The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) (28 page)

Fiji

A Novel

(Book Two in The World Duology)

Lance & James

MORCAN

Part One

SHORES OF CONFLICT

Prologue

A
Fijian maiden stooped to pick up a shell as she walked along a white sand beach at Momi Bay, on the western side of Fiji's main island of Viti Levu. Sina had a natural island beauty. Lithe and graceful, her dark skin glistened in the tropical sun. She wore a traditional grass skirt and shawl made from tapa, or bark cloth.

The beach was bordered by a grove of coconut trees and the turquoise waters of the bay. Tropical birds filled the sky
—among them Kingfishers that dived into the sea, competing for fish.

At one end of the beach, a distinctive headland protruded out into the Pacific. It accommodated a village whose entrance was marked by defensive fortifications in the form of bamboo palisades. The village was home to the Qopa, the region’s predominant mataqali, or clan.

Out in the bay, Qopa fishermen speared fish and cast nets from their canoes. Beyond them, foaming surf marked the reef that ringed much of Viti Levu. The constant sound of waves crashing against the reef was like the boom of distant thunder.

Several miles beyond the reef, a ship sailed by, her sails billowing as she was pushed along ahead of a light southerly. Sina and the other villagers paid scant attention to the vessel: they'd become used to the comings and goings of the white man's ships.

The maiden noticed the shadows were lengthening. It was time to think about returning to the village. She smiled as squealing village children playing at the water’s edge splashed one another, white teeth sparkling against their black skin. Like all Fijian children, they seemed to wear permanent smiles.

Sina stopped to pick up another shell, dropping it into a woven flax bag hanging from her shoulder. Humming a traditional lullaby to herself, she was unaware a tall, muscular
warrior was watching her impassively from the shadows of the coconut grove. Standing motionless, the sinister warrior held a musket in one hand. Only his coal-black eyes moved—his heavily tattooed, battle-scarred face adding to his air of silent menace.

This was Rambuka, also known as the Outcast, the charismatic leader of a tribe of cannibals feared by villagers up and down the coast. Rambuka’s eyes subconsciously widened as he studied Sina. He liked what he saw. Finally, he moved, gliding soundlessly among the palm trees like a spirit as he stalked his prey.

Still singing, Sina bent down to study an unusual shell. A sudden movement to her left caught her eye and she looked up to see Rambuka rushing toward her, musket in hand. She recognized him immediately. Screaming, she turned to flee, but had barely taken a step before her assailant was onto her, dragging her back to the trees. Startled by her screams, the children ran toward the village, shouting.

Terrified, Sina lashed out and twisted around, trying to bite her attacker. Rambuka slapped her hard, momentarily stunning her. Everything started spinning and Sina felt as if she might faint. Effortlessly hoisting her over his shoulder, the Outcast began running inland.

Behind them, Qopa warriors came running from the nearby village, alerted by the children's screams. Most carried clubs or spears, while some had tomahawks they’d acquired from white traders. Nearly all were tattooed about the arms, legs and torso. The warriors were led by Joeli, son of the village ratu, or chief.

A big, powerful man, Joeli's proud bearing and intelligent eyes were clues to his royal bloodlines. Bone earrings hung from his ears and a huge, intricately-carved, whale bone club dangled from a cord around his waist, a dozen human teeth inlaid around its head testament to how many men he’d killed in battle. Most striking, however, was his massive hairstyle. Nearly two feet high and even wider across, it was dyed blue with yellow stripes through it. Earlier treatment with burnt lime juice would ensure it remained stiffened in place for a few
more days at least.

Some of Joeli
’s warriors wore equally flamboyant hairstyles—many dyed a bright color and some even multi-colored; several sported hairstyles of a geometric shape while the orange-dyed hair atop one proud warrior was all of six feet in circumference. Such weird and wonderful styles could be seen on men throughout Fiji and were worn as a symbol of masculinity and social standing.

The frightened children all talked at once and pointed down the beach. Joeli led his warriors to the spot the children had indicated and there two sets of tracks were immediately visible in the sand. He turned, grim-faced, to his warriors. “It could only be the Outcast,” he decreed.

A fine-looking young warrior with a distinctive birthmark on his forehead and a zany, geometric hairstyle asked, “Who has he taken?” This was Waisale, a close friend of Joeli's.

Joeli looked down, avoiding his friend's eyes. He suspected that Rambuka had abducted Sina, but didn't want to say as much until it was confirmed. It was common knowledge Waisale and Sina were lovers.

