Wake of the Hornet

by R. R. Irvine

  “A ship!” Yali interrupted excitedly. “Have you come in a great warship?”

  Farrington nodded.

  “Where is it?”

  Farrington pointed in the general direction of Mount Nomenuk, but Nick assumed he meant north of the island. “She’s steaming just over the horizon.”

  Yali raised his hands to the heavens. “John Frum be praised. He prophesied that one day great vessels would visit Balesin, and that they would be carrying wondrous cargo.”

  “Frum be praised,” Jeban echoed. “How soon will you be docking?”

  Farrington shook his head. “No can do. The captain says there’s too many reefs in this area. He intends to stay well clear.”

  Jeban looked crestfallen. Yali’s chin dropped onto his chest. Lily took his arm as if to steady him.

  Elliot spoke up. “I still don’t know how you knew that we were in trouble, or even that any Americans were here.”

  “You have our captain to thank for that,” Farrington answered. “Since we were close by, he decided to send in a chopper to check for storm damage. This island is an American protectorate, you know. We have to take care of our own.”

  “Your story sounds like bullshit,” Buettner blurted. “Why would you and your so-called training mission include my department head?” He glared at Ohmura. “What do you have to say about that, Sam?”

  Farrington answered for him. “We needed an expert on this area of the Pacific, what else?”

  Judging from the expression on Buettner’s face he didn’t believe a word of it. Nick glanced at her father. He, too, looked skeptical. Elliot tended to be a cautious man, except when in hot pursuit of his beloved Anasazi, but at the moment that natural caution seemed tinged with alarm, if she was reading him correctly. Judging by the look on Lily’s face, she also shared Elliot’s concern.

  Elliot forced a smile, the condescending kind that used to infuriate Nick’s mother, and turned it on Farrington. “Well, Mr. Farrington, it’s not really important how you got here. I’m just thankful you were on hand to rescue my daughter.”

  “Actually, it was Mr. Ohmura who did that.”

  At the mention of his name, Ohmura bowed. Elliot bowed back.

  “We found her and Mr. Coltrane on Balabat,” Ohmura told him somberly.

  “Balabat!” Yali burst out. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s where their seaplane washed ashore.”

  “That is one of our most sacred places,” Yali said, his voice trembling with rage. “You had no right violating it.”

  Chief Jeban nodded in agreement.

  Ohmura started to bow, then seemed to think better of it and merely shook his head. He had to know about the taboos, since he’d included Balesin in his book.

  Yali turned on Nick, pointing a trembling finger at her. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “But we had no choice. The waves took us there. If they hadn’t we would have been washed out to sea and lost.”

  “Maybe it was John Frum’s will,” Lily offered. “Please, listen to me, Henry. It’s done now. We must accept it.”

  Yali sputtered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.” He looked to Jeban for support, but the chief turned to Lily as if weighing his options.

  “No,” Coltrane said, speaking for the first time since stepping out of the helicopter. “You’re not getting away with it anymore, Yali.” Coltrane unzipped his flight jacket and took out the journal still wrapped in its oilskins. “We found this on Balabat, not to mention the bones of all the people you and your ancestors murdered.”

  Jeban looked stricken. Yali worse.

  “You had no right, Lee,” Nick said, angry at herself for leaving without checking that the journal was still tucked away safely in the Quonset. “We agreed—”

  “You’re a scientist, aren’t you?” Coltrane’s voice took on a pleading quality. “You must want the truth to come out.”

  “Calm down,” Farrington said, his tone sounding like a military commander. “I think we’d better hear more about what you found.”

  Instead of responding, Coltrane handed the journal to an astonished Reverend Innis. “This has the name lnnis on it, Reverend. It was written by your parents before they died.”

  Innis looked as if he’d just been handed a live grenade.

  Stepping forward, Farrington said, “You’d better let me have that, Reverend.”

  Innis, who was studying the flyleaf, shook his head. “You’re a stranger here, Mr. Farrington. This has nothing to do with you. It belonged to my parents.”

  “Who were here under the auspices of your government at the time, I seem to remember,” Farrington snapped.

  Nick blinked with surprise. The Innis expedition had come to Balesin in 1947, long before Farrington had been born. And even though their disappearance must have been big news at the time, Nick suspected that only the locals and a few anthropologists in the field would remember the incident.

  She was about to say as much when the reverend said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to be alone when I read this.”

  “But George—” his wife began.

  He cut her off. “Pm sorry, dear. All my life I’ve been waiting for this moment. Maybe now, my questions will be answered. Maybe now, I’ll understand my nightmares.”

  “It’s for the best, Doc,” Coltrane said. “When we get back to Guam, you’ll see.”

  But it was Farrington who had Nick’s attention. He and Ohmura were exchanging glances that made her wonder if they weren’t about to take the journal by force.

  Finally Farrington shook his head and shouted at the reverend, who was retreating into his church. “I can wait.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The Reverend Innis sat in the tiny windowless sacristy that served as his office and stared down at the journal on his desk. Gravely, he ran his fingers over the notebook’s cover. To touch something they’d actually handled themselves, was like . . . Words failed him. Like having your faith rewarded, he decided finally.

