Savages

by Shirley Conran

  The skipper stifled a yawn. The tourist season was nearly over; the wet season would start on December 1. He turned from the wheel and looked back over his shoulder at the deck below.

  Carey had just reeled in a small tuna—about six pounds, he reckoned—and she was squatting on the deck, rebaiting her line. Winston was helping her.

  The skipper was really pleased with that lad. He swam like a trout and dived like a dolphin; he was worth every grain of the two sacks of flour a year for which his father leased him out. The skipper could swear that Winston preferred the sea to dry land. On land he was an excitable, skinny twelve-year-old, but in the water he was amazingly mature, a calm, fast thinker who never wasted a movement. But that shouldn’t be surprising, since he came from a local pearl-diving family. This afternoon he’d been a bloody marvel in that quicksand. Winston had saved the little blonde’s life. He’d get two extra sacks of flour for that.

  Perched on the transom, Winston had just finished reciting the names of his ten older brothers and sisters to Annie, who was seated in a fishing chair. Annie’s sleeveless pale green shirt kept working loose from the waistband of her baggy green slacks. She listened to Winston’s stories about Father Winston Churchill Smith, the missionary who had baptized him, who had taught him at the mission school and who had given him the white rosary beads that he proudly fished from the pocket of his torn khaki shorts. “Bible Prize,” Winston said proudly. “Winston good Christian. Winston eat body of Jesus and drink blood of Jesus and take strength of Jesus thereby. Winston not bloody savage. Jesus good strong magic. Winston not believe God-Kilibob.”

  “Cut it out, Winston,” the skipper called. “Get up here and take the wheel.”

  Winston shinned up the ladder, and the skipper jumped down on deck for a beer.

  “What did he mean, God-Kilibob?” asked Annie.

  “It’s a sort of religion, the Cargo Cult,” the skipper explained. “The old native ways ain’t changed much, not even in Queenstown. Ordinary villagers still live like their ancestors lived, except they maybe use a few Western goods—anything from a can of soup to a teakettle. They don’t believe that stuff is made by human beings. They reckon all the jeeps, and mine machinery, and tins of instant coffee are made by a god, and delivered to earth by the spirits of the dead, for the benefit of everyone.” He took a swig of beer. “All Western goods are called Cargo. They’re supposedly sent by God-Kilibob.”

  Suzy laughed. “You mean, they think your Swiss army knife, and that can of beer, and this boat were sent from heaven?”

  “Yes. It ain’t surprising, considering that none of ’em have ever seen a factory.” He looked around at the bright pink, interested faces. “Some of ’em also reckon the missionaries misled ’em. Christianity hasn’t given ’em the secret of amassing Cargo. But they can see the missionary johnnies know the secret, because they’ve got plenty of Cargo goods.”

  “But the natives seem friendly enough,” Annie protested.

  “If an islander thinks a whitey will tell him the Cargo secret, then he’ll be very friendly. Be careful about giving ’em gifts—even small things, like that penknife I gave Winston.”

  “What do you mean, careful?” Suzy asked sharply.

  “Don’t expect gratitude,” the skipper said. “An islander reckons the gift is his share of Cargo, something he’s entitled to. Don’t let ’em think you’ve lots of stuff, or they’ll reckon you’re responsible for stealing the Cargo that God-Kilibob sent to earth for them.”

  “But surely not all of them feel that way? Winston doesn’t believe in God-Kilibob. He just said so,” Annie remonstrated.

  The skipper laughed. “That’s because he does believe it. A few years of mission school don’t wipe out a lifetime spent in a tribal village where every man jack offers their prayers, their food and their flowers to God-Kilibob.” He didn’t mention the human sacrifices.

  “What sort of Cargo do they want?” Annie asked.

  “Some of ’em pray for axes, cloth, knives. The really aggressive ones want military Cargo—airplanes and warships—to drive the whites off the island.”

  Carey said, “So you’ve got a gun aboard because there’s a real possibility that your boat might be stolen.”

