Eagerly Hannah headed for freedom, confused and annoyed by his inexplicable mood swings.
Kurt called out just as she reached the door. ‘And make sure none of the rest of you comes round here, bothering me. You can all go back home because things have been going on all right here for years without interference. At least I’m honest—I’m only here for the money. I’m not sucking up souls.’
She slipped outside into the fresh air, delighted to be clear of the smoke and Kurt Oslo’s bitterness.
‘At least there’s one good thing to be said for missionaries,’ he called after her. ‘They teach cannibals to say grace before the cannibals eat them.’
‘Hannah! … Hannah!’
It was gratifying to see Joshua and Deborah’s enthusiasm about her reappearance on the beach. Perhaps eleven-year-old boys were not above occasional displays of affection, because Joshua threw his arms around Hannah and gave her a quick, awkward hug then stepped back.
Deborah snatched Charlie doll and hugged him. Because of his soaking in the sea, he was a shade or two darker and a little more of his painted face had washed away, but Deborah neither noticed nor cared.
‘You took so long!’ Joshua’s face was a mixture of relief and annoyance. ‘I was thinking about coming to find you … your face is all red!’
‘The tide was moving faster than I thought, and …’
‘Hannah thmells funny.’ Sniffing loudly, Deborah looked up at her cousin.
Suspicion swamped Joshua’s face.
Oh, no! Just when Hannah thought the afternoon’s disasters were over. How could she explain the odour? Her aunt and uncle would know where she had been. The look of dismay on Joshua’s face told her that such conduct would not be looked upon lightly.
Joshua wouldn’t say anything to his parents. If he did, he’d be in just as much trouble. But Deborah was a different matter. The two older cousins swapped knowing glances, but said nothing aloud that Deborah could repeat, even innocently. Hannah wondered how much she actually understood. She was young for her age, but she wasn’t stupid.
‘Charlie had better not go around there ever again, don’t you agree, Cousin Hannah?’ suggested Joshua.
‘Charlie doesn’t want to.’ Hannah thought about Kurt Oslo’s grimy fingernail tracing lines across the skewered bêche-de-mer; his enjoyment of her discomfort; his animosity towards missionaries—Uncle Henry in particular; his bad manners. She added with emphasis, ‘Not ever.’
‘We’d better go home before Mother comes looking for us.’ Joshua glanced at the greyish clouds which had thickened overhead. ‘And I think it’ll rain.’
The sky did look dark, but how strange to think it would rain when it was this hot. Back home, rain was associated with winter days, chilling winds and a fire in the hearth.
Looking anxious, Joshua turned to leave. ‘If it rains, it will come down suddenly.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Hannah. A close scrutiny of her skirt showed some wrinkles and a sandy edge on the hem, but smoothing it out would accomplish nothing. Her petticoats still felt damp, but no one else could know that. She fidgeted with her collar and tucked her blouse down firmly into the waistband. In lieu of a brush, she ran her fingers through her hair, then deftly plaited it, twisting the ends into a small knot. ‘How do I look?’
Joshua smirked. ‘You’d look better with your boots on.’
‘Oh!’ Hannah looked down at her laddered, sand-covered stockings.
They retraced their steps to the rocky outlet where she had hurled her boots.
‘We’d better check Charlie before he goes home, Deborah,’ she suggested.
‘Hannah! We must go now,’ argued Joshua.
Kneeling on the white sand, Hannah gently slid the doll from Deborah’s gasp. ‘And what about his hair?’ Just as she had done with her own curls, she ran her fingers through the coconut fibres, untangling them. Then she straightened his pink dress, talking as she worked. ‘I’m so glad I rescued Charlie for you, Deborah. He almost went right out to sea—far, far out.’
The little girl’s eyes widened. ‘So far that we would never have seen him again. Or Charlie may have stayed there on a lonely beach, all by himself, forever. With crabs crawling over him …’
‘Hannah!’ Joshua protested but she ignored him.
‘Why, if the tide had washed him out into deep water, a big shark with sharp teeth might even have bitten him … like this …’ She made a chomping motion near the doll’s head with the fingers of one hand.
