Constance tripped, sprawled and Hannah threw herself down beside her, hurling the wrap over her head to smother the enemy before it took hold.
Back in Australia, Hannah had seen two bushfires, but never had she seen anything burn as quickly as hair. Afraid she would suffocate the woman she had just saved, she removed the covering from her aunt’s head.
Uncle Henry was yelling. Joshua was yelling. Deborah surpassed both by screaming. Her loyalties seemed to be divided: at fever pitch she demanded both her mother and her doll.
Hannah took a deep breath, then swallowed. Her throat felt hot, rough. Charred remnants of the cookhouse lay in heaps, and the back wall of the mission house was blackened, ugly. Soon the sun would be high enough to shine directly over the trees. The day would be hot.
Joshua sat on the grass, breathing a little too fast, sooty streaks across one cheek, and an arm around his mother’s shoulders. She coughed, then turned to smile at him. ‘Don’t fret, Joshua. I’m all right.’ She tugged at her ragged locks. ‘I needed a cut anyway. The climate is far too hot for this much hair.’
An unexpected pain touched Hannah’s heart and she turned away, not able to watch the show of affection between mother and son. Right now, she would have given anything to place a loving arm around her own mother.
A few minutes’ delay during the fire and the crisis could have turned to tragedy. Legs suddenly as wobbly as two reeds in the wind, Hannah sat before she crumpled.
A light breeze lifted ash, teased it, then let it float earthwards. Hannah reached out and pinched a flake of ash between her thumb and forefinger as it danced in front of her face. But when she opened her hand, it had dissolved into a black powdery stain on her fingers.
‘Let us thank the Almighty for our salvation.’ Uncle Henry’s suggestion was predictable, but under the circumstances, understandable. Hannah had suspicions about God, but on this occasion it would be churlish not to join in with a loud ‘Amen’. Besides, she was in a good frame of mind. For the first time since she had arrived, her uncle had commended her. With one hand on her shoulder, he had said, ‘We thank you for looking after Mrs Stanton.’ Hannah didn’t mind at all that her moment of glory was shared with the Lord.
Joshua saw Timothy first. He was trudging towards the house on his canoe-sized feet, his expression serious. Merelita must have spread the news when she returned to the village.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ An embarrassed outburst from Aunt Constance, combined with an athlete’s dash for the inside of the house, reminded them all that they were still in their night attire. Deborah, clinging to her mother’s nightgown, was almost pulled off her feet.
Slipping into the house, which smelt strongly of smoke, Hannah threw on a blouse and skirt, only bothering with a single petticoat. Several scrapes of the brush subdued her tangled mop of hair. She didn’t want to miss what Timothy had to say.
‘Some bures burned in the village,’ said Timothy.
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Uncle Henry gave voice to the question that was in everyone’s mind. Timothy shook his head. Even in his grubby nightshirt, Uncle Henry was dignified. Besides, Hannah noticed with amusement, he was still considerably more covered than Brother Timothy.
Occupied with preserving house and goods, and in the case of Aunt Constance, her life, their ears had heard nothing but the roar of their own flames, their eyes saw only their own danger, and their skin felt only the immediate heat. Hannah sighed, thankful that no one had been hurt.
‘People pulled out the grass between their bures but fire is faster than people.’
Timothy painted a vivid picture of the night’s events. At first, the villagers had tried to stem the outburst of fire, clearing away anything that might help it spread. But as the flames took hold, they shrugged, resigned to losing their huts. They stood back, laughed, told jokes. Unfortunately for some, once the fire was deemed to be unstoppable, all rights to property became muddled. If people saw something of their neighbour’s that they coveted, they snatched it. Fire changed the rules.
Aunt Constance appeared in time to hear the final part of Timothy’s story. She was calm, but pale. Despite the increasing warmth of the day, she had a shawl draped over her shoulders. Strands of singed hair dangled around her neck. ‘How did the fires start?’
