Chapter Twenty-Six: Old Friends, Old Enemies
“The standing stones on Huahine rival those on neighbouring Raiatea.”
• • •
It was a joyous day the day Stuart’s luggage reappeared. It was like meeting up with an old friend again that you feared that you had lost touch with forever. The familiar, small, olive-green suitcase was sitting all alone, in an empty, dusty expanse of land, next to the docks in Fare. The ferry had arrived some two hours earlier and was now once again at sea, well on the way to Papeete. The passengers had all disembarked and were now thoroughly dispersed, some back with family, some searching for new lodgings, some to bars, some to remote dwellings on the other side of the island. Only the suitcase remained.
Stuart checked through the contents suspiciously, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that everything appeared intact. His passport was there, most importantly. And his money, all of it, as far as he could tell. He did not know who he had to be grateful to at Chez Ato for forwarding his possessions, but he offered up heartfelt thanks to them, whoever they may be. The return of his suitcase was the first step in regaining a little bit of control over his own life again. He could pay Greg back the money he had borrowed from him; in fact, it meant he could be independent from the trio of surfers completely. Stuart was only too aware that he owed them all a big favour for the support and hospitality that they had extended to him over the last couple of days, but he recognised that it was time to part company, move on, before he became resentful of his enforced infantilism at their hands. He had become the dependent, needy child in their nest; if he did not learn to flap his own wings and strike out on his own again soon, he feared that he would never regain his old identity. The suitcase was a start.
The catalyst for departure arrived sooner than Stuart could have imagined. He had only taken as many steps along the dockside as it took to remember just how awkward and inconvenient a piece of luggage the green case was, when he was stopped in his tracks. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but there was no mistaking the tall, slender frame; the elegant, poised figure, stylishly dressed in a simple, beige cotton dress, which ended just above her knees; her hair tied up in a bun, her face turned away from him. In an instant she was gone, back below the deck of a small motor launch, which was moored a short distance out in the water, alongside the copra boats in the harbour. Stuart was in no doubt; where there was Corrie, there was sure to be Norbert.
He did not run, he realised that would only draw attention to himself, but that was his immediate instinct. Instead, he concealed himself behind the rusting superstructure of one of the local boats that was moored hard up against the quayside, continuing to watch the launch from his hiding place. It was a smart vessel, not quite in the millionaire league of some of the boats that he had seen docked at the harbour-front in Papeete, but nevertheless a serious piece of ocean-going hardware. The Swiss couple had evidently fallen in with someone with some money. Stuart watched for several minutes but there was no further sign of movement on deck, and since he was beginning to elicit suspicious glances from a couple of workers, who were involved in loading quantities of unprocessed, dried coconut meat into the boat beside him, he thought that it was a wise idea to make himself scarce. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of the raw, rotting crop, which would soon be bound for the processing plants on the main island and converted to the pleasantly scented monoi used in cosmetics, ultimately to be returned to the outer islands, to be snapped up by wealthy tourists hungry for souvenirs from their hotel gift shops. Exotic riches from humble origins. Still, it was better than guano and crushed beetles.
There was a lift going as far as Maeva village. Stuart accepted it gratefully: Fare was a sleepy town at the best of times and a passing car was a rare occurrence. From Maeva, he could walk the rest of the distance, back to the camp site. He flung his suitcase in the back of the vehicle and climbed in, next to the driver, a friendly, overweight man, who chatted amicably in a mixture of French and Tahitian for the entire duration of the journey, apparently never once expecting either an answer from Stuart or even any indication that he had been understood. The white clapboard houses and dusty dock of Fare were soon a receding memory. Visions of the private motor launch and the image of Corrie were not going to prove so easy to consign to the past. If he had only known what was awaiting him at Maeva, Stuart might even have preferred his chances with the Swiss duo.
Maeva is one of the most important archaeological sites in all of French Polynesia. In the tiny, windswept village, overlooking the dark waters of Maeva lake and the flat coastal plain, are the shrines to sixteen local chieftains. Pagan monuments to ancient power. The great slabs of standing stones and the complicated, mosaic-like pavements of smaller rocks at their base, which make up these marae, are silent witnesses to five centuries of island life; mute observers of history, like the carved heads on Easter Island or the stone circles of Druidic Britain. Stuart felt a frisson of excitement standing in front of the largest of these monuments. There was an atmosphere of anticipation, as though the whole environment was holding its breath, the only sounds the gentle lapping of water, where the lagoon met the shore, and the occasional, harsh laughter of a sea bird, high overhead. It was like a moment suspended in time. Mere stones should not be able to conjure up such powerful emotions; it was not even as though Stuart could imagine himself, back then, in the times when men had sweated to construct these monuments, or when the chieftains, of which these stones were now the only solid memory, had ruled over this lush paradise. The sensations existed in the here and now, they were real; they had nothing to do with past glories, more with belief of future triumphs, a collective expectation of when the empty, village streets would once again be filled with the sounds of activity and the power of the Ancients would once again rule. Stuart did not consider himself a spiritual man, but it was hard not to lose yourself in thoughts beyond those purely physical, standing in front of this place where so many before had offered up their sacrifices and stood in worship. If anyone was looking down on him, judging him against those that had gone before, Stuart thought that he must look a fairly poor specimen, a slight, bespectacled figure, in loose, ill-fitting, surfer’s garb (borrowed) bearing a dusty, green suitcase. It did not seem like progress, from proud, Polynesian leader to transient, Western traveller, but perhaps it represented some sort of step forward, the very fact that a commoner could stand by the side of a king.
