Silent One

by Cowley, Joy

  Aesake stopped. ‘Who told you where I was going?’

  ‘You don’t take the ceremonial spear for hunting,’ said Luisa. She grabbed his arm. ‘Aesake, I beg you. Take the Silent One with you.’

  Aesake shook his head.

  ‘With you he’s safe,’ she said. ‘Aesake, please, today they will kill him.’

  Aesake lifted her hand off his arm. ‘He can’t come with me, Luisa. But don’t worry. He’s in no danger here. No one will touch him while he has my father’s protection.’

  ‘I tell you they will kill him!’ Luisa’s voice was shrill. ‘I know it. Early this morning I saw the sign of death. I did. Across the moon, a cloud the colour of blood.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, old woman,’ said Aesake, trying to edge past her. ‘Your thoughts are always full of blood and death. You are a miserable old woman, and you make me miserable listening to you. No harm will come to Jonasi. But if it makes you feel better, why don’t you look after him. Stay in the bure all day and keep him with you. But don’t delay me when I am on an errand for my father.’

  He hurried away, angry with himself because he’d lost respect for her age and talked sharply to her.

  The road to Ramatau was worse than he feared, and the streams he’d waded several weeks before had changed their courses to become dangerous rivers, wide, swift, and brown with mud.

  Everywhere he saw disorder and destruction. It was mid-afternoon before he reached Ramatau, and by then he knew that his father’s hopes were useless. The hurricane had crushed this village too, leaving it as desolate as his own. Trees had been pulled from the earth as though they were weeds and strewn across the roadway. A banana plantation had been flattened, then submerged in mud. Bures hung askew as though they were made of wet paper. Even the post office, built of wood and iron, had lost part of its roof. Only the small stone church seemed undamaged.

  When the people saw Aesake, they crowded around him, eager for news. He told them that his village had also suffered, and they exchanged stories of the hurricane.

  ‘You have food over there?’ asked one old man, peering into Aesake’s face.

  ‘Not enough,’ said Aesake.

  The man jabbed at him with a thin finger. ‘Tell the government man,’ he said. ‘Make sure you tell the government man.’

  Aesake thought him a little crazy, but in the post office he discovered that the old grandfather had indeed spoken wise words. There was a stranger sitting at the table beside the postmaster, an English stranger with a red beard, red hair, red skin, and red-rimmed blue eyes. He wore a shirt patched with sweat and open half way down the front, showing hair as thick as red moss. There was a pencil behind his ear. When he wasn’t wiping his face with his handkerchief or slapping at flies, he wrote notes on paper and passed them across to the postmaster, who sat at the wireless with earphones on his head, tapping out messages.

  The Redbeard looked hot, uncomfortable, and busy, but he stopped to talk to Aesake and asked him questions about his village.

  ‘Haven’t got around to visiting your people yet. I’m afraid you’re pretty well last on the list.’ He opened a large book full of close writing and ran his pencil down a page. ‘Let’s see. Yes, I’ll be calling on you in a couple of days. Any casualties in your village? Dead? Injured?’

  ‘No,’ said Aesake. ‘No one.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’ The Redbeard looked surprised. ‘What’s the damage like down there?’

  ‘Well, it’s – like here, I suppose.’

  ‘And no deaths? Two were killed in Ramatau, and half a dozen injuries needed treatment. Five families had their homes demolished.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was as bad as that,’ said Aesake.

  ‘It’s flattened half the island,’ said the man. ‘It’s a national disaster, at least seventy people killed, hundreds hurt, thousands homeless, and goodness knows how many living with inadequate food and tainted water. What did you think, boy? That this little storm designed itself for your village alone? I tell you, it’s cut a path right across the South Pacific. In Sevu alone, six people died.’ He tapped his pencil on the book. ‘The whole world has heard about this hurricane. Do you realise that? Even the King of England knows about it. And that, young man, is why I’m here.’

  ‘King George sent you?’ said Aesake in amazement.

  ‘No, no.’ The Redbeard wiped his face. ‘Not directly. Through the Colonial Office, you understand. I’m the senior native affairs officer for this island, and when something like this happens I have to file a full report. I’ve been going right around the island, assessing the hurricane damage in each area and sending reports through to Sevu. I work out how much relief is needed. Later, my boys will supervise its delivery to each of your villages.’

