor Garvey got between him and his ruse. "Sinclair is not to be trusted anymore, Mister Greene," said Ericsson, and his voice was adamant. "However, I believe we will have a chance to take back the initiative. This man Garvey is playing with superstitious fire. I have read the traditions of these natives, especially as they concern warfare, and this Garvey will, undoubtedly, make a slip of some kind."
I told the Captain that he was trying to see too much into the future and that he was the one who had believed Easter Island was our paradise to return to. We have no paradise here. One could even argue that we have something worse than a civil war. We have pagan anarchy! I then told him that his wife, his darling Amelia, had been recruited to serve as a handmaiden for fertility rites. She now has tattoos on her body, and she is forced to dance in a most un-Christian manner in front of wild men! Was this the Platonic Civilization that Ericsson envisioned? I think not!
Captain Ericsson did not speak for several moments, and then he said, "Mister Greene, there will be a moment when this tyrant will make a mistake, and when that moment comes, I want you to be ready to do what I tell you. Do you promise me you'll follow my orders?"
I, too, waited several moments before I answered. Could I trust this man again? I suppose it was not his fault that these events had unfolded. He did have motives to give these people what they have been missing for many years. He wanted to restore their island to natural splendor. He wanted to protect them and show them how to protect themselves from nefarious people like Professor Garvey. "Yes, Captain," I told him that night in our prison, and I meant it.
The next morning, however, I was taken out of my cell by a contingent of guards who answered to the Fainga clan. They dragged me off to the other side of the island, and I did not know where they were taking me because I was blindfolded and my arms were tied behind my back.
When they took off my blindfold, I was inside a cavern with lighted torches sunk into the earth, and Professor Garvey was standing in front of me with Charles McCord beside him. McCord looked so strange in his native outfitting that I'm afraid I laughed out loud. He had many birds tattooed all over his pale, naked body, and he wore a feathered headdress. His eyes were encircled with black, and they were wild and insane in appearance.
"Mister Dana Greene fancies himself as a devotee of meaningful poetry," said Garvey. "Therefore, you shall serve as the Bird Man's poet laureate."
I was quite confused by the resolute tone of his voice.
"Miste
r McCord, give Mister Greene his first sacrament," said Garvey, and McCord handed me a small, wafer-like object. "Put it under the tongue and let it dissolve. You will be fed one of these repeatedly during the coming days, until the day of the sacrifice. On this day, you will read the rongo-rongo tablets and reflect on their true meaning for our tribe. It is quite an honor, and I am certain you will be up for it."
I took the wafer and it dissolved in my mouth, with quite a bitter taste. In about one-half of an hour I experienced my first hallucination. Colors began to melt from objects as if they had been burned by some hidden torch. It then got much more extravagant. I believed I was in a hyper-reality, infused with sound and hidden messages from gods contained in all objects. It was quite magical. I was given all the books of poetry I wanted from the ship's library, and I was told I would be allowed to read from the rongo-rongo when the time approached.
I have at last mastered a skill at writing in this journal, even though the words have difficulty staying on the page. They often lift off, swirl around my head, and then fasten on the objects around me. I hope someone is able to save me before I cannot make meaning anymore. I do not want to float off into insanity! God help me!
Chapter Sixty-Three: John Ericsson's Journal
September 26, 1863
I should have planned for the contingency that befell our group. It is the responsibility of a true leader to plan for all possibilities, and I did not. This was the thought going through my head when they captured us inside the communal hut in Orongo Village and brought us to the prison caves across the island. They separated us by sex and we were in solitary confinement. I suspected that Captain Sinclair might have been behind the kidnapping, but when I heard his booming voice coming from one of the prison cells, I knew it had to be the priest, Father Perez. When we interviewed him during our first week on the island, I was wary of his story about being a priest stranded on the island. First off, his Spanish accent was not authentic. I have spoken with many Latin peoples, and this man's inflection was most certainly not that of a true South American or Spaniard. However, I also thought he may have been under some amount of emotional turmoil, and this could have had an effect on his speech pattern. I have known this to be the case in my studies of the colonization of countries for which occupation created an undue stress on their culture and speech, resulting in such behaviors as seen in Father Perez.
Now, after having heard this Professor Garvey speak, I recall an article by him I once read when he was at Harvard. I don't recall the title, but I do remember that he was concerned with the concept of controlling cultures through the written word. Each world culture had its own set of scriptures, from which a powerful influence over the masses could be extracted with the proper interpretations and definitions. The fascinating element to Garvey, as I remember, was the possibility of totally controlling those masses by simply gaining their trust and becoming the official shaman or spiritual prophet of the scriptures. Now that I see what he has done on Easter Island, it all seems very clear. Dr. Garvey, with our help, believes he has mastered his anthropological hypothesis! However, as I have told Mister Greene, my only confidant, I have knowledge that can combat Garvey's shamanistic power. James Morrison's Journal, given to me by Moses Young on Pitcairn Island, proved to me that the culture of war amongst these people can trump the culture of the gods. Or, at least, I was hoping Dr. Garvey was not familiar with the practices. This was at the heart of my plan to re-take the island from the grip of this monstrous guru! If he reads my journal, which is quite a possibility, I only hope he is intrigued enough to let me live long enough to see what I have to combat his treachery. Does he not realize that those who become drunk with power are often left open to revolution from within?