  He lit a votive candle and placed it beside the notebook. The act was as much a gesture of worship as it was a need for light.

  After bowing his head and saying a quick prayer, he opened the leather-bound volume and gazed through moist eyes at the handwriting on the flyleaf. The script was precise and easily readable, much like his own. Whose writing was it, his father’s or his mother’s? he wondered.

  Solemnly, he turned the page and began reading, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor every word. He’d been hoping, longing, for personal revelations, but the first few pages of the journal were devoted exclusively to his parents’ work. After several pages, the sense of disappointment became overwhelming. Tears filled his eyes, making it impossible to continue reading.

  Innis sat back and fought to calm himself. Think about Jesus, he told himself, and squeezed shut his eyes. But flame shapes from the candle came through his lids; the images reminded him of hell.

  His eyes snapped open. He wiped them with trembling fingers and turned the next page. Midway down, a comment hit him like a physical blow. We’ve also been told that we can’t take our son, George, with us. He must stay behind in the care of the village women.

  Carefully, so as not to smudge the ink, he ran his fingertip over the word George. Memories flooded back. Real or not, he couldn’t tell. Maybe they were only the stories told to him by the village women, but he wished them real.

  He’d been three, going on four, when they’d come to Balesin. You’re going to have to stay close, his parents had cautioned him. He remembered those words clearly even now. Mommy and daddy wouldn’t want you to get separated from us in a place like this. Do you understand?

  “Yes,” he answered out loud, his voice as shaky as the flickering shadows on the sacristy wall.

  If only he hadn’t been kept behind with the village women, maybe then he could have saved them. The guilt of not being there was like a pressure ins
ide his head, though reason told him that a child would have been powerless to help.

  But if he’d been left behind why had Lily, then a very young woman herself, found him wandering in the jungle, hungry and ravaged by mosquitoes?

  Back then, only two years after the war, the Pacific was in chaos. Backwaters like Balesin, though an American protectorate, were ignored. Because of that, Innis had lived the next five years on the island, raised by Lily.

  He buried his face in his hands. Did he really remember any of it? Or were his memories only those stories Lily and the others had chosen to tell him? Maybe it was all a fantasy.

  He shook his head. Some memories were just too vivid to be ignored. He remembered blood, or at least he thought he did, though Lily had never filled his head with such images.

  What else did he remember? Blades. Yes, he was certain of that, though they weren’t always the same. Sometimes they were machetes and bayonets, other times spinning propellers. Whether or not they’d cut down his parents, he was never certain.

  What was certain was that Innis had lived on Balesin until he was nine, until missionaries landed. It was the missionaries who sent him back to America for schooling, but not before he’d promised Lily that he would return one day. He’d kept that promise twenty-five years ago and had been on Balesin ever since. During that time not a week had gone by that he hadn’t gone looking for his parents’ graves, but his respect for the islanders’ taboos had limited his search. As a result he’d found nothing, no sign they’d ever existed.

  Innis clenched his fists in frustration, took a deep breath to steady himself, and went back to reading.

  He smiled at his parents’ portrait of Henry Yali’s father, a man obsessed by John Frum’s taboos. Like father, like son, Innis thought, since Henry was no different.

  A sound startled him. Something scuttled on the other side of the sacristy’s metal wall. Whatever was making the noise had to be larger than a gecko. A coconut crab came to mind. He clenched his teeth. Those damned crabs were everywhere, scavenging. He hated them with a passion, an un-Christian thing to do, since they were one of God’s creatures. Yet their purpose appalled him. Most likely, they were the reason his parents had never been found.

  He turned the page and his breath caught at the sight of an underlined passage. It was written in another hand, the script much more elaborate. It had to be his mother’s. At first I welcomed the stifling heat, with its cleansing effect. It seemed to burn away all the cares and worries. But 1 should have known better. Here, the tropic sun intensifies everything it touches. Here, old secrets, like old sins, cast ever-lengthening shadows.

  What did she mean by that, he wondered. Perhaps it was merely a romantic observation. But that hardly seemed likely for a scientist.

  He quickly turned the page, looking for more such passages. But he’d reached the end. His eyes skipped to the final paragraph. It chilled his heart.

  We must break our promise and return to the site alone. We intend to document it with photographic evidence. With luck, we’ll be back in the village before anyone misses us and no one will know we have broken their most sacred taboo.

  Stunned, he backtracked, reading the entire page. His parents had gone alone to Mount Nomenuk.

  “God almighty.” His nightmares were true. The blades he’d dreamed about night after night were machetes. Machetes in the hands of Henry’s father, and God knows how many other men.

  His parents’ blood was on their hands, on the souls of every Balesean. “May God forgive them. I cannot.”

  He opened the desk drawer and took out the revolver that Ruth had insisted upon when she first come to Balesin. He’d told her then she was being foolish, that there was nothing to fear on the island. He should have known better.

  He cracked open the cylinder, fed in the cartridges, and smiled. It was noon now, when no shadows were cast. His timing was perfect. He’d erase Yali’s shadow forever, along with all the lies.