‘No!’ Deborah snatched back her wooden friend. ‘Charlie’th mine.’
‘Of course he is. We wouldn’t let those horrible things happen, would we? That’s why I was gone so long. Rescuing him. You and Charlie should be together always. But … we have to be careful, Deborah. This must be a secret between you and Charlie.’
Hannah looked up at Joshua and saw that he understood.
‘Deborah … if anyone finds out how naughty Charlie was today, they might send him far away. And you’ll never see him again.’
Deborah stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Joshua and I will help you. We promise never to say a word about today, don’t we Joshua?’
‘Yes, we promise.’
A large drop of rain splashed onto Hannah’s forehead, then another on her nose. ‘Now, you promise, Deborah.’
The little girl nodded.
Hannah took her cousin’s arms in a firm grip. ‘Say the words, I promise.’
‘I promith.’
‘Good girl. Charlie should be safe now …’ Hannah ended her sentence with a gasp as a downpour began. The rain was a solid sheet, as though someone had up-ended a gigantic bucket.
They began to run. Not that it was any use. Within seconds they were soaked to the skin which might earn them a reprimand, but it was safer than smelling of smoke. Hannah charged along the path behind Joshua, Deborah in tow, glad that today was almost over. More things happened here in one day than happened in a month at home, if they would happen at all.
Rain lashed at Hannah’s face, blinding her at times. She wished fervently for a parasol or hat, then a bolt of anxiety shot through her. Earlier this afternoon she had left the house wearing her best sunhat, and now her head was bare. Where had she left her hat?
‘Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire; mine ears hast thou opened: burnt-offering and sin-offering hast thou not required …’
Hannah threw a suspicious glance at her uncle. After yesterday’s fiery encounter with Kurt Oslo, the burnt offering references made her wary.
She forced herself to relax back into the chair. How could Uncle Henry know she had strayed onto forbidden territory? And even if, by some unfortunate chance, he did, Hannah could not imagine him remaining silent while there was the slightest possibility of a homily.
Uncle Henry closed the Bible, then gazed around the table. She was thankful the tedious reading was over. There was a place for scripture, she was sure, but she couldn’t take to it this early in the morning.
‘Hannah.’
Momentary panic seized her. Was Uncle Henry going to question her about the reading? She could only recall snippets.
‘To help you settle in I have decided to give you some responsibility.’ He inclined his head in the direction of his wife and she smiled in return. Did that mean they had discussed it, or was he consoling her because he had not consulted her?
‘Deborah!’ His attention distracted, Uncle Henry glared at his youngest child. ‘Must you bring that absurd doll to the breakfast table?’
The little girl pushed out her bottom lip, her eyes flaring rebelliously as she gripped Charlie. Uncle Henry would have a fight on his hands if he pushed the issue.
Wisely, he sighed and renewed his instructions to Hannah. ‘It is important the Lord’s converts learn to speak English. To that end, we have lessons in the church: males in the morning; females in the afternoon.’
Uncle Henry tapped his fingers annoyingly on the cover of the Bible. ‘Timothy has an
excellent command of English, and he usually teaches the men, but he’s engaged elsewhere today. So I am assigning you both sessions, with Joshua as chaperone in the morning, of course. This will give you the opportunity to prove yourself capable.’
Hannah’s hackles rose. She didn’t particularly feel like proving anything, and resented his autocratic manner. But it was an opportunity to escape the awkward atmosphere in the house and meet the villagers.
Next came the ‘Kurt Oslo’ lecture. She had been expecting Uncle Henry to warn her about him, but it took a few minutes to decipher his meaning: so vague was his language. A peep at Deborah showed the message was sailing above her little head, which meant there was no danger of her blurting out something that would give Hannah away. Joshua looked blank. He did that so well: a useful skill to cultivate.
‘Places like this attract flotsam,’ said Uncle Henry. ‘They drift in, drift out, making no real contribution. Itinerants arrive thinking life here is free and easy, but little in life is free, and certainly nothing worth attaining is easy …’
‘Oh!’