She had said ‘fires’—plural. Hannah hadn’t stopped to think, but, yes, it was impossible for fire to spread from the village to the mission house without burning the jungle in between. And that degree of spontaneous combustion would be preposterous.
Timothy shrugged. ‘All bures with fire belonged to those who had lotu’d.’
The notion of accidental eruptions was definitely out of the question. Fire was not that selective with its targets.
The conversation between Uncle Henry and Timothy faded to a background rumble as memory seized Hannah’s attention … ‘I see fire … lotu’. The Priest’s words had come true. Coincidence, surely. But what if it wasn’t? He had made other utterances: blood, spears and clubs? And another, even more unpleasant, thought beat against her consciousness like a drum.
‘Hannah.’ Joshua tapped his cousin’s arm. ‘You’ve gone a peculiar colour.’
‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go inside and rest.’ She reached out and wiped a sooty smear from his right cheek as she spoke.
‘What’s wrong?’
Piqued at his inquisitiveness, she guarded her privacy. ‘Joshua! I’m exhausted! I have been up half the night, found a dead centipede under my coverlet, chased a snapping crab, had Merelita climb in my window at dawn, and spent the next hour fighting a fire and extinguishing your mother’s rapidly incinerating hair.’ She glared at him. ‘Any further questions?’
Not daring to utter a peep, he shook his head.
Hannah made for the relative safety of her bedroom without a backward glance. Careless of crabs, centipedes, or anything else, she flopped onto the bed, angry that her one moment of glory, the only time her uncle had shown her the slightest approval, was tainted.
She stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed. If she had raised the alarm when she suspected someone was watching the house, could she have prevented the fires? Last night, she had convinced herself she was mistaken, that her tired brain was playing tricks; why stir the household a second time and arouse their indignation?
Even if there had been a watcher in the dark, that didn’t necessarily make him or her the arsonist. She sighed. There was nothing to be gained by revealing her suspicions now, and much to lose. Besides, she had no proof, no idea who the supposed watcher might have been. She desperately wanted to keep that rare warmth of approval in her uncle’s eyes. Even so, Hannah’s instincts told her that the mysterious figure was connected to the attacks.
Life was fickle. One moment you were happy, soaring above the clouds; then suddenly you were miserable, plummeting straight towards the ground. If only each day would begin with little signs that said ‘pleasant’ or ‘exciting’ or ‘caution’. You never knew where you were, but stumbled along, adapting as best you could—sometimes getting it all horribly wrong. Like today.
The single halcyon day of Uncle Henry’s approval had come and gone like early morning mist evaporating under the hot sun. Silently, miserably, Hannah followed her uncle along the path to the mission house. The more despondent she felt, the more puzzled about what she had done wrong this time, the angrier she became. She glared at the back of his head, resentment rising.
Uncle Henry marched along the path with firm strides, back straight, hands held rigidly at his sides, like a young soldier en route to his first battle: eager, well trained, righteous in his cause, but not knowing just how gory the confrontation was going to be.
Once they reached the house, she braced herself for the storm of her uncle’s fury to break.
‘How dare you!’
Hannah felt incapable of replying.
‘I judged you to have more sense. You are supposed to be an example to the women in that class. They watch you, imitate you
. Every one of your actions is seen not merely as something Hannah does, but as something done by the missionary’s niece. Your behaviour reflects on me.
‘Your sole responsibility was to teach English, not this …’ Uncle Henry extracted a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it with finicky care and held it up by the corners, as evidence. It was a watercolour portrait of Luata. Dark, frizzy hair, missing teeth: it was a good likeness. Head and shoulders only, as Hannah had been shy of drawing anything south of the shoulder line. She could see nothing in the portrait to excite such emotion.
‘Have you been painting pictures like this every day in class?’
‘Well … I … yes.’
Uncle Henry flushed. ‘Education is an important part of bringing civilisation to these people. They cannot progress without it. You must not underestimate the value of proper education.’
‘But …’
He paid no heed to her attempt at explanation, but launched into a tirade about taking responsibilities lightly, what the Lord would think of her drawing pictures in his meeting place, cheapening her standing in the local community, and so on.
