Baptism of Fire

by Christine Harris

  ‘What’s your doll called, Deborah?’

  ‘Charlie.’ She looked proud and motherly.

  Hannah wanted to laugh but she knew it would hurt Deborah’s feelings. Never had she met a Charlie who wore a pink dress. She scarcely knew whether to call the doll ‘he’ or ‘she’.

  ‘Ratu Rabete made that for Deborah,’ Joshua explained.

  Deborah smiled from ear to ear. Away from her parents, she was more communicative and for the first time, Hannah noticed the little girl had a lisp.

  They kept their pace slow until they were out of sight, but couldn’t keep the excitement from their faces. Hannah tapped Joshua’s arm as they reached the marked tree, and raised one eyebrow. He shrugged and kept walking. Oh well, she’d find out eventually.

  Joshua halted where the path forked. ‘Let’s go this way. Then we don’t pass the village.’

  Hannah agreed. She had no desire to march past the church and attract Uncle Henry’s critical attention.

  Once at the beach, Deborah practically danced on the sand. Shells and sprigs of seaweed littered the shore, and loose coconuts queued at the previous waterline. There were three women wading in shallow water some distance out.

  ‘They’re looking for shellfish,’ Joshua explained.

  Hannah collapsed onto the fine sand. She removed her sunhat, unravelled her hair from its plait, rumpling the curls with eager fingers. The blue clear sea stretched before her, reminding her that across that expanse there were other lands. She scooped up a handful of sand, letting it run silkily through her fingers. It was so much cooler and more pleasant on the beach.

  ‘Deborah, let’s build a sandcastle.’ Joshua moved down to the wet, heavy sand. His little sister hurled herself onto his back, one hand still clutching her doll and, to her delight, Joshua pretended to fall.

  Disregarding her navy dress and the clinging sand, Hannah lay on the sand then rolled onto her stomach with one ear close to the ground. She could feel faint vibrations. Was it the waves as they swept over the sand, or was it the reef?

  She laughed and shook the sand from her hair. Leaving her cousins to construct sandy turrets and other embellishments, she sauntered along the shore. With the tide out and the water crystal clear, coral was visible. Tiny iridescent blue fish chased each other into the shallows, turning left and right at unseen signals. Miniature crabs no larger than a man’s thumbnail scuttled across the sand. Hannah raised her arm and the women searching for shellfish waved back.

  Hannah unlaced her boots and although she did not dare roll down her stockings, enjoyed the cool sand against her stockinged feet. A larger set of footprints meandered along the waterline and she stepped beside them, comparing feet sizes. Her own prints were different: the indent of her heel was deeper whereas the larger footprints were even.

  A sharp scream interrupted her and boots in one hand, Hannah raced back to where the beach curved outwards. Deborah was trying to hurl herself off the rocks into the water while her brother hung onto the back of her dress. Heart pounding, Hannah clambered awkwardly over the black rocks, terrified at the thought that Deborah might be hurt. How could she explain that to Aunt Constance? Hannah would never be forgiven. Her aunt and uncle would send her to a home for wayward girls and throw away the key.

  ‘What is it, Deborah? Are you hurt?’

  Joshua’s face was filled with panic. Deborah kept struggling, her angry face growing redder by the second. The little girl pointed out to sea. ‘Charlie!’

  Some distance away, a familiar lump of wood in a pink dress bobbed up and down as it was carried by the tide.

  ‘Don’t cry, little one. I’ll get Charlie for you.’

  Deborah hiccupped. Her bottom lip trembled menacingly. Hannah was an only child, but she had spent enough time with the neighbour’s noisy brood to know when a fit of hysterics was about to happen. She stood, holding a hand to her eyes to shield them from the hot sun. Charlie was happily floating and bouncing across the bay, towards the rocks on the other end of the beach.

  ‘Take Deborah back to the sand, Joshua. I’ll save Charlie.’ Deborah began a slow wail which threatened to wind up to a full-scale explosion. ‘Now, Joshua!’ Hannah’s tone was more abrupt than she meant it to be but separating child and toy meant all hell could break loose.