  Suddenly Aesake saw the importance of this man, of his questions and his pieces of paper. ‘The government is sending us food!’

  ‘There’ll be enough to tide you over until you’re self-sufficient again. Milk powder, flour, chickens, a couple of pigs, it all depends on the needs of the village.’

  Aesake smiled. ‘This news will gladden my father.’

  ‘At least you won’t starve,’ said the Redbeard, and he became busy again with his pencil.

  Aesake watched him for a while, then had a disturbing thought. ‘But Sevu was also hit by the hurricane,’ he said. ‘Where will the food come from?’

  The Redbeard slapped his hand on the table, scattering his papers. ‘You lot are all the same,’ he said. ‘You think Sevu is the beginning and end of the universe. Ships, boy. From other islands, from countries you’ve never heard of. Two days ago a boatload of food and medical supplies left Sydney, Australia, and it’s on its way here this very minute. There’s more to the world than a few clumps of coconuts, you know.’

  Aesake felt he’d probably learnt more at school about other countries than this fat Englishman would ever know, but now was not the time to speak back. He stood straight and bowed his head slightly. ‘Thank you. I will tell my father.’

  ‘Two days, remember,’ said the Redbeard. ‘I’ll be coming by launch on my way back to Sevu.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Aesake said.

  The postmaster had left the radio and was now pouring himself a glass of water from a cracked jug. ‘Don’t go without the chief’s parcel,’ he said.

  Aesake had forgotten about the weighing machine. He waited while the postmaster sorted through a bin for a small brown package.

  ‘Is that all?’ Aesake asked. ‘There should be a letter too.’

  ‘No, only the parcel.’

  ‘But isn’t there a letter to my father from Sevu?’

  ‘I would have remembered,’ said the postmaster. ‘No, nothing. Never mind, perhaps it’ll come in next week’s mail.’ He hesitated. ‘You’ll be hungry,’ he said. ‘I’d ask you to eat with my family only there isn’t – there’s not even – ’

  ‘It’s all right. I know,’ said Aesake. ‘Our village is the same. Anyway, I must get back as soon as I can to tell my father the news.’

  The Redbeard looked up. ‘Goodbye, young fellow. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you the morning after tomorrow.’

  Aesake hardly noticed the difficulties on his return journey, the washed-out paths, the flooded streams. His feet were swift with good tidings. He walked with speed, the package tied around his neck, Vueti’s spear resting on his shoulder. His father would be well pleased. He would not be forced to beg at the feet of the chief of Ramatau. Instead he’d been offered the help of King George of England. What a good thing this was, that his father could keep his pride and at the same time feed his people. The ships were already on their way.

  Evening came while Aesake was still some miles from home. A soft warm darkness hid the earth’s wounds and filled the air with the singing of frogs and cicadas. The air was so calm it was difficult to believe that there’d been a hurricane or that the island had known anything but peace.

  Then, as Aesake came down the hills towards the v
illage, another noise rose to meet him, thin and faint through the night. It was not the trill of insects or the call of a bird. It came in waves, gradually growing louder, a high-pitched sound of torment.

  Aesake knew. He’d heard the sound before. Human voices joined in an animal cry so shrill that it shaved the hair on the back of his neck and ran a knife blade down his spine.

  It was the wail of death.

  Aesake stood still. They’ve done it, he thought. They’ve killed the Silent One.

  But even as the thought came to him, he realised that the wailing was not for a boy, and certainly not for Jonasi. It was the cry of mourning for a man of status in the tribe.

  Aesake ran like a hunted animal. He stumbled, fell, ran again, fought aside branches, and tripped over things unseen. Panic gave him strength. He set his bearings by the small point of orange light that marked the village, and plunged through the bush. Each step increased his certainty.

  Something had happened to his father, Taruga Vueti.

  As he came to the clearing, the cry of mourning reached out to embrace him with a sound more terrible than the wind of the hurricane. He raced to his father’s bure, pushed past the people who stood outside, and burst through the doorway.

  He stopped.

  His father was not dead.