  “Aw, I ain’t never had any trouble. Out here, they don’t blame welfare for what they ain’t got, they blame the whites for withholding it, or their medicine men for getting the ritual wrong. They reckon they must’ve used the wrong dances, the wrong chanting or the wrong sacrifices, but if they keep at it, they figure one day they’ll get it right. Then the spirits of their dead ancestors will give ’em amazing stuff, like this can of Fosters and your lipsticks.”

  Carey said, “So they expect goods in return for prayers?”

  The skipper nodded. “A real reward, in this life, not a promise in the next.” He turned his head sharply, like a dog pointing. Did he detect a slightly different note in the engine?

  No, it was his imagination. He added, ’Tough tribesmen being ferried to some workplace by plane start to cry with terror if they fly over a Cargo-worship village. They know that, down below, the villagers are casting spells to make the plane crash and hoping that it’s carrying refrigerators and beer.”

  Again the skipper lifted his head. Now he was sure that the engine was losing power. Gradually the engine revolutions fell away, until it was just ticking over.

  He scrambled up to the bridge and checked the fuel. It was a bit low, but nothing to worry about. Maybe water in the diesel fuel. He topped up the tank, which emptied his jerry can.

  To his relief the engine suddenly picked up and they started moving again. Funny, he’d never had that problem before, but then the boat wasn’t serviced regularly, because it meant taking her around to Queenstown and losing valuable charter days during the season.

  As the crimson sun fell toward the sea, the dark water looked streaked with blood.

  Suzy, who seemed to have forgotten already that she had nearly died so recently, held open the neck of her oversized shirt and peered inside at her sunburned skin. “Aw, look at these marks! I won’t be able to wear a strapless dress tonight.”

  “The beach barbecue’s always informal,” the skipper said. “The ladies usually wear a cotton frock, maybe a light jacket. It can get chilly after sunset watching them native dances, even when you’re sitting round the campfire.”

  Suzy decided she would wear her white strapless Calvin Klein, but with bare feet and no jewelry; she’d do her hair in a braid and stick a yellow orchid behind one ear. She’d cover the top of her body with bronze Cover-up of the Stars. She looked at her wristwatch. It was nearly five forty; they were due back at six.

  The skipper saw Suzy glance at her watch. “Nearly home. Paradise Bay’s just around the next point.”

  “Will the dancers wear native dress?” Carey asked, remembering some of those weird photographs that Ed had brought home.

  “They used to dance stark naked, but now they wear a little rattan skirt for the sake of decency. And feather headdresses two feet high.” As he spoke, the skipper’s head jerked around. Again, he heard that different note in the engine. Damn, it couldn’t be fuel, but she was certainly dying on him again.

  The engine quickly faded, until there was no power. The boat stopped moving forward.

  “Sorry about this, ladies. Would you mind moving to the cabin? The engine’s under the deck. I’ll just take a look at her.”

  The skipper could see nothing obviously wrong with the engine. A diesel engine will go pretty well forever, but if she stops, then it generally means there’s something seriously wrong. Why couldn’t the old girl have waited just a little bit longer, until they were safely back in Paradise Bay?

  Only a small crimson arc was now visible above the horizon. The sea was slashed in irregular bands of red and orange fanning toward the Louise.

  Five minutes later the skipper yelled, “Try her now, Winston.”

  Winston pressed the starter, which reluctan
tly coughed.

  “Okay, stop it. I reckon I know what’s the trouble.” The skipper’s fingers moved skillfully over the engine, but he could find nothing wrong with it.

  “Try her again, Winston.”

  Nothing happened.

  Swiftly, at three minutes past six, the sun fell under the dark line of the horizon, and almost immediately the glaring red streaks on the water paled to gold, glittering on the heaving surface of the black water. There is almost no dusk in the tropics; within ten minutes of sundown it is dark.

  Sweating and red-faced, the skipper said, “I’ll radio the hotel and tell ’em what happened.”

  “Get them to send another boat for us,” Silvana told him.

  “There ain’t another boat with an engine. The little thing they use for waterskiing is under repair; the only other craft are monosails or dinghies.”