‘Uncle Henry!’
He faltered, unaccustomed to being interrupted.
‘I showed pictures to illustrate the words we were learning. I used them to teach.’
Again, he waved the paper. ‘And what word was this?’
‘That was when we were getting to know each other. It made the women feel at home with me, and they liked it.’
‘Know you! They don’t have to know you to learn from you. You are there to instruct, mould, improve; not play games. Perhaps if you behaved in a more adult manner, they might respect you more, and therefore learn more.’ He shook his head. ‘This is a child’s game. Scribbling in school. Only it’s worse: you are the teacher, not the pupil.’
Hannah tried again to make him understand. ‘Painting is a gift, Uncle Henry, a gift I was born with. If the Lord gave it to me, why not use it?’
A nervous tic began under his right eye. ‘You blaspheme! Are you blaming the Almighty for making you draw pictures? Have you no principles? Painting! Pah!’
With a sickening wrench, he tore the paper in two, then four.
‘No!’ Hannah reached out but dared not snatch the torn pieces away from him.
Slowly, he let the fragments drop to the floor. ‘Your upbringing has been sadly neglected.’
‘My mother and father were the kindest, sweetest people in the world!’
He laughed: a harsh, cynical croaking. ‘Your mother and father lived with their heads in the clouds. They had no idea of propriety. You’re just like your father.’
‘I’m proud to be like him.’ Hannah’s voice was becoming louder.
Uncle Henry took a step closer, and she wanted to edge back but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat. ‘Your father was a dreamer, a wastrel. He ran off to Australia to paint, and it broke our father’s heart. Our lives were turned upside down, and did your father care? For generations, the youngest son in the Stanton family has become a minister. No one questioned it. It was a way of paying back the Lord for His many blessings. But your father wanted no part of family responsibility. A grown man earning his living by painting pictures! Ridiculous.’
If anyone was ridiculous right now, it was certainly not her father. Hannah glared at her uncle, refusing to lower her gaze.
‘Not one letter. Not a word from him—in eighteen years.’
All this pushing blame onto her father, who was not here to speak for himself, inflamed Hannah’s sense of injustice. ‘Did you ever try to contact him?’
Head held high, her uncle replied, ‘I was not the one who ran away. He made his bed, he had to lie in it. It was up to him to make the first move, to repent, turn around from his former course of conduct. There can be no forgiveness until repentance has taken place.’
‘My parents were good people, no matter what you say. They never let a friend go hungry, and helped whenever they could.’ Hannah looked at her uncle and, for a moment, hated him. Hated him for soiling the memories she had, for casting aspersions on her father, hated him for his bombastic lack of understanding. He didn’t know about her father. He didn’t know anything! ‘My mother and father had more love in their little fingers than you have in your whole body!’
Uncle Henry reached out and slapped her face. ‘Go to your room.’
Hannah spun on her heel and fled. Through the door, down the path, and the sound of his voice ordering her back echoed in her ears. Her cheek stinging, she ran with absolutely no idea where she was going.
Chest heaving, hair all over the place, Hannah dashed along the jungle path and down to the beach, a thunderstorm on two legs. Oblivious of the puzzled stares of the villagers, she ran until she was exhausted.
Gradually she slowed to a walk. Her face radiated heat, perspiration soaked her dress, and she could feel her heart thumping against her ribcage.
As her anger subsided, Hannah wondered what she was going to do now. She couldn’t go back to the mission house—not after what had happened. There was nowhere to go. This was an island and if she walked far enough, she would only find herself back where she began. There was no escape.
Moodily, she stared out across the sea. A line of white water over the reef was a painful reminder of her nervous arrival. Already it seemed a lifetime ago. How could it all have gone so wrong?
Defiantly, with scorn for the proprieties that Uncle Henry held so dear, she rolled down her stockings and tucked up her dress. The sea was cool as it splashed onto her shins, and she sighed. Fortunately, on this beach, there was no Kurt Oslo to annoy her.