  Taruga Vueti stood in front of three of the village elders. All four heads were turned towards Aesake and all wore the same expression, a waiting stillness. The orange light of the torches spread the chief’s shadow across the far wall and ceiling and made his presence a fearful thing.

  Aesake fell face forward on the floor, panting, bleeding from scratches, too exhausted to speak.

  No one moved. They watched him with wooden faces until he was able to pick himself up and back away on his hands and knees towards the door. ‘I’m – I’m sorry, Father. Forgive me, I thought – ’

  Vueti held up his hand. ‘You had no way of knowing, Aesake,’ he said. ‘You are forgiven.’

  ‘I was sure – ’ Aesake couldn’t say it. ‘I heard cries of mourning.’

  His father nodded, then motioned him to stand. ‘Death has been here in your absence. One of us has been taken from his place in the tribe.’

  On his feet, Aesake could see, behind his father, the funeral mat and the body of a man covered in tapa cloth.

  ‘Killed by a shark this morning,’ said his father, and he lifted back the cloth.

  Aesake had seen death before, but never anything as violent as this. Somewhere below the man’s waist there was a mass of torn flesh, a red gaping mouth that proclaimed the loss of the right leg. It had completely gone, been wrenched away from the hip. The wound was enormous. Blood had congealed around the blue-whiteness of the bone and already the shreds of flesh were seething with maggots.

  Chief Vueti dropped the cloth as Aesake saw the man’s face.

  It was Tasiri.

  Chapter 10

  Vueti Makes a Decision

  They said that Tasiri had been fishing in the bay of mangroves when the shark attacked. A shark twice as long as a man, some said, with a fin that split the water like a sail. But others said no, it wasn’t a shark but a turtle, a great white turtle that had changed its shape when it saw Tasiri.

  There was even some disagreement among the men who were there when it happened. Some claimed this, others said that. But one thing was sure: the attack was so sudden that Tasiri had had no time to draw his knife. There had been a great churning of foam, a scream, and then the muddy water had been stained with the darker brown of blood. The men had pulled the twitching remains of Tasiri’s body ashore. He was dead, some said, the whole of his right leg torn away. No, no, said others, not dead but dying fast and with only enough strength to shriek, ‘Vakavulavula – the white one, the white one!’ before his spirit left him.

  And did not Bulai, first to reach the village with the news, claim to have actually seen the shark turn back into a white turtle and swim away with Tasiri’s leg?

  Now a new rumour reached Luisa’s ears. People were saying that Jonasi had ordered Tasiri’s death. The Silent One had been there, they said, and when he’d seen Tasiri, he’d come riding on the back of the turtle as though it were a canoe. It was at Jonasi’s command that the creature had changed its shape and attacked, they said.

  As the talk swept around her like a breeze, Luisa trembled. ‘It’s not true!’ she cried to whoever was near. ‘The boy was with me. He was here all day.’

  The people turned away from her and ignored her words. They were still mourning for Tasiri, but once he was laid to rest, their grief would demand some action. It would be only a matter of time before they demanded Jonasi’s life.

  On the afternoon of the day following the accident, Aesake went to Luisa. ‘My father would speak with you,’ he said.

  ‘With me?’ she gasped. ‘But why? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘It concerns Jonasi,’ Aesake said.

  ‘Jonasi has done nothing either,’ said Luisa. ‘It’s all wicked talk – ’

  ‘Hush, old woman,’ said Aesake. ‘I know that. So does my father. He wants to help the Silent One. Where is he?’

  Luisa nodded towards the doorway of her bure.

  ‘Bring him with you,’ said Aesake.

  Luisa and Jonasi followed Aesake to the house of Taruga Vueti. All three bowed low in the doorway and then crept forward, heads down, into a darkened room.

  The voice of Taruga Vueti said, ‘I didn’t ask to see the boy.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father,’ said Aesake. ‘But it was not safe to leave him on his own.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Have him wait over there,’ said the chief.

  Aesake led Jonasi to the other side of the room, and the voice of Taruga Vueti spoke again. ‘Be seated, Luisa.’

