Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Ned was less certain of the benefits of being a new parent. He had been congratulated, give whisky at each plantation, at the factory, at Reilly's house. In the normal course of events a bottle of spirits lasted him six months, and most of it went to visitors. He had no habit of drinking, and no head for it, and felt quite poorly for days after the birth.

  He held his feast, displayed mother and baby to great applause, sent his villagers home full, stuffed, dyspeptic, satiated, the day fixed in their memories as the one on which they had had to refuse extra helpings. His reputation was established as a man who did things properly. Almost nothing remained - bare bones of pigs and chicken; scraped empty tins; a few scraps on the rubbish heap - locusts might, just, have been more effective. Late that night the garamuts roared and kundus resounded and singing voices came faintly down the breeze as the people stretched out the happy day and paraded their glee for the neighbours.

  The baby sucked mightily, slurped messily, belched and farted thunderously to fond parental approval. Babies who shifted the wind never fell to the dreaded twelve-week colic, slept their nights instead of crying with stomach pains, were greatly to be prized.

  George was laid in his cot, sleeping sound, a much-argued smile on his lips.

  "Is a good baby, Ned."

  "Not bad for a first attempt, amateurs, you might say, lass."

  "Is forty-two days old."

  Ned counted, brightened, looked hopeful.

  "Six weeks - do you think..."

  "I am quite sure, husband!"

  For the first time in weeks, Ned went to bed before he was tired. Strangely, he slept late in the morning, a very definite smile on his lips.

  Motherhood suited Jutta, added an inch to her figure and a serenity to her face. The strain lines imposed by her troubled childhood were wiped out, replaced by a quiet confidence.

  She presided over house and aid post with easy authority, took over the cocoa nursery, begged seed from Parkinson and experimented with black pepper and passion-fruit and vanilla and cardamom. She planted paw-paws and citrus trees behind the house, set beds of pineapples to the sides, ornamental beefsteak bushes and bougainvillea and poinsettias and hibiscus shade hedges to the front, a great splash of scarlets and brick-red and pale blues to offset the shady green of the coconuts. After examining the results of her labours she placed a line of frangipani along a hundred yards of the driveway leading to the house, their rich cream blossoms setting all off. Suddenly she seemed to find extra hours in every day, came alive as a confident adult, and attributed all of her happiness to Ned and unwittingly placed a burden on him that he only partly welcomed.

  Ned liked being a father - there was a settled feeling that he had never known before. A child gave him respectability, permanence, a place in life. But he was tied as he had never been before - it was no longer possible to simply up and leave. He had no wish, no intention to go, but now he could not if he ever wanted to - he had lost his freedom. Concomitantly, there was an obligation upon him to be successful, to be a good provider. It had been pleasant to have money, but from scrounging and fiddling for fun, now he had to turn to making a secure future. Whatever happened to him, his son was not going to be left, bereft, a street rat to claw his way up as best he could; his boy would have advantages, no matter who had to suffer to provide them.

  Jutta was a hindrance to Ned's new resolve.

  She had set him on a pedestal - he was her hero, her white knight who had given her a world to be joyful in. Siegfried, Lancelot and Sir Ned had equal standing in her mind. Paragons, paladins, one of whom, miraculously, had chosen her - with the aid of Father Joe and a remarkable stroke of luck. Ned could not disappoint her, could not show disillusioning feet of clay, for that would hurt her, and, for some reason that he could not place, that he must never do.

  He worked harder, did all he could to train his Chinese and mixed-race managers in the forms of enterprise demanded by Australian-style commerce, accumulated savings and built for the future.

  America had entered the war and the last doubts were gone - having profiteered from the munitions trade, bought out every English ranch in Texas for peanuts, grabbed the South American markets and railway companies for themselves, the Yankees now intended to hijack the war and make a profit from the peace. Everyone was sure they would only have come in on the side of the winners, so they knew that the war could not be lost even if it still took some time to finish it.

  Something was happening in Russia, some sort of revolution - no matter, it just meant that their imperialist ambitions had been thwarted and they would have to stop their colonialist games in China and the Pacific.

  The Japanese were active. Their warships had helped convoy ANZAC troops to Europe and they had a large squadron submarine chasing in the Mediterranean. They had already taken over Tsingtao and the Marianas and some lesser German islands and they might one day become a significant power, Ned thought, but not in his lifetime.

  News was hard to come by, and increasingly important - out in the bush, they heard nothing apart from the little that could be picked up from the monthly newspaper delivery to Kokopo. Ned got into the habit of a fortnightly visit to Rabaul, so that he could be ready at the end of the war.

