One Blood

by Graeme Kent

  ‘I certainly would,’ said Conchita, ‘but you’re in no state to make a detour like that.’

  ‘It will have been a wasted journey if we don’t try it,’ Johanna said. ‘Sins of omission are as bad as those of commission. I’m not as feeble as I may look, Sister. Follow me; I’ll go at my own pace.’

  The two sisters toiled at a snail’s rate up the slippery incline. The trees grew so thickly here that their tops almost blotted out the sky, leaving the track in perpetual gloom. Eventually Sister Johanna stopped, exhausted. ‘It should be somewhere here,’ she said.

  Conchita looked around hopelessly. The jungle looked no different here than it had at any other stage on their struggle up the mountainside. The undergrowth reached almost up to their waists, while the branches of the closely packed trees intermingled to provide a profusion of false roofs above their heads.

  ‘Do you think there really is a magic man up here?’ she asked dubiously.

  ‘There’s someone here, certainly,’ Johanna said. ‘He won’t be the offspring of a woman and a boar, of course, as the headman believes. Most likely many years ago some poor unmarried pregnant girl was ejected from her village and cast out into the bush up here. She gave birth to a baby boy in isolation and died while he was young. That boy grew up alone to be the magic man.’

  ‘What a life!’ said Sister Conchita.

  Johanna was studying her surroundings. ‘Father Karl told me that the hermit had a home up here in the side of a large banyan tree. He had a bed of sorts on the ground. It was where two large rivers met and flowed into one another. We can hear those rivers, I think.’ She pointed to the north. ‘They’re over there somewhere.’

  Twenty minutes later, the bedraggled, sweat-stained nuns came out of a ring of trees into a large clearing on a plateau. Here the two rivers converged and swept down to the sea with a roar. The huge banyan tree stood alone on the nearest bank of the newly formed river. A hole about six feet in diameter had been cut in the side of the tree. Creepers hanging from one of the lower branches had been trained to serve as a makeshift curtain over the entrance.

  ‘Do you think he’s inside?’ asked Sister Johanna in hushed tones.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Conchita said.

  With a confidence that she was not really feeling, the nun walked across and entered the lair. Inside, it was stiflingly hot and oppressive. A bed of leaves occupied one corner. No one was lying on it. Sister Conchita took a look round and left the room, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s empty,’ she said.

  It was then that she saw the rope ladder. It was long and frayed, hanging from the branches halfway up the banyan tree. She tugged the lower rungs tentatively. To her surprise, they did not come away in her hand.

  ‘Perhaps he’s up there,’ she said to Sister Johanna, looking up at the higher reaches of the tree.

  ‘You mustn’t!’ gasped the German nun. ‘That ladder has probably been there since the war. It would be dangerous even to try to climb it.’

  ‘I don’t weigh very much,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘This is taking parish visiting to extremes,’ moaned the other nun in an agony of apprehension, watching Sister Conchita begin her difficult ascent.

  At first the rope ladder swayed and swirled, swinging the sister from side to side. Encumbered by her flowing cotton habit, finally Conchita got the hang of adjusting her balance as she went up, step by laborious step. Branches scratched at her hands and face, and heavy vines draped themselves over her shoulders, trying to force her back down. Often she stopped for a rest, struggling for breath. She forced herself to continue the climb, setting one foot doggedly above the other as she went up the huge tree. Slowly her limbs grew almost accustomed to the strain she was placing on them. Finally her head cleared a ring of branches and she found herself inching up an expanse of cleared bark where the branches had been lopped away and kept trimmed close to the trunk of the banyan. Just above her head, about a hundred feet above the ground, was a huge fork in the tree. Across this fork had been laid a platform of wooden planks nailed together, wide enough to allow three or four people to stand in comfort. The rope ladder ended here, fixed to the side of the platform.