  She had to be quick to stop Charlie doll from floating away. Leaping from rock to rock, she hurled her boots onto the sand and with her skirt hitched in two hands, sprinted across the beach. When she reached the rocks, she climbed gingerly to the furthest point. Her foot scraped down a rock, ripping a hole in her stockings and making her wince.

  Charlie was still visible, his fibrous hair dipping and rising as he drifted closer. If she could just hang onto this niche and stretch out, she could grab him. Ready, set, now!

  As luck would have it, Charlie, at that moment, happened to dip rather than bob. His wayward head disappeared under Hannah’s outstretched hand. There was a second’s delay as her brain caught up with the lurch of her body, and she knew she was going to fall.

  Almost in slow motion, Hannah pitched into the sea and launched into a manic struggle. Panicking, arms thrashing she struggled to reach the surface. Hampered by her long skirt, she felt heavy and awkward, then her foot struck something solid.

  Stretching out her legs she could just manage to stand on tiptoe. For the last few seconds she had fought to keep her head above water without realising that she could actually touch the bottom. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so frightening.

  A glance to the left told her that Charlie was out of reach, merrily bobbing his way around to the next cove. Hannah looked at the rocks, then at the beach. Climbing the rocks would be quicker.

  It was not as difficult as she had feared. The dark rocks were rough, uneven, with plenty of platforms and crevices for fingers and feet.

  ‘Hannah!’ Joshua stood on the beach, his legs rendered immobile by Deborah’s two-armed strangledhold. ‘Are you all right?’

  One last heave and Hannah was clear of the water, bedraggled and annoyed, but safe. She waved one arm in response, not wanting to exert herself further by shouting. Deborah was utterly silent, too surprised at her new cousin’s misadventure to bawl.

  Hannah wrung out her hair, then squeezed as much water from her navy skirt as possible. Fortunately, the water was tepid. Now that her legs had stopped quivering, she felt able to clamber over the remaining rocks.

  Joshua jiggled up and down on the sand, his face drained of colour. ‘What happened?’

  A remarkably asinine question for a bright boy. ‘What do you think happened? I fell!’ She hated to think what she looked like: a drowned rat most likely. Thank goodness she had taken off her good boots.

  ‘What are we going to do? You can’t go home like that!’ said Joshua.

  Holding out her soggy, crumpled skirt she silently agreed. She knelt and took Deborah’s hand. ‘I’m going to find Charlie. Why don’t you and Joshua build a lovely sandcastle for me while you’re waiting?’

  Deborah looked up at her big brother.

  ‘But we’re not allowed on the next beach.’ Joshua’s tone was adamant, his face set.

  Hannah considered for a moment then added, ‘But you are not going there. You are going to help your little sister build a special castle. I, on the other hand, have never been told not to go into the next cove.’

  ‘But it’s my duty to tell you not to go there. Father and Mother would blame me.’

  Hannah twisted her hair round and round her hand, forcing it into a large curl. ‘You can only tell if you see me go, so I suggest you turn your back.’

  In her stockinged feet, she strode away without waiting for further argument. On no account would she let herself be beaten by a doll in a pink dress with half a face. Once around the bend, the beach snaked back sharply. Thick underbrush grew down almost to the waterline. Hannah scanned the sea for Charlie but there was no sign of him.

  Following the water’s edge, she determine
d to try one more cove then she would give up because Aunt Constance would soon begin to wonder where they were. There was no blob of pink material floating here. Perhaps Charlie had sunk or … just for a moment she allowed a vindictive thought to amuse her … perhaps he had been eaten by a large shark!

  A second bend in the coastline brought Hannah to a long stretch of white sand with two huts on it. Hannah listened carefully, but there were no sounds of speech, no signs of movement. Were the huts abandoned? She moved closer. ‘Hello?’

  It was too ridiculous to knock on the door as she would have done back home. She circled one of the huts, which was a little different from those in the village. There were palm leaves and coarse mats wrapped around the walls, and a door which closed. Was that smoke creeping from the corner?