  The skipper radioed the hotel and explained their position. “Yeah, we’re on the other side of the peninsula … What’ll I do? Leave my fisherboy on the boat and take the ladies ashore in the dinghy. She only holds four people, but two trips’ll do it. I’ll bring ’em back by the path across the neck of the peninsula, so send a couple of boys with torches to meet us … Got no choice, it’s only a couple of miles … They’ll have to walk, if they want to get to the barbecue. If not, they’ll have to stay aboard all night … Look, they’ve been lying about on a bloody beach all day, two miles ain’t going to kill ’em … Yeah, tell their husbands we’ll be a little late and ask Lou to hold up the start of the barbecue, will you? If the suckling pigs have been cooking all day, a few minutes longer won’t hurt ’em … No, she ain’t due for an overhaul for another month…. Yeah, bound to be something simple, I just wish I bloody knew what.”

  He climbed down the ladder and explained the situation.

  Silvana was vexed. “I’m surprised they haven’t got other boats.”

  “We only need boats for waterskiing and fishing, ma’am. This boat costs five hundred dollars a day to hire, and some days she ain’t booked out. So it’d be a waste of money to have two of ’em.”

  The engine coughed and started. Winston’s face wore a beam as wide as a slice of coconut flesh. “She go, boss. Winston pressa titty. She go!”

  The engine coughed again and stopped.

  “Shit. Beg pardon, ladies,” said the skipper. “Let’s get you all to shore before it gets dark. You stay with the boat, Winston. Don’t let anybody board her, you understand? I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  He went below, and returned with his rifle.

  “Hey,” cried Suzy. “If it’s just a short walk, why do we need a gun?”

  “We don’t. It’s for Winston. This boat is big Cargo.”

  “But Winston’s only twelve years old!”

  “He was only eleven when I took him on, and the first thing I taught him was how to blow a hole in a man’s chest, if anyone tries to steal my boat. Now, ladies, please get sneakers from the box in the bow. Your shoes weren’t made for jungle walking.”

  Just before half past six, all the women, wearing ill-fitting sneakers, were standing on a soggy, rocky strip of beach. They watched the skipper drag the dinghy up the sand; he kicked a hole to bury the anchor, then covered it with sand. “Not that she’ll need it, tide’s going out.” He tucked his white shirt back into his blue jeans. “Let’s go, ladies.”

  The light was fading fast as the women followed the skipper up the sandy, shrub-covered slope at the back of the beach.

  Suzy slipped and tumbled back a few feet. “My fingernails!” she shrieked.

  Annie went back and helped her scramble up the last few yards to where the rest of the party waited.

  “Hurry up!” Patty called impatiently. She could see they were in for slow progress. Silvana had heaved herself up that twenty-foot slope like a baby elephant.

  Suzy cried, “Something just stung me! Oh! Oh! Oh!” She brushed the stinging flies from her legs and arms. “Ants in my sneakers!” She hopped from one leg to the other. “Jeez, what a picnic!”

  Silvana thought, Serves her right for wearing those tiny shorts and skimpy halter. Silvana was glad she’d worn her jumpsuit.

  The skipper said, “You stay here. I’ll find the path.” He disappeared, leaving them standing in knee-high, coarse grass.

  At the beach, where they’d had the picnic, there had been silence, except for the sound of the waterfall and the gentle lap of waves on the sand, but here, the jungle was noisy with the sounds made by wild creatures after sunset—the hum of cicadas rubbing their back knees together, buzzing, rustling and high-pitched, irregular gurgles.

  The women all jumped as a wild shriek shot through the night.

  The skipper reappeared. “Only a parrot. The path’s about ten feet away. It’s more a track than a path; natives move sideways along ’em.” His light illuminated the track.

  They trudged into the jungle, where it was far darker.

  The skipper said to Carey, “You go at the end. Nobody lose sight of the person in front.”

  The women started to move along the winding track; it was covered with damp and decaying vegetation, swarming with insects. Overhead, they could hear the rustle of leaves as unseen creatures leaped from branch to branch, unseen mouths and beaks hooted and moaned, chattered and yelled.

  “This is like being stuck in a goddamn zoo,” Suzy complained.

