One Blood (15 page)

‘I was twenty-five when I first came out to the Solomons,’ Ferraby went on. ‘I’d already failed at a fair few things—university, the navy, the city, marriage. Even then I guessed that this was going to be my last chance. Well, it was, and I blew that, too.’

‘There’s still time,’ said Kella. He stared down into the hatch. The glass covering was smeared and cracked and plainly insubstantial. Its sole purpose was to protect the cargo below from the elements. In the hold, rows of sacks of rice were piled on top of one another to a height reaching only a few inches below the hatch cover.

‘I begged, borrowed and stole every dollar I could to buy that rice,’ said Ferraby, following his gaze. ‘I suppose you could call it the last throw of the dice on my part.’

‘Quite a gamble,’ said Kella.

‘I’ve staked all I had on plenty of those in my time,’ said Ferraby.

Kella drained the last of the milk from his coconut. Casually he strolled over to the ship’s rail and tossed the husk into the water. Ferraby and the two Melanesians watched him alertly. Kella put a hand on the rail. As he had thought, the iron stanchion was rusted and loose in its socket, worn away by years of wear. He tested it reflectively in his hand.

‘Right, old boy, I think it’s time you took your food down to your cabin,’ said Ferraby sharply. ‘We’ll bring you up for another run this evening, all being well, if you behave yourself.’

Kella nodded and turned as though to obey. Suddenly he seized the stanchion with both hands and used all his considerable strength to tear it from its socket. He staggered back, his shoulders and biceps aching with the effort of dislodging the section of rail.

Ferraby and the islander who had been sitting on the deck leapt to their feet, while the helmsman looked on helplessly. With a couple of strides Kella leapt back to the hatch and balanced on top of it, holding the iron rail threateningly in the air.

‘Hold it!’ he ordered. ‘If any of you takes one step towards me, I’ll smash this glass cover to pieces.’

Ferraby hesitated and then gestured to the two Melanesians
to stay where they were. ‘Now why would you want to do something like that, old son?’ he asked in an aggrieved tone.

Kella did his best to balance on the swaying glass roof. ‘You’ll be leaving the lagoon and sailing out into rough seas in the next twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘If I’ve taken the hatch glass out, the first big waves you meet in the Pacific will pour into the hold and ruin your consignment of rice. You can’t go back to Gizo or Honiara for a replacement hatch cover because there will be a warrant out in both places for your arrest for non-payment of harbour fees. You might be able to get a tarpaulin over the hole, if you have one on board, but any big wind will dislodge it in no time. Face it, Commodore. If this glass is gone, so is your cargo. You won’t be able to sell sodden, swollen rice, even in Ontong Java. You might as well throw it over the side.’

Ferraby’s face was red with fury, but he did his best to speak quietly. ‘You won’t be able to stay up there for ever,’ he said.

‘I don’t intend to. If you haven’t done as I say in the next five minutes, I’m going to crack this glass and then take my chances in the sea.’

Ferraby started to edge forward, surprisingly lightly for a big man. Kella lifted the stanchion high above his head.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Ferraby asked, halting.

‘Change direction and get me close enough to land for me to be able to swim ashore.’

‘There are sharks in the lagoon,’ Ferraby said.

‘I’ll risk them. Didn’t you know? I belong to a shark clan.’

Ferraby hesitated. Reluctantly he barked orders to the helmsman. Obediently the Melanesian swung on the wheel and began to head towards the coast. Kella did not take his eyes off the other three. Ferraby would almost certainly have a rifle in his cabin below, but unless he could get hold of it, there was little he could do to get the policeman off the hatch.

‘Just take it easy,’ Ferraby said. ‘That’s all I ask. Nobody’s going to rush you.’

‘Too true they’re not,’ said Kella grimly.

For over an hour the tableau on deck did not move. All the time the coast was edging almost imperceptibly closer. Once the helmsman tried to jerk the wheel abruptly in order to dislodge Kella. The sergeant raised the stanchion and Ferraby howled at the Melanesian to keep on course. After an hour and a half, Kella could make out the trees and sandy beach of Baroraite Island. Another hour crawled by. Now he could see islanders on the beach. They were gathering in a puzzled crowd on the golden sand; they were not accustomed to seeing a trading vessel pass so close to their village.

