The Floating Island

by Jules Verne

  As the excursionists ran along in front of Naitasiri, the pilot pointed out a tall tree, a tavala, which rose in an angle of the bank.

  “And what is there remarkable about that tree?” asked Frascolin.

  “Nothing,” replied the pilot, “except that its bark is gashed from its roots to the fork. These indicate the number of human bodies that were cooked there and then eaten.”

  “Like the notches of a baker on his sticks,” observed Pinchinat, shrugging his shoulders as a sign of incredulity.

  But he was wrong. The Fiji Islands are pre-eminently the country of cannibalism, and, it is necessary to repeat it, these practices are not entirely extinct. The love of good living will keep them alive for a long time yet among the tribes of the interior. Yes, the love of good living! for, in the opinion of the Fijians, nothing is comparable in taste and delicacy to human flesh, which is much superior to beef. If the pilot were to be believed, there was a certain chief, Ra-Undrenudu, who set up stones on his estate, and when he died these stones numbered eight hundred and twenty-two.

  “And do you know what these stones indicated?”

  “It is impossible for us to guess,” said Yvernès, “even if we apply all our intelligence as instrumentalists!”

  “They showed the number of human bodies this chief had devoured.”

  “By himself?”

  “By himself.”

  “He was a large eater!” replied Pinchinat, whose opinion was made up regarding these “Fijian fairytales.”

  About eleven o’clock a bell rang on the right bank. The village of Naililii, composed of a few straw huts, appeared among the foliage, under the shade of cocoanut trees and banana trees. A Catholic mission is established in this village. Could the tourists stop an hour and shake hands with the missionary, a compatriot? The pilot saw no reason why they should not, and the launch was moored to the root of a tree.

  Sebastien Zorn and his comrades landed, and they had not walked for two minutes before they met with the Superior of the mission.

  He was a man of about fifty, of pleasant face and energetic figure. Happy to be able to welcome Frenchmen, he took them to his hut in the village, which comprises about a hundred Fijians. He insisted that his guests must accept some of the refreshments of the country. He assured them that this did not mean the repugnant kava, but a sort of drink, or rather soup, of agreeable flavour, obtained by cooking the cyrenæ, molluscs very abundant on the beaches of the Rewa.

  This missionary admitted that it was a hard task to withdraw his faithful from the lord of “bukalo,” that is to say, human flesh. “And as you are going towards the interior, my dear guests,” added he, “be prudent, and keep on your guard.”

  “Do you hear that, Pinchinat?” said Sebastien Zorn.

  They left a little before the noonday angelus sounded from the bell of the little church. As they proceeded the launch met several canoes laden with bananas. This is the local currency in which the natives pay their taxes. The river banks continued to be bordered with laurels, acacias, citron trees, and cactus with blood-red flowers. Over them the banana and cocoanut trees raise their lofty branches laden with bunches, and all this verdure stretches back to the mountains dominated by the peak of Mbugge-Levu.

  Among these masses of foliage are one or two European factories, little in keeping with the savage nature of the country. These are sugar factories, fitted up with the best modern machinery, and their products, as a traveller, M. Verschnur, says, “can advantageously bear comparison with the sugars of the Antilles and other colonies.”

  About one o’clock the launch reached the end of its voyage on the Rewa. In two hours the ebb would begin, and it was as well to take advantage of it for the return journey. The run down would not take long, as the tide ebbs quickly. The excursionists ought to be back on Floating Island before ten o’clock in the evening.

  A little time could be spent here, and it could not be better employed than in visiting the village of Tampoo, the first huts of which were visible about half a mile away.

  It was arranged that the engineer and two sailors should remain in charge of the launch, while the pilot piloted his passengers to the village, where the ancient customs were preserved in all their Fijian purity. In this part of the island the missionaries have wasted their trouble and their sermons. There still reign the sorcerers; there still are worked the sorceries, particularly those bearing the complicated name of “Vaka-Ndran-in-Kan-Tacka,” that is to say, “incantation by leaves.” Here the people worship the Katvavous, the gods whose existence had no beginning, and will have no end, and who do not disdain special sacrifices that the governor-general is powerless to prevent, and even to punish.

