The White Witch of the South Seas

by Dennis Wheatley

  Instead of staying again at the Mocambo, from Nandi they drove up the coast the twenty miles to Lautoka, where Hunt’s had booked them rooms at the Cathay Hotel. To their amusement they found that, down to the minutest particular, the bedrooms were replicas of those at the Grand Pacific; so that on waking in the morning, for a moment they might well imagine themselves back in Suva.

  That evening they took a stroll round the town. It was quite small, but again impressive by its cleanliness. Next morning they drove down to the harbour and went aboard the cabin cruiser Firefly. Her Captain was a middle-aged, lanky man named Clarke. He welcomed them with a grin and a bone-crushing hand-shake, and told them that he had emigrated eighteen years before from Australia. His crew consisted of four Fijians, all fine-looking fellows with enormous heads of soft, frizzy hair. There were four cabins and a small saloon. The after deck was covered with an awning, beneath which there were a table and comfortable basket chairs. Across the stern was slung a small speedboat for going ashore.

  Soon after they sailed it began to rain, and within a few minutes it was sheeting down so hard that visibility was reduced to a matter of yards. But half an hour later the rain ceased with equal suddenness, overhead the sky became a harsh blue and the sun blazed down so fiercely that deck rails outside the shade of the awning became too hot to touch.

  Early in the afternoon they approached the Mamanucas. The group consisted of one large island and several small ones, some of which were no more than atolls. Gregory had often read about the beauty of the South Sea Islands, but he decided that no author, however gifted, was capable of conveying their superb loveliness.

  Against a background of bright blue sky they stood out extraordinarily clearly. In places either the jungle, or great rocky cliffs, came right down to the water; in others there were stretches of glaringly white beaches, formed from millions of small, crushed shells. All of them were palm-fringed, the trunks often leaning right over from the force of many hurricanes, their fronds a vivid green. The sea was a deep, rich blue with, here and there, streaks of turquoise in the shallows. A shoal of flying fish flitted by and, as they neared the beach and the launch reduced speed, over the side they could see thirty feet down to the fans of coral and fantastic forms of seaweed waving from the rocks.

  Manon’s island was quite a small one, only about twenty acres in extent. When they came opposite her home, the cruiser dropped anchor a quarter of a mile off-shore, and the speedboat was lowered. In a matter of minutes the steersman beached her gently. Lifting Manon as though she weighed no more than a sack of feathers, another of the Fijian sailors carried her ashore through the foaming surf. Then he returned and, with equal ease, sloshed through the water to set Gregory down beside her.

  They were welcomed by a grinning group of native house-servants, headed by her top boy, Joe-Joe. He was a skinny figure, his black face covered with a network of wrinkles, his great puff of hair measuring a good two feet from side to side, and gold rings in his ears.

  The house was like those in which lived the native Chiefs. The main building was a big, oval bure. Palm thatch sloped down from a great ridge pole thirty feet up, to within ten feet of the ground, so that inside it should remain cool in the great heats. Near it there were other, smaller, bures, for use as bedrooms and servants’ quarters. The kitchen was a long lean-to at the back of the main building.

  Entering the main building Gregory looked about him with delight. The walls were covered with thousands of bamboo canes of varying thicknesses, lashed together and arranged in geometrical patterns. Mighty beams, rough-hewn from tree trunks, supported the roof, the acute interior angle of which could be seen only dimly far above. These beams were covered with tapa cloth—a speciality of Fiji, which is made from the white bark of a tree, hammered out until it is thin and supple, then dyed black and brown in patterns. Superimposed on the cloth there were rows of lovely Pacific shells. The great room was dim, cool, spacious and only sparsely furnished with low tables of rare woods and comfortable chairs.

  Wiping the perspiration from their faces, Gregory and his smiling hostess subsided into two of the chairs. Silent, barefooted, Joe-Joe appeared beside them with long tumblers of pineapple and fresh lime juice laced with rum. Manon had given her servants no notice of her coming, yet she had been expected and everything was prepared. From previous experience she had known that warning was unnecessary. How such foreknowledge of events is obtained is one of the great mysteries, but it is almost universal among the older people of the islands.

