Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  He glanced at his watch. Nearly one o’clock. The High Commission didn’t open on Saturday but Tim knew his secretary’s home telephone number. He could at least make some enquiries about finding help for Devereaux. It would mean revealing his whereabouts but to hell with that. He’d face Martin Flower’s disapproval when the time came. Lana should, this very minute, be at Henning’s lunch party at his farm near Kasungu. ‘Better not try and contact her there,’ he thought. ‘She might let something slip to Henning. I’m not certain that he’d take the news too calmly.’

  The tall figure in white coming towards him was Father Smice. ‘Good afternoon, Father.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Gilbey. I was hoping to find you.’ The priest slowed and stood, waiting for Tim to join him. Sunlight glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses and a slight breeze ruffled his surplice. With a backdrop of deep blue lake behind him, he looked like a painting.

  ‘Well here I am,’ Tim said, stopping in front of the man.

  ‘Not wasting any time I see. Do you find our island to your liking?’

  ‘It’s very beautiful.’ Tim glanced around. ‘Is that your airstrip?’ It was rustic to say the least. Gravel which had been levelled by hand and, Tim suspected, its length would be on the borderline of any legal requirements. Grass grew in clumps and cattle and goats grazed on it. Children were playing at the far end and, every now and then, people crossed from one side to the other.

  Father Smice smiled. ‘It lends a certain excitement to landing and taking off.’ He pointed to a large tree. ‘See that baobab? That’s the departure lounge.’

  Tim laughed. ‘It’s a lot nicer than some.’

  ‘Yes,’ the priest nodded. ‘But not when it’s raining.’ He turned and they began walking. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Following my nose I suppose. I’ve seen the north, now I want to look at the south. Tell me, Father, does the island have a telephone?’

  ‘Several. Not all of them work but you should find at least one that does. You have to go through the operator. There’s a pay phone outside the post office but I understand it is not working at the moment. If you run into difficulties let me know. You can use ours at the cathedral.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Who would you want to phone so soon after arriving I wonder?’ the priest teased. He glanced at Tim. ‘Do you mind? When one lives on a place like Likoma even the smallest item of news is interesting.’

  Tim thought there was hardly much point in hiding his discovery of Devereaux from Father Smice. If a doctor came in to examine the man the entire island would hear of it. ‘Did you know, Father, that a white man lives in Chief Mbeya’s village?’

  The priest stared straight ahead. ‘Mpasa. Yes, I know of him.’

  ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘What is your intention?’ the priest countered. Then added, ‘Why is this of concern to you?’

  ‘I mean him no harm.’

  Father Smice stopped walking. ‘There is a good view of the bay from here. We will sit.’ He moved off the track, folded his surplice neatly around him and sat on the grass. ‘Is he the reason you are here?’

  Tim shook his head. ‘I found him quite by accident.’

  ‘What is your interest in Mpasa?’

  ‘Quite a coincidence really. His daughter has just come to Malawi to try and find out what became of her father. He was a geologist. He disappeared here fifteen years ago.’

  ‘What makes you think that Mpasa is this girl’s missing father?’

  ‘Two things. The family resemblance is very strong. They are undoubtedly related. That, and the time Mpasa has been here. It coincides with the time her father has been missing. The daughter believes he is dead.’

  Father Smice looked thoughtfully out across the lake. ‘And so he is,’ he murmured. ‘If Mpasa is her missing father then the man she knew in his body is long gone.’

  ‘I know,’ Tim agreed. ‘But his family still have a right to know.’

  The priest sighed. ‘I have long pondered the ethics of hiding this man. When he first came to us . . .’ Father Smice’s voice trailed off. He shook his head and came to a decision. ‘He had been shot. I have never seen a wound like it. A part of his head was blown away.’

  ‘Why didn’t you contact the mainland and get help?’

  ‘We expected him to die. Try to understand, Mr Gilbey. When Mpasa arrived, no-one thought he would last the day. He had been in the water for a very long time and his injuries were terrible. The villagers did what they could, made him comfortable, and waited for the end.’

  ‘Which never came.’