  Hannah tried again. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Common sense told her to skirt the buildings and keep walking. It was none of her business who lived here. Perhaps they were aggressively inclined and even as the negative thoughts raced through her mind, her hand was on the door. Her father had always told her that she was curious to a fault, but knowing the truth does not necessarily mean wanting to reform.

  She slid back the bolt and slowly opened the door.

  The interior was not at all what she had expected. Pungent smoke filled the air. Closing the door to keep the smoke prisoner, Hannah wandered between two sets of frames made from sticks and timbers. Beneath the framework were two long trenches in which fires were burning. Green palm leaves were criss-crossed over the flames, the cause of so much smoke, no doubt. Her clothing, soggy with seawater, began to steam. It seemed as though she had chosen a heavenly day to visit hell.

  Failing the Devil, someone had been busy here. There were thick strips of something that Hannah could only liken to skin stretched out and skewered on twigs. It was the colour of bacon rind. She lifted her skirts clear of the fiery trenches. The sand was warm against her feet.

  At one end of the trenches was a pile of fresh palm leaves and a collection of tools: long-handled knives; buckets; and an axe with an ornate black handle, leaning against a bucket jammed with large forks. She shivered as she thought of the long-pronged forks she’d seen handed over at church that morning.

  A prickling sensation began at the back of her neck. She suddenly wanted to run. With perverse timing, as though the thought had given birth to action, the door swung open.

  She would have screamed if her voice hadn’t been stifled by panic; run, if her feet hadn’t been glued to the ground; hidden, if there had been the remotest chance of staying undiscovered.

  A man entered, and despite the smoke, she noticed several things at once. He was thin, he was not Fijian, and he was pointing a long musket right at her heart.

  For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity and back again, they faced each other. Hannah realised that the man was as surprised as she. Without shifting his gaze, he kicked the door shut with one foot.

  ‘How do you do!’ Her voice squeaked only once.

  ‘What in damnation are you doing here? Who are you?’

  Stung by his abruptness, shaken by having a musket levelled at her, Hannah almost shouted. ‘Miss Hannah Rose Stanton.’

  ‘Stanton, eh?’ He jerked the musket as he spoke, and Hannah instinctively flinched. ‘I suppose you’re the niece of that black suit at the mission house. I heard you’d arrived.’

  He had heard about her, but Uncle Henry and Aunt Constance had said nothing about another white man living on the island. And neither had Joshua. The thought of her cousin was heartening. At least someone knew roughly where she was.

  Abruptly the man lowered his musket, leaning it against a wall. After the first terror passed, Hannah had began to suspect that he wasn’t serious about using the weapon. Still, she sighed with relief when she no longer had to face the firing end.

  When he took several steps forward, she saw that his looks could only be described as homely. He had the ruddiest cheeks and nose Hannah had ever seen. She guessed that he was in his fifties. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, and a shirt which hung loosely over a pair of tattered trousers, rolled up at the cuffs. The lower few inches of material were wet. His feet were bare.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  A short, humourless laugh accompanied his answer. ‘Me? I’m nobody.’

  ‘You must have a name. I can’t call you Mr Nobody.’

  ‘Oslo. Kurt Oslo,’ he snapped.

  He had a strangely foreign name for someone with such an excellent command of English. ‘Are you English, Mr Oslo?’

  ‘My mother was English.’

  ‘But not your father?’

  ‘Questions. Questions. Questions …’ Mr Oslo raised his eyes heavenward.

  ‘My mother told me he was Norwegian. I don’t remember him. Now, if you’re satisfied, perhaps you could answer my questions. Why are you trespassing?’

  ‘I …’ Hannah smiled to delay her answer and tried to think of a good excuse. Heat from the trench fires was beginning to make her feel light-headed, or perhaps it was the smoke. ‘I thought it would be polite to pay a visit to the … occupants.’

  Kurt grunted. ‘And just how could there be someone in here if the door was bolted from the outside?’

  Hannah waved a hand in front of her face to clear away the smoke. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know!’ he mimicked.

  His sarcasm stung. ‘You’re very rude!’

  ‘And you’re very nosy.’ He took another step closer. She saw that the redness on his nose and cheeks was caused by a myriad of tiny veins. Perspiration trickled down his face. ‘Spying were you?’