  He laid his hand on the bible, quoting from memory. “ „I will render vengeance to mine enemies.’ ”

  CHAPTER 44

  In the strained silence following the reverend’s retreat into his sacristy, Nick’s stomach reasserted itself, growling for food. As hungry as she was, even Spam would have been welcome.

  She glanced around the compound but saw no sign of food or a cook fire, either. Even the store was closed.

  “Elliot,” she said, holding up crossed fingers, “tell me you salvaged something to eat when you abandoned our house?”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. Between us and the villagers we practically cleaned out the store.”

  “My dear,” Mrs. Innis said, “what am I thinking about? You must be famished. You too, Mr. Coltrane.”

  He nodded. “We’ve been living on energy bars ever since my Widgeon went ashore.”

  “You’re in luck, then. I managed to bake bread before the storm hit. I’m sure there’s enough for everyone. We’ll get you out of the sun and I’ll make sandwiches.” Ruth Innis gestured toward the church’s open door. “Please, come inside. We can picnic in the pews. Considering what you’ve all been through, I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind.”

  Yali stepped forward to bar her way. “Before anything else is done, you must tell your husband that I have to speak with him. He must hear my side of the story, otherwise . . .” The shaman licked his lips and flapped his hands like a man who’d burned himself on his own words.

  “Now, Henry,” Mrs. Innis said gently, trying unsuccessfully to capture one of his hands in hers, “you know I can’t disturb George when he’s in his sacristy. In your own way, you’re a man of God yourself, so you must understand.”

  “I will confront him myself, then. What I have to say cannot wait.”

  “Would you accept such behavior in John Frum’s church?” she asked him.

  “Henry,” Lily said, intervening, “Mrs. Innis is right. Perhaps it’s best we leave and come back later.”

  Yali shook his head defiantly.

  Mrs. Innis began shooing them inside. “You’ll all feel better once you’ve had something to eat.”

  The Quonset was divided into living quarters at one end, the sacristy at the other, with the church portion in the middle, six pews deep, all facing a raised wooden pulpit. The only windows were small, with one on either side of the pulpit.

  As soon as Mrs. Innis left to make sandwiches, Nick, her father, and Buettner took the pew in front, nearest to the pulpit. Jeban and Lily slipped into the pew behind them, while Coltrane commandeered the back pew for himself, where he stretched out. Yali refused to sit. Instead, he paced back and forth in front of the pulpit like someone eager to confess and get on with his penance.

  Farrington and Ohmura took up positions on either side of the door. Their naval aide had stayed outside with the helicopter.

  In the silence that followed all that could be heard was Yali’s heavy breathing and the occasional rattle of dishes from the Innis’s living quarters.

  Nick leaned against her father and whispered, “Does Farrington know what’s been going on around here?”

  “Yes, but not from me.”

  “Who told him, then?”

  “The only person I’ve seen him huddling with is Ohmura. They both seem to know a great deal for the accidental visitors they claim to be.”

  Nick twisted around to look Farrington in the face. “I’m still confused, Mr. Farrington. Since you came in a military ship, do you represent the authorities?”

  “In what sense?”

  “People have died here, two of professor Buettner’s students, along with an associate of his.”

  “We’ll be taking the bodies off the island, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “I’m sure an investigation will be launched in due course, Ms. Scott. Where are the bodies, by the way?”

  “We bagged the two students. The other is buried,” Elliot answered. “Lee Coltrane was going
to fly them out, but that was before the storm hit. Now I’m not quite sure where they are.”

  Buettner thumped himself on the forehead. “In my rush to evacuate I forgot about them. For obvious reasons we stored them well away from the houses. I just hope the storm didn’t disturb them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Yali said. “They are safe. They are with John Frum.”

  “Henry means they’ve been taken to our church,” Lily said.

  “John Frum’s church,” Yali added.

  “Not actually inside,” Chief Jeban amended, “but well sheltered.”

  “How did they die?” Farrington asked.

  “They were killed,” Elliot said. “Their necks were broken.”

  “Excuse us for a moment,” Farrington said, and led Ohmura to the far end of the church, where Ohmura immediately began gesturing heatedly. Farrington’s response was to shake his head. Finally, though, he nodded once and they rejoined the group.

  “I’d better go take a look at the dead for myself,” Farrington said. “Mr. Yali, I’d appreciate it if you’d show me the way to your church.”

  “I am here on John Frum’s business. I cannot leave now.”

  “Wouldn’t you like a ride in my helicopter?”

  Yali’s mouth dropped open as he stared through the window at the helicopter outside. “I . . . I . . .” Finally he shook his head. “To fly like John Frum would be a wonder, but I cannot leave.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

  Chief Jeban spoke up. “Henry’s right. His place is here. I’ll show you the way.”

  Farrington’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Nick thought he was going to press the point and insist on Yali as his guide. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Professor Ohmura will remain behind.”

  “I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind,” Coltrane said.

  Farrington raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s getting a little chilly in here,” Coltrane added, no doubt, Nick thought, for her benefit.