A Dolphins Dream

by Carlos Eyles

  “It is in the woman’s interest to trick,” explained David. “They must begin early. The daughter watches. It is passed along, eh.”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s not a conspiracy going on,” said Compton, who was not sure at all. “At least a conscious one,” he added in afterthought.

  “Who is in control of the house?” asked Lavenia.

  “The man believes that he’s in control but my father wasn’t and I haven’t seen many men who are. The woman pretends she’s not in control but looking at it from afar, it’s easy to see the pretense. Moses seems to think it’s all tied into sex.”

  They all laughed again and nodded their heads in agreement. “It is always the sex,” acknowledged David. “How is the man of America so foolish?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that. When Moses told me how the Fijian man controls his house by denying his wife sex because her need is greater than his by seven times, it kind of confused me. I really didn’t believe him.”

  “This is so,” said Lukey, “of all woman, eh. The Australian woman who is the wife of the resort owner is such. We all give her sex and she is never filled!”

  The room rocked with laughter at this communal confession. Compton wondered if the cuckold husband had any awareness of the balance of justice that played itself out in the confines of his resort with regard to the extra curricular activities of his employees, to whom he paid slave wages.

  The circle returned to their conversations in Fijian and Compton, content to sit and absorb, waited for Sinaca. By midnight she had not made an appearance and, groggy from the effects of kava, he excused himself and went to bed.

  In the morning while Vito slept off his narcotic night, Lavenia groomed the children for Sunday church services, checking their hair for lice before they got dressed in their white cotton finest.

  All who attended church were barefoot and each carried their worn and frayed bibles with utmost care. The men wore white, open-collared shirts and modest sulus, and the woman were adorned in brightly colored dresses that smelled of the sun. While restless coomed then moved from mother to grandmother before settling into a favored lap, Compton found a seat near the back, recognizing the same large bure where he had awaited savusavu with Chief Isikeli. The preacher came forward and to Compton’s astonishment it was Jokatama. He gave Compton a quick look that had not a whit of familiarity. The proceedings were not unlike the church services Compton had attended as a child of Presbyterian parents in the States. There was a reading from the bible in Fijian and then the first hymn was sung. A small black man stood and from his throat issued a bass line that possessed the grand power of an old tree. He was soon joined by several tenors of equal grace, then the alto voices of the women sprang into a rich and textured harmony that was incomparably beautiful. Finally a single soprano completed the four-part harmony. They were soon joined by every voice in the congregation and the room filled with joyous sound. It was abundantly clear that these people had come to church to sing. From their throats came the mellifluous earthbound music of angels. Their unfaltering voices played expertly with the harmonies. They sang from their hearts, and they sang of Jesus. The hymns were not sung with the emotional exuberance of gospel singers but rather with a gentle lilting quality in perfect pitch, unforced and sweet, childlike in its declaration of love for God.

  Jokatama spoke again and as his sermon grew in its intensity, the corners of his mouth frothed in the white spittle of unflinching conviction. Compton did not know what he was saying but the way he said it was disturbing. In the heat of his homily he shot a long look at Compton indicating there was more going on than just the comings and goings of Jesus.

  The beauty of the final hymn, however, could mollify the fire of the most fervent sermon. Compton was struck by the contradictions of this isolated community -- the hell-fire preacher and the angelic hymns, the Christian God who was in apparent opposition to the Sea God, the missionaries’ denial of all other gods that, nevertheless, seemed to triumph vigorously beneath the thin veneer of Christianity.

  * * *

  David came for Compton in the afternoon after the village had completed its nap.

  "Come, I show you the Rock of Wishes."

  Compton had very little interest in another rock of ancient power. His singular desire was to find Sinaca, who had not attended church as expected. He was now in the midst of preparing a vague plan to make his way to Jokatama's settlement for a chance meeting. However, part of that plan was to convince David to guide him but he was unmoved and could not be persuaded to make the journey. Compton reluctantly followed him down the hill, convinced that David was becoming more his keeper than his host.

  The path, which led to the Rock of Wishes, ran down by the shoreline next to the mangroves. It was an enormous rock ten feet high by six feet wide, pockmarked with scores of tiny hollows bored out when the sea level was considerably higher than it was now. Legend had it that if one were to roll up a leaf from a nearby tree and deposit it into one of the hollows with a silent wish, the wish would come true. Compton found his leaf, selected his hollow and made his wish, as did David. Then they headed back the way they had come. Halfway to the village, Sinaca appeared on the trail coming towards them. Compton's heart collided with his throat upon seeing her, for this was precisely the wish he had made several minutes earlier. She was walking swiftly and regally down the path and, when she saw Compton, slowed her pace. They came face-to-face in the narrow path and stood not a foot away from each other's eyes. Compton felt he was under the water, holding his breath. When he did inhale, her sweet breath entered him and he became drunk with craving. She gazed at him with unwavering brown eyes that were clear and filled with desires he could not decipher.

  "This is Sinaca," said David. "The daughter of Jokatama."

  "Yes, I know," said Compton directly to Sinaca.

  "Bula," she said and bowed her head and passed them gracefully.