  ‘Each day we thought that today would be the one when he would die. For weeks Mpasa lay in a semi-coma. When he was lucid he was in great mental torment. Shaking, crying, displaying much fear. By the time Chief Mbeya’s people realised that he would probably live, he had been with them for almost two months. The Chief held a meeting of elders. They voted to keep Mpasa a secret. You see, Mr Gilbey, it was feared that we would all be in great trouble with the law if it became known that we had hidden a white man for so long.’

  ‘Especially since nothing was done to make him better,’ Tim said sharply.

  Father Smice fiddled with his glasses. ‘That is not so, Mr Gilbey,’ he said finally. ‘It is because of our own medicine men that Mpasa lives. You see, once it became apparent that he wasn’t going to die immediately, our people used traditional methods to cure him.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Tim said. ‘If he had got help immediately he might not be so injured now.’

  ‘Mr Gilbey,’ the priest said patiently. ‘If he had been moved off this island he would have died.’

  Tim didn’t argue. It was fifteen years ago. No-one could prove otherwise now. Still, it was a sore point between the two of them. ‘I can understand the villagers’ concern. I find it hard to accept yours. Surely the moral issue alone should have told you that Mpasa came from somewhere and that others would be looking for him?’

  Father Smice looked unhappy. ‘I am a priest and have taken certain vows. But, Mr Gilbey, I am also one of Chief Mbeya’s people. He is my Chief and when he orders me to do something, I am obliged to do it.’ Father Smice folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. ‘There is something else,’ he said. ‘Whatever trouble Mpasa had been in, we did not wish it to visit this island. We are a peaceful people.’

  ‘This trouble you speak of. Do you know what it could have been?’

  ‘I wish I did, Mr Gilbey. All I can tell you is whatever it was, it still causes Mpasa anguish.’

  ‘If that is the case, Father, couldn’t there be something left of the man Mpasa used to be?’

  ‘I do not think so.’ Father Smice was still looking down at his hands. ‘Mpasa must have swum to Likoma and yet, when he began to recover, he could not even remember how to walk or talk. I think his swimming here was instinctive. His fear is also instinctive.’ The priest raised his eyes to Tim’s. ‘There is nothing left of the one you seek, only the one you see remains.’

  ‘But I must try and help him.’

  ‘You cannot. If his routine is broken he becomes terrified.’

  ‘I don’t want to take him away. I can arrange for a doctor to come here. If we get Chief Mbeya’s cooperation there is no need for Mpasa to leave.’

  ‘And why would you be doing this, Mr Gilbey?’

  ‘For his daughter’s sake.’

  Father Smice nodded. ‘Will we be in trouble?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. It was too long ago and it is clear that you have taken great care of him.’

  The priest looked relieved. ‘Then, Mr Gilbey, if Chief Mbeya and the church speak as one, the people of Likoma will undoubtedly cooperate.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘And now, the reason I was looking for you. The Bishop sent me to ask if you would care to come to dinner this evening. He wishes to meet you. We manage quite a good table.’

  ‘I would be delighted to accept.’ Tim rose as well.

&
nbsp; Father Smice smiled. ‘We cannot compete with the meals where you are staying but our food is all home grown. Simple but good.’

  ‘I’ll bring a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Do not bother, Mr Gilbey. We make our own.’

  Father Smice left Tim to continue his walk to the southern tip of Likoma, having warned him to keep well away from several small beaches. ‘We still practise segregated bathing on Likoma,’ he told Tim. ‘If you go near to where the women bathe . . .’ he smiled and spread his hands. ‘Let’s just say that not even God could protect you.’

  Tim enjoyed the walk. The islanders were certainly industrious. Evidence of their farming skills filled every available pocket of arable land. Out on the lake, Tim could see the dugout canoes of island fishermen. On one beach a net was being hauled in. Women, bent at the waist, were washing clothes. Men and women carried produce to market. He passed a mission school and listened to the children singing in English. It was idyllic, yet strangely odd that such a remote community spoke almost perfect English. Likoma was a relic of the past, a place where little had changed in the last hundred years, the legacy of missionaries who blundered through Africa dispensing religion and morals. Despite their best intentions, so much had been lost. Winchester Cathedral belonged in Winchester. Perfect English belonged in England. Although the islanders seemed proud of their ability to speak English, Tim noticed that they rarely did amongst themselves.

