Wake of the Hornet

by R. R. Irvine

  He refocused his binoculars. This plane looked like the same one that had visited Balesin last week.

  Innis gritted his teeth. God knew what this third flight, coming soon after the first two, would do to his attendance. Last Sunday’s service had been a disaster, with only a single pew filled with diehards. Henry had been among them, smiling up at Innis, a Cheshire smile, like a cat stalking a bird.

  Innis nodded to himself, knowing that the Lord would have to be content with an empty house this coming Sunday. It wouldn’t be the first.

  But today was a first, in his tenure anyway. The first time scientists had come to Balesin in force.

  Usually, the island’s only visitors were misguided tourists, who quickly left when confronted with the island’s inhospitable climate. Once or twice, the Hawaiian professor had come, but his impact had been minimal as far as the reverend’s services were concerned. And even the Hawaiian had been glad to get away before the rainy season.

  “You have to be born here to feel at peace with Balesin,” Yali liked to say.

  “I was raised here,” Innis would point out.

  “But you left for a while.”

  The reverend smiled grimly. He was an old-timer now, in years anyway. He’d learned to cope with the heat, though at the moment he had to shift his sandaled feet to keep from blistering them on the metal roof underfoot. He was standing in the bell tower, or rather what passed for one, though there never had been a bell. In reality, the tower was nothing but a makeshift platform bolted to the corrugated roof of his one-story church and could be reached only by a ladder. During rainstorms, the bolt holes caused slow leaks on the pews below. One of these days he’d get around to caulking the holes, but not now. Not in this heat.

  He focused on the plane one more time. It was landing all right.

  Maybe, as a Christian, he should make the near-mile trek to the village to greet the newcomers. Surely even scientists would welcome a friendly, civilized face.

  No, he told himself. An educated face was the best he could offer, because the reverend was anything but civilized. Otherwise, why would he be standing here, praying for disaster to strike.

  “And why not?” he thought out loud. “It would be better for everyone if that plane hit a reef right now and sank. That way, there’d be no more trouble. No more risking the wrath of John Frum.”

  Hearing himself, denying everything he believed, he banged a fist against his bare thigh. When that didn’t help, he pinched his flesh as hard as he could. Thoughts like that had no place in a preacher’s mind. Surely what had happened in the past had nothing to do with John Frum, despite what Yali and his acolytes claimed. Most likely the expedition had disappeared because of some natural disaster. Better yet, maybe it never happened. Maybe it was just another old wives’ tale to scare off outsiders. Maybe no one had disappeared. Maybe no one had died.

  Innis shook his head. He knew better. From personal experience, or so he’d been told, though memory failed him on that point.

  He twitched. A sudden chill made him shiver. And in heat like this. That’s what he got for thinking about a man like Henry Yali. Still, it might be best to talk over the situation with the man. That way, Innis’s conscience would be clear no matter what happened.

  The reverend nodded at the wisdom of such a decision. The last thing he needed was something else haunting him at night.

  Sighing, he took one last look through his binoculars. It was worse than he thought. This time the cargo was for the villagers. They were flocking to the beach, where the red parachutes were already being waved like banners of welcome.

  “It’s best you stay here,” his wife called from the foot of the ladder. “You’d just be in the way if you went into town. We both would.”

  “You saw the parachutes?”

  “Yes. Sunday services are going to suffer.”

  Innis smiled down at his wife, hoping to cheer her up. Leading the choir was the highlight of Ruth’s week.

  “Why don’t you come down off that roof before you get sunstroke,” she said. “I’ll hold the ladder for you.”

  As soon as he was safely down, she took his hand and said, “Poor Ichabod.”

  It had been her pet name for him since the first time they had met. Back then, he’d been thin and gangling and had reminded her of Ichabod Crane, the character from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

  “It’s a pastor’s duty to welcome newcomers,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “To quote one of your own sermons, Ichabod, never try to compete with the locals. Show them a different road and pray that they will travel it.”

