Baptism of Fire

by Christine Harris

  Still, she was determined to find out what had happened to separate the two families. Perhaps Joshua could help her discover the truth. He was an astute boy and he might know something. Hannah resolved to ask him at the first opportunity.

  With a groan, Hannah tugged the coverlet over her head as birds, roosters and goats heralded the sunrise with unruly enthusiasm. Their noise was indecent and ill-mannered, not to mention inconsiderate.

  She flounced onto her left side, and just as she began to doze once again, heard movement in the house, then the rumble of her uncle’s voice. Men, Hannah decided, did not know how to whisper. Why was Uncle Henry stirring so early?

  Then she remembered it was Sunday. Hadn’t Aunt Constance said something last night about a sunrise prayer meeting? Fijian converts had to be particularly devout to stumble from bed at this hour to beseech favours from the Almighty. Hannah heard her uncle leave with heavy steps.

  She turned again, but sleep proved elusive. Exasperated, she gave up all attempts. Creeping from the bed, she opened her trunk and delved beneath neatly folded articles of clothing until she found her sketchbook and paintbox.

  Propping herself up in bed with a pillow at her back, Hannah rested the sketchbook on her knees with a slight sense of guilt. Would it be a sin to draw on the Sabbath? Surely this was not work, but pleasure. Even so, Uncle Henry didn’t seem a great advocate of pleasure. For now, it was probably wiser to keep her sketching private.

  Hannah considered her cousin Joshua for a moment then, with a few charcoal lines and a touch of shading, reproduced a likeness: a thin, intelligent face with eyes that suggested hidden depths behind the polite facade. She scribbled her signature at the bottom of the page, then printed Fiji-1865.

  Aunt Constance was difficult to capture, having betrayed so little about herself. Hannah decided to leave that sketch till last. Uncle Henry she gave a beaky nose, cleft chin, and a sprinkling of wrinkles around the eyes: a determined, humourless face, almost a caricature. And Ratu Rabete …?

  Someone scratched on her bedroom door. Instantly Hannah slipped the sketchbook under her pillow, followed by the paintbox and charcoal pencil, then leant back. ‘Who is it?’ Even she was impressed by the croaky first-thing-in-the-morning voice she produced.

  ‘May I come in, dear?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Hannah sat and rubbed at her eyes as Aunt Constance entered the room, already dressed, in a pale blue skirt and long-sleeved jacket.

  ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she lied.

  Aunt Constance smiled and it softened her face. ‘I presume you heard your uncle leave this morning?’

  Hannah considered bending the truth a second time, but decided against it. She nodded.

  Her aunt laughed out loud. ‘We all hear him every Sunday morning, and pretend we don’t. It’s a little game, I suppose. Mr Stanton tries so hard to tiptoe but I do believe that, for a man of his height, such a feat would be well-nigh impossible.’

  Ratu Rabete would be an exception to that theory if his exit last night was any guide.

  As her aunt drew back the mosquito net, Hannah wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘How long have you been in Fiji, Aunt Constance?’

  ‘Let me see … how old is Joshua? Eleven. That would make it about … fourteen years.’

  That was a long time to be away from home, which for her aunt, would be England. ‘How long will you stay?’

  An unreadable expression washed her aunt’s features. ‘A missionary lives abroad for life.’

  Hannah suspected a response showed on her own face because her aunt added, ‘A missionary must be willing to live and die anyhow.’

  She thought of the tiny memorial in front of the mission house. Yes, some did die. But she thought, too, of double headstones near an Australian cottage and admitted to herself that people died everywhere. However, while her uncle and aunt may have wished to spend the rest of their lives on this island, Hannah certainly did not.

  ‘You have another cousin, did you know?’

  Hannah’s eyes widened. Expecting to extract such information by subterfuge, she was stunned by this offer of family details. ‘I … I have?’

  Aunt Constance nodded. ‘We have another son, Matthew. He’s thirteen. Matthew is in a boarding school for children of missionaries in New Zealand. Education is difficult in places like this. He’s been away for two years now.’

  It wasn’t the breakthrough that Hannah had wanted, but another cousin was intriguing. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asked, then wished she had guarded her words. What a foolish question. Of course she would.