The family turned to see what had startled Hannah. Two dark faces stared in through the glass. Even after their presence was discovered, they made no attempt to hide.
‘Be calm, my dear. It’s treatment day. Once a week, the villagers come if they have a health problem and we try to help. Often, if we soothe the bodily ailments, we can also heal the spiritual …’ Another interruption: this time a squeal which unmistakably came from a pig.
Uncle Henry smiled. ‘Obviously, some wish to barter for goods this morning.’
That smile made Uncle Henry seem years younger, and Hannah wished he would do it more often. Her own family background had been full of skylarking and good humour. A familiar sense of loss reminded her that those days were gone forever.
‘The first lesson begins in half an hour, Hannah.’
It took only a few minutes to prepare. Into a large bag she dropped her paint set, brushes and a sketchbook because they might be useful. If not, they were on hand if she felt inspired. What should she do about a hat? Regretting the loss of her wide-brimmed straw sunhat, she donned a cotton bonnet.
Slap! Her hand met the smooth surface of the looking glass and a mosquito met its match. Even in daylight the insects sneaked inside to spear victims with their tiny needles.
A casual glance at her bedroom window revealed an audience similar to that at the front of the house. A cluster of dark faces peered in through the glass: grinning, curious. She whisked the skimpy curtains across the glass and the murmur of voices told her the onlookers had not left, even though their view was now obstructed. A high-pitched squeal suggested the pig had also changed windows.
Leaving Uncle Henry and Aunt Constance to their clinic, Hannah and Joshua headed towards the village. Hannah’s footsteps were light and quick. She was looking forward to this unexpected freedom and a buoyant mood settled on her. Best of all, she had her cousin to herself. They could talk privately. ‘Joshua, tell me about our relatives.’
‘Which relatives?’
She shrugged. ‘Any relatives. I don’t even know if there are any. I didn’t know about you until a few months ago.’
‘You were a surprise to us!’
‘So Uncle Hen …’ She stopped herself using his name. They were outside the house and it was against the rules. ‘My uncle never told you about me?’
Pushing aside an overhanging bush, Joshua laughed. ‘He couldn’t. He didn’t know either. I heard him tell my mother about you after the letter came.’
‘Have we other relatives?’
‘We had a grandfather in England, but he died when I was young. I don’t know much about him.’ He frowned. ‘I … we have a grandmother …’
‘A grandmother!’
Joshua looked surprised at the intensity of her response.
‘Tell me about her? Is she nice? Does she live in a city? What colour is her hair—it’s not red, is it?’
‘I’ve never seen her.’
‘Oh.’
‘I was born here, and Mother and Father have never been back. I expect they can’t afford it. But Grandmother writes sometimes, especially at Christmas. We don’t get the letter till March or April though. One year it was June. The ships don’t call regularly. You never know when they’ll come.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Once a Captain had some apples on board and I had a whole one all to myself.’
Two men appeared on the narrow path and Hannah averted her eyes and stepped aside. In spite of the colossal wooden clubs they held, the two men exchanged cheerful greetings with Joshua. Hannah doubted she could even lift one of those weapons, never mind swing it to defend herself or inflict damage. The rounded head of the club was spiked like a pineapple. She winced as she considered the effects of having one connect with her head.
The village was close, and in a short time they reached it.
‘That’s Ratu Rabete’s bure.’ Joshua pointed to a house that was not only larger, but higher than all the others.
Some of the villagers called greetings. Hannah felt awkward about the Fijians’ state of undress, but Joshua seemed perfectly at ease. A group of naked children surrounded them, chattering and pointing. Hannah scarely knew where to look.
Was that someone she recognised? Yes. It was the woman she had seen on the beach, on the day of her arrival. She saw Hannah at the same moment. Today, the woman was just as friendly; just as keen to communicate; and just as stupendous. Whenever she laughed, her breasts wobbled. Most of her wobbled, in fact. Only a scanty portion of her body was concealed behind a leafy skirt.
‘This is Luata, Hannah,’ said Joshua with the flourish of an arm.
The two exchanged smiles.