  Transferring her weight carefully, Conchita scrambled from the ladder to the platform. She stood, balancing her weight, and stared out over the island. There was a marvellous view of much of one side of Kolombangara and the placid green waters of the Roviana Lagoon beyond. Coast-watchers must have stood here to study and report on the movements of the Japanese in the war, she thought.

  There was a bed of leaves close to the trunk of the tree. Conchita walked over to the bed and knelt down. The emaciated form of an elderly islander was lying on it. The man was scarred and naked. Flies were crawling over his face. He had been dead for some time. The magic man must have made the long climb from the ground to die up here where he could see the island that had treated him so cruelly in his lifetime.

  Sister Conchita stood up. She looked round the platform. The magic man had few possessions. There was a rusty old bush knife and a few coconut shells that had been carved into the shape of bowls. In one corner was something wrapped in a banana leaf. Conchita picked it up and opened it. Inside was a circle of turtle shell affixed to a larger white seashell. The outline of a frigate bird was carved crudely on the central circle.

  Clasping the shell, the sister hesitated. The old magic man had died alone and untended. By tradition he needed the farewell incantation of a custom priest to send him on his final journey. But no custom priest would come near the corpse of this outcast. Sister Conchita would have to take his place. She bowed her head.

  ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee,’ she intoned. ‘The Lord make his face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’

  • • •

  CONCHITA MADE THE long descent to the ground and showed the carving to the waiting Sister Johanna.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, brushing aside the elderly nun’s expressions of concern and solicitude.

  ‘It’s a knap knap, a Roviana carving,’ said Sister Johanna, examining the piece of shell. ‘It has different meanings depending on the subject of the carving.’

  ‘What does a frigate bird represent?’ Conchita asked.

  ‘That’s a strange thing,’ replied Johanna, frowning. ‘It’s a sign of peace from the old days. Sometimes when two tribes called a truce in their fighting, men designated to negotiate the peace would travel through enemy lines with the sign of the frigate bird strung around their necks or affixed to their foreheads. That allowed them safe passage. What would a magic man be doing with one of those?’

  ‘I don’t think it was his,’ Sister Conchita said. ‘My guess is that he took it from the body of the dead guide Kakaihe. When he told the villagers that Kakaihe had spoken to him after death, he meant that Kakaihe had given him a sign—that of a frigate bird on the knap knap. And Teiosi knew what that sign represented. It meant that in 1943, someone in the Roviana Lagoon wanted peace, perhaps even to stop fighting altogether.’

  ‘Why on earth would Kakaihe want to discuss peace terms with anyone?’ asked Johanna.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Conchita, ‘but I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. I think we had better get back to our canoe.’

  The two nuns began retracing their steps down the slippery track. Rain clouds darkened the sky. Soon it began to rain steadily. There was a rumbling noise further up the track. At first Conchita thought it was thunder. She looked round. A large boulder was hurtling with enormous velocity down the path.

  ‘Jump!’ shouted Conchita.

  The nuns threw themselves off the path into the undergrowth. The boulder crashed past them, increasing speed and crushing everything in its path. Soon it was lost from sight, but they could hear it continuing its descent. The sisters picked themselves up, mud-splattered and shaken, but unhurt.

&nbs
p; ‘Did someone dislodge it deliberately?’ asked Sister Johanna.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Sister Conchita, ‘but let’s find that canoe as fast as we can!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  KELLA FOLLOWED THE rest of the audience out of the Point Cruz cinema on Mendana Avenue at the end of the single performance for the evening. Expatriates and islanders alike began to scurry away to their parked cars or to their homes in the labour lines designated for government workers just outside the town.

  Kella stood against a wall and let the others pass him. He was feeling tired. A few hours earlier, a Melanesian mission ship had deposited him at Point Cruz wharf. He had been lucky. The islanders on Baroraite had taken him by canoe to a mission station on Santa Ysabel, just as the Selwyn was preparing to leave. The voyage back to Honiara had taken two days. He had walked from the wharf to his hut in the fishing village on the outskirts of the town, washed and changed, packed another knapsack and walked back to ascertain that there was room on the charter flight leaving for Munda the following morning. He had booked a one-way ticket and then, unable to settle and not wanting to go home straight away, he had noticed that an American B Western was supporting the main feature at the Point Cruz cinema, known variously among the expatriate population of the capital, for obvious reasons, as the Flea Pit and the Bucket of Blood.

