Yes, Dr. Hayden, I have found your lost island.
Forgive me, if my stiff English belies the thrill within me as I put these words to paper. How I wish for eloquence in your language, this moment of fulfillment. Handicapped as I am, I will do my best to convey to you my enthusiastic emotions.
After a decade of years, I have found, among the thousands of islets of Oceania, the hitherto unknown island and unknown people that you once sought. This is not hearsay or native gossip, Dr. Hayden. I address you with the authority of firsthand evidence. For, I have walked on the soil of this minute high island. I have consorted briefly with its inhabitants, a mixture half-Polynesian and half-English, as in the instance of Pitcairn Island. I have observed, and since heard more of, the customs of this tribe, and these customs reveal one of the most peculiar and strange isolated civilizations on the earth today. I try to see this find of mine through your expert and experienced eyes, and I see a study that might be of great importance in your work and a useful contribution to every man and woman alive.
The name of this overlooked South Sea island group—one small but lush volcanic isle, and two tiny atolls—is The Three Sirens.
Do not attempt to locate The Three Sirens on any map. They are not there. They have not been officially discovered for the authorities or the public. Do not attempt to research The Three Sirens in any learned books on Oceania. As far as history and geography are concerned, they do not exist. You must trust my scholar sense: The Three Sirens, if microscopic by comparison, are as real as Tahiti or Rarotonga or Easter Island or, for that matter, Pitcairn Island. As to the populace of the Sirens, no more than two hundred I should venture, they are also as real as you and I. With the exception of myself and two other Caucausians, they have not been seen by anyone alive on earth today.
What is most unique about these people on The Three Sirens—I must state this as a preliminary, for if this does not interest you, then you need not trouble to read further, and I shall reluctantly turn elsewhere—what is most unusual about these people is their advanced (I might add amazing) attitude toward the practice of love and marriage. I am sure there is nothing similar to their historic behavior in any other society on the globe.
I cannot comment if the sexual and marital customs on The Three Sirens are good or bad. I can only remark, without equivocation, that they astound me. And I, Dr. Hayden, speak not as an ignorant, inexperienced undergraduate, but as a scientist and a man of the world.
If I have piqued your interest, as I pray I have, you must read on. Remember, as you read, that I am no teller of tales, that I speak with the cold objectivity of a German-trained archeologist. Remember, too, the words of the immortal Hamlet, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
I will discuss, chronologically, my own involvement in this accidental discovery, as well as what I found, what I observed, what I heard, and, as it may concern you, what may be done about this, in a practical way.
About six weeks ago, there came to my shop a tall, aristocratic, middle-aged Australian gentleman, who introduced himself as Mr. Trevor, of Canberra. He said that he had just completed a tour that encompassed Western Samoa, the Marquesas, the Cooks, and that he could not return to his homeland without bringing some souvenirs. He had heard of my stock, and my reputation for honesty, and he wanted to purchase several small artifacts. I led him about the shop, explaining this item and that, its origin, its history, its uses and meaning, and soon he was so taken by my broad knowledge of the South Seas that he began to question me about many of the islands and my travels and buying trips among them. Eventually, his stay extended to several hours—I served him tea—and although he departed with purchases amounting to no more than i,800 Pacific francs, I regretted his leaving. It is rare one finds literate listeners in this lonely place.
I thought that was the last of Mr. Trevor, of Canberra, Australia, so you can imagine my surprise when, shortly after I had opened my shop the following morning, he reappeared. He had not come for artifacts, he said, or to listen to my stories, but rather to receive my answer to a business proposition he was about to offer me. He had been impressed, he said, by my acquaintance with the many islands and natives of Polynesia. He had been hunting for such a one as myself, he said, and in his entire tour he had found no one reliable as well as knowledgeable, until he had chanced upon me. Because he thought me too good to be true, he had made inquiries among prominent officials the night before, and they had supported and recommended me.