  She retreated a step, hoping he would not advance further. ‘Spying?’

  ‘For that self-righteous bigot.’

  ‘Uncle Henry?’

  ‘So you think he is too.’

  Disconcerted, Hannah twisted her long auburn coil of hair around nervous fingers. ‘I … I didn’t say that.’ She blinked rapidly, her eyes dry from the smoke.

  ‘He wants to get rid of me, but he won’t succeed. Better men than him have tried to beat me and lost.’ He wiped a grubby sleeve across his forehead.

  Hannah didn’t like the way his eyes flashed when he spoke about her uncle. Mr Oslo was becoming angry again. She slid a sideways glance towards the pegged skins on the racks, telling herself that she didn’t really want to know what they were, just as the fatal words fell from her lips. ‘What are these?’

  Kurt Oslo grinned slyly. His reply was irritatingly enigmatic. ‘This is a savage place, Hannah Stanton.’

  The word ‘savage’ conjured up all sorts of images in Hannah’s mind, none of which was pleasant.

  ‘What do you think they are?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘Fruit?’

  ‘Fruit!’ Mr Oslo slapped his leg with an open palm. ‘Have you ever seen fruit look like that, girl?’

  She had not, but refused to answer aloud. The gleam in his eyes made her uncomfortable. It was the same look Joshua had when he told her about the centipedes and explained the Chief’s comments about white men tasting like bananas.

  ‘I must go … my cousins are waiting just down the beach … they’ll come after me if I don’t return soon … they’ll miss me … and all this smoke … they’ll think I’ve been in a chimney …’ She knew she was babbling, but could not prevent the words tumbling out.

  ‘What—leave without discovering the great mystery? You broke in here and now you don’t even want to know what you’ve found?’

  Hannah glared at him, hands on hips. ‘I did not break in. I haven’t touched anything. All I did was look. Is there a law against looking?’

  For a few seconds they tried to outstare each other, then he grinned again. This time it was more friendly. ‘You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?’

  She would not reply to such a personal comment from a stranger—and a man at that!

  He jabbed at one of the skewered substances. ‘Not ready yet. Anothe
r few hours. Once they’re dry, they’re shipped off to China. When a ship calls in, that is.’ He traced lines across one of them with a fingernail. ‘The Chinese slice it thinly, like this, and make soup.’ Mr Oslo turned his head to catch her expression. ‘Bêche-de-mer, Miss Stanton. Dried sea cucumber. It’s a delicacy. Care to try some?’

  Wrinkling her nose, Hannah declined. She wanted to leave, but Kurt Oslo stood in the narrow alley between her and the door. With fire each side of them, Hannah didn’t fancy pushing past him. ‘Well, it was pleasant meeting you,’ she said, hoping he would move without being asked. It was a vain hope.

  ‘Please let me through,’ she added in the firmest voice she could muster.

  He stepped back, bowing elegantly as though he were in court acknowledging royalty. ‘Be my guest, Miss Hannah Rose Stanton.’

  Keeping her eyes on him, she edged past, cautiously lifting her skirts clear of the trenches.

  ‘Does your precious uncle know you’re here?’

  Her expression said it all.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. So … you don’t like rules any more than I do.’

  She felt stung by the comparison of her motives and his. ‘It was my little cousin, Deborah. She lost her doll, Charlie. I was trying to get it back for her. It fell in the water and the tide carried it around here somewhere.’

  ‘Of course! A doll. Naturally it would be washed up here, fifty yards above sea level. Why didn’t I think of that? Porridge for brains.’

  Instead of flaring at his impertinence, she giggled.

  ‘This Charlie wouldn’t have coconut fibre hair and half a face, would he?’

  ‘Yes, he would.’ Hannah’s hopes rekindled. ‘Have you seen him … her … it?’

  He removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald pate with only a few tufts of grey hair growing horizontally above each ear. ‘Down on the beach. I saw the face and decided it was beyond salvation.’ At the word ‘salvation’ his eyes darkened. ‘Go on. Out!’