Wake of the Hornet

by R. R. Irvine

  “My wife used to say the same thing,” Elliot said “It was her time I was stealing for my digs.” He shook his head slowly. “ „If you loved me,’ she’d say, „you wouldn’t leave me and Nick alone so much.’ ”

  Love had been Elaine’s weapon, Nick remembered, one she had wielded to perfection.

  “If you loved me, you wouldn’t hide from me in your room,” she’d complain whenever Nick stayed too long with her model airplanes. It was her refrain, repeated over and over again, the memory of it painful even after all these years.

  Nick closed her eyes and was back in her room, adding the finishing touches of paint to her newest acquisition, a Curtis P-40. Only the teeth and eyes were needed to complete the fighter’s pugnacious, Flying Tiger nose.

  “We’ll shoot down our enemies,” she whispered to the plane, “and fly away together.”

  “Am I the enemy?” Elaine asked.

  Startled, Nick swung around so quickly she narrowly missed crashing the model plane into her mother. Elaine had opened the door without knocking.

  “You’re . . . you’re not an enemy fighter,” Nick managed to say.

  “You don’t fool me,” Elaine said.

  “This is the model Elliot gave me for my birthday.”

  “That was more than a month ago. You’re going on thirteen now, too old for that kind of thing.”

  “I’ve been working on it in my spare time.”

  “If you loved me, you would be helping me around the house,” Elaine countered.

  “Do you want me to help now?”

  Elaine’s hands, pressed against her body, clenched into fists so hard that veins stood out on her forearms like taut wires. “Your father isn’t here. He’s never here, and now you want to fly away and leave me alone too.”

  Nick bit her lip. When Elaine was in one of her moods, talk was useless. Nick backed away, but Elaine followed until Nick was trapped against the wall.

  “If you love your mother,” Elaine said, “give me that plane.”

  “Elliot’s looking forward to seeing it,” Nick said, as much of a threat as she dared utter, hoping Elaine would come to her senses.

  “You don’t love me,” Elaine spat as she grabbed the plane and snapped it in two.

  The next day she had replaced the airplane with a boxed Barbie doll. As far as Nick knew, that box was still on the closet shelf in her old room. The box was untouched, its cellophane wrapper intact.

  Nick opened her eyes, dispelling the memory as a man and woman emerged from the trees and came hurrying toward the communal house, their shared umbrella useless against the wind-driven downpour.

  “The Reverend Innis is on time,” Lily said matter-of-factly. “All these years and the man never has learned to read the weather. His wife, Ruth, knows better, but she keeps it to herself, I think.”

  And what do you keep to yourself? Nick wondered, observing Lily out of the corner of her eye. If the reverend’s appearance on schedule was anything to go by, Lily read people as well as the weather.

  The reverend arrived out of breath, puffing and wiping his brow. He was a portly man, wearing a wide-brimmed planter’s hat to protect his pale complexion. His trousers were tan, his shirt black with an affixed white dog-collar. His age, Nick guessed, was somewhere in his fifties. His wife, dressed in an ankle-length skirt and hemp-colored blouse, looked much younger, certainly no more than her early forties. She showed no signs of breathlessness from the dash across the square. They both wore the all-pervasive rubber sandals.

  Lily made the introductions, then disappeared inside to see about tea.

  “We hope you’ll join us for services on Sunday,” Innis said as soon as everyone was seated around the table, with Nick and Mrs. Innis together on one side, facing the men.

  “Now, George,” his wife chided, “give them time to settle in. Can’t you see that their house isn’t even ready yet?”

  He ducked his head, giving way with poor grace. “Of course. I’m too hasty.”

  His wife smiled, then turned to Nick. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, we’d be happy to help.”

  “I think we’re past the worst,” Nick replied. “We’ve learned about the insect repellent.” She batted at the swarming mosquitoes, who stayed just out of range, their whine sounding like an angry protest against the repellent’s force field. “Next, comes the rubber sandals, as soon as I can buy myself a pair.”