  On her way to the Rock of Wishes, thought Compton. I hope her wish is grander than mine. Resuming the hike up the trail, his frustration gradually overtook his desire. How will we ever get to be alone? Not here in the village, that's for sure. They're not letting me out of their collective sight. What is it they're trying to prevent me from seeing?

  In the late afternoon David trekked a distracted Compton over the various historical points of the village. He showed him where the great grandfathers had cooked and eaten their enemies, friends and several missionaries. Compton scarcely noticed. Wherever he went he envisioned Sinaca standing before him, her eyes locked into his for that eternal moment. He was attempting to recall the sweetness of her breath when David, noting that the historical excursion was of little interest, proceeded down the hill and returned him to Lavenia's kitchen. She was preparing dinner and sensing his melancholy state, pointed to her nose and said, "nose." Compton smiled and began the English lesson that continued through dinner and until the men had gathered for another night of kava.

  In the warmth of the lantern light Compton felt very much a member of the group. They drank and exchanged the village gossip for an hour before David indicated to Compton that Isikeli wished to ask some questions. Isikeli spoke in ponderous tones to David, who translated.

  "Isikeli wants to know what the village can do to keep the outside world from stealing its children?"

  Isikeli sat fixed in the lantern light, his concern etched on his face, his hands folded calmly in his lap.

  "It will be difficult," began Compton. "You must continue to teach them the old ways. Keep them schooled in your traditions."

  David translated to Isikeli who replied with quiet patience.

  "They are not interested in the old ways," translated David. “They are interested in the television. We stop it but they go to the next village. It builds a want without a need."

  "The television is very clever," agreed Compton, "but it's not real. It's make-believe."

  "It is real in the eyes of children, eh," said Isikeli. "As real to them
as the water and the sky."

  "I don't know how you can keep your children from the temptations of the western world. They look very attractive, particularly when seen through the television. The reality of that world is much different. When they're older, they'll see that."

  "When they are older it will be too late," sighed Isikeli. "If you could tell them of the falseness of your world they would listen."

  "I'd have to learn your language," explained Compton. "It wouldn't be possible. You can only hope that if they do leave they will come back here, as Moses did. It's important to keep your land. As long as you have that, even if you are poor, you'll have something for your children to return to."

  "Keeping our land is difficult," said David. "We are poor and always in need of money. There are offers to be rich but we refuse them. When the hurricanes come and destroy our homes and gardens, the Indians offer us the money for the land. It is difficult to refuse when your children are hungry."

  “I would like to help. Tell Isikeli that I will think on the problem and we’ll talk again.” David did so and the room fell silent. Sitting in the silence, Compton felt the monumental weight of their concern. They had correctly envisioned the future and he could do nothing to prevent it from occurring. Isikeli rolled his leaf tobacco in the newspaper and lit it from the lantern. Taking a long pull, he slowly let out the smoke. Looking at Compton through the smoke, his ancient, child eyes asked, who will care for these islands, these pure waters and these reefs that keep us alive? What will become of my people? Compton, unable to answer his eyes, looked away.

  29

  From a fitful night's sleep Compton awoke to the smell of smoke and chicken dung. The scents bore into him, reaching some primal core that, as Moses had said in what seemed to be years ago, “The smell of home.” A home that awaits but has never been occupied. Tea was served with pawpaw and rice. Vito was in the kitchen looking old in the face and little Jack was wrapped in his lap. They ate in silence and Vito left, leaving Jack in Compton's arms where he felt equally comfortable. Lavenia finished her morning chores as Compton finished his tea and she came to him and pointed to her nose and said, “nose." She led him out into the garden and identified in English each vegetable and then returned to the kitchen and covered every utensil. In the course of their limited conversation Compton made a reference to Sinaca and Lavenia raised her eyebrows in understanding. "She come," she said in perfect English.

  "When?" asked Compton, eyes wide, expectant.

  "Soon." She held her finger to her lips in conspiratorial allegiance.

  They continued with the lesson and at one point a chicken crossed the dirt floor of the kitchen and Compton indicated it and said the word, "chicken." Lavenia attempted the word and he repeated it again, rubbing his stomach in the natural gesture that it was good to eat. Lavenia nodded in agreement but had trouble pronouncing the word. They continued until Vito returned, whereupon he and Lavenia had a brief discussion in private. When they were through she busied herself at the stove while Vito went out to the garden. He returned shortly holding the chicken high by its headless neck, his hand covered with blood. At the doorway lay the severed head, which little Jack discovered and was bent to it, touching the dead eye with a forefinger. Vito tossed the chicken into a pot of boiling water that Lavenia had prepared, while Compton sat at the table dumbstruck. From his meaningless gesture they had sacrificed one of their few and precious chickens. He had never been the recipient of such a singularly generous act and was overcome to the point of humility. He saw his own greed and his unwillingness to share with others the most insignificant of possessions. He wondered what he was clinging to that prevented him from becoming part of the village of man. The communal brotherhood of humans was in sharing what you had, in the firm belief, the faith really, that you would always have enough. That the Universe or God or the Great Spirit or the Sea God, would provide. He wondered where, in this most basic characteristic of humankind, he had lost its meaning or if he had ever been given it at all. He could not remember such a gift and he felt diminished for its absence in his life.

