Baptism of Fire

by Christine Harris

  The man’s eyes caught Hannah’s gaze: held it. She couldn’t look away. Despite the heat, she shivered.

  A hand pressed against her back. ‘Go on. Keep walking.’ Joshua spoke gently but firmly.

  She forced herself to turn away from the man and scuttled past with her head down.

  Joshua tried to speak to her again but she refused to look at him. She slipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the perspiration on her face, wishing she didn’t feel so wretchedly hot, or so humiliated for giving in to her fear in front of her cousin.

  Another clearing revealed a single house, like those in the village, but with glass windows and a regular-sized door. Uncle Henry stood to attention. ‘The mission house. See how the Lord provides. We are blessed to have a roof over our heads.’

  Hannah was still annoyed with herself and remained silent. Blessed they may be, but she had a feeling that it was in the Lord’s best interests to provide shelter. Without it, their lives would be shortened, and the mission work curtailed.

  Aunt Constance stood Deborah on the ground and stretched. The child was obviously quite heavy. Hannah wondered why her aunt didn’t insist that Deborah walk.

  There were a few plants along the front of the house, and a vegetable patch at the side. Uncle Henry opened the front door and beckoned. Hannah felt reluctant to enter. It was one thing to talk about a new home, to think about it, wonder what it would look like. But that was all abstract; the moment she crossed the threshold, her new life would begin.

  Hannah took a deep breath and walked towards the open door. ‘Oh, what is this?’ She paused by a tiny house made of wood and cloth, touching it with her hand. It couldn’t be a birdhouse: they were always in trees. Perhaps it was a dolls’ house. She became aware of a long silence and looked up.

  Her expression sad, Aunt Constance bent to pick up Deborah yet again, although the child hadn’t asked to be cuddled.

  Uncle Henry’s face had settled into stern lines. ‘The earthly remains of our baby daughter, Rachel, lie here.’

  Flinching, Hannah snatched back her hand. She could have bitten off her tongue. Of all the questions to ask at a time like this!

  ‘Ratu Rabete, the Chief, built this out of respect. Even a confirmed heathen has moments of humanity. His workmen used calico to muffle the hammer blows.’ Uncle Henry stared at the memorial and added. ‘I have no doubt that given the passage of time, I can persuade the Chief to bend his knee to the only true God.’

  ‘This is your room.’ Joshua stood to one side, inviting Hannah to enter. She squeezed past him and took a careful look. The room was small, but Hannah was relieved that she had a place of her own. She glanced up at the ceiling.

  Joshua followed her gaze. ‘The cloth lining stops centipedes and bugs falling on us.’

  Hannah wished he wouldn’t take so much pleasure in exposing the less delightful aspects of her new life, especially on the first day. Honesty had its limits. At the moment, she would be quite satisfied with a few significant silences.

  Somehow, though, she couldn’t imagine the centipedes would be more of a nuisance than the cockroaches on board the ketch. They ran over her pillow and woke her many nights.

  ‘Centipedes are poisonous,’ added Joshua. ‘A man from the village was bitten and his arm swelled up to three times its normal size, and it throbbed like a drum.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Just remember to check your bed at night, and shake your shoes before you put them on.’ He returned his cousin’s disgusted glance with clear, grey eyes.

  She should have thanked him for his advice, but felt too disheartened.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said. ‘I like it here. I suppose I’m Fijian in a way because I was born on this island.’

  Hannah blinked. Somehow she had thought of Joshua as English.

  ‘Who was that man on the path?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘His name is Enoke.’

  ‘Is shaving off half your hair the latest fashion or does he have a bad barber?’

  He looked at his taller cousin quizzically, uncertain whether she was joking or serious. After a moment, he answered, ‘Enoke wears his hair like that as a sign that he seeks revenge. He’s sworn to get even with the man who killed his nephew. He doesn’t speak either, only whistles to show what he wants. The villagers say the next time he speaks, it will be to announce the death of the murderer.’

  Hannah shivered. The way Enoke had glared made her suspect he blamed them in some way. Resolutely, she tried to put him out of her mind. Being too imaginative would not help. Here, things were strange enough on their own.

