Baptism of Fire (15 page)

Arms clasped about her knees, Hannah took a sensual delight in the gritty white sand, the rustle of towering palms, and the gentle waves nudging the shore. She felt a perverse pleasure in squandering time. A golden butterfly trembled over the surface of the water, skimmed the sand, briefly touched the exposed root of a tree, then fled.

Crabs clattered over nearby black rocks. When she first arrived on the island, the very sound of them would have sent her scurrying for safety. Now, she was simply amused by their absurd behaviour.

Across the water, a diminishing white patch of sail showed the position of Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower's outrigger. Hannah was not sure if the two volunteer guides would be a help or a hindrance.

Her mind, freed from concentration, fluttered like the butterfly; hovering, touching, never
staying in one spot.
Hovering
: Six fresh incisions in the large tree by the village. Eighty-five incisions now, the six obvious by their lighter colour, like an obscene scar on soft skin. A record of lost lives.
Touching:
The village. Swish of reed brooms sweeping the ground. A baby, naked. Yellow from turmeric paste, a protection against sunburn. Almost bald, its head shaved to the scalp with three black wringlets left to dangle free.
Never staying in one spot:
Luata, downcast, head bowed.

Hannah sighed, stretched, then leant back on one elbow and looked up at the giant coconut palm behind her. Trees were magnificent upside down.

Later, when she thought about it, she was not sure whether her instincts had warned her that she was no longer alone or she had unknowingly picked up a slight movement from the corner of her eye. Even as the thought of company suggested itself, a shadow moved onto the sand alongside her. Alarmed, she gawped at two trouser clad legs with rolled up cuffs, two grubby feet with chipped toenails and a large corn. She sprang into
sitting postion, abashed at being discovered in such a luxurious pose.

‘What are you doing here?' Her voice was tart, reflecting her annoyance.

Kurt Oslo raised one eyebrow. ‘I didn't realise that Miss Hannah Rose Stanton was the new owner of the Cannibal Islands.'

‘You startled me.'

His smile was an irritation. ‘Good. It's my life's ambition to startle people. It means they don't take me for granted.'

Hannah stared out to sea in a disdainful manner. ‘I prefer to be alone.'

He didn't reply, so she turned to glare at him. Kurt squatted, resting on his callused heels. ‘I like this beach. It's my favourite. I often sit here and think.'

A silence followed, during which he watched her, and she pretended she didn't notice. ‘Aren't you going to run away?'

‘Why should I? I was here first.'

‘I see they haven't turned you into a milk-and-water miss. I suspect you don't make things easy for your uncle.'

‘What do you mean?' She didn't really want a reply, but felt it was necessary to ask the question.

‘I hear your uncle made a …
heroic
stand in the village a few days ago. Saved a few more savages from the ovens.
The avenging messenger of God!
'

‘It was hardly my uncle who was avenging, was it?'

‘Gone off and left you has he? Searching for more savages to convert to his
civilised
God?' He leant forward, his eyes blue against the ruddiness of his weathered cheeks. ‘I'll let you in on a secret, Miss Stanton. No god is civilised. All gods appear benevolent while their slaves obey the rules. But when they don't, the kindest god ever invented becomes a barbaric dictator. Rather like someone we know …?'

‘I don't understand.'

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. ‘Ah, a young lady of contradictions! Your words are at odds with the expression in your eyes. I'd wager that you know exactly what I mean.'

‘Who gave you permission to look at my eyes? How dare you!' The eyes under discussion flashed. Kurt Oslo managed to dig right under her skin;
needling, prodding, seeing things. She didn't like him, but she could understand his feelings—and wished she didn't. Perhaps a strategic withdrawal was not quite a retreat. She made a small movement, suggesting that she would leave.

‘If I promise to be good, will you stay?' His voice was gentle this time.

Staring stonily out towards the horizon, she refused to look at him. The dot of white sail had disappeared completely now. Uncle Henry and Reverend Flower were well on their way. She didn't feel comfortable that this man knew her uncle was absent. However, true to his word for the moment, he sat quietly. Was he trying to outlast her—see who gave in first and left?

It couldn't last. But Hannah could readily sympathise with someone who found it a struggle to keep silent. Oslo cleared his throat: a warning that the short silence was about to end. ‘It's odd how things work out, isn't it? I mean, your uncle is here to bring the word of God, civilise these people and who turns up out of the blue? A stray niece who is not quite civilised. It's amusing.'

He was trying her patience with his nonsense. ‘I
suggest you keep to your own business, Mr Oslo. You don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Don't I? I wonder how we white men can bring civilisation to these islands when we don't know what it is ourselves. Do you, Miss Stanton?'

There was some element about Kurt Oslo that was similar to her uncle. Perhaps it was the need to constantly give his own opinion.