Little did he know it but, at that moment, there was someone looking down on Stuart, although not in the spiritual sense that Stuart had imagined. If he had turned around, momentarily abstracted himself from his contemplation, and glanced towards the crest of the steep incline that rose immediately up from the rear of the village, he might have noticed a figure, the face unnaturally white, observing him with a critical eye, but by the time that Stuart had come out of his reverie, and done just that, the figure had gone.
The hill presented a steep climb, and the suitcase was proving an increasing burden. Stuart had contemplated leaving it, concealed, at the base of the slope, but having only just regained possession of his faithful companion he was loathe to part with it again so soon. It had been Skin that had mentioned the temple and had inadvertently set Stuart on his present excursion. He would not have been the first person you would have thought it of, but Skin appeared to know quite a lot about the archaeology and history of the island, and had told Stuart about the Maeva site on one of their interminable car journeys between the camp site and the surfing beaches.
“Just watch the mozzies, man. They’re mean as hell once you get out of the breeze. All that standing water in the lagoon, they breed like...” Skin had laughed at that point and had put his arm around the still passive Dale. Just the thought of mosquitoes was enough to make Stuart experience the sensation as though something was crawling across his exposed flesh. He slapped his hand against his bare forearm, but when he drew his hand back to look there was nothing ther
e. Glancing at his leg, though, he noticed a neat row of red dots across the back of his calf. He bent down to scratch the itchy weals, managed with an effort to resist the temptation and, instead, turned his attention back to the path ahead. If he was on the right track, according to Skin’s description of the site, he should be able to see the temple when he reached the top of the hill.
Close to the end of the trail, Stuart’s foot slipped on the dry surface disturbing some loose scree and stones, and he almost lost hold of his suitcase, barely managing to regain his balance by putting one hand down on the rising path to steady himself. The small stones he displaced rolled down the track he had just taken, gaining speed as they disappeared. Stuart took it as a sign to stop and admire the view. Vast as the lagoon had appeared close up, from the top of the hill it was possible to see the extent of its range, and the thin stretch of low-lying land which protectively separated it from the truly vast reaches of the ocean beyond.
To the uninformed, the temple was not so significantly different to the marae, that Stuart had already examined in the village. He wished he knew a little more of the history of the standing stones and of the people that had erected them. Seeing another similar site a few hundreds metres distant, Stuart began to pick a route through the patchy carpet of green ferns and rocky outcrops, in the hope that enlightenment might be on hand. In other countries there would have been a helpful plaque beside such an important monument, giving a digestible chunk of information, and a mass of signage outlining all other places of interest within a walkable radius. There would have been a well worn path, and a mass of equally world-weary tourists, snapping with their cameras and looking for the nearest place to sit down, have a drink, and find a souvenir to buy. Stuart was relieved that here there was nothing, just an ancient excavation gradually being reclaimed by the sparse vegetation.
An immense banyan tree, its roots breaking through the dry ground in great, knobbly mounds, towered over the second temple, and Stuart took the opportunity to find a piece of shade, sitting down in a hollow between two of the exposed, branch-like roots, his back leaning against the hard trunk, his elbows resting on the natural, wooden armrests. He shifted his position slightly to get more comfortable, placing his case behind him to form a cushion against the unresisting tree. He closed his eyes and imagined himself in the role of an ancient chief, sitting on his throne, presiding over his island, ages past. Would there have been human sacrifices? It seemed quite likely. The skulls of the vanquished would adorn the massive tree like baubles on a Christmas fir. It was a world of make-believe, he was happy to momentarily enter, taking him centuries distant from his present anxieties.
Opening his eyes was to bring him back to reality with a jolt. A moment later and he would not have seen him, it was just that fraction of a second, his eyes still adjusting to the sudden blaze of sunlight striking them, that he saw the figure walk past his arboreal retreat. It was the albino man, there was no mistaking him. Suddenly the thought of human sacrifices seemed a little too close for comfort. Memories of Stefan were brought back too much to the fore.