  Late in 1917 his preparations were seriously disturbed, his plans interrupted most annoyingly. Trotting down the coast to the plantations near Raluana he was stopped by a deputation of elders - unhappy, ill at ease and seeking advice. Silent and grave faced they handed Ned a dead fish.

  Was he to eat it? It was boiled, overcooked, the flesh falling off the bones. He looked his question, eyebrow raised - he should not be first to speak.

  Not a word said, they led him through the coconut palms to the strip of beach, ten feet of coarse, black, volcanic sand.

  Ned hurriedly cast through his mind for the ritual significance of boiled fish. Taro with salt, presented in both hands was a warning, in some villages, that you would be killed if you stayed, that your continued presence was not desired. Betel was always a welcome. Another root that he had never seen, but whose shape was said to be indicative, was an invitation to commit adultery... Boiled fish?

  He looked about him for a clue, spotted patches of scarlet, cyan blue, oily copper green every two or three yards apart - more fish, dead and crab eaten. Others were floating, drifting into the point on the slow current.

  He suddenly twigged - they had not been eaten by the sharks, were not attracting sea birds.

  "How long?"

  "Yesterday, boss, they started."

  "Volcano? Hot springs, boiling water under the sea?"

  They nodded, unwilling to give power to their fears by naming them.

  A tiny earthquake, a guria, shivered the palms, cause a few nuts to fall with sudden, heavy thumps, gave them a moment's queasiness. It coalesced Ned's suspicions - it was the fifth or sixth of the week, more frequent than normal.

  "Eruption! Matupit, she will blow?"

  "Maybe, boss. Maybe Mother, or Daughter."

  "Soon?"

  "Don't know, boss."

  "Big or small?"

  "Don't know, boss."

  They stared at Matupit, visible across the harbour, trying to decide if they could see vapour, or whether their imaginations were working overtime.

  Long, slow questioning, patient and good-tempered so as to retain cooperation, brought out that eruptions were infrequent, rare in fact, once or twice in a long lifetime affairs. No Tolai knew enough about them to predict their nature - they had no written records and oral tradition was of the 'bloody great bang' nature.

  They knew enough to be worried and very wisely were seeking advice of the white masters, who claimed to know everything.

  "I do not know - we do not have volcanoes in Master King Georgy's land. I think you should all go away, inland, far from the sea and the chance of great waves. Send the children off with the lapuns, the old folk, today. The young men and women must stay to save all they can. Send messages to the other villages, tel
l them what you are doing."

  "What of our pigs and chickens, master? We must stay with them."

  They were the bulk of the wealth of the community, could not be left to die or stray.

  "Walk them up to Vunatobung, pen them there."

  They nodded, they could trust him - he would not steal their pigs overnight and blame wandering rascals.

  "Can we bring other things, boss? Tambu?"

  A younger man, worried about the bride price he had worked so hard for - hundreds of fathoms of shell money, thousands of hours of painstaking labour. He had collected the proper sort of cowry shell, fingernail size, had cut the backs out and chipped them to quarter inch discs and then drilled a hole through the centre before polishing them and stringing them together on carefully dried cane. The canes were spliced end to end and coiled into a mass the size of a car tyre and weighing a good half-hundredweight, each of about twenty-five thousand pieces of shell. Used mainly in ceremonial transactions, tambu was nonetheless real money - rare, portable, standardised - and could be used for payments besides bride price, was much valued for pig purchase and compensation for injury or crime.

  A man might spend ten years getting his bride price together and the remainder of his life repaying wantoks for borrowings and them making loans to his own younger relatives. The loss of his savings would affect his social standing, and that of his bride, for his whole existence.

  Ned shrugged - better to do the job properly, half a rescue would create as much resentment as gratitude. In any case, there was no need to worry about output - the Rabaul wharves would be long closed after an eruption.

  "I'll send a cart along in the morning. Be ready at dawn, and we will make as many runs as necessary. The other plantations will join in. They will each help the villages nearest them. Pass the word to your people, I'll tell mine."

  "Right, boss."

  There were no thanks, the concept of words for that emotion had not developed, but the feeling was there and the obligation was noted. Each adult, every family in the clan, would be aware of the great debt; they would seek to repay it, over many years probably, bit by bit, and then would look for an extra service to reverse the duty.

