Baptism of Fire (10 page)

Uncle Henry would not unbend enough to sit on the sand with the rest of his family, but he consented to stop and watch the sun set.

A massive red ball, the sun hovered over the horizon, painting the sky and sea scarlet; then ostensibly slipped into the ocean. A breeze rustled the palm leaves, the sound imitating the sea. Waves sloshed onto the sand, receding a little with each wrinkle of water. The tide was going out.

Hannah shivered. ‘
She die in two days, when tide go out
.' Merelita's words were not easily forgotten.

Hannah looked at Aunt Constance. After hearing Hannah's garbled story that afternooon, she had responded swiftly, taking boiled pawpaws down to the woman. She had even tried to persuade her to come to the mission house until her health recovered, but the patient would have none of it. She was going to die, and no one could stop that. Not even ‘the white man's God.'

‘But can't we do something?' Hannah had
pleaded with her aunt when she returned from the
bure
.

‘What do you suggest, dear?' Aunt Constance was kind, but resigned to the facts. ‘She doesn't want our help. I've seen this sort of fatalism before, Hannah. They believe it and it happens.'

Hannah pursued her argument. ‘Then you think sorcery and curses are true?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘But if that woman dies, then it
is
true!'

Aunt Constance paused before replying. ‘… it's true to
her
.'

How could something be true to one person and not true to another? Either it was true or it wasn't. ‘But how can someone foretell the time of her own death?'

‘The poor woman has a fever, remember? Her mind could be playing tricks.' Although Aunt Constance's words had been sensible, and no doubt designed to calm Hannah's disquiet, her voice had been hesitant and she would not be drawn into further discussion. ‘Perhaps you should ask your uncle about these things.'

Hannah had no intention of doing so. A heart-
to-heart discussion with Uncle Henry would be the last thing she wanted.

Now, as the last rays of light faded, Aunt Constance looked as though she were miles away. She was kind and hardworking, with never a cross word for anyone. But Hannah felt no closer to knowing her.

Some people kept themselves so private that they didn't
ever
truly reveal themselves. You could know them for years, and yet not know them at all. Hannah sighed. Was it possible that you never really knew
anyone?
She thought she had known her father. He had a seemingly open nature; straightforward, uncomplicated. Yet he had held his silence regarding his brother for years. Hannah could not understand, and therefore could not quite forgive.

Insistent tapping on her left arm drew her attention to her smaller cousin. ‘Hannah, you promithed to fixth Charlie.' Deborah sat with Charlie doll on her knee, facing the sunset.

‘I will.' Hannah felt guilty that she'd forgotten. ‘Tomorrow. I promise.'

Deborah nodded solemnly.

‘We're expected at the village soon,' said Uncle Henry.

Obediently they stood, dusted the sand from their clothes, and followed the path to the village.

Hannah looked at Uncle Henry's straight back and creaseless jacket. He never appeared untidy or ruffled, but how did he manage it, in this sweltering climate? The only sign of a battle with the high temperatures were the occasional beads of perspiration on his forehead. But he wouldn't permit such a display for long, and would press his brow with a perfectly folded white handkerchief. This evening, however, was cool and Uncle Henry looked accordingly crisp.

‘Hannah, you'll love the
meke
,' said Joshua. He added in a whisper, ‘How did you get Father to agree?'

She smiled. ‘I didn't. Ratu Rabete did.'

‘Oh.' Joshua's tone suggested that he knew the force of the Chief's will.

The light was fading quickly now, and the ill-mannered mosquitoes were coming out of their daytime hiding places. The Stantons quickened their steps.

‘Ratu Rabete will have a whole pig in the oven,' said Joshua. ‘He always does whenever there's a
meke
. And fish and …' His list of sumptuous foods ran on for some minutes. For a thin boy, he had a monstrous interest in eating. His face was glowing with enthusiasm, and tonight he looked only his eleven years: a boy on his way to a party.

Hannah remembered the women's questioning a few days earlier. ‘What's
bokola?
'

Joshua looked at her strangely. ‘Where did you hear that?'

‘Oh …' Instinctively, she became evasive. ‘Somewhere. I'm not sure.'

She wished she had not asked the question as his boyish enthusiasm wavered. ‘It's the Fijian word for baked human flesh.'

‘It tastes like mud.'

‘I beg your pardon?' Hannah was startled by Joshua's voice.

‘
Yaqona
. It tastes like aniseed mud. Looks like it too, doesn't it? And it makes your tongue and lips go numb.'

Flustered, she merely nodded. For a moment she had misunderstood him. Chastising herself, she paid closer attention to the scene before them. The
yaqona
ceremony was in progress. In this case, as Uncle Henry had ruled it unsuitable for his family's consumption, the
yaqona
was for the villagers' own enjoyment rather than for sharing with the guests.