  Perhaps it would have been more prudent not to venture among these suspicious tribes. But our artistes, quite Parisian in their curiosity, insisted on it, and the pilot consented to accompany them, advising them not to get far away from each other.

  On entering Tampoo, which consisted of a hundred straw huts, they met some women, real savages, wearing but cotton drawers knotted round their waist: they betrayed no surprise at the sight of the strangers. They were occupied in the preparation of curcuma, made of roots preserved in trenches previously lined with grasses and banana leaves. These roots were taken out, grilled, scraped, pressed into baskets lined with ferns, and the juice which ran out was poured into bamboos. This juice serves as food and pomatum, and in both respects is very widely used.

  The party entered the village. There was no welcome on the part of the natives, who were in no hurry to greet the visitors, or to offer them hospitality. The exterior of the huts was not attractive. Considering the odour that issued from them in which that of rancid cocoanut oil prevailed, the quartette congratulated themselves that the laws of hospitality were not much honoured here.

  However, when they arrived before the habitation of the chief—a Fijian of tall stature, and stern and ferocious look—he advanced towards them amid an escort of natives. His woolly hair was white with lime. He had assumed his ceremonial garb, a striped shirt, a belt round his body, an old carpet slipper on his left foot, and—how did Pinchinat restrain a burst of laughter?—an old blue coat with gold buttons, patched in many places, and its unequal tails flapping against his calves. As he advanced towards the papalangis, the chief stumbled against a stump, lost his equilibrium, and fell to the ground.

  Immediately, conformably to the etiquette of the “bale muri,” the whole of the escort fell down flat “in order to take their share in the absurdity of this fall.”

  This was explained by the pilot, and Pinchinat approved of the formality as being no more ridiculous than many others in use in European courts—at least in his opinion.

  When the natives had got up, the chief and the pilot exchanged a few sentences in Fijian, of which the quartette did not understand a word. These sentences, translated by the pilot, were merely asking why the strangers had come to the village of Tampoo. The reply being that they wished to visit the village and take a walk round the neighbourhood, permission was given, after an exchange of several questions and replies.

  The chief, however, manifested neither pleasure nor displeasure at this arrival of tourists in Tampoo, and at a sign from him the natives returned to their huts.

  “After all,” said Pinchinat, “they do not seem to be so very bad.”

  “That is no reason for our not being careful,” replied Frascolin.

  For an hour our artistes walked about the village without being interfered with by the natives. The chief in his blue coat had gone into his hut, and it was obvious that the visit was treated as a matter of indifference.

  After moving about Tampoo without any hut being opened to welcome them, Sebastien Zorn, Yvernès, Pinchinat, Frascolin, and the pilot strolled towards the ruins of some temples, like abandoned huts, which were not far from the dwelling of one of the sorcerers of the place.

  This sorcerer, who was seated at his door, gave them anything but an encouraging look, and his
gestures appeared to indicate that he certainly was not giving them a blessing.

  Frascolin tried to enter into conversation with him through the pilot; but he assumed so repulsive a look, and so threatening an attitude, that they had to abandon any hope of a word from this Fijian porcupine.

  Meanwhile, in spite of the advice which had been given him, Pinchinat had strolled off through a thick clump of bananas on the side of a hill.

  When Sebastien Zorn, Yvernès and Frascolin had been rebuffed by the sorcerer’s surliness, and were preparing to leave Tampoo, their comrade was out of sight.

  The time had come for them to get back to the launch. The tide had begun to ebb, and there were none too many hours for them to run down the Rewa.

  Frascolin, uneasy at not seeing Pinchinat, hailed him in a loud voice.