  ‘Ships don’t call here regularly, so we don’t receive many letters. But Matthew writes when he can. Occasionally trading vessels call and the mission brig John Wesley visits once a year …’

  Once a year! Was that all? Aunt Constance ceased fiddling with the mosquito net and stared across the room. Hannah followed her gaze. The framed portrait of her parents sat smiling on the chest of drawers, and Hannah rearranged several questions in her mind, seeking the best words.

  But before she could speak, her aunt suddenly turned her back to the portrait. ‘The service in English is at midday. Your uncle likes us to be there a little before that.’

  Hannah merely nodded.

  ‘And another little matter … Reverend Stanton, your uncle, asked me to bring something to your attention.’ Aunt Constance smiled tentatively. ‘You may have noticed that he refers to me as Mrs Stanton, while I call him Reverend Stanton whenever we are in the public gaze. You see, your uncle feels it would be unseemly for the natives, particularly unbelievers, to name their children after us, which they sometimes do. Can you imagine a dozen Constances running about the village?’ She laughed tightly. ‘One is quite sufficient. So it would be better if you refrained from using our Christian names when we are in company.’ She began to edge towards the door. ‘Reverend and Mrs Stanton, perhaps? No! That doesn’t seem appropriate … I think we shall just settle on Uncle and Aunt. What do you think, dear?’

  Hannah opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t know what to think.

  In no hurry to attend church, Hannah paused by a large tree which arched over the path. ‘What are these?’ She ran her forefinger along a series of cuts.

  Aunt Constance stooped to straighten Deborah’s skirt with a confident tweak. ‘Oh … perhaps it’s children’s games.’ Something in her manner suggested she knew more but would not be drawn into revealing it.

  Joshua kept his gaze fixed on the path. Instantly suspicious, Hannah stored the markings in her memory to ask him about later, or perhaps Merelita.

  Despite thick clouds which covered the sun’s direct rays, Hannah could feel the steamy heat envelop her, and she revised her opinion of those who attended sunrise prayers. It would have been much cooler then. Giving in to temptation, she scratched at a mosquito bite on her wrist.

  The native-style church was at the edge of the village. Hannah had expected it to be like those at home, with a steeple, vestibule, stained glass and wooden pews.

  Uncle Henry, beads of perspiration covering his forehead, waited to welcome them. Hannah suspected he would look rather wilted as the day progressed, with a sunrise prayer meeting, a service in Fijian at nine o’clock, English at midday, another Fijian at four, and a Tongan service at seven.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Uncle Henry. ‘Forgive me for not farewelling you all this morning, but I thought it was better to leave quietly, considering the early hour.’

  Hannah refused to meet Aunt Constance’s eyes for fear of laughing. An elephant would have left more quietly than Uncle Henry.

  Inside, the local worshippers were already seated on mats. All eyes swivelled to watch the Stanton family enter. The only seat, a long wooden bench, had been reserved for them. Mercifully it was at the rear of the church. Hannah didn’t want to endure curious stares for the entire service.

  There were no windows, but several large entrances allowed the br
eeze to blow through. Sheets of cloth could be let down for privacy. Merelita, seated near the front, shyly turned her head and exchanged smiles with Hannah, then looked away.

  Hannah scanned the congregation with amazement. Some wore native cloth over their oiled bodies, with feathers decorating their hair. Others were dressed in articles of European clothing; one woman in a floral dress, inside out, with the seams showing.

  Joshua nudged Hannah, directing her attention towards two men in the aisle. What had once been a scarlet jacket with tails, now served as half a coat for each man. They had sliced it down the centre, longways, so each could have one sleeve and one tail. But that prevented the wearer leaning forward as the jacket-half would slip down over one arm and needed to be tugged back into position. Beaming from ear to ear, another man had a Union Jack wrapped around his body. Despite the unusual adornments, Hannah was struck by the Fijians’ dignity. Dressing up was obviously important.

  Uncle Henry took his place at the front under a cowrie-shell cross. A man with the largest feet Hannah had ever seen stood to one side, looking as though he had a canoe on the end of each leg, with toes attached.