‘I can tell you stories about
civilised
white men that would make your eyes pop,' he said. ‘I spent fifteen years at sea before I landed here. I saw a lot in that time. Much that was fascinating and marvellous, and there were many things I wish I'd never seen.

‘My last year on board was spent supporting the noble empire, planters who tried to create little pockets of home in strange places. Ever heard of blackbirding, Miss Stanton?'

Hannah shook her head.

‘It's trade in human beings.' He snorted. ‘I gave it up. And don't get any soft ideas about my conscience. I don't have one. Blackbirding didn't pay enough. I can get twice as much selling bêche-de-mer, and with less effort. And no one tells me
what to do.'

She looked at him askance.

‘You can't run a plantation if you pay proper wages. Cheap labour is the only way to make a profit.' Oslo's voice was soaked with sarcasm. ‘If a native worker tries hard and does as he's told, he can earn an axe from America—
after six months!
'

He shifted position, stretching out his legs on the sand in front of him. ‘We were good. Had it down to a fine art. Waited till they were close to the ship then dropped weights into their canoes. We rescued what men we could, then set sail. If we were lazy, we just ran over the canoes. It was quicker, but the losses were greater.

‘Oh, and the masterstroke of genius. The first mate would dress in a mackintosh, with the logbook to substitute for a prayer book. The islanders didn't know the difference between a missionary and a sailor dressing up. He invited them downstairs for prayers and biscuits, then we shut the hatch.'

Hannah was aghast.

His eyes were hardened by memory, his lips curled into a snarl. ‘These people don't need our
kind of civilisation. Tell your uncle to go home. He has no place here.'

‘But only three days ago, he saved ten people from the ovens and sent them home.'

‘Did he now? And how many has he condemned to hell? How many have died in places far from their home because some rich white man's son wanted workers for his plantation?'

Hannah leant forward, urging the man to listen. ‘But my uncle is not a blackbirder. It has nothing to do with him. He'd be against such barbaric behaviour. It's wrong. All he does is preach.'

Oslo half smiled, echoing her statement. ‘
All he does is preach
! Life has gone on here for hundreds of years without interference. What gives him the right to change things to the way
he
wants?'

Hannah felt compelled to defend her uncle. Sometimes he was misguided and opinionated, but he also treated the villagers' illnesses, comforted the dying, taught people to read and write, risked his life to save theirs. Besides, Uncle Henry was family, and this man was an outsider. ‘But he's not changing things to the way he
wants,' she argued. ‘It's the way he believes God wants.'

‘Is there a difference?'

‘But you change things too. Just by being here. And what about the muskets?'

A strange look came over his face. ‘A pretty face
and
brains—a lethal combination.' He reached out and took her chin in his hand. ‘What kind of God would put teeth inside such a soft mouth?'

Enraged, she pulled free, leapt to her feet and ran.

Merelita's shrinking figure continued to wave from the beach. Once more, Hannah waved back. The roar of the reef became louder as the outrigger canoe approached it, propelled by the vigorous paddling of four Fijians. The scent of coconut oil was strong. To Hannah, the sting of the hot sun and the smell of the oil had become entwined: one memory would always trigger the other.

Prepared to be tossed and shaken by the white water, Hannah gripped the side of the canoe and wondered if Joshua would object if she clutched his arm. Surprisingly, the outrigger catapulted through the foaming stretch of water with more ease than the heavy boat in which she had arrived. There was the expected noise, spray, and some rocking, but the side frame steadied them. And these men knew exactly what they were doing because they crossed these rough waters regularly.

‘Whooo!' Joshua yelled with excitement and wiped a splash of water from one cheek. With Uncle Henry away, he wangled all manner of concessions from his mother. ‘Aren't you glad you came, Cousin?'

‘Oh yes. This is the first time I've been around the island.'

Once past the reef, the paddling ceased while the sail was raised. Timothy assisted, and the other four helped after loud castigation on his part. They had made their contribution—paddling; now they preferred to sit back, gossip, and enjoy the view. Timothy could be relied upon to do what was necessary. In fact, it was this quality that persuaded Aunt Constance to allow her son and niece to sail around the island.

‘It looks different from the sea.' Hannah was intrigued to spot familiar places: the beach, the black rocks, smoke from the village which was tucked away amongst the tall trees, the craggy mountain. Seeing them from out here on the water also gave them a touch of the unfamiliar.

Only ten minutes out, his hand pointing at a distant object, one of the men shouted ‘
vonu
'.

Timothy smiled. ‘He sees a turtle. We will catch it for Ratu Rabete. He likes this food very much.'

Hannah was not so enthusiastic. ‘You mean you are going to bring it on board—
with us?
'

Timothy nodded, his face showing puzzlement as if to say
Was there any other way of carrying it back?