  After having a shower, a sleep and a swim from the beach in water that was as warm as a tepid bath, they spent a heavenly evening. Later, in Manon’s bure bedroom, Gregory felt as though thirty years had fallen from him. At his wish she remained passive or became temporarily a tigress. Her body was superb and he delighted in having her stand with him so that he could run his hands down the satin of her sides, waist and buttocks, then feel her crisp, dark pubic hair. Her laughter was infectious and by a dozen devices she incited him to further efforts. At last, in the small hours, he said that he must leave her to go down to the beach and flash a torch, as he had arranged for the speed boat to come in and take him off to the cruiser.

  ‘Darling,’ she gave a little giggle, ‘for a man of your age and experience you are the greatest fool in the world. Joe-Joe, the other servants and the crew of the launch all realise that we are lovers. I’ll bet you a hundred francs to a centime that if you went to the beach and flashed your torch the boat would not come off. The crew will be sound asleep. They and my servants would be utterly ashamed for me if they had reason to believe that you were not in my bed.’

  He had wished to protect her reputation, but, willingly, he allowed himself to be persuaded that she was right. Their limbs entwined, they fell happily asleep. And, of course, a few hours later, wrinkle-faced, smiling Joe-Joe set a tray down beside them that held two breakfasts.

  After a swim they went in the speed boat to Malolo, the main island of the group. Again they were expected. An elderly Chief greeted them with smiles and all the marks of respect. His village consisted of a clearing in which there were some twenty bures—all large, airy, thatched buildings set well apart. There was not a sign of squalor anywhere but, here and there, hibiscus bushes and rows of small white stones outlining the paths made it very neat. On the fringe of the village there were tall coconut palms, breadfruit trees, mangoes, ugly, several-branched pandana palms, the leaves of which are used for thatching, and several very thin-stemmed palms with lovely feathery heads, a variety said to be inhabited by good spirits who kept away evil ones. From the forks of the trees orchids were growing, their blossoms hanging down in long strings.

  In the middle of the village stood the Meeting House. Under a thatched roof it was open-sided except for a surround of low wall of woven bamboo about three feet high. They proceeded there for the welcome ceremony. At one end the Chief and the adult males of the village took their places, squatting with crossed legs on rush mats. Gregory and Manon sat down in similar fashion, facing the Chief. Before him was set a large, shallow wooden bowl on four squat legs, called a tanoa, tied to which there was a long string with shells attached.

  To the accompaniment of chanting and rhythmic hand-clapping the dried and grated roots of the Piper methysticum bush was put in the bowl and mixed with water, to make the ceremonial drink known as Kava or Yaggona. A young warrior dipped a finely-polished, coconut half shell into the mixture. Holding the cup with his arms fully extended, he slowly sank down and offered it to the Chief. With hollowed palms, everyone gave three loud claps and the Chief drank from it. The same procedure was followed with Manon and Gregory, while the natives cried, ‘Matha! matha!’ which means ‘Empty it,’ as the custom is to drink it straight down. They, too, clapped three times when they had swallowed the concoction, which Gregory found to be a milky liquid with a faint flavour resembling rhubarb. The remainder of those assembled then drank in turn to the continuation of hand-clapping.

 
; The ceremony completed, the Chief led his guests to a bench shaded by a pink-flowered cassia tree, and sat down between them. In front of them a dozen or more men formed a double line. Their leader uttered a low note. The others took their key from it and began to sing. They were accompanied by a band which squatted a little to one side. One man had a long, oval, double-ended drum upon which he beat incredibly fast with his finger-tips, others, with several different lengths of very thick bamboo, beat upon the ground. The harmony was magnificent. Some of the songs were primitive laments, others paeons of victory.

  Later, a score of women performed meke for them, which is best expressed by ‘dancing a poem’. Unaided, Gregory could interpret only a few of the movements, but the gently-smiling old Chief explained from time to time that his corps de ballet was expressing the surging of the sea, the sowing and the harvest, the growth of great trees and their destruction in a hurricane.