  “You’ll find them at the island store. Mr. Parker always keeps them in stock. They’re his bestseller, next to cold beer. He charges an arm and a leg for both.”

  “The man’s no better than a bandit,” Innis muttered.

  “Now, George. You know the Baleseans need Mr. Parker and his store.”

  “You’re right, dear. I’m sorry. That was a very un-Christian thing to say.”

  “You’ll have to forgive my husband,” Ruth said. “He’s not at his best right now. Every time an airplane arrives attendance at services falls off.” She slowly shook her head. “John Frum and his airplanes. They raise absolute havoc with our congregation.”

  “That man Coltrane ought to be banned from the skies,” the reverend said. “He’s a rogue and a menace. An aerial pirate, if you ask me.”

  “Now, George.”

  “That plane of his brings back bad memories, I can tell you.”

  “What memories?” Nick asked.

  The reverend sighed deeply before responding. “We’d be better off if no airplane had ever come to this island. One way or another, they’ve all caused trouble. They arrive and I’m out of a flock. And always the cry goes up that this plane is the promised one, sent by John Frum himself. No matter who sends them, they always cut into church attendance.”

  The reverend shook his head from side to side as if trying to shake free of his memories. “The stories I could tell you would curl your hair.”

  “I’d like to hear them,” Nick told him.

  “Your hair’s already curly,” Elliot pointed out.

  “It’s no joking matter,” the reverend shot back. “Airplanes have been the ruination of this island.”

  “What can you tell us about John Frum’s airfields?” Nick asked, “Have you ever visited them?”

  The reverend stared at her for a moment, as if pondering her question. “The things I’ve seen don’t bear talking about.”

  Before Nick could press the point, the reverend’s wife intervened. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband. He’ll be out of sorts for the next few days. After that, the airplane will be forgotten and our congregation, such as it is, will be back in their pews where they belong.”

  “Tea,” Lily announced, appearing in the doorway. Behind her came two young girls. The older girl was carrying a tray with Western-style teapot and cups, while the younger one, Josephine, had a platter of cookies and fruit. Both girls glanced at Nick shyly before depositing their loads and scampering back inside.

  “It’s your hair,” Lily explained, as she arranged the table service and poured the tea, which was pale green.

  As Lily turned to leave, Nick said, “Please, Lily, won’t you join us?”

  “Another time, dear. Some of the younger children are waiting for me, and I promised to tell them a story. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.” With that, she left the porch.

  “That’s typical Lily for you,” the reverend said. “She thinks she’s doing me a favor, giving me first crack at potential converts before Henry Yali gets his hands on them.”

  His wife smiled indulgently. “If only it were that easy.”

  Innis raised an eyebrow, started to say something, then appeared to think better of it and popped a cookie into his mouth.

  The cookies reminded Nick of English tea biscuits, but when she bit into one, it had the consistency of sponge cake and tasted like a stale vanilla wafer.

  “Once you get used to Balesin,” Ruth went on, “it’s a beautiful place to live, though my husband won’t admit it some
times, especially when his work is going badly.”

  “Which is all the time,” Innis said. “I remember singing „Onward Christian soldiers marching as to war’ in seminary, and thinking I was joining the army of the Lord and going out to fight the good war. But out here I’m on the losing side.”

  “Henry, you say that every time an airplane arrives.”

  “It’s just truer, then. The rest of the time I’m kidding myself. I don’t have converts. All I have is an audience.”

  “George, you’re giving our new friends the wrong impression. You’re a respected man. You have a large congregation. Even Henry Yali comes to our church on occasion.”

  “They respect Americans,” the reverend answered. “That’s all. It has nothing to do with me personally.”

  Elliot said, “From what I understand, the followers of John Frum want to be more like Americans than anything else.”

  “You’re right there. They come to my services to learn about America, not God. Ruth and I teach the children to read and write English, but we never call it that. We call it American to keep everybody happy. Of course, they equate America and Americans with wealth.”