Not keen on the idea of sharing the vessel with a living creature that was other than human, she silently appealed to Joshua. He didn't seem to mind, so perhaps it was all right. They changed direction in pursuit of the turtle.

‘How big are they?' she asked.

‘Usually about four hundred and fifty pounds.'

‘What? Are you sure?'

‘Well, it may not be.' His eyes sparkled. ‘Sometimes they're as big as
seven
hundred pounds.'

There it was! Hannah could see the large round shape of a turtle shell.

‘Sometimes they float on top of the water when they're asleep. You can pick them up and put them in the canoe before they're even awake,' said Joshua. ‘But it's breeding time now, so they're
careless and usually don't try to escape. There's quite a few at this time of year.'

Closer they came, closer until they were right alongside the turtle. It was big, but not as big as it could have been if Joshua had reported their size accurately. Ralula rose carefully to his feet, and gave an instruction in Fijian.

Intrigued, Hannah wondered what he was going to do. How would they catch the turtle without a net? With a single cry, he leapt from the canoe, rocking it with the shift of weight. He timed it perfectly, landing squarely on the turtle's back. With both hands, he grabbed the shell at the front, just behind the back of its wrinkled neck. If a turtle could look startled, this one managed it. They were close enough to see the eye that was on this side.

Joshua's voice was breathless with excitement. He leant forward. ‘See how he holds the shell? That stops the turtle “sounding”, diving beneath the water. It's helpless now. Ralula can steer it if he wants.'

She wished she had not seen its eye. This was a living creature, happily paddling in the warm
tropical waters, minding its own business when suddenly a human landed on its back.

The canoe made a wide circle, tacking back to Ralula and the turtle.

‘But isn't it dangerous leaping onto the turtle like that?'

Timothy answered before Joshua had a chance. ‘Not as bad as grabbing its tail.' Hannah turned to look. Yes, there was a stumpy tail at the rear. ‘You must
never
do this,' he added.

‘The turtle will fold its tail against its body and hold a man's hand tight. He cannot get free. Then the turtle dives underwater, dragging the man to the bottom of the sea.'

Hannah swallowed, scarcely daring to imagine how horrible that would be. ‘Do they bite?'

Timothy shrugged. ‘There is more danger from their flippers.'

‘It's true,' said Joshua. ‘Once a man from the village was brought back to shore unconscious because a turtle had thumped him on the head with its flipper. He stayed unconscious for half an hour.'

It must have been a massive blow. But how
could you blame it when the poor thing was only defending itself?

‘Don't put it near me!'

Taking her comment seriously, as was intended, Timothy pointed to the end of the canoe most distant from Hannah and Joshua.

Back they sailed, again almost level with the turtle. Timothy quickly dropped the sail, slowing the canoe.

Afterwards, Hannah swore to herself never,
never
to let a morsel of turtle meat pass her lips. One of the men produced a large wooden club from the floor of the canoe. Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands over her ears; but still heard the dull thud of the club connecting with something much softer.

Shouted directions, a slew of the boat, and Hannah opened her eyes to find the turtle ensconced at the front of the canoe and the men's faces consumed by broad grins. The canoe tilted sideways a second time as they hauled their friend back on board. There was no interpretation necessary to understand their enthusiastic congratulations of each other.

Once the men had settled, their journey around the island continued, although with a little less verve on Hannah's part. Studiously, she avoided looking at the corpse in front and fixed her eyes on the island.

They were too far out now to see clearly. Following her entreaty, the men guided the outrigger back across the churning reef water, permitting a closer view of the shoreline. Using a combination of sail and paddles, they circled the island in the calmer, warmer waters inside the reef.

The opposite side of Ratu Rabete's island was more rugged. There were the same black rocks and coconut palms, but bushes grew almost to the waterline. At high tide it would be impossible to walk here. As they rounded the next bay, Hannah could see the outline of other islands. Five, six, immediately visible: how many others behind those she couldn't guess.

Joshua nudged her arm. But she, too, had discerned two figures on the lonely stretch of beach. One of the figures was Oslo; pale skin, European clothes, while the near-naked figure
closer to the water was a Fijian. But this man had his back to them and, from this distance, she couldn't tell who it was. She saw Mr Oslo's head turn in their direction. Instantly the two figures disappeared between the thick trees.

They did not merely walk away, or nonchalantly take a step which removed them from view. Immediately they became conscious of an audience, they had leapt out of sight. That man was definitely odd. Joshua and Hannah exchanged glances.

Impossible to guess how long they sailed, but eventually they found themselves seeing familiar beaches and rocky outcrops. Another outrigger had also just touched shore near the village.

Joshua turned to Hannah, a deep frown between his eyes. ‘That's Father. He's only been away for two days. He's usually gone for weeks.
Something's wrong
!'