It was a miracle that Stuart was not noticed. It was only the size of the giant fig tree which saved him. The top of the hill was a relatively flat plateau with few opportunities for cover, the trees and bushes being intermittent and the groups of standing stones some considerable distance from each other. Stuart peered out from his hiding place and observed the progress of the swiftly retreating man. He appeared to be on some sort of mission, such was the determined nature of his stride. There was little doubt in Stuart’s mind now that this island character was solid flesh and blood and not the wraith that he had almost persuaded himself existed. The Polynesians are great believers in ghosts; alone, in these lonely, mystical places, it was easy to see why. Stuart still felt slightly distrustful of himself, the seven unaccounted days were evidence that he was not entirely in command of his own consciousness, nevertheless a basic, animal instinct still operated, telling him that he was in the presence of evil incarnate whenever the albino man was on the scene. Could it just be coincidence that Norbert and Corrie had appeared on Huahine at the same time? It seemed unlikely. Despite grave misgivings at the course of action upon which he was about to embark, Stuart decided he had to know what was going on. Leaving his suitcase concealed among the expansive roots of the banyan tree, he emerged from his sanctuary and, keeping a considerable distance between himself and his adversary, followed in the other man’s tread, trusting that the albino was too occupied with his own errand to turn around and notice his attendant shadow.
The albino was heading south, directly away from the lagoon, crossing the top of Matairea Hill, keeping on a course roughly parallel to a narrow channel of water, which, if he followed it to its ultimate source, would bring him out quite close to the camp site where Stuart and the surf boys were currently billeted. It was the route that Stuart had been planning to follow from Maeva. The albino man’s rendezvous occurred long before he ever reached the beach and the camp site though.
Stuart never saw the other man’s face, he could barely even hear his voice. The first moment Stuart saw that something had changed ahead was when he realised that he had significantly closed the gap between himself and the white-faced Polynesian. The other man had stopped and was standing beside the escarpment leading down to the tributary from the lagoon, evidently hailing someone who was making their way up that side of the hill from somewhere out of sight below. Stuart knew that there was a narrow bridge across the strait further along and imagined that this must be the direction from which the newcomer was arriving. There were so few adequate places for concealment any closer to the halting point, that Stuart took his opportunity to duck down behind a raised stone platform of the nearest marae, peering out, hopeful to glean some small piece of information about the mysterious individual and whether his arrival on Huahine had anything to do with Stuart’s own presence there. Paranoid? Stuart might have preferred ‘cautious’ as a description of his current state of mind. The stone block looked slightly too similar to an altar - with all its attendant associations - for Stuart’s liking, but it provided a place to observe and not be observed, albeit from a distance.
There was an embrace of welcome between the albino man and his companion and an exchange of greetings carried out in loud voices, before a more intimate conversation in quieter, more anxious tones. The new arrival was largely hidden from Stuart’s view behind the albino, and even as the two men started to retrace the Polynesian’s steps, returning back along the path, bringing them ever closer to Stuart’s hiding place, he was still unable to distinguish the other man. There was something familiar about him, something familiar about his voice too, but he could not drag a name out of his memory on the scant evidence he was sending to his brain. The men were conversing in French and, in their hushed voices, Stuart was unable to make out more than a few words.
On their present course, they would pass within a few yards of where Stuart sat, uncomfortably hidden behind his stone block, but he was confident that unless they actually made a point of examining the monument, they would pass right by without seeing him. Not a sound, though. The slightest noise would give away his presence. Stuart could feel the sweat running off his forehead as the crunch of the approaching footsteps drew ever nearer and the men’s voices sounded momentarily louder.
“Est-ce que vous avez toujours les negatifs de la jeune fille Americaine?”
“Oui.”
“Et vous croyez vraiment qu’elle payera de nouveau?”
“Mais bien sûr, que oui.”
The two men passed by and their voices once again became unintelligible. The American girl? There must be hundreds of candidates on the islands, but Stuart could only presume that it was Courtney who was the subject of their discussion. It sounded as though each one of the three hopeful travellers that had arrived at Faaa Airport together, not so many weeks before, had failed to discover their paradise.
Stuart did not have time to speculate just exactly what was the meaning of the albino and his companion’s words, but he had a flashback of the tear-streaked face of Courtney, the last time that he had met her in Viatape. There could be no doubt that she was in trouble of some sort and that the albino was involved. For the first time in several minutes, Stuart became aware of the perilousness of his own situation. Fear had so long been his constant companion that he had almost become immune to it but, like a chronic pain, despite occasionally being able to block it from your mind, it was always there, ready to resurface and subsume all other emotions. Now it gripped and paralysed him. He could not even move to look out from his hiding place to make sure the others had completely deserted the plateau. He waited, his heart racing, struggling to control his breathing. There were too many things to think about. Stefan, of course. Poor Stefan. Why hadn’t he just reported the accident like he should have done? He had been an idiot to get caught up in things that did not concern him. It had partly been the drink that evening. He hadn’t been thinking correctly. And some foolish, sentimental emotions towards Jenny, perhaps? He could stand back and recognise this objectively now. And what good had it done her? Now there was Norbert and Corrie. There was the cheese-thief. There was the albino man. Plus seven days that he couldn’t account for. He was losing grip, he realised it. Nemesis had shown that she was prepared to follow him from one island to the next, it was now time to see if she could straddle continents.
Big Fish Page 27