  A woman in a small shop amid a sprawling clutter of huts cheerfully sold Tim a couple of bananas, an orange and a bottle of lemonade. Tim finished his brief tour of the island and made his way back to Chipyela, the main village. He wondered, as others probably had before him, what kind of macabre sense of symbolism caused the missionaries to build their cathedral directly over ‘the burning place’, which is what Chipyela translated as in English.

  It was past four by the time he arrived back at the camp.

  The manager greeted him – ‘I am most rude, Mr Gilbey. My name is Wireless, I am the manager.’ He was disappointed that Tim would not be having dinner there but cheered up when he learned that his one and only guest had been invited to dine at the cathedral. ‘They don’t do that very often.’

  Tim, still trying to come to terms with the proprietor’s name, responded absently, ‘Do you have a telephone?’

  Wireless looked crestfallen. ‘You must be an important man,’ he reflected aloud, determined to learn why his guest had been invited to dine with the priests.

  Realising the man was desperate for gossip which would undoubtedly find its way to every corner of the island by tomorrow, Tim gave him what he sought. ‘I work for the British High Commission. I think the Bishop wants to know why I’m here. Father Smice seems to think I have something to do with a tourist lodge proposed for Likoma.’ It was a fair enough response. Tim had provided the man with hardly any information, but he had done it in such a way as to invite speculation. He wondered, by the time the gossip extended to both ends of the island, what rumours would be spread.

  Wireless was satisfied. ‘The telephone is through here, Mr Gilbey. It is working today I think.’ Then he looked sorrowful. ‘But, Mr Gilbey, so sorry, the post office is closed now. The telephone operator will not be there until the day after tomorrow. Unfortunately, the pay phone is broken. I am sorry.’

  There was nothing Tim could do about John Devereaux until Monday.

  Dinner at the cathedral had been a pleasant and somewhat informative affair. Father Smice, who appeared to regard Tim as his own personal property, insisted on a guided tour before taking him to meet the others. The cathedral itself was indeed magnificent, bathed in the most spectacularly red sunset Tim had ever seen. Father Smice proudly showed Tim the crucifix above the altar. ‘The wood comes from the village where Dr Livingstone died,’ he explained.

  ‘I thought David Livingstone died in Zambia.’

  ‘So he did. Chitambo. But, Mr Gilbey, that was just an accident of time. Dr Livingstone belonged to Nyasaland. He discovered the Lake of Stars.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Through the stained glass window shimmering waters reflected the last rays of sunset. Father Smice chuckled. ‘You are looking at it now, Mr Gilbey. That is how the good doctor described Lake Malawi.’

  ‘Lake of Stars. He must have loved Nyasaland.’

  ‘We believe he felt more at home here than anywhere else in Africa. Indeed, his writings would indicate that he did.’

  The priest’s reverence for the legendary missionary was evident. ‘A truly remarkable man,’ Tim offered.

  ‘Not always easy to get along with,’ Father Smice admitted, proving that, while he was prepared to hero-worship David Livingstone he was not blind to the man’s many faults. ‘In the end, though, he mellowed. We believe he became truly a saint on that last journey.’

  They left the altar and went outside. The sunset was almost garish. ‘If a painter represented the true colour of this it would not be believed,’ Tim commented.

  Father Smice agreed. ‘I feel very close to God at this time of day.’ He turned to Tim. ‘Tell me, do you believe in God?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ Tim said with no hesitation. ‘But not to the extent that I would make worshipping Him my life.’

  Again, the priest chuckled. ‘Do not worry, Mr Gilbey. I am not trying to convert you.’ He took Tim’s arm. ‘This way. I want to show you something.’ Signs of an attempt to tame some of the overgrown garden were in evidence. Father Smice led Tim to a wooden trapdoor set into the ground close behind the cathedral. ‘This was discovered recently. We had no idea it was here. We think it was built centuries ago. Some say it’s part of the cathedral but there does not appear to be any way through from inside. Certainly, earlier inhabitants knew of it. I have been looking through our archives. It was sealed in 1942.’

