Baptism of Fire

by Christine Harris

  One emergency often gave birth to another. They never came on their own: always in twos and, some people insisted, in threes. As if in response to Merelita’s intense emotion, loud cries echoed through the trees, and everyone stopped to listen, even Merelita. Her eyes widened. Then came the lalis beating out a message. Uncle Henry tore at the drape that protected his clothing and stood up. ‘The men are back.’

  Chanting, mixed with shouts, began. It was not at all like the previous chants when the men were preparing for war. Was the fighting over so quickly? Quietly, Aunt Constance picked up the protective cloth and shook it free of hair. Haircutting was over for today.

  Reverend Flower strode around the corner, rolling down his sleeves, followed by Timothy. Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower exchanged glances then departed for the village, with Timothy in tow.

  The good-natured laughter from the builders ceased. Suddenly the atmosphere had changed, become sombre, just as though dark thunder clouds had rolled across a sunny sky. Merelita disappeared inside the house with a small pile of Uncle Henry’s hair in her hands. Hannah followed.

  Carefully the Fijian girl threaded the hair into the thatch of an inside wall.

  ‘Merelita, what’s happening down in the village? Are the warriors back?’

  She didn’t reply, but continued hiding the strands of hair.

  Hannah tried again. ‘Shall we go down and see?’

  ‘No! You stay.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Cousin Hannah!’

  Hannah almost thumped Joshua. He always sneaked up on her, then spoke when he was right at her elbow. It was enough to frighten the wits out of her. The nervous, uncertain look that he had previously worn had vanished and in its place was a gleam of devilish speculation.

  ‘They bring back those enemies who were unlucky enough to get caught,’ he said, ‘but they don’t keep captives … bokola, Cousin. Remember?’

  It was hateful being shut inside. Aunt Constance had practically sealed off the entire house. Hannah ran a finger around the uncomfortably high collar of her blouse and considered changing it for another. Her neck was damp with perspiration.

  ‘Joshua! Must you make that irritating noise?’

  He looked at the quill pen in his right hand, surprised. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah.’

  Fleetingly, she felt guilty. Joshua wore a look of genuine contrition. This time he had not goaded her on purpose. But even so, the continual tap, tap had scratched at her nerves, making her want to scream. If Joshua actually had ink on the nib, it would have spattered everywhere.

  The sound of singing drifted from Deborah’s bedroom. Aunt Constance had a sweet voice, but Deborah was taking a while to settle for her nap. Merelita had refused to return to the village, but wouldn’t sit with Hannah and Joshua inside the mission house. She was out in the partially reconstructed cookhouse preparing a meal, which Hannah hoped would be vegetables.

  Ashamed of herself for the dreadful thought that came to her, yet incapable of stemming it, Hannah wondered about Merelita’s past, before she lotu’d. And what about Luata, Beni, and the others she had come to think of so fondly? Mentally, she chastised herself. The past had gone. Let it rest in peace.

  Giving up all pretence that she was actually writing, Hannah looked across at her cousin. He too was not concentrating, but simply stared at the closed curtain, his mind elsewhere.

  Without preamble, she whispered, ‘Have you ever seen the villagers actually …?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower have been gone for ages.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll stop them?’

  Joshua shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. Sometimes the Chief listens, sometimes he doesn’t. It might depend on what Father offers him in exchange for his mercy.’

  Hannah chewed her lip, then glared at the page in front of her. What was intended to be a letter to Jenkins had stopped at the date. She couldn’t think of anything to write. It was unthinkable to put ‘As I am writing this the villagers are eating a neighbouring tribe’.

  Joshua lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘In the village where Reverend Flower lives, the Chief counts how many bodies he has eaten by placing stones in a line along the village square. At the last count, there were 872.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’

  The boy merely shrugged, his face showing that he didn’t care whether she believed him or not. ‘Ask him when he returns. Reverend Flower was almost eaten when he first arrived.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘One of the villagers was feeling his calf muscles, which are quite large. Did you notice?’