A sense of foreboding suddenly came over Waisale as he studied the footprints that Rambuka and his captive had left behind. “Sina!” he murmured. Without another word, Waisale sprinted into the coconut grove, following the tracks into the dense rainforest beyond. The others ran hard on his heels.

#

Dusk was approaching and Sina was near exhaustion when the Outcast finally stopped running, allowing her to briefly rest and drink from a shallow stream. Their flight had taken them into the forest-covered hills above Momi Bay.

Scratches and bruises covered Sina’s face and body, and she winced as she splashed water over her face. Aware of Rambuka’s reputation and knowing what fate awaited her, she
looked frantically around, her mind racing, desperate to find a way out of her predicament.

Rambuka grabbed her by the arm. Sina shrank back, expecting to be raped. Instead, she was dragged into the water. Her heart sank as the Outcast began pulling her along upstream, leaving no tracks for anyone to follow. The realization was setting in that Rambuka wasn't merely intending to rape her
—he was abducting her. Her skin crawled at the thought.

A quarter of a mile behind, Joeli and his warriors followed their quarries' tracks. With night approaching, they knew they were running out of time. Waisale led the chase, desperate to save Sina. However, as Rambuka had intended, the tracks ended at the stream. In the fading light, Waisale ran up and down the bank, frustrated at the dearth of signs to follow.

Joeli shook his head. “The Outcast is taking her to the Land of Red Rain,” he said simply. His tone suggested the dye was cast; there was no saving Sina now. Joeli and the others reluctantly turned and began retracing their steps back to the village.

Waisale stayed behind, looking east toward the highlands of the interior. He knew the land Joeli had referred to lay beyond those same highlands. Exactly where the outcasts were hiding wasn't known. They moved around constantly, using various hideouts. Many a raiding party had set out from Momi Bay to try to find their enemies in the past, but the land was rugged and the outcasts hid their tracks well.

Pain and anger rose up like bile in Waisale's throat. He vowed he’d go to the Land of Red Rain and rescue Sina.

1

T
hree months after Sina’s abduction, the sun’s first rays pierced the clouds, heralding the start of a new day for the occupants of the small Fijian settlement of Levuka, on picturesque Ovalau Island, to the east of the main island of Viti Levu. The clouds and oppressive humidity served as a reminder to the island’s residents that the wet season was approaching.

Fiji
’s capital of the day was built around a busy harbor that accommodated sailing ships and indigenous craft of all descriptions. Despite the early hour, the level of activity on and off the water immediately signified to newcomers that this was a lively and bustling settlement.

Several horse-drawn carts laden with European visitors and their wares were already traveling the short distance up a narrow, palm tree-lined track linking Levuka's wharf with the township. The visitors were traders and merchants from two of the newly-arrived ships anchored offshore. Along the way, they passed Fijian fishermen meandering down to the waterfront where their waiting canoes would carry them to the bountiful fishing grounds beyond the reef that surrounded their island. The fishermen greeted the visitors with broad smiles as the carts trundled by.

Europeans were almost as numerous in Levuka as the local natives. They included settlers, sailors, whalers, sealers, adventurers, escaped convicts and a variety of other colorful characters—as was the case elsewhere throughout the islands of the South Pacific. For most, Levuka would not be a final destination. Rather, it would serve as a temporary base from which they could conduct their trading or other entrepreneurial activities until such time as profits began waning, as they inevitably would.

On this, the last day of October, in the year 1848, profits were the last thing on the
mind of twenty-two-year-old Susannah Drake. The young Englishwoman, recently arrived in Levuka after an eventful six-month voyage out from London, had been awake most of the night. Something had made her restless, but she wasn’t sure what exactly.

The sound of her father snoring through the paper-thin wall separating his bedroom from hers reminded her where she was: in a two-bedroom guest cottage on the spacious grounds of Levuka
’s Wesley Methodist Mission Station. The cottage was situated on a rise above the town.

Susannah pulled back the drapes and looked out her bedroom window. She could see the town
’s residents were stirring. Merchants were preparing to open their stores in readiness for another day’s trading and revelers from the night before were weaving their way back to their respective lodgings, looking somewhat worse for wear.