Without further prologue, Mr. Trevor revealed his mission. He represented a syndicate of Canberra businessmen who believed in the future of Polynesia and desired to invest hard pounds in it. The projects were many, and diversified, but among the first was to be a fleet of small passenger airplanes to carry tourists between the lesser but most picturesque islands and the larger ones. The company, Intra-Oceania Flights, would undercut, in fares and freight charges, Qantas, the French TAI, South Pacific Air Lines, New Zealand’s TEAL, and several others. Essentially, it expected to offer a shuttle or ferry service, giving it greater mobility and latitude than the larger companies. Because light aircraft would be employed, small and cheap landing fields and inexpensive facilities could be used, and rates could be kept low. Mr. Trevor explained that arrangements had been made throughout Polynesia, in cooperation with foreign home governments, but the site for one more airfield was still missing.
Mr. Trevor could remain no longer to locate this last elusive airfield. He needed someone to act in his stead. That was why he had come to me. His proposition was the following: he wanted me to take several aerial surveys, by private plane, in two directions. First, he wished me to study the corridor between Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands. If that provided no adequate site, he suggested I range southward from Tahiti, covering the broad triangle formed by the Tubuai Islands, Pitcairn Island, and Rapa Island, and if necessary to go even further south and away from the traffic lanes.
What was wanted by Intra-Oceania Flights was an uninhabited small island, with a plateau or level area that could be bulldozed, on which to erect an airfield no more than a mile and a half long. An uninhabited isle was preferred, because then the land could be leased cheaply from the neglecting government that had possession.
On the other hand, if the appropriate island showed itself to me, but happened to be inhabited by a single tribe or a mere handful of natives, exclusive of whites, that would do, too. The natives could be removed or, indeed, bought off and segregated, and the land would still be cheap.
It would be my task, said Mr. Trevor, to locate three or four such islands from the air, and then land and visit them, and then submit a fully detailed report to Canberra. Mr. Trevor’s experts would sift my report, narrow focus on one or two islands, and send their specialists to make the final decision. For my scouting expenses, I could have $500. For my completed report, if successful, I could have $3,000 additional.
Despite my joy of travel among these islands, this was not an undertaking to my liking. For one thing, I have an aversion toward flying. For another, I have little energy left for trampling over barren or nearly barren and remote tracts of land. Still, Dr. Hayden, I keep no pride from you that lately my pecuniary fortunes have been low. I do not make myself out more than I am. My day-to-day life now is a struggle to make ends meet. I have growing competition from native dealers. Valuable artifacts are increasingly difficult to come by. Therefore, whenever there is an opportunity to supplement my meager income from the shop, I cannot disdain accepting it. Even though Mr. Trevor’s expense budget was limited, his final payment was considerable, certainly more than I profit in an entire year from my shop and other enterprises. I had no choice but to accept the assignment.
After I had received my full instructions, and Mr. Trevor had flown back to Australia, I immediately set out to charter a private seaplane. The number that were available in Papeete—for example, the two flying boats of the RAI which taxi tourists to Bora
Bora—were all far too expensive for private use. I continued making inquiries, and when I mentioned my problem to the bartender in Quinn’s, he told me that he knew just the man for me. He said that one of his customers, Captain Ollie Rasmussen, whom I remembered hearing about, owned an old amphibian flying boat that he had bought from an American firm after World War II. The bartender said that Rasmussen owned a cottage and Polynesian wife on Moorea—which, you know, is a stone’s throw away from us—and that he had a warehouse just below the Quai Commerce.
Rasmussen was an importer, the bartender thought, and he used his seaplane for freighting. In any case, he came into Papeete at least once a week, and I would have no trouble seeing him.