  There was no reply.

  “Where is he, then?” asked Sebastien Zorn.

  “I do not know,” replied Yvernès.

  “Did any of you see him go away?” asked the pilot.

  No one had seen him.

  “Probably he has gone back to the launch by the footpath from the village,” said Frascolin.

  “Then he was wrong,” said the pilot “But let us lose no time, and rejoin him.”

  They left, not without considerable anxiety. As they went through Tampoo the pilot remarked that not a Fijian was visible. All the doors of the huts were shut. There was no gathering in front of the chiefs house. The women who were occupied in the preparation of curcuma had disappeared. It seemed that the village had been abandoned for some time.

  The party hurried along. Frequently they shouted for the absent one, and the absent one did not reply. Had he not, then, got back to the shore where the launch was moored? Or was the launch no longer then in charge of the engineer and two sailors?

  There remained but a few hundred yards to traverse. They hurried along, and as soon as they were through the trees saw the launch and the three men at their posts.

  “Our comrade?” shouted Frascolin.

  “Is he not with you?” replied the engineer.

  “No—not for the last half-hour.”

  “Has he not come back?” asked Yvernès.

  “No.”

  What had become of him? The pilot did not conceal his extreme uneasiness.

  “We must return to the village,” said Sebastien Zorn. “We cannot abandon Pinchinat.”

  The launch was left in charge of one of the sailors, although it was dangerous to do so. But it was better to return to Tampoo in force and well armed this time. If they had to search all the huts, they would not leave the village, they would not return to Floating Island until they had found Pinchinat.

  They went back along the road to Tampoo. The same solitude in the village and its surroundings. Where had the population gone? Not a sound was heard in the streets, and the huts were empty.

  There could be no doubt as to what had happened. Pinchinat had ventured into the banana wood; he had been seized and dragged away—where? As to the fate reserved for him by these cannibals whom he derided, it was only too easy to imagine it! A search in the environs of Tampoo produced no result. How could you find a track through this forest region, which is known only to the Fijians? Besides, was it not to be feared that they would try to capture the launch, guarded only by a single sailor? If that misfortune happened, all hope of rescuing Pinchinat was at an end, the safety of his companions would be endangered.

  The despair of Frascolin, Yvernès, and Sebastien Zorn was indescribable. What could be done? The pilot and the engineer did not know what to do.

  Frascolin, who had preserved his coolness, said, —

  “We must return to Floating Island.”

  “Without our comrade?” asked Yvernès.

  “Do you think so?” added Sebastien Zorn.

  “I do not see what else to do,” replied Frascolin. “The governor of Floating Island should be informed; the authorities of Viti-Levu should be communicated with and asked to take action—”

  “Yes; let us go!” said the pilot, “and if we are to take advantage of the tide, we have not a minute to lose.”

  “It is the only way of saving Pinchinat,” said Frascolin, “if it is not too late.”

  The only way, in fact.

  They left Tampoo, fearing that they might not find the launch at her post. In vain the name of Pinchinat was shouted by all! And if they had been less excited they might have seen among the bushes a few savage Fijians watching their departure.

  The launch had not been interfered with. The sailor had seen no one prowling on the banks of the Rewa.

  It was with inexpressible sadness that Sebastien Zorn, Frascolin and Yvernès decided to take their places in the boat. They hesitated; they shouted again. But they had to go, as Frascolin said, and they were right in doing so.

  The engineer set the dynamos going, and the launch with the tide under her flew down the Rewa at prodigious speed.

  At six o’clock the western point of the delta was rounded, and half an hour afterwards they were alongside the pier at Starboard Harbour.

  In a quarter of an hour Frascolin and his two comrades had by means of the tram reached Milliard City, and were at the town hall.

  As soon as he had heard what had occurred, Cyrus Bikerstaff started for Suva, and there he asked for an interview with the governor-general of the archipelago, which was granted him.