  Under the midday sun the sweat streamed down the shoulders of the men and the rounded arms of the women, who were naked to the waist; but they did not appear to mind. Their singing and dancing seemed effortless and, obviously, they were enjoying every moment of it. Never, Gregory thought, had he seen such happy people. When the show was over he shook every one of them by the hand. Unabashed, the men who had a few words of English cried, ‘Welcome! Welcome! Come again, yes. Big pleasure see you,’ and gave him friendly pats on the shoulder.

  At a loss how to express his appreciation to the Chief, Gregory asked him to accept his handkerchief. It was a large square of gaily-patterned rough silk, a speciality of Beale and Inman in Bond Street, and had cost two pounds. The old man was delighted and, not to be outdone, insisted on presenting him with a dozen beautiful, highly-polished shells.

  He accompanied them down to their speed boat and had his men carry them out to it, then smilingly waved them away. Suddenly it had clouded over and on their way back began to rain. By the time they got home they were drenched, but the rain was so warm they laughed about it. They were wearing only the lightest garments, so within ten minutes they had dried themselves and changed, to sit down to a lunch of paw-paws, delicious, fresh-caught crabs, and mangoes from trees in the garden.

  The following morning they swam with glass-masked snorkels out to the reef. Twenty feet down, the undersea garden provided a wonderful scene of colourful activity. Between the coral fans flitted shoals of tiny brilliant blue fish, and hundreds of big prawns. Occasionally there came into view bigger fellows, red, rainbow-striped, and dead black—octopuses with gently-waving tentacles, sea-slugs and hermit crabs. Later the speed boat swiftly circled the bay, trailing them in turn behind it on a surfboard. Gregory had mastered the art many years before in the South of France, and Manon was an expert.

  For a week they enjoyed themselves immensely. To reach Tujoa, Gregory intended to charter a small, private aircraft; and if he was to be there by the time the salvaging machinery was expected he would have to leave Manon within the next two days. Until he raised the subject she had wisely held her fire. At the time they were sunbathing on the beach. Rolling over so that she could lie upon him, she looked down into his eyes and said:

  ‘My love, be sensible. As you are so rich, why in the name of God should you risk your life just for the chance of bringing up treasure? If you continue to thwart Lacost and his gang you will be risking your life; make no mistake about it. I’m not suggesting that you should let James down. By all means provide him with the money to go ahead. But let him do it on his own.’

  Gregory was greatly tempted to agree. Their long, happy days in the sunshine, swimming lazily in the warm sea, where an infinity of new sights could be seen among the rocks below: the starlit nights and love in the arms of a woman who was always willing but never pressed him beyond his own desires was as near Paradise as anything he had known since he had lost Erika. After all, he could easily send money to James; and why should he chance getting himself killed on Tujoa when he could continue this blissful existence with Manon? Smiling up at her, he said:

  ‘I’ll make no promises; still, I’ll think about it.’

  But next morning a small, chuffing steamer dropped anchor off the main island. Shortly afterwards a native in a canoe arrived with Manon’s mail, a week-old copy of the Fiji Times and a cable for Gregory. It was from James and read:

  French Resident here insists permit required to salvage from wreck and ten per cent findings payable to Government stop proceeding Noumea but application cannot be made in company’s name without producing articles stop suggest you meet me Noumea eleventh.

  It was then the 8th and from Fiji too long a flight to be risked in a small, chartered aircraft. Even if Gregory left at once it might be several days before he could catch a connection. He had the Articles of Association with him but they had not yet been signed. Without them, James could get no further. Reluctantly he told Manon that he now had no option but to leave her. She begged him to take her with him. He pointed out that to get to New Caledonia he might first have to fly down to Australia, and said that it was pointless for her to make such a journey simply to be with him when he signed a few documents; but he promised to send for her as soon as he got to Tujoa. With that she had to be content.

  That afternoon he left in the motor cruiser for Lautoka. There, as he had thought probable, to get to Noumea he would first have to fly down to Sydney, but, fortunately, the weekly QANTAS flight was due in next morning, and Hunt’s got him a seat on it.