  The voices of Uncle Henry and Aunt Constance intruded, even though they spoke softly. Sound travelled freely in this house because the walls, secured with rope, were more like woven screens.

  Hannah inspected the room while Joshua stood in the doorway and watched. There was a bed surrounded by a white gauze curtain, a looking glass, washstand, and a crooked chest of drawers. On the wall above the bed hung a message stitched in green thread: GOD IS OUR REFUGE. Mats woven in brown and black patterns covered the floor.

  ‘Joshua!’

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘Merelita is back. Would you help her, please?’

  Hannah raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Merelita works here. She wasn’t here when you arrived. Every afternoon she disappears.’ Joshua turned. ‘She goes to the beach.’

  The crash of crockery was followed by a burst of Fijian. Merelita sounded young. ‘That’s another thing about Merelita.’ Joshua grinned. ‘She breaks things.’

  ‘Joshua!’ Aunt Constance tried again. ‘You must let Hannah rest.’

  ‘I’d better …’ he gasped in mid-sentence as Hannah removed her sunhat.

  ‘What is it?’ She flung the hat onto the chest of drawers and ran nervous fingers over her hair.

  ‘Your hair!’

  She hurried to the full-length looking glass. Her hair was a little flattened and damp around the edges from perspiration, but the thick braid remained firmly secured with no unwelcome visitors in sight.

  ‘What’s the matter with my hair?’

  Joshua whispered, ‘It’s orange!’

  She spun on her heel. ‘What, may I ask, is wrong with that? And it is not orange! I prefer to say red.’

  ‘I’ve never seen hair like yours before. It’s … the colour of a sunset.’

  Instantly, Hannah forgave him. She had often been teased about her thick carrot-coloured mane but no one had ever likened it to a sunset. Such a romantic description pleased her.

  ‘I suppose I should have guessed by your eyebrows,’ he added. ‘I just thought you’d been sunburnt …’

  At the gathering frown on his cousin’s face, he wisely departed.

  She longed for her trunk to arrive from the beach, so she could change into a fresh blouse and skirt. It shouldn’t be long, especially as some of the crew were expected to dine. In this odd world of strangers, Jenkins seemed like an old friend, although she had only known him for the length of the voyage from Australia. Hannah was pleased that he and the other sailors would be there. It would make things less awkward, and perhaps more exciting, with Jenkins and Uncle Henry together. Jenkins was not a man to mind too much what he said, and Uncle Henry seemed to mind everything.

  Hannah yawned. Usually she found it impossible to sleep during the day, but today might be an exception. Gingerly she drew back the netting that surrounded the narrow bed, checking it from top to bottom, then shook it for good measure. Likewise, with the cotton coverlet. Then she knelt and peered underneath the bed. Besides a chipped chamberpot, there was nothing. She dusted her hands then climbed onto the mattress and, just to be on the safe side, drew the net around the bed, then stretched out and sighed.

  Her mother had hated creepy crawlies. Her father had been a gentle man and felt sick to his stomach if he was forced to kill anything
, so he always picked up small invaders with sheets of paper or his painting brushes and carried them outside. Hannah was sure the insects waited a bit, then crawled back inside.

  She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to the anguish such memories brought. But it was better to think of her parents and feel the pain, than to forget. While she remembered, it seemed they were still alive.

  Defiantly, Hannah twisted a red ringlet over her shoulder. Let Joshua stare. She studied her reflection in the looking glass. Grass-green eyes, thick eyebrows, and a nose which her father had always described as ‘decent-sized’. Polite to a fault, he had shuddered at linking words such as ‘prominent’ with nasal features, especially as he’d been blessed with a magnificent specimen himself. She also recognised her mother’s high cheek bones, small but well-shaped lips and of course, the colour of her hair.

  Hannah pouted her lower lip and puffed air to cool her forehead. It was only a short while since she had washed but already she felt in need of another dousing. However, it was time to make an appearance. Jenkins and the others would soon be back. They had briefly stumbled in with Hannah’s trunks and the provisions, but one look at Uncle Henry’s immaculate suit and they had turned tail, promising to return in a tidier state within the hour.