  Ned returned to Vunatobung, made arrangements there and sent messengers to his managers, warning them of impending calamity and instructing them to look out for all of the coastal people. He rode down to Vunapope to warn Father Joe that he believed an eruption to be imminent, found the mission busy, having had access to the same information. They had a little thirty-ton schooner unloading at their wharf, made it available to Ned for the next morning if he wanted to risk the passage to Rabaul for emergency supplies.

  There was a good moon and they set off before dawn, made a bouncing passage over short, confused seas, tied up, first boat in for two days. Ned ran to the Chinese stores, under orders from the schooner's skipper to get in and get out quickly. It was made blasphemously clear to Ned that only the authority of the Church had brought the boat into the bay and that even the sure promise of salvation had its limits.

  "I'm gonna go to Heaven, sure thing, boss, but I ain't goin' this bloody week! She gets worse, I'm off! Right?"

  Perforce, Ned agreed, promised to do everything at double time. He bought bully, rice, flour and tinned mackerel, saw it despatched instantly to the wharf and sent a wagonload of buckets and drums up the road for emergency water. He begged the skipper to get another trip in on the day, if he could, kicked at a pair of skittish, snappy, stray dogs that were trying to get aboard, set off to the Governor's House.

  "Mr Hawkins! Good day to you, sir, how are you? Haven't seen you in some time now, you've been neglecting us! Too early for a drink. Cup of tea?"

  Holmes was genuinely glad to see him, treated him almost as a social equal, had much to say on the conduct of the war and the colony.

  He dismissed out of hand the possibility of an eruption. He was far too busy, it would be most inconvenient, they simply did not have time for volcanoes, it just would not happen. No, he would not release stocks from the emergency Administration go-down - they were reserved for use only when needed. To the argument that if he waited till after the eruption they would not be there, might be under the lava flow, he replied, simply, that he did not expect that to be the case, there was no reason to look for trouble.

  "Earthquakes? Noticed them, my dear fellow, perfectly normal in a volcanic zone, got to expect them, you know. Yes, I know the sulphur stinks a bit, you get used to it after a while. Boiled fish? Get the natives to eat them, saves cooking fuel, what? A word to the wise, young Hawkins - I know you're a bit worried, lot of responsibility for a young man, but don't let it get you down! Bear up under the strain and keep on to the end of the road! There's light at the end of the tunnel, aye, and a silver lining as well - we're on the last lap now and if we all bear up and set our shoulders to the wheel, why then, we shall reap the fruits of victory!"

  Slightly dazed by the distilled essence of the Colonel's wisdom, Ned bore up and took his leave, shaking hands manfully and taking a last look out over the harbour. There was a haze over Matupit, stains on the sea near it, a discernible lop on the normally calm water of the bay. Holmes noticed none of these, they were not allowed to disturb the already sufficiently uneven tenor of his existence.

  There were three island boats at the waterfront, empty and hanging on for their expected cargoes, too poor to sail without a wage aboard. The masters and crews were twitching, ropes singled up, ready to flee, terrified they might already have delayed too long. Ned chartered them to take all he could get to them before noon, when they must run to Vunapope. They were relieved to have orders, opened their hatches and swung their derricks out over the wharf, waiting while Ned ran back into Chinatown.

  "Mr Tse!"

  "Mr Hawkins, sir, honoured to see you, sir. The ladiance of your plesence casts light on my humble..."

  "Cut the bullshit, Mr Tse! We've got problems!"

  He grinned and Tse responded in perfect English with no accent, every 'r' pronounced.

  "What do you need of me? Although it is within reason obvious, I believe, sir."

  "Eruption - ninety per cent certain."

  "What do I do? There's no place for me to run."

  "Get out to one of my plantations, people and stock both, whichever is most convenient to you. Get the word to your community that there is refuge for all. I've taken the three boats down at the quay. Get as much food as you can down there along with tents and everything else useful you can think of. By noon. I'll pay full whack for everything that comes across the wharf at Vunapope."

  "Will do! Thanks!"

  By dusk there was a stream of wagons going out of Rabaul, watched by envious soldiers, ordered to remain in their barracks. The Tolais, poorer and with much less to carry, had already gone.

  Only two merchants decided that that there was no need to panic - they ran next day, losing all of their stock, most of their wealth and a lot of their standing in the community.

  # # #

  If you have a spare minute, please visit Amazon and write a few words about Long Way Place in the review section: Your objective feedback will help other potential readers make informed choices.

  Many thanks,

  Andrew Wareham

  Book Two of the Cannibal Country Trilogy

  will be published in 2015.

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