Within a few days, I had met Captain Rasmussen and his copilot, a native in his twenties named Richard Hapai. Rasmussen had whiskey on his breath, and also profanity, and his appearance was disreputable, and I had some misgivings. He did own an aged Vought-Sikorsky—a clumsy, creaky twin-engined plane with a maximum cruising speed of 170 miles an hour—and I found it clean and well cared for, and this engaged my respect again. Rasmussen was colorful and voluble, deploring at length the necessity of giving up his old pearl schooner in 1947 for a flying boat, but I think he liked the flying boat more than he would admit. He took trips through the islands every week, for two days at a time, yet he had spare time enough and had no objections to chartering his seaplane and services to me. We haggled for an hour, and at last he agreed to take me on three scouting flights, two short ones and one longer one, and to land no more than three times, for $400.
Two weeks ago, with Rasmussen and Hapai in the nose cockpit, we took our first exploratory trip. Captain Rasmussen, I must say, knew the area between Samoa and the Marquesas better than I did, and he directed me to a fair number of uninhabited atolls, which you had always suspected might exist but were on no maps. However, not one was suitable for Intra-Oceania Flights. A few days later, a second scouting expedition proved equally unprofitable, although I directed Rasmussen to one landing and visit ashore. I was disheartened—I saw that I might not earn the $3,000 offered me—but still retained hope that the third and longest flight might uncover what I wanted. Then, for a number of days, this final trip was delayed. Rasmussen was absent from Papeete, and was nowhere to be found. At last, he presented himself at my hotel, five days ago, ready to take off at dawn for what was to be a two-day survey, interrupted only by fueling stops, an overnight stay on Rapa, and my own orders to land whenever I sighted a good possibility.
There is no need, Dr. Hayden, to have you suffer the desperation of that last empty excursion aloft. The first day was fruitless. The second day, leaving Rapa at dawn, we ventured south, flying high and low for hours, far afield from the beaten ocean paths, examining coral islands one after the other. None was suitable for Mr. Trevor’s purposes, and there was no use in deluding myself. It was mid-afternoon when Rasmussen switched to the auxiliary gas tanks, and turned his ship for home, already grumbling that we had gone too far to return to Tahiti by any reasonable hour of the night. I suggested that he pilot the seaplane back by a northeasterly route, so that eventually, we would skirt the Tubuai Islands as we headed for Tahiti. Rasmussen complained about this, and about his diminishing fuel supply, but then he took pity on my dejection and obliged me between swigs of Scotch.
Hapai was at the controls, and Rasmussen well on his way to total inebriation, and I was crouched behind them, peering beyond the window, when I saw a vague hump of land, coruscating in the setting sun, far off in the distance. Except for the Tubuai group, which we were yet nowhere near, I was not familiar with the area, yet I sensed that this hump of land was no traveled or major island.
“What is that, way out there?” I inquired of Captain Rasmussen.
Until this moment, despite his uncouth aspect, I had found Rasmussen the most congenial and cooperative of companions. Certain vulgarities of his speech I considered disagreeable, and I overlooked them, yet I shall attempt to reproduce his locution from the life, so that you may experience what I experienced in the air that late afternoon.
To my inquiry about the hump of land in the distance, Captain Rasmussen replied, with a snort, “What is it? It ain’t nothin’—some lousy atoll—deserted—a little grass—guano maybe—no water, no life, ‘cept albatrosses an’ terns an’ plovers—it’s for the birds, not for airplanes.”
I was not satisfied with this explanation. I have had some knowledge of the islands, I remind you. “It does not appear to be a small atoll,” I persisted. “It seems to me to resemble a somewhat larger island with a coral plateau, or even a volcanic island. If you do not mind, I should like to inspect it more closely.”
With this, I recall, Captain Rasmussen sobered, and a hint of asperity crept into his voice. “I do mind wastin’ time on a detour. Anyways, I done my job—it’s almost comin’ on night—I’m low on fuel—an’ we still got a long ways to go. We gotta skip it.”
Something about his tone, his manner, the evasiveness of his eyes, made me suddenly suspicious of his integrity. I decided not to surrender. “You told me it was uninhabited,” I said.
“Yup, that’s what I told you.”
“Then I must insist upon seeing it more closely. As long as we are in this plane under my charter, I suggest you accommodate me.”
