A Dolphins Dream (33 page)

“You know about that?”

“The village is like a person, eh, one thing with many eyes and ears. Come, I take and show you.”

Compton turned to say goodbye to Lavenia but she was already well down the hill with the children in tow. David led Compton down a narrow path into the jungle. They walked single file for a hundred yards then turned into a trail that had just recently been cut away. Coming to a small clearing, David stopped and gestured to a stone that was the size and height of a man and appeared to be growing out of the ground.

“This is the Rain Stone,” he said. “There is no other stone like it on the island. In times of no rain it was beaten with a special rod by our great grandfathers who blackened themselves with ash and dressed in leaves. They would attack it and beat it like a man until the rain came.”

“Did this ritual stop because it didn’t bring rain?” asked Compton.

“No, no. If you beat it, rain will come. But the missionaries have brought God and he decides to bring the rain if we are bad or good.”

“Cut me a stick with your cane knife.”

David smiled with the uncertainty of the freshly baptized. “This island needs much rain. The rivers are low and maybe this stone could use a good beating, eh.” He reluctantly cut away a green branch and handed it to Compton who gave the stone a good whack.

Smiling now with the certainty of the saved, a new and forgotten gleam in his eye, “No, you must beat it very hard,” enthused David.

Compton spit on his hands and began to flail away on the stone like a mad man, giving it the sort of lashing the priests of the Inquisition would look upon with favor. His display was a good deal more than David was prepared for, and his ever-present smile became tight-lipped and his eyes grew wide as he became uneasy in his movements. Compton tired eventually and his breaths came short and, having broken a good sweat, it was with everlasting relief to David that he finally tossed the rod into the jungle. “Well, that ought to do it. We don’t want to start a flood or anything.”

A nervous smile returned to David, convinced that the sighting of the Sea God had affected Keli in ways that would bear further discussion by the village elders. Remaining the good host, he replied, “It has been a long time since anyone has come to the stone for rain. I can’t recall it ever getting such a fine beating. Soon the village might call you the Rain Man who saw the Sea God.”

They followed the cut path back to the beaten trail and continued east.

“The missionaries took away more than your Rain Stone,” said Compton. “They changed your whole way of life.”

“Yes, we were very bad people until they came. We ate our brothers.”

“You mean the cannibalism?”

“Yes, very bad. We are shamed for what our great grandfathers did and we try to live good lives now.”

They turned up a path that broke away from the main trail. Here the jungle was thick and crept in a darkness that discouraged transgression.

“So which god do you believe in?” asked Compton. “The missionaries’ God or the Sea God?” 

“There must be a God to save evil people but we must eat and live, eh,’ replied David. “The sea and land are not evil so they don’t need a special God to forgive their sins.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Compton, smiling.

David returned the smile. “You could not hear it, eh.”

They came to a clearing that brought light from the caliginous vegetation and within its confines there grew a small settlement of a half-dozen bures. From out of the largest strode none other than Jokatama. Immediately Compton glanced about but only children were in evidence. They were greeted warmly by Jokatama and were ushered into his bure and there introduced to his wife, a massive woman with as large a head as Compton had ever seen who, in direct contrast to her size, moved ever-so-lightly on her feet. She left the room and returned with tea, serving the men who sat on the wooden floor that was without mat or cushion. Jokatama was considerably friendlier than the last time Compton had seen him on the beach. “Welcome to my home, Keli. You are the Man who saw the Sea God. You dive with us, eh. You dive again many times.”

“You’ve been most generous to allow me to dive with your family,” responded Compton. “Do they all live here in this settlement of yours?”

Jokatama answered proudly, “Yes, everyone, cousins, brothers, aunts, uncles, children. We make it from the timber that comes from the resort. Cut it with the chain saw, make it strong for when the hurricane comes.”

“You should be well protected here in the jungle. The hurricane would have trouble finding you.”

“The hurricane goes where it pleases. If it wants my small bure it will find it.”

A light tapping of rain could be heard on the thatched roof and within moments the drizzle erupted into a gushing downpour.

“Keli beat the Rain Stone,” proclaimed David. “Give it a good beating. Now we must call him the Rain Man who saw the Sea God.”

“It is true, you beat the Rain Stone? Have you come to bring back the old ways? Be careful the preacher doesn’t hear about this.”

Both he and David rocked with laughter. “He will get some strong boys to throw you off the island,” added David.

The rain abruptly ceased.

“That was hardly enough rain to give me credit for renewing the old ways. Surely the preacher can overlook a small shower.”

“He is already troubled by your presence,” said Jokatama. “He is afraid you might be the One.”

“Which one is that?” asked Compton, seeking the punch line to the joke.

None was forthcoming and David stood and handed his teacup to Jokatama’s wife who had reentered the room by way of some mysterious signal. “We must return to the village,” said David, the unease having crept back into his face. Jokatama led them outside and bid an affable farewell. Compton scanned the compound for Sinaca and, though he couldn’t find her, sensed that she knew he was here and was watching him.