  She couldn’t say that she had. The Reverend’s legs had no special attraction for her.

  ‘It seems a villager was clicking his tongue, which means he approved, and making comments about how tasty the leg would be. The Reverend saved himself by taking out his false teeth and holding them up for everyone to see.’ Joshua’s eyes lit up. ‘They all thought he was a god because he was able to extract his own teeth then replace them. They never touched him again. And the man who wanted to eat him lotu’d.’

  ‘Does everyone …?’

  Joshua rested his chin on one hand then shook his head. ‘Only some. Fijians believe that several of their gods live in plants or animals, and they are not allowed to eat that thing. So if your god lived in humans, you wouldn’t be allowed to eat them. Some won’t touch turtles or sharks. If a man ate a tabu’d food in front of a person who has that god, they might try to strangle him because he showed disrespect.’

  Hannah recalled the night of the meke. All kinds of cooked foods had been taken from the heated rocks of the underground oven. It was only a small step to picture things that she would rather not.

  ‘My father may convince Ratu Rabete, but he’s been gone a long time … At least the captives are not from a wrecked ship. Shipwreck victims have “salt in their eyes”. They’re a “gift from the gods”.’

  Hannah’s stomach flipped. She imagined being cast into the ocean during a storm, clinging to a piece of wreckage, tossed about by huge waves, and finally being washed ashore only to find a mass of natives, dinner forks at the ready, waiting to grab their gift from God!

  ‘Why do they eat bokola with forks and not fingers?’

  Joshua frowned. ‘I’ve heard that it gives off a glow and, if you touch it with your fingers or lips, they’ll shine in the dark. The villagers are frightened, so they use the long forks.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. And there are certain places near the village where people won’t walk at night. A man said some bones whistled to him.’

  For the first time Hannah began to understand why Uncle Henry was determined to bring what he called ‘civilisation’ to Fiji. And yet, there were still contradictions she couldn’t understand. While he talked about being ‘civilised’, he also preached a savage message himself. In church, and again last night in the mission house, Uncle Henry had outlined the punishment the Almighty would mete out to unrepentant sinners. Her uncle had spoken of bodies being roasted in the ovens of hell. And didn’t the Devil have a special fork? She’d seen a picture somewhere … And the suffering in that place would never end. It went on forever.

  Arms clasped about her knees, Hannah took a sensual delight in the gritty white sand, the rustle of towering palms, and the gentle waves nudging the shore. She felt a perverse pleasure in squandering time. A golden butterfly trembled over the surface of the water, skimmed the sand, briefly touched the exposed root of a tree, then fled.

  Crabs clattered over nearby black rocks. When she first arrived on the island, the very sound of them would have sent her scurrying for safety. Now, she was simply amused by their absurd behaviour.

  Across the water, a diminishing white patch of sail showed the position of Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower’s outrigger. Hannah was not sure if the two volunteer guides would be a help or a hindrance.

  H
er mind, freed from concentration, fluttered like the butterfly; hovering, touching, never staying in one spot. Hovering: Six fresh incisions in the large tree by the village. Eighty-five incisions now, the six obvious by their lighter colour, like an obscene scar on soft skin. A record of lost lives. Touching: The village. Swish of reed brooms sweeping the ground. A baby, naked. Yellow from turmeric paste, a protection against sunburn. Almost bald, its head shaved to the scalp with three black wringlets left to dangle free. Never staying in one spot: Luata, downcast, head bowed.

  Hannah sighed, stretched, then leant back on one elbow and looked up at the giant coconut palm behind her. Trees were magnificent upside down.

  Later, when she thought about it, she was not sure whether her instincts had warned her that she was no longer alone or she had unknowingly picked up a slight movement from the corner of her eye. Even as the thought of company suggested itself, a shadow moved onto the sand alongside her. Alarmed, she gawped at two trouser clad legs with rolled up cuffs, two grubby feet with chipped toenails and a large corn. She sprang into sitting postion, abashed at being discovered in such a luxurious pose.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was tart, reflecting her annoyance.