  A loud thump came from the front of the house, followed by shouting in Fijian. Hannah froze. She heard Uncle Henry trying to cut in on a man’s heated tirade. Was it Enoke? No, he wasn’t permitted to speak unless …

  Heart pounding, she ran from her room and into the main living area, but the unexpected visitor was not Enoke. A stout native wearing a voluminous wraparound and white turban had Uncle Henry against the wall, large fingers squeezed against his throat. He was yelling right into his face. ‘… jãina!’

  Deborah was screaming at the top of her lungs, Aunt Constance nowhere in sight, and Uncle Henry’s face was turning as red as Hannah’s hair.

  Dashing back into her room, Hannah searched for a weapon. Her parasol! Unpacked as a reminder of home, it hung from the washstand. She snatched it up and ran back out with the parasol held at arm’s length like a sword.

  ‘Stop!’ Hannah forced the point of the parasol between the two men’s faces then aimed it directly at the stout man’s nose. ‘Stop it immediately or …’ she gulped while her mind searched for a suitable threat, ‘… or I’ll rearrange your nostrils!’

  Immediately the man eased off. His eyes gleamed as he stared down the barrel of the parasol, and a wide grin spread across his broad face. He made sounds of admiration and astonishment, ran a plump finger along the green material of the parasol, then bent to peer at its underside. One of his fingernails was perhaps an inch long.

  He made to pull the makeshift weapon from her hand, but Hannah resisted and for a moment, the two indulged in a ridiculous tug-of-war.

  ‘Let the Chief have the parasol, Hannah.’ Uncle Henry had recovered his voice. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged at his jacket.

  Momentarily, she was tempted to let the Chief ‘have’ it in a way in which her uncle would not approve. She looked around the room for support but found none. Huddled in a doorway were her aunt and Deborah, still wailing intermittently. The dark face of a girl whom Hannah assumed was Merelita peered over Aunt Constance’s shoulder. From behind the small group came Joshua’s voice. ‘I can’t see!’

  ‘Hannah, I asked you to hand the parasol to Ratu Rabete.’ Uncle Henry was accustomed to being obeyed.

  She edged the parasol forward and Ratu Rabete took it gently as though it were a sacred chalice.

  ‘Vinaka,’ he said. After a thorough investigation, he tucked the object of his affection under his arm and clapped his hands.

  Uncle Henry spoke to the Chief in Fijian, then looked over at his wife. ‘Mrs Stanton, there will be another guest this evening.’

  Another guest? The Chief had practically choked the life from her uncle and now he was inviting him to share a meal! Surely this was taking Christianity a little too far.

  Aunt Constance came forward to usher the Chief to a seat. But not before Ratu Rabete had crushed Uncle Henry in a bear-hug as though they were dearest friends together after a long separation. Then he peered curiously at Hannah’s hair, making the same clicking noise Hannah had heard earlier that afternoon. Even when he was seated, he kept a firm grip on the parasol.

  ‘But … Uncle Henry …’

  ‘There is no need to whisper, Hannah. The Chief does not speak English.’

  ‘That man just tried to kill you. How can you invite him to share a meal?’

  Uncle Henry looked down at her with exaggerated patience. ‘Because he is the Chief.’

  Confused, Hannah frowned.

  ‘Not a single thing happens in the village without the Chief’s permission,’ continued Uncle Henry. ‘If he withdraws his support, we must leave this island. And there is much work to be done.’

  Nothing Hannah had seen in the last ten minutes showed support. What would this man do if he didn’t support them? She glanced at the club by the front door.

  ‘Ratu Rabete would not hurt me. If he’d been serious, he would have clubbed me instantly. He’s rather boyish at heart and likes to test my nerve.’ Uncle Henry positioned his hands as though he were about to embark on a magnificent prayer. ‘I understand it’s your first day, my dear, and you have no knowledge of how things go here … but, it’s better not to meddle in things you don’t understand. Perhaps next time you will think a little before you act. I am sorry that you were startled but acts of aggression are not permitted in our home, and do not befit one who serves the Lord. We must not take matters into our own hands. God will look after us.’