  Kella loved all low-budget cowboy films, except the ones in which the hero sang to his horse. This evening’s production had lived up to his expectations, as it had starred the Hollywood actor Wayne Morris, who in real life had flown a Hellcat in the Pacific during the war and who always looked to Kella to be that rarity among screen actors: a man big and ugly enough to handle himself in a genuine fight.

  The only interruption to his enjoyment in the cinema had occurred after Morris’s leading lady had been shot on screen and had tumbled gracefully to the ground. The ambience of the moment had been spoiled by the interjection of a Guadalcanal government clerk sitting at the back, who had shouted to the heartbroken hero in perfectly articulated English: ‘Go on, whitey, shag her while she’s still warm!’

  This had aroused the ire of a bunch of Malaitans from the labour lines who had been sitting nearby. Objecting on principle to a man from another island raising his voice in their presence, they had started a fight with the Guadalcanal man, forcing Kella to climb over the backs of several rows of seats and slap a few heads with his open hand before a semblance of order could be restored.

  Rather than risk the scuffle continuing during the interval, the projectionist had then gone straight into the newsreel. For once, the events being depicted were only a few months old. It showed scenes of the ending of the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya, Sputnik 4 being launched in Russia and a young Elvis Presley returning from army service in Germany. There was also coverage of a fresh-faced presidential candidate, forty-two-year-old John F. Kennedy, canvassing for votes among coal miners in West Virginia.

  Kella studied the shots of the smiling young candidate with interest. The man seemed full of energy, although he was supposed to be suffering from a long-term back injury exacerbated by his experiences in the Roviana Lagoon. The announcer declared in passing that Kennedy’s forthcoming campaign against the Republican candidate Richard M. Nixon seemed too close to call at the moment. Afterwards Kella sat through the main attraction, an American cop movie, with massive patience, then left the cinema.

  ‘Hey, Kella, did you really stand me up on our last date?’ asked Mary Gui, coming out of the theatre behind him. She was wearing a floral print dress that clung to her trim figure.

  ‘I got called away from Kolombangara unexpectedly,’ said Kella.

  ‘You mean some boy brought a telegraph all the way up the volcano to you? I hoped you tipped him well, going to that trouble.’

  Kella smiled and started walking through the night crowds. Mary fell into determined step beside him. ‘What did you think of the film?’ she asked.

  ‘Kirk Douglas had it made. Every time he needed information, he only had to make a telephone call from his precinct. I sometimes have to travel three days between witnesses. Plus he had a compassionate buddy and a tough but understanding lieutenant.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mary, ‘but were there any black detectives in sight?’

  ‘No, just a black patrolman who Douglas ordered out of the way before sacrificing his life in an act of heroic folly for the good of his men.’

  ‘You see,’ said Mary. ‘You’ve got some advantages. You haven’t been asked to do that yet. When was the last time a white detective ordered you to step back on the edge of some volcano and let him justify his star billing.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. You don’t find too many white cops on top of Mount Mahimba.’

  ‘Exactly, so count your blessings.’

  In spite of himself, Kella laughed. Mary took his arm. ‘Buy me a drink,’ she said impudently.

  Kella looked around. They were opposite the almost sacrosanct elite Mendana Hotel. ‘Are you kidding?’ he asked lightly. ‘Whitey doesn’t like natives cluttering up his tambu spots, unless they’re washing the dishes.’

  ‘You-me nofella native,’ said Mary, not moving. ‘You-me first generation indigenous educated islanders.’

  ‘And if we go into the Mendana, that’s just what they might be putting on our gravestones.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be brave,’ Mary said.