Ratu Rabete dipped a coconut shell cup into the brownish-grey liquid in a massive wooden bowl with little legs. As the shell was passed around, each recipient quaffed the contents in one go. Then the watchers clapped their hands,
calling ‘
maca
,' which Joshua said meant ‘empty'. Enoke sat at the Chief's right hand and glared, the twisted scar on his cheek standing out like a threat.

Although
yaqona
was unappetising in appearance, Hannah would have been tempted to try some if Uncle Henry had agreed; until Joshua told her how it was prepared. ‘It's made from roots. They chew it until it's soft. Then they spit the little balls out into the bowl, and cover it with water. Some people say that if you drink too much, your skin goes grey and scaly, and your eyes sink in.'

Joshua was an authority on
yaqona
, Hannah was amused to note. She suspected personal experience but refrained from comment. Let him have his secrets. She had hers.

Ratu Rabete was in fine form tonight. His hair had been teased and oiled until it stood out around his head like a glistening black shrub. He stood and delivered an impassioned speech, only portions of which the family bothered to interpret. ‘Mr Stanton was a good strong servant of his God … Mrs Stanton, a faithful wife,
excellent cook …' There was more, much more. Finally, ‘Welcome to the young lady from the land where animals jump …' That brought a puzzled look from Uncle Henry. Hannah avoided his glance. She doubted he would be happy about his niece hopping around the church with her hands held up like paws—even if it was in the noble pursuit of the English language.

Hannah glanced up at the stars. Astonished, she recognised the Southern Cross. She hadn't noticed it here before. Somehow she'd thought of those particular stars as being Australian. How odd to see them shining over this wild country, yet it was a comfort to see something that was familiar, a reminder of home.

She scanned the crowd for Merelita, but there was no sign of her. However, it soon became apparent there was one other person present that she had
not
expected, and one she did not welcome. A hot flush ran over her skin.

Kurt Oslo stood near Uncle Henry, hands nonchalantly buried in the pockets of his wide trousers, his face ruddy.

‘Hannah. I don't believe you've met Mr Oslo.'
Uncle Henry sounded as though he didn't want to introduce him, but good manners could not be pushed aside.

‘How do you do?' she said, as though she had never clapped eyes on the man.

As he hesitated over his first public greeting to her, she knew he was tormenting her, dragging out the suspense. Would he mention her clandestine visit to the bêche-de-mer drying house? Hannah decided then and there that a life of crime would not suit her. It was bad for the nerves.

‘Miss Stanton …' He inclined his head, then ambled across to the
yaqona
bowl and folded his body into a sitting position, his back to the Stanton family. Joshua and Hannah exchanged looks.

A shout announced the start of the dancing. Determined to enjoy the forthcoming spectacle, Hannah put Kurt Oslo out of her mind. In the jagged light cast by a large fire, several rows of women came forward: giggling, nudging. Green leaves were entwined around their arms, and garlands of flowers swung from their necks. Cross-legged on the ground behind them was a group of
supporters, who began to chant and clap. Beni stood beside them.

Luata was in the back row. Giggling ceased as the dancers began to act out a story with gestures and steps. A strong smell of coconut filled the air as the oil on their bodies became heated from their exertions.

‘This one,' said Joshua, ‘is about a baby's first visit to its grandma.' In unison, the women's arms cradled an invisible child, rocking it from side to side. Then they appeared to be rolling something up. ‘The mother takes the gift of a mat to remind the grandmother of the visit.'

Feasting on the colour and rhythmic beat, she caught Ratu Rabete looking at her, and smiled. He smiled in return: broadly, openly, and with pride in her fascination with the
meke
.

The second dance was performed by men. Frenetic movements followed the chanting voices: hands, arms, legs, even neck muscles strained against their oiled skin, and eyes flicked left and right.

‘A man runs off to sea, stows away,' Joshua explained. ‘The captain catches him. He escapes,
climbs up the mast, looks around. But he is caught a second time, by a member of the crew.' The line of dancers held their wrists together, their heads down. ‘The man is manacled and led to the brig.'

The last dance would not be easily forgotten. Shouting, their faces steely, the men made jabbing motions in the air with their spears. Closer and closer they stomped towards the mesmerised audience, row after row of warning feet beating the earth. As they neared, Hannah saw that the long spears had spiked fish spines attached to the ends.

If one of those went through flesh, it could not be pulled back out, because of the barbs. The spear would have to be pushed right through. Hannah's stomach flipped as she imagined being impaled on such a weapon.

Her hand on the coverlet, Hannah let loose a siren scream. She didn't notice the movement of the others nor the flare of extra candles. Only when her uncle grabbed her elbow did she realise that her bedroom was suddenly crowded.