His eyes, watery with drink, seemed to clear and harden. He glared at me. “You tryin’ to cause trouble, Professor?”
I felt uncomfortable, but I took a gamble. There was too much at stake for me to be timid. I replied to him in kind. “Are you trying to conceal something from me, Captain?”
This angered him. I was sure that he would curse me. Instead, his body lurched toward his native copilot. “Awright, let’s get him off my neck—take him in a little closer, Hapai, show him there’s nothin’ on the Sirens but cliffs an’ stone an’ a few hills.”
“Sirens?” I said quickly. “Is that the name of the island?”
“It’s got no chart name.” He had become extremely surly.
By now, the seaplane had swung about in an arc and was laboring toward the distant speck of land, which gradually became more distinct, so that I could make out the definition of steep seaward cliffs and what might be a plateau with a mountain crater beyond.
“Okay, far enough,” Rasmussen was saying to his copilot. Then he said to me, “You can see for yourself, Professor—no landin’ place.”
This was true, if there was no plateau, but I suspected that there was a plateau, and I told Rasmussen what I thought. I demanded that he fly in even closer and lower, so that I could satisfy myself one way or the other. Once more, Rasmussen, fulminating under his breath, was about to object aloud, when I interrupted him with all the severity I could muster. “Captain,” I said, “I have a fair idea where we are. If you refuse to give me a proper look at this island, I shall find someone else who will, and I shall return tomorrow.” This was sheer bravado, for I was nearly out of Mr. Trevor’s money, and I was not sure of our exact location, but I almost believed my threat.
Rasmussen was silent a moment, blinking his eyes at me, licking his cracked lips. When he spoke, at last, his voice was faintly insinuating and sinister. “I would not do that if I was you, Professor. This has been a friendly arrangement, a quiet, private-like trip. I’ve been pretty generous with you. I never took no one in this area before. I wouldn’t want you takin’ advantage of the captain.”
I was a little frightened of Rasmussen, but I was equally frightened of failing on my assignment. I prayed that I could maintain my note of bravado. “It is a free sky and a free ocean,” I said. Then I repeated, “No one can keep me from returning here, especially BOW, when I am positive you have something to hide.”
“You’re talkin’ through your hat,” Rasmussen growled. “There’s a million barren islands like that one. You won’t never know which one. You won’t never find it.”
“I will find it, if it takes me a year,” I said emphatically. “I’ll enlist my Canberra backe
rs and their entire air fleet. I have some idea of the general area. I’ve observed certain landmarks.” I made my final gamble. “If you are going to obstruct me, very well. Take me right back to Tahiti. I shall handle this matter with charter pilots who will perform what they are paid to perform.”
I feared that Rasmussen would explode or do me violence, but he was sodden with drink and his reactions were slow. Muttering to himself, he gestured in disgust at me, and turned to his partner.
“Take the sonofa — over the Sirens, Hapai. Maybe that’ll shut him up.”
The next ten minutes of ocean were traversed in prickly silence, and then we came over the island, which I now observed was not one island but three. I had a glimpse of two miniature atolls, each less than one-quarter mile in circumference. These were coral, hardly above sea level, each with dry land, some grass and brush, and coconut palm trees. One had a tiny but lovely lagoon. Relative to these, the main island was large, but actually, as compared to other islands in Polynesia, it was small, I should guess no more than four miles in length and three miles in breadth. In the speed of our passage, I could make out the high volcanic crater, steep slopes, thickly covered with green foliage, screw pines, hardwood forests, several valleys heavy with vegetation, a brilliant, copper-colored lagoon, countless gullies and ravines, with enormous rocky cliffs guarding the land.
And then I saw my plateau. Green vegetation covered it like a massive carpet, and it was flat and straight, unbroken by boulders or ravines. Blurring before my eyes, the plateau dipped into almost jungle slopes that led down a ridge to a narrow band of sandy beach.
The Three Sirens Page 2