  Kella studied the girl’s determined face. She seemed to be in deadly earnest. ‘Do you really want to go in there?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Sure I do. There’s got to be a first time for everything. Come on.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Kella

  ‘Because,’ said Mary, ‘to the African retread, a permanent and pensionable colonial official now languishing in the South Pacific, in that hotel, I’m still just one generation away from being a jungle bunny, and I’m a lot more than that, don’t you agree, Sergeant Kella?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Kella, feeling himself being propelled against his will by the sheer force of the girl’s personality. ‘As long as you’re sure about this.’

  ‘I say it’s prejudice, and I say stuff ’em,’ said Mary, crossing the road in the direction of the hotel.

  ‘If you’re certain it’s not going to be a problem,’ said an impressed Kella, following her.

  ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t a problem,’ said Mary seriously. ‘It’s probably going to be a hell of a problem, but if you and I aren’t going to go in there, who will? Incidentally, afterwards I shall want full credit for my brazen and devil-may-care attitude.’

  ‘You’ll get it,’ said Kella.

  Mary took the policeman’s arm again and they stepped into the quiet foyer of the Mendana Hotel. They walked past the reception desk with its clerk goggling at them, and out into the large, roofed but open-sided paved veranda running down to the sea. There were exotic potted plants around the edges of the dining area.

  At this time in the evening, the dining room was busy. Expatriates in pairs and foursomes were sitting eating at the tables. There was a buzz of conversation, which died away when Kella and Mary appeared. They ran a gauntlet of disapproving looks from the white diners around them as they took their seats. At first Kella thought they were not going to be served. Then, from the knot of waiters in their long white lap-laps, one emerged and crossed the dining room towards them, shouldering the other waiters out of his way. He was a Lau man, squat and ugly in comparison with the handsome, light-skinned Western Solomons men who made up the rest of the serving complement.

  ‘Aofia,’ he said. ‘What can I fetch you?’

  Kella ordered a bottle of beer for himself and a Bacardi and Coke for Mary. Slowly the other diners resumed their conversations and started eating again, continuing to direct cold glances at the unfamiliar sight of the two islanders at their table.

  Kella wondered if he should have allowed Mary to bring him to this white bastion. He would not ha
ve inflicted the embarrassment on any other local young woman, but he was interested to see how the newly returned Western girl would react to the colonial ambience. He suspected that not only would she rise to the occasion; she might even enjoy it. He had detected a vein of steely, single-minded ambition in Mary, but there was also an element of recklessness that she could probably trace back to her marauding forebears.

  ‘What are you doing in Honiara?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my last day of freedom. Tomorrow I fly back to Munda to take up my job as warden of the rest-house. I’m staying with wantoks at Matanikau tonight. Now tell me, what really happened to you on Kolombangara? I looked for you when I got up the next morning, but there was no sign of you.’

  ‘Was anyone else from the SIIP in the village with you?’

  ‘Hardly. I was well off the beaten track, wasn’t I? You know full well why I was up in the bush. I was getting the custom markings tattooed on my back from arse to shoulder. Why all the questions, Sergeant Kella? Did you bring me here to strike a blow for independence, or just to interrogate me?’

  She stared at him defiantly. The Lau waiter brought their drinks. Kella paid him, and added a generous tip. The waiter grinned appreciatively and left.

  ‘What are you going to do now that you’ve come home?’ asked Kella. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to spend the rest of your life running the rest-house. You’re one of the Solomons’ first female graduates; you could practically write your ticket in the government service.’

  ‘And sit on my backside behind a desk for twenty years? No thank you. I’m going to climb the pole quicker than that, thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re a determined young lady. There’s always politics.’

  ‘Certainly, but not just yet, I fancy. The West is a very traditional district. Welchman Buna has got the Roviana seat sewn up for the next five years. I’ll let him make his mistakes before I move in and challenge him.’

  ‘So what does that leave?’