‘What's the matter, Hannah?'

She pointed to a black centipede, at least six inches long, blatantly relaxing on the white sheets: all legs, sting and poison.

‘Fetch the broom, Joshua.' Uncle Henry's voice was calm. ‘Pray, settle yourself, Hannah. You are much larger than he is … you haven't been bitten, have you?'

Silently she shook her head.

Joshua returned quickly, and Uncle Henry, broom in hand, pinned the centipede to the mattress. It didn't resist, didn't even wriggle. He poked it again, this time with more force. With a scornful glance at Hannah, he pronounced it
‘dead' and offered the opinion that it had been so for some time.

Hannah didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She was relieved the creature was dead, feeling no sympathy for anything with that many legs; but she felt humiliated that she had not noticed it was dead; and secretly wished that
she
was.

‘Perhaps you would take Deborah back to bed, Mrs Stanton?' said Uncle Henry. ‘Now … Hannah.' The moment of reckoning came all too soon.

‘I … I'm sorry, Uncle Henry. I just can't stand … I don't like …'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘We all
don't like
, but we all don't rouse the household late at night by exercising our lungs. Go back to bed now, and next time, think twice and act once.' He marched out the bedroom door with all the dignity he could muster—for a man who was wearing a nightshirt.

‘Joshua …' Hannah turned to her only remaining ally.

‘It's not your fault, Cousin. Shall I help you check the rest of the room before I go?'

Joshua was a sweet, kind boy, and it was only after he had gone that it dawned on Hannah there had been a more sophisticated emotion than mere kindness in his smile—his very
broad
smile. And he was the only one in the room who showed no surprise when it was announced that the centipede was dead. An uncomfortable suspicion entered her mind, then she felt guilty for thinking it. Consoling herself with the idea that she may be doing him an injustice, she snuffed the candle and tucked in the mosquito netting.

Every sound outside seemed exaggerated: birds, insects, the wind rattling palm leaves and whistling through the thatch of the house; then a rooster crowed.

A loud crack echoed through the jungle. Was that a musket? No one in the house responded. Either they were deeply asleep or such night-time activities were not uncommon. And tonight had been a
meke
. But none of the menfolk who had hovered at the
yaqona
bowl had seemed capable of stirring up a storm. They had wished the guests goodnight pleasantly enough, their eyes alert and laughing, but their legs would be useless until the
effects of the greyish liquid wore off … the red sunset after the bushfire … a swim in the creek … Joshua laughing … Hannah shook her head. Her thoughts were firing off like a cracker gone haywire.

At first she wasn't sure what had woken her, or how long she had been asleep. Her ears strained to pick up unfamiliar sounds. What now? Not for all the tea in China would Hannah have called out a second time. She couldn't stand her uncle's reproaches, or exasperation or, indeed, his nightshirt. If this was Joshua playing tricks, she would do something to him that they might both regret. Exasperated, she pulled back the netting and for the second time that night, reached out to light her candle.

Back to the wall, claws ready for action, bubbling froth, was a crab. Rattling its armoured limbs it waddled sideways a few steps, then snapped its front claws. Was this a bedroom or a zoo?

Sleep would be utterly impossible with a crab running rampant. Crawling to the end of the bed, Hannah leapt off and escaped into her cousin's
room. ‘Joshua.' She whispered as loudly as she dared. ‘Joshua!' No reply: she scampered back to her own room before the snappy visitor could hide. Exasperated, she wondered if there was any chance of sleep tonight?

The village girls despatched crabs by piercing them behind a front claw, up and under the shell, with the spine of a coconut palm leaf. But Hannah didn't have the stomach for that.

The crab never saw its nemesis coming. One minute clacking about on a soft matted floor, the next, it was shrouded in a cotton covering and lifted into the air.

Outside a half-moon shone down. Step by step, Hannah eased her way past the sad reminder of baby Rachel's shortened life, then followed the bumps and dents of the pathway. At the first suitable shrub, she flicked out the coverlet. Remembering the episode of the broken plate on the night of her arrival, she hoped this sort of thing wouldn't become a habit. With an indignant snap, the crab scuttled into the undergrowth.

Hannah sighed and ran a hand through her
dishevelled hair. The plait had come undone. Suddenly, her hand still entwined in her hair, she peered into the shadows.

Snatching up the coverlet, she sprinted towards the front door, her white nightgown whipping her legs, only relaxing when she heard the snick of the doorcatch behind her. Her breath uneven, she pushed back the curtains, just a little, and peeked outside. Nothing moved. Was it the fancy of a tired mind or had she actually seen a figure beneath the trees, watching the house?