I have observed that several of our group have been taken out of our cells here and transported to other parts of the island. It seems only Sinclair, Mrs. Greene and I were left to chat amongst ourselves. Needless to say, I cannot share my thoughts with Captain Sinclair, as he has proved most untrustworthy, and as for Mrs. Greene? I dare say the emotional state of a pregnant female is not to be toyed with either. What I have to share about my plans would not be conducive to this poor woman's smooth birth. I can only hope, along with my compatriots—wherever they are—that my plan will be able to be put into motion at some point in immediate time.
Several of the sentences from Dr. Garvey's journal article stood out when I first read them, several years ago, and they still stand out as I remember them today: "Human sacrifice is the most powerful mechanism to control pagan cultures. Even the Judeo-Christian culture has not been able to totally eliminate the spiritual power that the idea of martyrdom has over the masses. With this power of sacrifice, one can achieve complete control over one's subjects."
As one of my group's members disappears each day, I am fearful that these words of Garvey's may have some potent prophecy. I certainly hope he has not decided to put his theory into practice, but this is what I fear. And it is this fear that brings me nightmares and my prayers for redemption. Yes, I no longer contest the Will of God. I simply invoke a twist of His Fate for the survival of my fellows.
Chapter Sixty-Four: Penelope Sinclair's Journal
September 28, 1863
I was not completely surprised when we were captured and taken away. What did everyone expect? These are savages, and their actions would logically be conditioned by how they live. I have no problem with their lives. In fact, this captive state has given me the chance to plan how to pursue Mister Greene. When they gave us the journals back, telling us we would be recording history for future generations, I vowed to create my own new history as well. I am so very tired of Walter and his dreams of power. At first, it was romantic to think of him away on his travels, doing what I longed to do on my own but was afraid to risk. When we landed here, I began to see my dear Walter for what he really is and not what I had concocted in my feminine brain. Walter Sinclair only looks out for his own needs. He has no delicate, intuitive side like Dana Greene.
The day they took Dana away, we thought he might return. After he had been gone a couple of days, we knew they were removing each of us, one at a time, to do their bidding. Anna became deathly quiet, and I was afraid she had contracted some kind of disease, but she finally responded to me once I kept calling to her from my cell. "I'm just taking care of my baby," Anna told me, and I suppose this is what she would say under these conditions, but her voice became rather sullen and monotonous.
First they took Mister McCord, the Irishman, then Mister Greene, and finally, they came for me. It was quite a change to see these natives bowing to a person who would be a slave in other parts of the world. What could this Professor Garvey gain by giving authority to our little darkie, Chip Jefferson? These niggers have sub-human intelligence, and they have no leadership qualities at all. However, I soon saw that I would have my chance to woo Mister Greene, when Dr. Garvey took me to the Bird Man's "spirit room." Who should be in attendance as the commander-in-charge of this important facility but Lieutenant Greene! His dark mustache and beard had grown full, and his handsome chest was quite hairy and alluring above his short, sealskin trousers. "Mister Greene will be learning the sacred contents of the rongo-rongo tablets, and you will assist him in his intuitive translations, as will I." Translations? I wondered what was written on these stone tablets that had to be translated. Thus, I asked the question. "Why must they be translated?"
"There are great prophesies about what the future holds for our clan here on the island. Mister Greene, with the assistance of these sacred wafers," he handed me a small, light- brown button that looked like a mushroom cap. "Take one, my dear," said Garvey, and he smiled. Dana was already smiling over at me, so I popped it into my mouth.
"Don't chew. Put it under your tongue and let it dissolve," said Dana.
It was tart and had an acidic flavor.
"Bring her to the dressing room,” said Garvey, and two native women took me by the elbows and led me to an adjacent ro
om, which was separated from the main spirit room by a hanging animal skin of some kind. Inside, I came face-to-face with Amelia Ericsson. She was quite the sight! She wore next to nothing, and there were laced tattoo marking all over her legs. Her bare-breasted nipples were disconcerting, to say the least, and she had the same quizzical smile that Greene and McCord had on their faces. That's when my first vision began to sweep over me. Suddenly, I believed what we were doing was the most important task in the world, and I was infused with an enthusiasm I never knew existed! The native women bathed me in oils and in flower petals and they lay me out to be tattooed in the same fashion as they had been inscribed for thousands of years. They sang and they danced, and they gave me a sweetly intoxicating beverage to drink. The bone-white carvings on their skeletal necklaces revolved around their necks like spinning dervishes. Their music vibrated my body and entered my soul as a dark, ominous shadow. I was becoming one of them!
It was joyous, and my mind memorized each dance step they took and each word they sang. It was a strange and mysterious enchantment. I had a whole new world and language to learn. I also had Dana Greene all to myself, and I would serve him well as we exorcised the hidden secrets from the sacred rongo-rongo tablets. I did not even care about the Black Bird Man. Somehow, even he was important to this passionate experience. After all, he was just a symbol to the tribe, while we were the true keepers of our collective destiny, were we not?
Dear Walter began to fade from my consciousness like my old existence in England, and my parents became quaint toys from another world, which was now far away and seemed unimportant next to this rush of rhythmic drum beats and the quick surge of blood through my veins, as I learned the magic of pagan re-birth!