  By Wednesday evening he was in Sydney. The heat there was even more sweltering than in Fiji, as the city lacked the cool breezes that made winter in the islands pleasant, provided one did not go out during the hottest hours of the day.

  He had to wait two days there, but on the 12th an aircraft landed him at Toutouta airport on the south coast of New Caledonia. The airport was forty kilometres from the capital so, during the drive, he had ample time to form an impression of the eastern end of the island. The scenery could not have been more unlike that of Fiji. There was no lush vegetation, no riot of colourful flowering shrubs, no neat villages of thatched bures. Only an occasional palm was to be seen and, had it not been for the heat, no-one would have taken it for an island in the tropics.

  The road, which was excellent, curved away from the sea through sparsely-populated valleys between high, rolling hills that, in the distance, merged into mountains. It was no doubt this resemblance to the wilder parts of Scotland that had caused Captain Cook, when in the 1770s he had discovered the 250-mile-long, cigar-shaped island, to christen it New Caledonia.

  The lower slopes were sparsely wooded by one variety of nearly leafless tree, which made the scene monotonous. Here and there, higher up, there were large patches of what looked like copper-coloured sand. These, Gregory’s driver told him, were the nickel mines, the deposits of which were the richest in the world, and made New Caledonia a wealthy country.

  On entering Noumea, the greater part of which stood on high land overlooking five large and one small bay, Gregory saw the huge factory that smelted the mineral. The chimneys belched clouds of reddish smoke, the deposit from which had coloured the roofs of the nearby buildings and the ships at the adjacent wharf in the first bay. The driver said the smoke was poisonous, but the Societé de Nickel contributed ninety per cent of the country’s revenue and its position was so powerful that it could ignore all appeals to spend the large sum necessary to purify the surrounding atmosphere, and paid such high wages that it never lacked for labour. But, fortunately, the great plant was on the down-wind side of the town; so only the people living in its immediate vicinity were affected.

  A mile further on they entered the town centre and Gregory bade his driver pull up in the big, tree-shaded main square, at the Tourist Office. There he telephoned several of the best hotels and located James at the Nouváta. Returning to his car, he was driven past the Baie de la Moselle, on the north side of which lies the port, then uphill across the base of a sizeable peninsula, along the shore of the even larger Baie d
’Orphelinat. The southern side of the bay was indented by quite a small one that his driver told him was called Fisherman’s Bay. In it there lay at anchor many privately-owned vessels of various sizes and, beyond them, a battleship. The driver added that the Yacht Club was situated there and that the big building high up on the point was the Naval Headquarters.

  Again the road left the sea front but, half a mile further on, returned to it, skirting the Baie des Citrons—a pleasant suburb where a number of typically French villas looked out across the road to long bathing beaches. Turning inland, they crossed the base of yet another peninsula, to come out on the last great bay, Ansa Vata. About half-way along it they passed a two-storey building set in an attractive garden, in which the flags of half a dozen nations fluttered from flag poles. The driver said it was the headquarters of the South Pacific Commission. Two minutes later, the car at last pulled up before the Hotel Nouváta.

  Entering, Gregory found that most of the ground floor consisted of a restaurant and a large, circular bar. Beyond them lay a garden and swimming pool, round which fifty or more people, mostly in bikinis or bathing trunks, were enjoying drinks at tables under big, striped umbrellas. James was among them. On catching sight of Gregory, he jumped to his feet to greet him with delight.

  Over dinner they discussed the situation. So far there had been no sign in Tujoa of Lacost and his friends; but, James having informed his Council of Elders that definite plans for the exploration of the wreck had been made, evidently Commandant Elbœuf, the elderly French Resident, had come to hear of it and had then proved obstructive. To start with, he had asserted that any treasure trove was the property of the French Government, but later, when James had insisted on seeing the text of this law, it had transpired that if a licence to search was obtained and the licensee paid all expenses, only ten per cent of the value of any treasure found would have to go to the Government. As Elbœuf was an old, and normally indolent, man, James was of the opinion that he had been gingered into this activity by Roboumo, the witchdoctor, who was most averse to any modernisation being introduced into the island.