  The trapdoor was solid and showed no undue stress at having been concealed under shrubbery for many decades. A rusted staple and hasp with a very large padlock, which, in contrast, looked brand new, prevented the trapdoor from being lifted. ‘If it was part of the cathedral you would expect there to be another way in,’ Tim said.

  ‘We have looked. There are no signs of a sealed entrance anywhere inside. Our head office archivist has examined the original plans and this crypt does not appear on them.’ Father Smice grinned. ‘It’s a delicious mystery which has us all guessing.’

  ‘The padlock is new.’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately the man who found this could not contain his curiosity. We have locked the door in case others are tempted.’

  ‘Who found it?’ Tim asked, probing for a name. Father Smice had to use Hamilton’s name before Tim.

  ‘One of the Brothers.’

  ‘He must have been excited at such a discovery,’ Tim pushed further.

  ‘He was too excited,’ Father Smice said soberly. ‘The crypt was obviously sealed. He broke the seal.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  The priest led Tim away. ‘Crypts have been sealed before. Usually to hide a dreadful secret. Whoever sealed this one did so for a good reason. Brother Hamilton should not have opened it.’

  ‘It’s only a room,’ Tim protested. Good! That gets that out of the way.

  ‘If the crypt is part of the cathedral then this is consecrated ground,’ Father Smice explained. ‘To open the crypt requires a long process. It can only be done by one who is trained for such things. None of us here has the training. Brother Hamilton should have known better.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘No,’ the priest said sadly. ‘Unfortunately, he was recalled to England. I believe he is no longer with the Church.’

  ‘Did he find why the crypt had been sealed?’

  ‘He said it was empty. It is not for us to know.’ Father Smice indicated a low wing of the cathedral. ‘Come. The others wait to meet you.’

  Tim was introduced to the assembled clergy. The Bishop, an immensely charming and serene man from America, asked a number of probing questions
about Tim’s visit. The rumours of a tourist complex had been circulating Likoma for several years. The Bishop wanted to know if they were true. The more Tim dodged around his enquiries, the more they all became convinced that the real reason for Tim’s visit had something to do with development of their island. It suited Tim to allow them to believe that, though he was unhappy that he might be building up false hopes.

  They were a mixed bag around the table. Some were fully ordained priests, others missionaries with specialised training. One man – and Tim was unclear what he did on the island – was from the Basque Provinces and his swarthy face was almost obliterated by a huge and luxuriously bushy beard. He appeared to be suffering some kind of throat disorder. A gauze bandage covered his Adam’s apple and his voice was a quiet growl.

  Two of the men were from Belgium and Tim mentally dubbed them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both were painfully thin, with soulful, fatigue-smudged eyes, overlong noses and down-turned mouths. They reminded Tim of a breed of sheep, though he couldn’t quite recall which one. He was not surprised to learn later in the evening that they were twins.

  They were a jovial lot, well-read and travelled and prepared to discuss just about anything. A couple of them were also remarkably fond of red wine which flowed freely from what Tim thought must be a bottomless barrel in an adjoining room. The meal was roast chicken from the island which was both succulent and delicious. ‘Corn-fed,’ a quietly spoken Malawian priest from Lilongwe explained. Vegetables accompanying the chicken were home grown. A variety of cheeses made on the island followed.

  Port was passed clockwise around the table. Replete and relaxed as they seemed to be, Tim thought it a good time to raise the subject of the crypt.

  ‘We warned him,’ the Frenchman rasped softly. ‘Where did it get him? There was nothing in there.’

  ‘Why would it be sealed if there was nothing there?’ Tim asked.

  The swarthy features of the Frenchman scowled as he leaned towards Tim, and port spilled, unnoticed, on the snowy tablecloth. ‘Who knows? Perhaps something dreadful happened in there.’ He leaned back again. ‘There are always reasons.’