  He smiled. She made him sound like a great dispenser of wisdom, though that was far from the truth. To his ear, his Sunday rambles sounded confusing more often than not.

  “I understand one of the scientists is a woman,” his wife said. “Why don’t we wait till they settle in and then we’ll invite her to tea.”

  “A woman? I hadn’t heard that.”

  She patted his hand. “You were the one who told me, dear.”

  Innis sighed. Sometimes he didn’t know whose memory was slipping, hers or his.

  “What kind of scientist is she?” he asked.

  “An archaeologist,” his wife replied. “Just like those people who disappeared fifty years ago.”

  “They were anthropologists,” he said. “There’s a difference.” He shivered again. John Frum hated all those who pried, or so said Henry Yali.

  How did Frum feel about ministers? Innis wondered, then shook himself. What the hell was he thinking about? Frum was nothing but a superstition.

  Ruth gripped his hand. “You feel cold, dear. We’d better get you out of the sun. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

  Innis allowed himself to be led inside the church. There, lying down with his eyes closed, he kept seeing fiery flashes, like the after-burn from staring at the sun.

  You’re a fool, he told himself. John Frum is a legend, a way of coping with life on Balesin. He doesn’t exist.

  Innis sighed. The trouble was, Henry Yali said the same thing about Jesus. And Henry claimed to have met Frum once, in another incarnation. “Can you say the same about your God?” Henry liked to taunt.

  Henry Yali knew better than to expect John Frum as soon as he saw the plane up close. It was the same one that had come before carrying scientists.

  Yali, exhausted from his headlong rush down the mountain, plunged into the surf. The water renewed him, cleansed him, washed him of sin, he hoped.

  But what if the scientists were part of a test, John Frum’s way of assessing Yali’s faith.

  Yali shook his head as he waded through the rippling water. There was no need of a test. He had already passed with flying colors. What counted was Yali’s willingness to serve John Frum by protecting his holy place. Frum would understand that; Frum would condone it.

  After all, hadn’t Yali met John Frum personally? Hadn’t John Frum reached out to him, to Henry Yali, asking for help? Didn’t that make Yali the chosen one?

  Lily had been close by, too. She was his witness. She was . . . His mind veered away. He tried to erase all painful memories from his thoughts, but one would not go.

  Yali staggered, startling those around him. To allay the sudden concern he saw in their faces, he smiled and said, “Such planes come from God whether they know it or not. They must all be greeted accordingly. We must never doubt John Frum’s promise. One day He will make Balesin great.”

  But Yali had secret doubts, not of Frum but of the other man—the outsider—who claimed to act in His best interests. Keep an eye on these new interlopers, he’d told Henry. They are unbelievers. If they are not watched, they will sow false seeds among your followers. But how strong was the outsider’s faith? Was he merely paying lip service? Yali smiled. He would pay more than that. And that pay, Yali felt certain, had to be part of John Frum’s plan. Perhaps, in some way yet to be revealed, the trespasser on the mountain was part of that plan.r />
  Besides, the new ones had supplied Yali with cargo, with the promise of more to come. And didn’t all cargo come from John Frum, no matter who delivered it? Weren’t the delivery men His messengers, unwitting or not? Yali nodded. John Frum’s will be done.

  But the outsiders wanted something in exchange, while John Frum attached no such conditions.

  Yali left the water to pace along the beach. He couldn’t shake the thought that he was being tested. Yet if that were the case, there would be no harm in going along with the outsiders. The cargo would benefit his people no matter what the intention of those who gave it. Yali smiled to himself. He’d outsmart them all, with John Frum’s help.

  As he squinted at the sea, the airplane settled onto the water. Its engines roared, then throttled back as it headed for the shore.

  Yali waved. His heart soared. Maybe, despite everything, it would be John Frum at the controls.

  Those around him cheered. He joined in, shouting for all he was worth. John Frum would expect such a welcome. But would Yali recognize Him again after so many years?