  “It’s so thick and scratchy,” Silvana muttered. “I can’t see the branches and the damn things seem to claw at me as I pass.”

  “This path has been cleared through secondary jungle,” said the skipper over his shoulder.

  “What’s secondary jungle?” Patty asked, thinking that the other women were making a ridiculous fuss.

  “It’s where primary jungle was cleared for cultivation, then abandoned after the soil was exhausted. When jungle reclaims the land, you get this thick undergrowth.”

  “Couldn’t we wait at the next village?” Silvana suggested. “While you go to the hotel and bring lights?”

  “Best keep moving,” said the skipper firmly. “We ain’t got far to go.”

  The women were tired and fractious, grumbling like children up long past bedtime.

  Suzy started to whimper. “How much longer?”

  “Not far,” the skipper said. “If you keep closer to me, you can see the way by my light.”

  They stumbled on, tripping over slimy stones, exposed tree roots and tangled brush. In their ludicrously large, ill-fitting sneakers, they shuffled forward, arms bent over their eyes to protect their faces from the twisted, hanging creepers.

  Silvana gasped as some creature started from under her foot; she felt a warm, furry limb briefly touch her bare ankle. Annie jumped as a bat fluttered in front of her face and brushed by her hands. Carey scolded herself as she would a child afraid of the dark. Patty crossed her fingers. Suzy whimpered.

  The women were no longer petulant. Their confident assumption of safety had evaporated. Although they all knew that there was no reason to be frightened, they all were.

  A scream of agony shrilled through the air. The women stopped abruptly.

  “Don’t tell me that was a parrot,” Suzy snapped.

  “Stay here,” said the skipper uneasily. “I’ll see what that noise was. Don’t move.” He sensed their rising panic. “Back in five minutes.” He plunged ahead and a moment later the small dancing circle of light had disappeared, leaving the women in the dark.

  Five minutes later, Silvana heard a rustle. She jumped back into Annie, who cannoned backward into Patty.

  They heard the skipper whisper, “It’s only me. There’s a native village ahead, to the left, and they’re punishing a thief. Let’s move on fast.”

  Suzy sobbed, “No. I’m going to that village and I’m paying them to take me back to the hotel. And I’m going to get Brett to take me off this fucking place first thing tomorrow!”

  “You ain’t none of you going to that village,” the skipper said firmly.
“They’re maybe a little overexcited.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The skipper had moved up to the fishing village. By the light of the bonfire he had been able to see a man forcibly held to the ground while village elders hammered at his right hand with a heavy wooden club. They were breaking all the bones in that hand, which would maim him and mark him as a thief forever—if he didn’t die of infection.

  The skipper repeated, “I’m sorry, you mustn’t go to that village.”

  Suzy didn’t insist. She had noticed the worried note in his voice.

  Patty said, “But won’t they hear us?”

  “Don’t matter if they do. They ain’t going to leave their village after sunset. They’re all scared of the night—it belongs to the spirits of the dead. The living are supposed to keep out of the way.”

  The little party stumbled on. They lifted their feet high, but still tripped over the fetid tangle of vegetation on the path.

  Suzy stopped again. She spoke in a childish, mulish voice. “I can’t go on. I’m staying here!”

  “Can’t think where them guys with torches are,” the skipper said. “But the hotel ain’t more’n ten minutes ahead. We’re almost at the boundary fence. Do you want me to go ahead and check?”

  “No!” Suzy sobbed. “Don’t leave us again!”

  Patty checked the luminous dial of her watch. They had started walking at six twenty; it was nearly seven twenty.

  It had been the longest hour of her life. So far.

  * * *

  The silent Nexus executives in their pale cotton tropical suits sat in wicker chairs on the patio outside the hotel bar. The strip of beach in front of them was surrounded by flaming kerosene torches on six-foot poles, which cast shuddering shadows over their white faces. The phosphorescent sea glittered, treacle-dark beyond the torches. Arthur listened to the soft hiss of waves advancing up the beach and the sucking sound as they were torn back by the sea and white foam spread like lace on the dark sand.