  ‘Timothy.’ Uncle Henry nodded to Canoe-feet and the congregation rose.

  There were only a few hymn books, including one with a sadly worn cover which Aunt Constance produced from her reticule. Timothy chanted several lines from the hymn book he held, and the congregation repeated the words. He sang out a second time. And so the hymn progressed; slowly, methodically, with plenty of volume. Most of the congregation could speak English: of sorts. Then the sixty or so people sat down again, tucking their feet under them.

  Uncle Henry opened a heavy book on the podium and stared at the congregation. Hannah squirmed, but the Fijians simply stared back at him, unabashed.

  ‘Several years ago I left the land I love. I left my father’s house …’ he began.

  Somehow it was difficult to imagine him with a father. Had Uncle Henry ever been a naughty little boy? An even more startling thought shook her. Uncle Henry’s father had been her grandfather!

  Timothy conscientiously prowled the aisles with a short stick in his hand, refusing to leave the congregation’s good behaviour to chance. At one stage, he poked a drowsy man in the ribs until he woke, snorting and snuffling, to once again give the Reverend his full attention. A wriggling boy won a sting on his leg.

  Uncle Henry continued in full voice. ‘I came here because I heard about your false gods and your desire for human flesh.’

  Hannah’s stomach turned at this brazen reference to a subject she had only heard about in whispers. It was shocking to hear of such a forbidden topic in church. She glanced sideways at Joshua to find his eyes alive with curiosity about her reaction. Uncle Henry then launched into a sermon on sin. He called for evildoers to renounce their devilish customs.

  Suddenly a rotund, middle-aged man clambered to his feet and approached Uncle Henry. What was he doing? Already reprimanded for leaping to her uncle’s rescue, besides losing her best parasol, Hannah decided that this time he could defend himself—or wait for the Almighty to do so.

  But the Fijian wordlessly handed over a long-pronged, wooden fork and returned to his place. A second volunteer did the same. Soon there were four forks. Before long, Uncle Henry would have a full set.

  Joshua whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘Cannibal forks. Each one has its own name, and the names are so coarse that we are never told what they mean.’

  She glared at him, vainly trying to look unmoved.

  The boy grinned impishly. ‘Don’t fret, cousin. They won’t eat us.’

  Hannah whispered back, ‘Are they afraid of us?’

  ‘No. We’re too salty.’

  Yesterday he’d convinced her white people tasted like bananas. Today they were too salty. Was he trying to scare her? She turned her head away, chin in the air.

  Uncle Henry waxed lyrical about the scorching fires of hell, the fate of evildoers. But Hannah thought it was not only evil people who were punished. What about the good who died young, or horribly—her own parents, for example? It was hard to imagine a kindly, bearded man in heaven dispensing goodwill with one hand and disasters with the other. Didn’t he know how she would suffer if he took her mother and father—how bereft, how hopeless, how unforgiving she would feel? Or was it all out of his hands—a vast mistake?

  Joshua’s leg began twitching as he bounced his foot—a sign that he had also reached the limit of his concentration.

  A small object whizzed through a doorway and ricocheted off the floor. Seated at the back, and higher than the rest of the congregation, Hannah saw what many had missed, until shouting and catcalls began outside. Although ignorant of the language, Hannah knew the tone was not friendly.

  Soon a barrage of missiles followed the first object, striking the roof, hurtling in through the entrances, and forcing everyone to duck. Uncle Henry raised his voice, ‘Please remain calm and seated!’ Restless and ill-at-ease, they paid him no attention.

  Aunt Constance cuddled Deborah. Hannah suspected it was not because the child needed comfort, but because the mother did.

  When a burning brand lobbed through a doorway, everyone scattered. Thinking quickly, Timothy snatched it up and hurled it back.

  Hannah hitched up her skirt and dashed outside, oblivious of her aunt’s plea to remain inside. Joshua half-followed then hesitated, confused between wanting to know what was happening and the habit of obeying his parents. He collapsed back onto the bench seat, disappointed with his mother’s instruction and his own lack of nerve.