  Kurt Oslo raised one eyebrow. ‘I didn’t realise that Miss Hannah Rose Stanton was the new owner of the Cannibal Islands.’

  ‘You startled me.’

  His smile was an irritation. ‘Good. It’s my life’s ambition to startle people. It means they don’t take me for granted.’

  Hannah stared out to sea in a disdainful manner. ‘I prefer to be alone.’

  He didn’t reply, so she turned to glare at him. Kurt squatted, resting on his callused heels. ‘I like this beach. It’s my favourite. I often sit here and think.’

  A silence followed, during which he watched her, and she pretended she didn’t notice. ‘Aren’t you going to run away?’

  ‘Why should I? I was here first.’

  ‘I see they haven’t turned you into a milk-and-water miss. I suspect you don’t make things easy for your uncle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She didn’t really want a reply, but felt it was necessary to ask the question.

  ‘I hear your uncle made a … heroic stand in the village a few days ago. Saved a few more savages from the ovens. The avenging messenger of God!’

  ‘It was hardly my uncle who was avenging, was it?’

  ‘Gone off and left you has he? Searching for more savages to convert to his civilised God?’ He leant forward, his eyes blue against the ruddiness of his weathered cheeks. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Miss Stanton. No god is civilised. All gods appear benevolent while their slaves obey the rules. But when they don’t, the kindest god ever invented becomes a barbaric dictator. Rather like someone we know …?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. ‘Ah, a young lady of contradictions! Your words are at odds with the expression in your eyes. I’d wager that you know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Who gave you permission to look at my eyes? How dare you!’ The eyes under discussion flashed. Kurt Oslo managed to dig right under her skin; needling, prodding, seeing things. She didn’t like him, but she could understand his feelings—and wished she didn’t. Perhaps a strategic withdrawal was not quite a retreat. She made a small movement, suggesting that she would leave.

  ‘If I promise to be good, will you stay?’ His voice was gentle this time.

  Staring stonily out towards the horizon, she refused to look at him. The dot of white sail had disappeared completely now. Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower were well on their way. She didn’t feel comfortable that this man knew her uncle was absent. However, true to his word for the moment, he sat quietly. Was he trying to outlast her—see who gave in first and left?

  It couldn’t last. But Hannah could readily sympathise with someone who found it a struggle to keep silent. Oslo cleared his throat: a warning that the short silence was about to end. ‘It’s odd how things work out, isn’t it? I mean, your uncle is here to bring the word of God, civilise these people and who turns up out of the blue? A stray niece who is not quite civilised. It’s amusing.’

  He was trying her patience with his nonsense. ‘I suggest you keep to your own business, Mr Oslo. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t I? I wonder how we white men can bring civilisation to these islands when we don’t know what it is ourselves. Do you, Miss Stanton?’

  There was some element about Kurt Oslo that was similar to her uncle. Perhaps it was the need to constantly give his own opinion.

  ‘I can tell you stories about civilised white men that would make your eyes pop,’ he said. ‘I spent fifteen years at sea before I landed here. I saw a lot in that time. Much that was fascinating and marvellous, and there were many things I wish I’d never seen.

  ‘My last year on board was spent supporting the noble empire, planters who tried to create little pockets of home in strange places. Ever heard of blackbirding, Miss Stanton?’

  Hannah shook her head.

  ‘It’s trade in human beings.’ He snorted. ‘I gave it up. And don’t get any soft ideas about my conscience. I don’t have one. Blackbirding didn’t pay enough. I can get twice as much selling bêche-de-mer, and with less effort. And no one tells me what to do.’

  She looked at him askance.

  ‘You can’t run a plantation if you pay proper wages. Cheap labour is the only way to make a profit.’ Oslo’s voice was soaked with sarcasm. ‘If a native worker tries hard and does as he’s told, he can earn an axe from America—after six months!’