  She stared at him as though he too spoke a foreign language. He was chastising her for saving his life!

  Uncle Henry closed the front door. The Chief had left it ajar in his eagerness to manipulate her uncle’s voicebox. ‘You see, Hannah, if we behave in the same manner, we become like the people we are trying to convert. If a man wants to clean the mud from his cow, he must first entice the cow out of the mud. He cannot accomplish his purpose by joining the cow in the mud.’

  Hannah blinked and tried to work out what he meant.

  ‘It was generous of you to make the parasol a gift for Ratu Rabete …’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly withdraw a gift.’ He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do at all.’

  Hannah glanced again at the huge, spiked club, and said nothing, but she resented such arbitrary distribution of her belongings.

  ‘If a man strikes your cheek, you must learn to turn the other.’ Uncle Henry sat at the head of the table, with Ratu Rabete at his right. ‘Mrs Stanton, perhaps a cooling drink before our other guests arrive?’ he suggested.

  Standing in the centre of the room, Hannah felt a smothering loneliness. She had felt like this not so long ago, when, her heart wrapped in bands of iron, she had stood by a graveside as everyone waited for her to toss the first handful of earth onto two coffins.

  Today, however, there was some relief. Joshua came and stood by her side. She wanted to take his hand but restrained herself. Boys of eleven were usually above such displays.

  ‘What … what does jãina mean?’

  Joshua flicked a glance towards the table as his father called them to be seated. ‘Banana,’ he whispered.

  ‘The Chief was going to kill Uncle Henry over a banana?’

  A gleam which Hannah did not quite like showed in the boy’s eyes. ‘No. He said a white man tastes like a ripe banana.’

  Hannah was uncertain whether to offer help with serving the food or remain seated. Would her aunt dislike interference in her kitchen or would she consider Hannah ill-bred if she expected to be waited on?

  Catriona, Hannah’s mother, had always said it was ‘better to offer and be refused than to sit like Lady-Muck-from-Claver-Castle’.

  ‘I’ll help Aunt Constance.’ Hannah looked at her uncle. He nodded without speaking.
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br />   In her eagerness, she jumped up and stumbled as her foot caught in the chair next to her. ‘Sorry.’ A hot flush crept up her neck and face. She cringed over her awkwardness, knowing her cheeks would be crimson.

  Not daring to look a second time at her uncle, she hurried to the rear door. As she stepped outside, Hannah paused to take in the luscious backdrop of trees and ferns. The beauty of this place astonished her, and her hands itched to be at her paints.

  Aunt Constance appeared in the doorway of a hut separate from the main house. ‘In here, dear. We keep the cookhouse away because of heat and the danger of fire … perhaps you would help Merelita bring in the food?’

  ‘Mama!’ Deborah called from inside the house.

  Aunt Constance was flustered, unsure whether to supervise or attend to her daughter, but maternal instinct triumphed and she headed for the door. ‘You girls can manage …?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Hannah answered with false brightness. Merelita said nothing.

  Left alone, the two girls took stock of one another. Merelita was slightly taller than Hannah. It was difficult to guess her age, perhaps sixteen? She wore a wraparound skirt and a sleeveless white top. Her feet were bare. Hannah tugged at her collar and envied the other girl her simple clothing which was far better suited to this hot climate, but she knew she would never dare show her arms like that.

  ‘My name’s Hannah. I saw you earlier.’

  Merelita smiled and looked away. For a moment, Hannah wondered if the girl could speak English but a moment later Merelita handed her a large bowl of strange-looking fruit.

  ‘You.’

  That was one word at least.

  It took several trips but eventually they transferred most of the dishes: pork, a vegetable that looked like potato, nuts, pineapple, bananas, slices of a sweet-scented fruit that Merelita called mango, and other things that Hannah could not identify. A welcome change from dreary shipboard rations.

  Despite the Chief’s spectacular entrance this evening, Uncle Henry was unmistakably master at the table. Crowded around it were Ratu Rabete, Jenkins, Henderson the first mate, and three other sailors, Gallagher, Smart and Stephenson. Hannah wondered if they were ever called by their Christian names, or even remembered them.