  Whoever the agitators were, they were either well concealed by jungle, or they had fled, and most of the congregation were returning to their homes. In an excited voice, one woman was explaining to another what had just occurred, using theatrical gestures which could match Uncle Henry’s. Her small son was nursing a bruised cheek from banging into another escapee in the doorway, and Uncle Henry was examining his injury.

  Her back towards the church, a young woman stood looking at the village.

  ‘Merelita?’

  She spun around and Hannah gasped. ‘You’re hurt!’

  Merelita shrugged. ‘Is little. A stone …’

  Taking a white handkerchief from her pocket, Hannah pressed it against the bloodied graze on Merelita’s forehead. ‘You should bathe this with clean water.’

  Merelita nodded, then, ignoring Hannah’s advice, removed the handkerchief for closer inspection. She was more curious about that than worried over a slight wound to her head.

  ‘Who were those people?’

  The Fijian girl shrugged a second time—a convenient way to avoid a direct answer. ‘Some have … night of the mind.’

  Hannah understood. She had met people like that at home. But it still made her shiver to think that her uncle and aunt had such enemies.

  Bewildered, Aunt Constance held the two fowls at arm’s length. They hung upside down, feathers sticking out untidily, their legs like sticks. The larger fowl protested by madly flapping.

  ‘Don’t drop them!’ Joshua called as his mother squealed. Deborah fled to the other side of the room.

  ‘You can hypnotise fowls by stroking their breastbones,’ put in Hannah.

  Mrs Stanton disregarded her niece’s inventive suggestion, carried the fowls outside and returned empty-handed. ‘I hope they don’t wander off before Mr Stanton decides where he wants them kept. Fowls are a welcome addition. The Lord can turn any situation to his servants’ advantage.’

  That was one way to describe an apology. Ten minutes ago a knock at the door, a hesitant speech in broken English and a dark hand thrust across the threshold had left Aunt Constance with the two fowls in her hands and a bemused expression on her face. Ratu Rabete had sent one of his men with an appeasement offering to show he was, in the words of his messenger, ‘Big angry at bad men armed with teeth.’ The man had departed with a promise that further disturbances during church services would meet drastic retaliat
ion. With a wincingly clever mime, he had demonstrated the consequences to an offender’s skull.

  Only last night Ratu Rabete had wrapped his large fingers around Uncle Henry’s throat. Today he was sending gifts. Hannah was unsure what this erratic behaviour meant.

  With the fowls safely outside, Joshua’s nose back behind his book and Aunt Constance silently brushing Deborah’s hair, Hannah was again bored. ‘Aunt Con … Aunt!’

  ‘You may call me Aunt Constance when it’s just ourselves, Hannah.’

  ‘May Joshua and I take Deborah for a walk, somewhere that would be safe?’ She hastened to add, ‘We wouldn’t run or make much noise, just a quiet stroll … there’s so much nature here to appreciate.’ It might not be a convincing reason for a walk, but that was all that Hannah could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  Joshua peered over the top of his book, waiting to see whether escape was possible.

  Aunt Constance placed the brush on the table. ‘Do you want to go for a walk with Hannah, darling?’

  ‘Darling’ nodded.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ offered Aunt Constance.

  Hannah smiled, steeling herself to show no disappointment. ‘If you’d like to. But we’ll be fine if you want to rest while the house is quiet. You look tired.’

  Her aunt seemed relieved: the offer had only been a display of good manners. ‘Joshua!’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ In his eagerness, Joshua dropped the book.

  ‘Hannah may like to see the beach again. There was so much confusion yesterday.’

  As they set off, Aunt Constance issued a warning. ‘Remember it’s the Sabbath, a Holy day, and we must set an example for the villagers. They will judge the Lord by our actions.’

  Solemnly Joshua and his cousin nodded. Hannah took Deborah’s hand in hers, and an unexpected warmth swept over her. In her other hand the child clutched an unusual doll, carved from wood, with unruly brown hair of coconut fibres. A pink dress and half-worn painted features made the toy look absurd. If Deborah would let her, Hannah could certainly repair the face with her paints but the hair was beyond help. Oblivious of the odd nature of her toy, Deborah squeezed it close to her chest.