The young woman turned away from the window and eased her tired limbs out of bed. Stretching, she walked over to a dressing table, sat down and began brushing her long, red hair. In the soft morning light, her hair shone like gold and framed a face that was angelic yet determined
—and undeniably beautiful; the modest night-dress she wore couldn’t hide her shapely figure, but her most amazing feature was her hazel eyes, which were flecked and which sparkled like diamonds.

Looking at her reflection, Susannah marveled at the chain of events that had brought her to this point in her life. She and her father, the Reverend Brian Drake, had come to Fiji as missionaries. They were en route to Momi Bay, an isolated settlement on the west coast of Viti Levu, where they would run a fledgling mission station.

For no apparent reason, as she often did, Susannah suddenly thought of her late mother. Jeanette Drake had passed away when her daughter was twelve, yet it seemed like only yesterday. While her passing had hit Susannah hard, she knew it had affected her father the worst. Drake Senior had been like a lost soul since the death of his dear wife.

When the good Reverend had announced to his parishioners one year ago that he had a calling to spread God
’s Word to the natives of Fiji, Susannah hadn’t hesitated to volunteer to accompany him. While she, too, wanted to do her bit for the church, she couldn’t bear the thought of letting her father travel to the other end of the world alone. He’d opposed it at first, but Susannah finally got her way, as she usually did.

Susannah finished brushing her hair then picked up her copy of
the King James Bible
and flopped back down on the bed. This particular version of the scriptures had been published in 1683. It was dog-eared, having been handed down to Susannah from her deceased mother and from her mother before that.

As she often did, Susannah opened the Bible randomly and began reading from whatever page it opened at. On this occasion, it fell open at the Book of Judges, chapter 16, which described the tumultuous love affair between Samson and Delilah.

Reading about the events surrounding the tale of the doomed lovers, other images soon began invading Susannah’s mind. She thought of the young, golden-haired rigger who had caught her eye aboard the ship on the voyage out from England. Lithe and handsome, he’d tried every trick known to man, to bed her. She’d resisted his advances, being the good Christian girl she was, but now wondered if she’d made the right decision. Try as she may, she couldn’t forget him, or his chiseled body.

Erotic images came to mind as Susannah imagined how Delilah must have felt being ravaged by Samson. The images gradually blurred. When they came back into focus, she was Delilah and the rigger was Samson; he was disrobing her and she wasn
’t resisting.

Susannah immediately felt guilty. In an attempt to rationalize her feelings, she came to the conclusion it was the overwhelming masculinity of men like Samson and the golden-haired rigger that excited her. Yet she was frightened by the intensity of her feelings also.

At her father's rectory in London, Susannah had had a few suitors over the years. All were God-fearing men and most would have made faithful husbands and good fathers. The problem was all were predictable and boring. None of the young Christian suitors who had received Drake Senior’s tick of approval had that dangerous persona that most attracted her. As much as she hated to admit it, she was attracted to men who were the antithesis of her father.

As Susannah continued reading, the forbidden thoughts returned. This time they were even more intense and exciting. Her pulse raced and her breathing became labored as she imagined strong hands caressing her body. She shook her head to try to dispel the fantasy, but she was too aroused to quash it.

Feeling more guilty than ever, she prayed to God to expel the sinful thoughts from her mind—to no avail. It was useless. Whatever she tried, failed.

Before she knew it, the fantasy completely took over her mind. Susannah imagined herself lying naked with Samson, or perhaps it was the rigger, and feeling him explore her naked body. The fantasy was so vivid she could almost feel his lips on her breasts and his fingers between her legs.

A sudden knock on the bedroom door snapped Susannah out of her reverie. She dropped her Bible on the floor.

“Are you decent?”

It was her father. Susannah had been so preoccupied she hadn’t realized he’d surfaced. She picked up her Bible from the floor. “Yes, Papa. Come in.”

Drake Senior entered the room. The clergyman-turned missionary was as stern-looking and forbidding as his daughter was fetching. Tall and angular, he bore a closer resemblance to an undertaker than a missionary. His piercing eyes softened at the sight of his daughter and only child reading her Bible. So feminine and radiant was she, Susannah reminded him of his deceased wife who also had an angelic appearance. “Good morning, my
dear,” he said affectionately.

Suppressing her sexual self and reverting to the prim and proper young woman she knew her father expected her to be, she responded brightly, “Good morning, Papa.”

The good Reverend took a quick look out the window then turned to his daughter. “We should give thanks to the Lord for this splendid day.”

“Yes, Papa.”