A sea urchin lay high and dry, above the waterline. Prodding it gently with a toe, she watched as its miniature mouth pursed in response. Sympathetic to its lonely plight, she gently picked it up and placed it back under water.
The sea breeze blew on her face; welcome, soothing. Hannah released what was left of her braid and let her hair swing free. Far away, across that tantalising expanse of water, was Australia, but she couldn’t bear to think about that now.
Voices drifted through the palm trees: excited, argumentative, jocular. Frustrated with the endless, depressing cycle of her own thoughts, Hannah decided to investigate.
She met a group of men from the village: Beni and some others. It was the first time that she had seen him side on. Hannah almost winced at his stick-like girth. The shark story of Merelita’s looked to be true. There didn’t seem to be any padding for him to sit on. The men carried clubs but the friendly atmosphere amongst them put to rest any fears that they were on a sinister mission.
She put her smattering of Fijian to the test. ‘O sã lako ki vei?’
Beni pointed in the direction the group was headed. Open-mouthed with astonishment, Hannah spied a nightmarish creature scuttling across the path. No wonder the men stood at a safe distance. The giant crab flicked up stones and twigs in its wake, making close pursuit impossible. If Hannah held her arms out in a circle, they might just equal the circumference of the crab’s armoured body. The legs were extra.
In an odd mixture of Fijian and English, Beni explained they were going to catch this ferocious crab. Hannah couldn’t see how they could possibly manage it. All Beni would say was ‘Wait.’ Having nowhere else to go, an alternative offer was attractive.
Step by silent step, they followed the crab until it climbed a coconut palm. If someone had told her, she would not have believed it, but the crab inched its way right to the top. Shading her eyes against the glare, Hannah stared upwards. The crab nestled between the palm leaves. Soon a loud cracking like that of a metal pickaxe on a rock rang in their ears. Several coconuts plopped to the ground. One splitting open as it hit the earth.
‘He open coconut. Eat,’ said Beni.
Taking a step backwards, Hannah’s teeth were set on edge as the cracking continued and she pondered the strength of those claws.
After some whispe
ring and a good deal of pointing at each other, a recruit was nominated: Ligani. The men pulled up grass that grew at the base of the tree and packed it into a coconut fibre bag which Ligani slung over his shoulder. Then he nimbly climbed the palm, but only halfway, tying the grass in a band around the trunk. He retreated and joined the group of spectators at ground level.
As Hannah watched, the crab also began to descend. The men raised their clubs. Beni whispered, ‘He no can turn round.’
The crab backed down until it felt the grass tickle its rear, assumed it was again on solid ground and released its grip on the trunk, falling many feet to the earth.
Instantly, the group were upon the giant crustacean, reducing it to the menial status of lunch.
Leaving the men to arrange their feast of crabmeat, Hannah wandered aimlessly along sidepaths, avoiding the village and the track to the mission house. She had no wish to meet with her uncle. Hannah could not blame her father for running away. Uncle Henry was inhuman, and no doubt his father had been just as bad, if not worse.
Without thinking, she found her feet taking her to the bure where the sick woman lay. Startled, Hannah realised that it was already two days since she had first discovered her. A shiver ran down her spine, from neck to base.
As she approached the bure she heard the murmur of voices. Someone was alive in there. Drawing closer, she recognised one of the voices: deep and masculine. It belonged to the very person that she desired most heartily to avoid. What was he doing here? Her instant response was to retrace her steps. But instead, she hesitated and crept close to the back wall, wincing when her foot clumsily snapped a twig. She froze, but no one came out to investigate. Squatting, she put her ear to the thatch and listened.
‘… and the people gasped in amazement as they watched the figures of the three men walk about in the fire, unharmed. And when they came out, there was not even the smell of smoke upon them …’ Hannah recognised the story from Sunday school days. It was about Shadrach, Meshach and the other one, whose name she could never remember. She had heard about people from a special tribe in another part of Fiji who walked on hot coals, so perhaps this account was not so strange to a Fijian.
Baptism of Fire Page 9