  When this official learned what had passed at Tampoo, he admitted that it was a very serious matter. This Frenchman was in the hands of one of the tribes of the interior who evaded all authority.

  “Unfortunately,” he added, “we cannot do anything before to-morrow. Our boats cannot get up to Tampoo against the tide. Besides, it is indispensable for us to go in force, and the best way would be to go through the bush.”

  “Quite so,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff; “but it is not tomorrow, but to-day—this very moment—that we should start.”

  “I have not the necessary men at my disposal,” said the governor.

  “We have them, sir,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff. “Under the orders of one of your officers who know the country—”

  “Very well, sir, you can start at once.”

  Half an hour afterwards, a hundred men, sailors and militia, landed at Suva, under the orders of Commodore Simcoe, who had asked to take the command of the expedition. The superintendent, Sebastien Zorn, Yvernès, Frascolin, were at his side. A detachment of the Viti-Levu police went with them.

  The expedition started into the bush under the guidance of the pilot, who knew these difficult regions of the interior. They went the shortest way, and at a rapid rate, so as to reach Tampoo as quickly as possible.

  It was not necessary to go as far as the village. About an hour after midnight orders were given for the column to halt.

  In the deepest part of an almost impenetrable thicket the glare of a fire was noticed. Doubtless the natives of Tampoo were gathered here, the village being within half an hour’s march to the east.

  Commodore Simcoe, the pilot, Calistus Munbar, the three Parisians, went on in front.

  They had not gone a hundred yards before they stopped.

  In the light of the fire, surrounded by a tumultuous crowd of men and women, Pinchinat, half naked, was tied to a tree, and the Fijian chief was advancing towards him axe in hand.

  “Forward! Forward!” shouted Commodore Simcoe to his sailors and militia.

  Sudden surprise and well-grounded terror on the part of the natives, on whom the detachment spared neither fire nor steel. In a moment the place was deserted, and the whole band had dispersed under the trees.

  Pinchinat, detached from the tree, fell into the arms of his friend Frascolin.

  How can we describe the joy of these artistes, these brothers—in which were mingled a few tears, and also well-merited reproaches.

  “But, you wretch,” said the violoncellist, “what possessed you to go away from us?”

  “Wretch as much as y
ou like, my old Sebastien,” replied Pinchinat, “but do not sit upon an alto as poorly clothed as I am at this moment. Pass me my clothes, so that I can present myself before the authorities in a more suitable fashion.”

  His clothes were found at the foot of a tree, and he put them on with the greatest coolness imaginable. Then when he was “presentable “he went to shake hands with the commodore and superintendent.

  “Well,” said Calistus Munbar, “do you now believe in the cannibalism of the Fijians?”

  CHAPTER X.

  THE departure of Floating Island was fixed for the 2nd of February. The day before the excursions ended, the different tourists returned to Milliard City. The Pinchinat affair created a great sensation. All the Pearl of the Pacific was interested in his Highness, for the Concert Party were held in universal esteem. The council of notables accorded its entire approbation to the energetic conduct of the governor, Cyrus Bikerstaff. The newspapers warmly congratulated him. Pinchinat became the celebrity of the day. Could you have an alto terminating his artistic career in the stomach of a Fijian? It was cheerfully admitted that the natives of Viti-Levu had not absolutely renounced their cannibalistic tastes. After all, human flesh was so good, according to them, and this fellow, Pinchinat, was so appetizing!

  Floating Island started at daybreak and moved off towards the New Hebrides. This would take it about twelve degrees or two hundred leagues out of the way; but it could not be avoided if Captain Sarol and his companions were to be landed in the New Hebrides. No one regretted it, however. Everybody was glad to be of service to these brave fellows who had shown so much courage in the proceedings against the wild beasts. And they appeared to be so satisfied at being taken home in this way after such a long absence! Added to which it would be an opportunity of visiting a group with which the Milliardites were not yet acquainted.