  When the chicken was taken from the water, Vito sat at the short stool he used to shred coconut and commenced to pluck its feathers and cut off its feet. Jack picked up a feather and then pushed a chicken foot around the dirt floor with his toe, his mind attempting to piece together the creature that was alive moments ago. Compton sat at the table, as much taken by the gesture as by the lack of ceremony in its offering, which gave greater significance to the act. He came to understand that he had lived his entire adult life with scarcely a shred of true generosity, either given or received.

  They consumed the entire chicken for lunch and then retired for an hour's nap. When they awoke Vito escorted Compton down to the raising of David's new bure. Fourteen men had gathered and, at first appearance, seemed more inclined to play than to work though a few seemed to be hard at it. Postholes were being dug with a single shovel and a steel pole was used to loosen the dirt and pound the rocks to rubble, which in turn was scooped out of the hole with bare hands. Another group, which included Vito, was expertly using their cane knives to hack out square ends, strip and notch tree branches. The men worked steadily and it appeart of the fourteen men, seven or eight were hard at work while the others sat and joked among themselves. In the course of an hour, however, those who had been idle worked their turn while the others rested, so there was continuous progress. It began raining and several who were not working at the time passed around a bar of soap and made practical use of the downpour. Compton noted that they shared everything willingly -- food, laughter, work and, of course, possessions. There was unity in their work and in their play. Watching them as the detached observer, he found himself intimidated by the casual, surefooted way they moved up and down the structure. Their fearlessness of the world was expressed in the free and fully realized use of their bodies. Such interaction made him feel incomplete, false and without real friendship. "Just be yourself," Moses had said. "Stop thinking of yourself and the falseness will disappear."

  Be yourself, mused Compton. How easy to be yourself without reservation when you know who you are.

  The crew worked diligently through the afternoon and into dusk. Moses arrived as the last timber was being nailed down and Compton called him aside. Without preamble, he blurted, "Listen, I haven't had a chance to be with Sinaca since you left. Would it be okay for me to go over to her settlement and visit? I think they're trying to prevent me from seeing her or seeing something I shouldn't. No one has let me out of their sight. I haven't had a single free moment."

  "You are an honored guest," assured Moses patiently. "Their hospitality is genuine. You are free to walk where you wish. You are of the village now. You could visit Sinaca and nothing would be said but there would be thoughts."

  "What do you mean, thoughts?"

  "You saw the Sea God and have been given honor. If the village sees you with Sinaca, they might think bad thoughts. Maybe they would not want you in their bures. Maybe that is why they watch you closely, eh. It would be better for you to go back to Orchid Beach and wait for her to come. She knows the ideas of the village. That way they would not think poorly of you or be afraid that you were something else that the Sea God made to watch the village."

  "What…? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  "Sometimes the Sea God turns a man into a fish or a dolphin or a shark because it wants to be close to that person. It is a dangerous thing."

  This kind of thinking completely confounded Compton. He felt a certain obligation to the village now and had no desire to offend their hospitality or in any way abuse their generosity. He certainly didn't want to stir up trouble for Vito or Lavenia. This was not something he could easily reason out so he accepted Moses’ advice. "All right, I'll wait until she comes to the beach."

  "Yesterday," said Moses, "I caught three big fish and went to Taveuni to sell the fish. I take your spear gun and give it to the man who works with metal.
He say that another spear can be made but it take many days, maybe a week to carve a new one."

  "If he is going to carve the metal, it may well take longer than that," quipped Compton.

  Moses remained earnest. "Yes, he carves the metal."

  Compton rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Is the gun safe with him?"

  "Of course it is safe with him. You are the Man who saw the Sea God. Do you think he would sell your gun? Do you think someone would buy it?"

  Compton's last night in the village was quietly festive. After eating an early meal with the children, he helped them with their English and then went over to the main bure where the circle of kava drinkers had gathered to see him off. It was the same group that had welcomed him the first night in the village, Chief Isikeli, old Tom, Lukey, Aprosa, Moses and Lavenia. The conversation, for the most part, centered on the building of David's new bure. Moses let Compton in on bits and pieces of the conversation but became so involved in the discussion that Compton was soon forgott. He waited, facing the door in his usual position, for Sinaca to appear and looked up and out into the darkness at every sound, knowing as he did that she would not come.

  Aprosa had seated himself next to Compton and though he spoke English, said little to Compton or to anyone else in the group. When he did speak, Compton listened with rapt attention.

  "To see the Sea God gives honor," began Aprosa gently. "I dive the deep water for many years and have not seen it. I think it asks you to be Fiji diver."

  "In what way, Aprosa?"

  "To hunt like the Fiji man. No line, one shot, dead, eh."

  "You use the spear with incredible accuracy. I've never seen anything like it. You make it appear easy but it's very difficult to do. I've tried for the kill shot but only done it a few times."

  "You must make the kill spot very small, the black part of the eye."

  "That's a very, very small spot. It’s getting smaller all the time. I don't think I could see a spot that small on a moving fish."