They both knelt down beside the bed and began reciting the Lord's Prayer. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

As she prayed, Susannah’s thoughts began to stray once more. The sexual images that had invaded her mind minutes earlier returned and began waging war against her spiritual self. She feared she was fighting a losing battle.

#

Less than a quarter of a mile away, as Susannah and her father prayed, a young American emerged from one of the numerous brothels on Levuka
’s dusty main street.

Adventurer Nathan Johnson was one of the more interesting characters who happened to be passing through Levuka. Recently arrived after a three-month voyage from his home port of San Francisco, the young man was here to trade muskets for the Fijians
’ highly prized beche-de-mer, or sea slugs. He then intended shipping the exotic sea slugs to China where they would fetch exorbitant prices, thereby adding to his not inconsiderable wealth.

Nathan was feeling considerably older than his twenty six years. Little wonder, he admonished himself, as he
’d just spent the night gambling and drinking before falling asleep in the arms of a prostitute. Now, standing outside the brothel, studying his reflection in a window, he didn’t like what he saw. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him and his long, dark hair framed a face, which, although undeniably handsome, was paradoxically youthful and world-weary at the same time.

The youthfulness, he knew, came from his pretty mother who had died giving birth to him and whose face he
’d only ever seen in a portrait painting; his world-weariness came from the life he’d led since fleeing home as a boy to escape a violent father. Since then, in the course of traveling the world, he’d already seen and done more than most men would in two lifetimes.

Shaking his head as if to dispel painful memories, Nathan set off down the street toward the boardinghouse he was staying at. Striding out, he found even this light exertion caused him to sweat profusely, such was the humidity. Tall and athletic, he had the look of someone who knew how to look after himself, and his fine attire, although somewhat crumpled after a night on the town, left no doubt he was a man of means.

His short journey took him past a motley collection of ramshackle buildings that made up the town center. Many were drinking establishments while others served as brothels. They were quiet now, but Nathan knew as the day progressed they’d all be doing a roaring trade.

Nearing his boardinghouse, he was confronted by two drunken sailors staggering arm in arm toward him. They immediately stepped aside to make way for the imposing, broad-shouldered stranger. There was something about him that told them he wouldn
’t hesitate to use the Bowie knife that rested easily in its sheath on his hip. Nathan passed them without breaking stride.

Nathan
’s rakish good looks attracted admiring glances from a group of shy Fijian girls sitting in the shade of a cluster of palm trees. They giggled and whispered excitedly among themselves. Ignoring them, Nathan stopped to admire the handiwork of an elderly Fijian man sitting cross-legged, carving an intricate design into a length of Fijian kauri.

The old man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “Bula,” he said, offering the traditional island greeting.

“Bula,” Nathan responded coldly. The young American had little time for indigenous people and he wasn’t bashful about showing his disdain for them. In his experience, the natives of every land he’d ever visited were ungrateful for the economic prosperity and civilized customs Europeans brought to their shores. It was the same with the Native Americans of his homeland and he was sure the natives of Fiji were no different. Behind their welcoming smiles, he sensed resentment.

Notwithstanding his bias, Nathan was astute enough to recognize the Fijians
—like all Pacific Islanders—were extremely resourceful people. Collectively, they’d explored and settled much of the vast Pacific.

Looking into the eyes of the old Fijian, Nathan reminded himself he was looking at the end result of thousands of earlier generations. He wondered what claims to fame the old man
’s forebears had.

As he continued on his way, Nathan recalled what he knew about Fiji and its South Sea neighbors. During the voyage out from San Francisco, he’d had plenty of time to study the history of the region. He’d learned that as the pharaohs of ancient Egypt were building their pyramids, and Chinese civilization was developing under the Shang Dynasty, adventurous seafarers from Southeast Asia began settling the far-flung islands of the South Pacific. Then, several centuries later, the archipelago of Fiji had been discovered and settled.
Comprised of some three hundred or so islands spanning nearly six thousand square miles of ocean between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn, Fiji remained hidden from the outside world for centuries. Successive invasions, first by other islanders then more recently by Europeans, had changed all that.

Nathan understood it was Dutch explorer Abel Tasman’s
discovery
of the archipelago in 1643 that had heralded the beginning of the end for Fiji as Fijians knew it. Traders and missionaries had soon followed and now the settlers were arriving. Everything he’d heard told him that nineteenth-century Fiji was a melting pot of warring tribes, European adventurers, mutineers, escaped convicts, beachcombers and all manner of undesirables.