  Ruth said, “I hope we’re not boring you with our problems.”

  “Not at all,” Nick responded, “anything you can tell us will be of help.”

  “You’ve seen our volcano, haven’t you?” Ruth nodded in the direction of the mountain that dominated the center of the island. “They say it’s extinct now because John Frum uses it to travel to and from America.”

  Ruth busied herself refilling the teacups, giving way to her husband.

  “During the war, the Japanese imprisoned all political dissenters here on Balesin,” Innis said. “When America won the war, it was Americans who freed the followers of John Frum, thus the love of America.”

  “I’m told that Henry claims to have actually met John Frum,” Nick said.

  “Who told you that?” the reverend demanded sharply.

  “I can’t remember,” Nick lied, surprised by the intensity of his reaction.

  The reverend sighed. “With Henry Yali, who’s to say what’s true and what he dreams? Now if someone like Lily had claimed to have met John Frum that would be a different matter. In any case, John Frum is very real to these people, a living messiah.”

  Buettner spoke up. “I’ve sailed all over the Pacific, and one thing seems clear. There was probably a real model for John Frum. Many scholars think he may have been an early missionary, or even an explorer, who said he’d return one day. Most travelers say such things when they’ve visited a place of beauty. And for the Pacific Islanders that promise came to symbolize resurrection and redemption.”

  “That’s a long reach,” Elliot said. “Almost as bad as you and your woodpecker scalps.”

  “I don’t understand,” Innis said.

  “Curt believes that the custom of using feathers for money migrated here from America, where the Indians used woodpecker scalps as currency.”

  “That’s appalling,” Innis said. “Killing God’s creatures just to create money. Whenever I find red-feather money, I burn it.”

  Elliot closed his eyes and Nick saw Buettner tense up. To head off an outburst, she asked, “Have you seen much of it?”

  The preacher shook his head. “Not in a long time. It was a barbarous custom.”

  “My husband is a bird-watcher,” Ruth Innis interjected. “He’s cataloguing all the species on the island.”

  Innis raised his hands as if to belittle himself. “I have to do something to pass the time when my congregation goes missing.”

  “It’s the crabs I watch out for,” his wife added. “The big ones are three feet across. Henry says they have been known to strip a man to the bone.”

  “Nonsense,” Innis said. “They scuttle away when they see people. You’d have to fall down unconscious before they’d come anywhere near you.”

  “Exactly my point,” his wife said triumphantly, turning her gaze on Nick. “Have you ever tried to open a coconut?”

  Nick shook her head. “Lily asked me the same question.”

  “Well, take it from me, it’s darn near impossible unless you’re a coconut crab. You should see those claws of theirs at work. It’s unbelievable. That’s why you have to be careful with your garbage. We had tin cans for a while, but they ripped them open as easily as coconuts.”

  “So how do you protect your garbage?” Nick asked.

  “You don’t. You keep it well away from your house and let them have it. They’re as good as a garbage disposal. That’s if George and I don’t eat them.”

  Elliot raised an eyebrow at Nick. “And to think, daughter, it was the Spam you were worried about at dinner last night.”

  “Spam is a favorite here,” the reverend said. “It has to be imported and is therefore considered a great delicacy. Our good-hearted store owner charges top dollar for it.”

  Since Nick had seen no sign that the Baleseans had much money to spend, she wondered at the aptness of the reverend’s assessment. Perhaps the storekeeper confined his high prices to outsiders. Most likely, he had some sort of barter arrangement with the islanders.

  “How long have you lived here on Balesin?” Nick asked.

  “My George has lived here for ages,” Ruth answered. “Most of his life really, but I’m a newcomer. We met when I came here as a visitor a few years ago. It was George who took me in hand and showed me around the island. I thought I was coming to live in paradise.”

  She smiled at her husband, her expression unreadable, though Nick would have bet that with the passage of time paradise had tarnished around the edges.

  “Maybe you and your husband could show me the island,” Nick suggested.