  He closed his eyes, trying to summon up his memory of that long-ago meeting. But the image was shadowy. He rubbed his eyes, but to no avail? Please, he prayed, let me not fail Him now.

  Then it hit him. Enlightenment. John Frum wouldn’t change, not if He didn’t want to. Such was His power. Which meant he could look like anyone if that, too, was His desire.

  Yali sighed. He would have to be very careful. After all, the power of life and death was in his hands. And he hoped, prayed, that John Frum would not demand the spilling of any more blood, not like before, all those years ago.

  Yali retreated into the trees, to await the correct moment to make his official entrance.

  CHAPTER 9

  Nick admired Coltrane’s technique as he cut the engines and allowed the Widgeon’s momentum to carry it toward shore, where the island’s only freshwater river emptied into the sea. Already, the beach was lined with villagers.

  Along the water’s edge, a line of young men ran back and forth, carrying the parachutes from Curt’s cargo drop. They waved the red silk over their collective heads, reminding Nick of the dragons that snaked through San Francisco’s Chinatown during parades.

  As the Widgeon drifted closer to the beach, Nick was struck by the beauty of the people. Their skins glowed with a richness sunbathers only dream about. Their hair was dark, as were their eyes. Their clothes were scant, mostly Western in origin, with some scattering of “missionary” cloth garments hinting at a nineteenth-century corruption of traditions. None of the women were bare-breasted. There were no penis pouches, such as she had encountered in New Guinea. Not such virgin territory after all, she thought.

  “We were right about dropping the cargo,” Elliot said. “It seems to have been a big hit.”

  Buettner nodded. “Guests should always arrive bearing gifts.”

  The Widgeon’s hull bumped bottom while still a good ten yards from shore. Buettner opened the door.

  Nick left her seat to join him in the doorway, hoping for a cool breeze. What she got was a face full of hot, clammy air. The intensity of it stunned her. It was beyond anything she’d ever experienced in New Guinea. Even in the scorching deserts of the Southwest where she and Elliot so often dug for Anasazi relics paled by comparison. This heat felt as if someone had thrown a sopping, hot blanket over her head.

  She gasped. Only yesterday, she’d been coping with one of Berkeley’s frigid summers and longing for tropical sunshine.

  “I’ll stay with the plane,” Coltrane said, “until I’m sure the natives are friendly.”

  “Will you drop the tourist crap?” Nick snapped at him as she pulled on her Cubs cap to keep the sweat out of her eyes. As usual, the heat didn’t seem to affect her father, who continued to look crisp and cool, while she felt on the verge of a meltdown.

  “Come on, Nick,” he said, “let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot of supplies to unload before Lee can fly home.” Elliot pushed past her and plunged into the surf, followed closely by Buettner.

  As Coltrane and Nick began handing out the gear to them, the islanders waded toward the plane to help. They formed a line so that supplies could be passed ashore hand to hand. Sleeping bags, tents, cameras, recorders, video gear, the portable generator, and food enough for a week made it ashore without putting their watertight containers to the test.

  When the last container had been unloaded, Nick sagged against the Widgeon’s door frame and mopped her face.

  “Sony to kick you out, Doc,” Coltrane said into her ear, “but I’ve got to be on my way if I’m going to make Guam before dark.”

  She stared at him in amazement. He, like Elliot, seemed oblivious to the heat. To her, the thought of taking off again and flying back to Guam alone, across the featureless ocean, was appalling. For one thing, she’d never be able to stay awake that long, not without company.

  “Why don’t you fly back in the morning after you’ve had some rest?” she said.

  He shook his head. “I spent the night here the last trip, Doc. You haven’t.”

  He pushed her out the door, gently to be sure, but a push nevertheless. She hit the water expecting some kind of cooling relief. Instead, she felt as if she’d landed in hot Jell-O.

  By the time she’d waded the few feet to shore, her legs were rubbery. On dry land, her waterlogged desert boots sank into the sand. Each step became a struggle.