‘This will do,’ said Kella.

‘I always knew you were a resourceful fellow,’ said Ferraby, ‘but did you have to prove it on my watch?’

‘Goodbye, Commodore,’ said Kella.

He sprinted across the deck to the gap in the rail and dived into the sea. Ferraby’s ship would be too cumbersome to pursue him, and in any case, if it went any closer in to the shore, there would be a danger of grounding on a shoal. Kella could already see canoes putting out from the shore to pick him up. The islanders had recognized the danger of his situation and were utilising every form of canoe waiting on the beach. Some were graceful, with curves at the prow and stern, others were balanced with an outrigger, a few were long and heavy, with carved figureheads. The men in them were banging at the surface of the water to drive off any lurking sharks. Swimming economically, Kella headed for the leading canoe.

‘
NOT THAT I’M
complaining,’ said Sister Conchita, ‘well, not much anyhow, but why did you decide to bring me here? It’s hardly holiday-brochure stuff, is it?’

‘If you think you’ve got problems, spare a thought for mine,’ panted Sister Johanna, her chin tucked on her chest, not looking back. ‘This is my first venture outside the mission for ten years. It was time, that’s all. I’ve been worried greatly about Sister Brigid. For years that woman has been trapped in a hell of her own making, with her own private demons, and she won’t let anyone help her. Father Karl tried while he was alive, but even he had to give up in the end. It was time to make her confront her past. You were the first new member of the mission since the war. Perhaps your arrival at Marakosi was intended to bring Sister Brigid release.’ The old German nun started to chuckle unexpectedly, but the sound turned into a dry, racking cough. ‘You have certainly shaken us up enough in other directions.’

‘Have I been that bad?’ asked Conchita.

‘Indescribably worse! You are a typhoon, my dear, a veritable human typhoon. Which is probably just what we needed. But how far can you go? All right, so you may be able to transform the physical face of the mission, but can you confront the secret torments of Sister Brigid? None of us has ever been able to do that.’

The two nuns were making their way laboriously along a muddy coastal track running parallel to the sea on the island
of Kolombangara. They had come over in the mission canoe from Marakosi first thing that morning. Sister Johanna had directed the younger nun to the nearest safe landing place close to the village they were seeking. Kolombangara was not like any other island that Conchita had seen in the Roviana Lagoon. While all the others had been sun-kissed and sparkling, this was a dank, inhospitable place. Where they were walking, the cliffs rose so close to the shore that they had been forced to follow a winding track inland and then turn at the top of the cliffs and begin a long, sloping descent. The sound of many rivers running down to the sea from the mountain was so loud that they could hardly hear themselves speak. They were picking their way through stunted trees across a mangrove swamp. Every time they reached a patch of comparatively dry ground, their progress was impeded by mounds of slimy dead leaves and branches. There were occasional fallen trees to be circumnavigated, and stones that had rolled down from farther up the mountain. Occasionally their path would take them close to the edge of a precipice overlooking the sea, a route made all the more dangerous by the slippery mud beneath their feet. There was an overall smell of death and decay.

‘This island has a dreadful history,’ said Sister Johanna. ‘Traditionally it was a place where headhunting parties would bring their captives and kill and eat them. During the war, the Japanese brought a group of British prisoners of war here to build a coral airstrip. They treated them so badly that all the prisoners died of malnutrition or disease. Then the Allies bombed the island and killed most of the Japanese garrison. No wonder the islanders don’t have much time for visitors.’

Conchita wondered if she had made a mistake by bringing the frail, elderly sister with her. Johanna was walking purposefully enough at the moment, but she was stopping increasingly often for breaks. When Conchita suggested that they sit down
for a longer rest on a log, the German nun shook her head vigorously and plodded grimly onwards.