  “Once you get away from the beach, it’s heavy jungle and rough going,” Innis said. “There are only a few well-worn paths, and you have to stick to them if you don’t want to get lost.”

  “I think Nick has something more particular in mind than following beaten paths,” Ruth said.

  Nick nodded. “My father and Curt are here to study the people and their culture. But my area of expertise is airplanes.”

  Innis jerked upright, a look of alarm on his face. “I thought you were an archaeologist.”

  “I’m a historical archaeologist. We deal in more modern artifacts.”

  “Since when have airplanes been considered artifacts?”

  “I’ve worked with the government on several occasions. In one case I tracked down a plane that had been lost over New Guinea during World War Two. By excavating the site, we were able to identify airmen who’d been listed as missing in action for fifty years.”

  The reverend pursed his lips. “There was a Japanese air base here on Balesin during the war, but I’ve never heard of any missing planes or aircrews.”

  “It’s the Cargo Cult’s mock-ups that I want to see. From what I’ve observed from the air, they’re very unique.”

  Innis shook his head. “You’re mistaken. Such constructions are spread over much of the Pacific. Ruth and I have researched the subject. These here are no different from anywhere else.”

  “Have you visited the airfields on this island yourself?” Nick asked.

  The reverend nodded. “Only the one and then I—”

  His wife interrupted. “You shouldn’t put my husband in the middle. Henry Yali has set boundaries. Were we to violate them, my husband’s position here would be very difficult. He might even be recalled if word of such an indiscretion ever reached his bishop.”

  “I saw another airfield when Lee Coltrane and I were dropping cargo,” Nick persisted. “Do you know it? It was on the southeast slope of Mount Nomenuk.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” Innis said. “You must stay away from there. That’s John Frum’s mountain.”

  “You must avoid all of John Frum’s places,” his wife added quickly.

  “But how are we to know where they are?” Elliot asked.

  “Ah,” the r
everend said, pulling at his lower lip. “That’s one of the problems we confront here on Balesin. Only Henry Yali knows for sure what’s acceptable and what isn’t. I’ve known the man a long time, and he’s always been inconsistent when it comes to dogma. Sometimes I think he changes the rules just to confuse me, because I’m his competition.” The reverend rocked back and forth, staring into space. “Since none of John Frum’s dogma is written, you can’t pin it down. You can’t fight it.”

  “George,” his wife said sharply, “you’re not in church now. You’re not wrestling with the devil or dogma. Nick needs practical advice. She has to know that it’s against the rules for outsiders to set foot on Mount Nomenuk. It could even be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” her husband echoed. “Yes, that’s possible, if Henry hasn’t changed the rules.”

  “What about the other airfield?” Nick asked. “The one that’s not far from where we’re sitting.”

  “Some areas are more sacred than others, that much is clear. So my advice is to wait for Henry, or for Chief Jeban, to invite you on a tour.”

  “What about Lily?” Nick asked.

  “An invitation from Lily would be even better. She’s the matriarch around here. Even Jim Jeban bends a knee in her presence. Henry, too, at times.”

  “Do you think another parachute drop would pave the way for Nick?” Buettner asked.

  “Cargo causes trouble,” Innis replied. “I suggest you go slow.”

  “What my husband means,” his wife added, “is that parts of this island are dangerous. Terrible things have happened to outsiders who wandered too close to the forbidden places. Imagine, a complete expedition of archaeologists was completely swallowed by the jungle once.”

  The reverend held up a restraining hand. “We shouldn’t be spreading rumors.” She glared at her husband. “I’ve heard the stories, dear, and so have you.”

  “What kind of stories?” Nick asked, knowing that myths and legends, no matter how outlandish, often contained kernels of truth. All you had to do was look for them hard enough.

  Innis looked as if his wife had inadvertently exposed their family skeleton. “We’ve heard tales of avenging spirits roaming the slopes of Mount Nomenuk. But if you ask me, they’re just stories made up to keep unruly children in line.”