  Halfway to the neatly stacked supplies where Buettner and her father were eagerly shaking hands with the islanders, her knees buckled. She would have fallen on her face if it hadn’t been for the iron grasp of a small, frail-looking woman, who looked old enough to be Nick’s grandmother.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” the woman whispered into her ear. “It happens to every h’alie who comes visiting.” Her English was unaccented and very American. “You’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  Nick nodded gratefully.

  Despite the woman’s wrinkles, there was something ageless about her. She could have been sixty or eighty. She moved easily across the sand, her broad-soled rubber sandals acting like snowshoes. As far as Nick could see, all the islanders were wearing the same kind of no-nonsense footwear. The sandals looked as if they’d been cut from tire treads.

  “I was standing on the beach when your father and his friend landed last week,” the woman said. “They were as weak as babies by the time they waded ashore.”

  Nick managed a smile.

  “My name’s Lily,” the woman said, her voice rising against the shouts and laughter coming from the islanders gathered around Elliot and Buettner. “And this is Josephine, my granddaughter.” She pushed forward a young girl who Nick guessed to be about eight or nine and who presented Nick with a small palm frond shaped like a fan.

  “Thank you, Josephine,” Nick said, accepting the gift. The girl giggled shyly and hid behind her grandmother. “I’m Nicolette, but everybody calls me Nick.”

  “Nick,” Lily repeated as if testing the sound of it. “Yes, I like that.”

  On impulse, Nick reached into her pocket and found an unopened, though limp candy bar from Coltrane’s emergency rations and presented it to Josephine. The little girl clapped her hands to her face and then looked up at her grandmother as if seeking permission. The older woman nodded and Josephine snatched the bar from Nick and ran off.

  “You are a wise woman.” Lily winked. “For a h’alie.”

  Nick would have bet that h’alie was the native word for outsiders, probably Caucasian outsiders.

  “Does everyone speak English as well as you, Lily?”

  “We all speak American. Our island is part of America. It has been, since the war.”

  “Since World War Two?” Nick asked.

  “The only war there has been,” Lily replied.

  For a moment Nick was stunned and then realized that for these islanders it was the only war that they had known. It had probably shaped their lives and defined their h
istory in ways that Nick couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “And before that?” Nick said.

  Lily held a finger to her lips. The commotion around Elliot and Buettner subsided as two men, walking in a ceremonial fashion, approached the beach. The man in the lead, white-haired and mummy-thin, looked ancient, though his posture was as stiff-necked as a soldier’s. The other man was merely a younger version, who still had some fat left on his bones. One day, age would mummify him also, Nick suspected, and turn his skin to shrink-wrap too.

  “Come,” Lily said, tugging at Nick. “That is Henry Yali. You must pay your respects.”

  The moment Nick was introduced, Yali took her hand and held on insistently, staring intently into her eyes. Finally, he nodded and said, “Yes, I have been expecting you, Dr. Scott. For a long time.”

  Yali, she remembered, was the island’s shaman. And a shaman’s reputation, not to mention his living, depended upon magic, mystical remarks, and predictions that were always vague enough to be interpreted as supporting both sides of any issue.

  She said, “I, too, have looked forward to this meeting.” Privately, she was disappointed that he was dressed in faded jeans and an open-neck short-sleeve shirt.

  Yali’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Nick wondered if her remark had sounded like a challenge, as if she were claiming psychic insight.

  “What I mean is . . .”

  Lily laid her hand on Yali’s. “What she means, Henry, is that your reputation has reached even as far as America.”

  A broad smile lit up his face. “Is that true?”

  “Only yesterday I was in America,” Nick said. “In California. I flew all the way here to meet you and see the wonders of your island.”

  Still beaming, he released Nick’s hand into Lily’s keeping. “One day,” he said, “we will be like America, rich enough to buy any cargo.” He turned to watch the Widgeon, which was now drifting away from the shoreline.

  “Our pilot will be returning with more of our friends,” Nick said. “And with more cargo to help with our work.”