‘She does our washing twice a week,’ Joshua explained. ‘When she remembers to turn up. And when she remembers to bring it back.’
Hannah laughed.
Luata tugged at Hannah’s bag, trying to peer inside. Joshua said something to her in Fijian and she paused, shrugged, then resumed her quest. Hannah opened the bag but the contents did not excite much enthusiasm.
Luata spoke and Joshua translated. ‘Luata says you have the face of the sun.’
Hannah felt herself blush.
Sudden cries and groans signalled a disturbance near the church. They couldn’t work out what had happened because a crowd was forming and it blocked their view.
‘What is it?’ asked Hannah.
‘I don’t know.’
Hannah and Joshua wriggled through the expanding group. A man lay on the ground, convulsing. His body shook and quivered and he cried out, but the crowd didn’t seem worried. They merely stood watching, waiting. Hannah feared the man would die before her eyes.
‘It’s the Priest,’ Joshua explained.
The shaking figure on the ground looked like no priest she had ever seen. He wore a wraparound skirt; there were chest ornaments of bone slung around his neck and another bone through one earlobe. Black paint darkened his already swarthy skin. His bouffant hair picked up twigs and grass as he jerked from side to side.
Hannah was horrified. ‘Is he ill?’
‘No. He’s prophesying.’
‘But he hasn’t said anything.’
The boy nodded wisely. ‘He will.’ Sometimes he seemed a hundred years old, instead of eleven.
Soon a stream of words poured from the Priest. He spat out sentences in staccato bursts, groaning and twisting in the intervals. Whether he was faking or not, his message had to be worth listening to if he was going to all this trouble.
‘What’s he saying, Joshua?’
‘He says he feels the blow of clubs on his head … many canoes … blood … spears …’
Hannah sensed the atmosphere change. At first, the villagers had gathered half-heartedly, carelessly inattentive, almost in amusement. Now, their eyes focused on the Priest and their ears strained to catch his words.
‘Go on, Joshua. He’s saying more.’
‘If you keep ta
lking all the time I can’t hear.’
Pressing her fingers against her lips, she nodded.
Joshua continued: ‘The Priest says he sees … colours of red and orange … shouting … fire.’
There was that word again: fire. Everyone seemed to be using it today.
If the Priest was acting, he was doing a superb job. Gradually his convulsions slowed, but he hadn’t quite finished. A prophetic postscript came forth. He spoke a word which certainly caught Joshua’s attention, and that of the listening crowd. They stared unblinkingly at the two cousins.
Hannah looked to Joshua for an explanation.
‘I didn’t catch all of it. It wasn’t my fault.’ His face showed a trace of sulkiness. ‘The Priest mumbled.’
‘No one’s blaming you. You did your best.’ She tried to soothe his pride for fear he would withhold the last and, possibly, most intriguing gobbet of information. ‘Did you understand any of it?’
‘He said lotu.’ Even as Joshua repeated it, the crowd stirred with interest. ‘That means to become Christian.’
What connection did the island’s Christians have with spears and fire?
Hannah was tall, but as the men drifted into class, she felt Lilliputian. She was already on edge, uncertain about what was expected of her, or of the students. If a group of brawny six-foot warriors—or in this case supposedly ex-warriors—could be referred to as students. They arrived singly, in pairs, chattering, silent, some hand in hand.
She smiled. ‘Ni sã bula.’
‘Good morning,’ they replied. Then progress stalled. Lessons as she had known them back home were impossible, and it would be ludicrous to simply repeat words for an hour and a half like a deranged parrot. These were not children, but grown men. Lost for words, Hannah stared at her first class. The class stared back.
Joshua came to the rescue. ‘They like stories.’
Good. Hannah liked stories too. She just wished she could think of some. A man at the front, seated cross-legged like a child, gave her a toothy grin. Hannah could just imagine how Red Riding Hood felt as she looked at the impostor in the old lady’s clothing and said, ‘What big teeth you have, Grandmother!’ A shiver shook Hannah as she remembered the wolf’s reply. Little Red Riding Hood seemed as good a story as any to begin with.
Baptism of Fire Page 6