  Luisa promptly took the weight off her stiff old knees. As she sank back on the mat, she lifted her eyes a little. She had never been here before. As her sight opened to the dimness, she saw walls covered with fine tapa cloth, each piece ornate with tribal patterns, and hung with the spears and clubs of many ancestors. She saw in the shadow before her the figure of Taruga Vueti, so still and forbidding that she could no longer remember what he was like as a small boy. He was the chief, all powerful, and his stern manner made her feel that it was she who was now the child. She lowered her head again. ‘Yes, Ratu,’ she said.

  Taruga Vueti turned to his son. ‘Aesake, did you tell this woman why I sent for her?’

  ‘No, Father,’ said Aesake. ‘I said only that it concerned Jonasi.’

  The chief nodded, his eyes distant with thought. ‘The unrest in the village has become an ugly thing,’ he said to Luisa. ‘You have heard the talk?’

  ‘They are mad!’ Luisa’s voice found strength again. ‘It’s not Jonasi who has the evil spirit. It’s the people. They talk in sickness like crazy dogs.’

  ‘I know what they say,’ said Vueti. ‘And they don’t talk in sickness but in fear. Who can blame them? No one, not even the leader of their tribe, can explain the strange things that have happened in the village since the boy found the white turtle.’

  ‘If I may speak, Father,’ said Aesake. ‘I can prove it to be coincidence, all of it. Tasiri died because he was a fool. No man fishes from the water at dawn when the sharks are feeding, but Tasiri did just that – and worse. They say he had two little fish hung from his waist on the side where the shark attacked.’

  ‘It’s true, it was an accident,’ Luisa said.

  Taruga Vueti looked at the far corner where Jonasi sat cross-legged, eyes down, unmoving. ‘There have been other accidents,’ the chief said.

  ‘The hurricane?’ Aesake laughed. ‘Father, tell the people what I saw and heard at Ramatau yesterday. They’ll know that the turtle had nothing to do with the hurricane. Or, if it did, then it must have protected this village because here no one was hurt.’

  ‘Bulai’s house was blown away.’

  ‘But of course,’ said Aesake. ‘That man’s as lazy
as a sea slug. His bure would have fallen down anyway.’

  The chief shook his head. ‘Bulai spoke ill of the boy. Tasiri hunted his turtle. They were his enemies.’

  ‘He has no enemies!’ shouted Luisa. Then she threw herself face-down on the floor. ‘Forgive me, Ratu, I meant no disrespect. You are right, Ratu, right as you must always be. I only beg to point out that the Silent One thinks evil of nobody. He’s a good boy, Ratu, such a good and generous – ’

  ‘That does not change what happened,’ said Taruga Vueti.

  ‘There’s a reason for everything, Father,’ said Aesake. ‘The colour of the turtle, the shark, the hurricane, even Jonasi’s silence – they all have ordinary explanations.’

  ‘And the weeks before the hurricane?’ said the chief. ‘The clouds that passed our village while our crops turned to dust? Tell me, my learned son, can you explain the drought?’

  Aesake was silent for a while. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Your school didn’t teach you everything,’ said the chief.

  ‘I know, Father. But there’ll be an explanation for the drought too, if you ask in the right place. At Sevu there’s a weather office where you can find out about these things.’

  The chief smiled as though Aesake had made some small joke. ‘I am not concerned about isolated events with ordinary explanations, my son. What concerns me is the extraordinary way these events have come together. Ah yes, you talk of coincidence and superstition. I’ve even heard you call these people ignorant. A man has to be very young to be so sure. When you have less knowledge and more wisdom, Aesake, you’ll understand that superstition is not the child of ignorance and coincidence. The teachers at your school spoke only of things seen and heard. What about the life that’s unseen and silent and that has been with us since the beginning of time?’

  ‘It was a mission school, Father,’ said Aesake. ‘We did learn about God too.’

  ‘That God knew nothing of these islands,’ said the chief. ‘Does he speak of them in his book? Does he?’

  Aesake didn’t answer.

  ‘Let me tell you why the people are afraid,’ said his father. ‘It’s not the fear of a deaf and speechless foundling, nor do they shrink from a white sea creature, a turtle with no colour. What they feel is what I feel – an evil that hangs over this village like a cold, dark cloud even on the warmest days. They can’t see it, but it chills their skin more surely than rain, and it smells worse than all the death there ever was. Where did it come from? they ask. And then they look at the Silent One.’