  He shifted position, stretching out his legs on the sand in front of him. ‘We were good. Had it down to a fine art. Waited till they were close to the ship then dropped weights into their canoes. We rescued what men we could, then set sail. If we were lazy, we just ran over the canoes. It was quicker, but the losses were greater.

  ‘Oh, and the masterstroke of genius. The first mate would dress in a mackintosh, with the logbook to substitute for a prayer book. The islanders didn’t know the difference between a missionary and a sailor dressing up. He invited them downstairs for prayers and biscuits, then we shut the hatch.’

  Hannah was aghast.

  His eyes were hardened by memory, his lips curled into a snarl. ‘These people don’t need our kind of civilisation. Tell your uncle to go home. He has no place here.’

  ‘But only three days ago, he saved ten people from the ovens and sent them home.’

  ‘Did he now? And how many has he condemned to hell? How many have died in places far from their home because some rich white man’s son wanted workers for his plantation?’

  Hannah leant forward, urging the man to listen. ‘But my uncle is not a blackbirder. It has nothing to do with him. He’d be against such barbaric behaviour. It’s wrong. All he does is preach.’

  Oslo half smiled, echoing her statement. ‘All he does is preach! Life has gone on here for hundreds of years without interference. What gives him the right to change things to the way he wants?’

  Hannah felt compelled to defend her uncle. Sometimes he was misguided and opinionated, but he also treated the villagers’ illnesses, comforted the dying, taught people to read and write, risked his life to save theirs. Besides, Uncle Henry was family, and this man was an outsider. ‘But he’s not changing things to the way he wants,’ she argued. ‘It’s the way he believes God wants.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘But you change things too. Just by being here. And what about the muskets?’

  A strange look came over his face. ‘A pretty face and brains—a lethal combination.’ He reached out and took her chin in his hand. ‘What kind of God would put teeth inside such a soft mouth?’

  Enraged, she pulled free, leapt to her feet and ran.

  Merelita’s shrinking figure continued to wave from the beach. Once more, Hannah waved back. The roar of the reef became louder as the outrigger ca
noe approached it, propelled by the vigorous paddling of four Fijians. The scent of coconut oil was strong. To Hannah, the sting of the hot sun and the smell of the oil had become entwined: one memory would always trigger the other.

  Prepared to be tossed and shaken by the white water, Hannah gripped the side of the canoe and wondered if Joshua would object if she clutched his arm. Surprisingly, the outrigger catapulted through the foaming stretch of water with more ease than the heavy boat in which she had arrived. There was the expected noise, spray, and some rocking, but the side frame steadied them. And these men knew exactly what they were doing because they crossed these rough waters regularly.

  ‘Whooo!’ Joshua yelled with excitement and wiped a splash of water from one cheek. With Uncle Henry away, he wangled all manner of concessions from his mother. ‘Aren’t you glad you came, Cousin?’

  ‘Oh yes. This is the first time I’ve been around the island.’

  Once past the reef, the paddling ceased while the sail was raised. Timothy assisted, and the other four helped after loud castigation on his part. They had made their contribution—paddling; now they preferred to sit back, gossip, and enjoy the view. Timothy could be relied upon to do what was necessary. In fact, it was this quality that persuaded Aunt Constance to allow her son and niece to sail around the island.

  ‘It looks different from the sea.’ Hannah was intrigued to spot familiar places: the beach, the black rocks, smoke from the village which was tucked away amongst the tall trees, the craggy mountain. Seeing them from out here on the water also gave them a touch of the unfamiliar.

  Only ten minutes out, his hand pointing at a distant object, one of the men shouted ‘vonu’.

  Timothy smiled. ‘He sees a turtle. We will catch it for Ratu Rabete. He likes this food very much.’

  Hannah was not so enthusiastic. ‘You mean you are going to bring it on board—with us?’

  Timothy nodded, his face showing puzzlement as if to say Was there any other way of carrying it back?