They followed another trail deep into the jungle where the trees grew into one another and obscured the light altogether save for that which filtered through a canopy so thick one could probably walk easily on its surface. David pointed to a particular tree whose root structure, much like the mangroves, was well above the ground and supported a tree whose trunk began ten feet above their heads. Atop the maze of roots the tree towered far above all others in the jungle. Nearly obscured, on the other side of the dense rooting, was a darkened, withered old bure, which David said was the home of the healer, Dilolomo.

“Could we go and meet her?” inquired Compton.

“She has no visitors who are not with sickness. When the hurricane crushed my bure and threw a piece of bamboo into my daughters eye, Dilolomo fixed her up.”

“You have no bure now?”

“No, I live with my in-laws but we are going to build a new one soon.”

“Does it cost much to build a bure?”

“If you use nails and cement you need the money. Sometimes I am the diving guide for the resort. They treat me favorably because I sing on the weekends.” 

“You are a singer of songs?”

“The genuine Fiji songs. There is five of us. We are paid three dollars and fifty cents to sing and play our music. We love to sing. We would sing every night for nothing.”

The two men passed a stream where several young girls bathed naked in calf-deep water. Pendants of river water clung to their wooly hair and their round black buttocks glistened in the morning sun. It was not unnatural for them to be bathing in a public place but it was improper to stop and stare. David reminded Compton of this when the girls became self-conscious in their movements. 

The trail led back to the village. They went directly to Lavenia’s kitchen where David spoke briefly with her and then politely excused himself. Compton had the feeling he was more under guard than a guest and under no circumstances would he be let out of anyone’s sight. Beneath the friendliness ran a vein of conspiracy and he wondered if it had anything to do with Sinaca or simple concern for his welfare or something else, something more foreboding.

While Lavenia cooked taro root Compton sat at the table and drank lemon grass tea. They tried to converse in Fijian but the magic of last night was gone and communication was hopeless. He could not distinguish the subtle clucks and intonations of the language and, taking another tack, pointed to his nose, saying in English the world, “nose.”  Lavenia repeated the word precisely. Encouraged, he began identifying parts of the body and Kenesi and Paul eagerly joined the lesson. Soon he was walking about the kitchen naming various articles of cookware. The girls were quick and Kenesi, eyes alight with intelligence, was particularly bright. Compton had an impulse to spirit her away from this choking poverty. In the western world her intellectual potential could be realized and her beauty would open doors to a comfortable life. But would she become another man’s object or worse? And how would that life distort and probably destroy her Fijian values and pure spirit? In the end, he concluded, it would probably do more harm than good. For all that western civilization could offer, she was better off here.

In the course of a few hours the family had built a vocabulary of over seventy-five words. Though he attempted to speak Fijian, the words sounded very much the same and unless spoken slowly, which the Fijians never did, one could spend a week and not have the vocabulary the family had acquired in two hours.

Vito returned from the bush in the late afternoon and inspected the kava root that had been drying out all day in the sun. Breaking the root into small pieces, he placed them in a tree stump that had been hollowed out at the top, creating an opening eight inches in diameter and two feet deep. With a baseball bat sized wooden club, similar perhaps to the war clubs his ancestors used to bludgeon their enemies before roasting them into “long pig,” Vito began to pound the root into powder. In rhythmic blows he worked up a sweat, the dull sounds echoing across the village calling to Lukey who, with two young men, arrived and began to take turns on the club, pounding the root with a vigor seldom seen in Fijians. What had begun as a ceremonial ritual was now an every night occurrence. Or in all probability, was a regular practice. In any case, Compton thought it strange that here was a group within a community, in the heart of paradise, without any evidence of stress or moral deficiency or lack of love or communal caring, which regularly indulged in the use of a drug. They were, as far as he could ascertain, addicted to it. Yet no communal judgment was decreed against those wo participated nor any stigma conferred upon them. Perhaps they understood it was in man’s nature to alter his state of consciousness and such proclivities were accepted as a part of life and not judged harshly by a compassionate and benevolent society.

Compton was offered the club and he pounded for ten minutes before turning it back to Vito. Bathed in sweat, he felt remarkably clear of the narcotic cobwebs that had shrouded his brain throughout the better part of the day and wondered how many more kava nights he had left in him and if he, too, would become an addict given enough time.

In the early evening, unable to tolerate the kava on an empty stomach, Compton had dinner with the children. The circle of David, Lukey, Vito and Tom were waiting for him and had already been passing the cup when he joined them.

Apparently Moses had mentioned the sexual practices of those in the States, for in the second hour Vito asked through David, “How much do the men have sex in America?”

Compton enjoyed any opportunity to be included and if sex was to be the topic, all the better.

“Well, it’s hard for me to speak for the entire population but I would guess that would average three times a week, quite a bit more for the younger ones.”

Lukey let out a low whistle.

“Is it the woman who make the push?” asked Vito.

“More often it’s the men,” replied Compton.

“Why,” asked Vito perplexed, “would the man want to weaken himself this way?”

“The men believe they are in need of sex more than the woman.”

Everyone in the circle laughed, including Lavenia.

“The woman are cunning,” said Lukey. “They trick the man, eh.”

“If they are,” replied Compton, “then they’ve been tricking us since we were small boys.”

“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.