‘I don’t know if I’m going to be much help to you,’ said Sister Johanna suddenly, breathing deeply and turning to face Conchita. ‘All I know is that whatever happened in 1943 started here, when Sister Brigid picked up her guide Kakaihe at the Catholic village we’re going to now. This island of Kolombangara was the headquarters for the chief coast-watcher in the region, Mr Evans. He was up near the volcano, while the Japanese were stationed around the coast. He had sent out an urgent radio message asking everyone to watch out for eleven American seamen who had been marooned somewhere in the area after their vessel had been sunk. I urged Sister Brigid not to go. I said there were plenty of young islanders who could do the job better than she could, but she wouldn’t be told. She reached this island at night, picked up Kakaihe and set off, heaven knows where, in a canoe. The next thing we heard was that Kakaihe was dead and dear Sister Brigid was in a state of catatonic shock. Some islanders brought her back to Marakosi. She wouldn’t say a word for months, and to this day she has never told anyone what happened on that final trip of hers.’

‘Will anyone at the village we’re going to be able to help us?’ Conchita asked.

‘Possibly not, but you’ve got to start somewhere. For some reason, the American Imison seemed to think that Kakaihe and Brigid were involved in something strange together. I doubt if any of the islanders will tell him anything about Kakaihe, so you might have a head start if you can get to his village first.’

‘And Sister Brigid has never spoken to anyone about the reason for her silence?’

‘The subject was obviously far too painful for her, so after a time Father Karl and I stopped bringing it up. The poor woman has never left the mission grounds since, and that was seventeen
years ago. That’s why I’m hoping that you’ve been sent here by divine providence to put an end to the whole thing. I only wish that it wasn’t this village we have to visit.’

‘Why is that?

‘You’ll see for yourself directly,’ said Sister Johanna with a shudder. ‘It’s the most squalid place imaginable.’

Twenty minutes later, they entered the village. It was hardly more welcoming than the track had been. There was an air of neglect about the huts. The ground was ankle deep in mud. Even the boles and branches of the trees surrounding the handful of huts were grey with slime. The few villagers present seemed lethargic. There was no attempt made to welcome the sisters, only sullen and indifferent glances from the doorways of the huts.

‘Do you see what I mean?’ asked Sister Johanna. ‘I don’t wish to appear irreligious, but this must have been one of the last places that the good Lord ever made. I’ll see if I can find the headman, not that he’ll be much help.’

Now that she had safely negotiated the path to the village, Sister Johanna seemed to have been affected by the general lassitude of the village and to have lost much of her customary energy. She hobbled off towards a group of unwelcoming women and addressed them in what Conchita assumed to be the local dialect. Finally one of the women detached herself unwillingly from the group and slouched off to a hut bigger but no more prepossessing than the others. After about five minutes, a fat islander in his fifties emerged from the hut, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was wearing a scruffy, unwashed length of cloth around his waist, reaching to his knees. He eyed the nuns without enchantment, but walked slowly over to them. Sister Johanna began to address him in dialect, but the fat man stopped her with a wave of his flipper-like arm.

‘I speak English,’ he said curtly. ‘My name is Matthew Pironi. I am the headman.’

‘You speak very good English,’ said Conchita.

The compliment had no effect on the headman. ‘I was a mate on a Chinaman’s trading boat for many years,’ he said. ‘What do you want in my village?’

His tone could hardly have been less welcoming, but neither sister gave any sign of being deterred by it. Conchita guessed that his spell on the trading vessel would have accrued him enough money to throw a number of feasts on his return home, which would have secured him the position of local chief.

Sister Johanna walked over to a log placed by a cooking fire and sat down gratefully. Conchita joined her. Matthew Pironi followed them with ill grace and stood facing the pair.

‘We want to talk about the time before,’ said Sister Johanna, using the pidgin phrase for the past. ‘We want to know what happened when Kennedy was lost in the lagoon.’

Matthew did not look surprised. When he replied, it was as if he was using a speech he had uttered several times before. ‘Many people used to come here and ask that,’ he said. ‘We told them that we don’t know. So they stopped coming. Now you have come back again after many years. We still know nothing. The time before is over. We want you to go now, before the young men grow angry with you. We don’t want strangers here.’

‘We will go as soon as you answer a few questions,’ said Conchita. ‘Were you here in 1943?’

‘Yes, I was a young man then.’

‘I want to know about a man from this village called Kakaihe.’

‘Kakaihe is dead. He died many years ago. There is nothing to say about him.’