With simple, broken English on the men’s part, practically non-existent Fijian on hers, and Joshua to interpret when things became too complicated, she began, ‘Once upon a time …’
A tinge of alarm invaded her newfound confidence when she saw the excitement the story generated, especially the part about Grandma being eaten. Her anxiety was only tempered by the thought that these men had lotu’d.
When Hannah finally came to the end of her story, a fellow at the back stood and delivered a monologue in Fijian. Joshua translated, ‘This man had all his teeth pulled out. They were defiled because when his black tooth ached, only human flesh would satisfy him …’
With great presence of mind, Hannah refrained from grimacing, even when the man came forward and stretched his jaws open wide to show her his smooth gums, devoid of a single molar.
Caught in the act of peering into the man’s mouth, Hannah jumped guiltily when Ratu Rabete suddenly swept into the church, a cluster of followers behind. Enoke was with him too, sporting the same bizarre haircut and ferocious scowl.
Ratu Rabete approached with Hannah’s green parasol hooked tantilisingly over one arm. He lifted Hannah’s hand and held it next to his, which was large and dark, with sinewy fingers. The Chief spoke to his group of friends, but Hannah needed no help to understand that Ratu Rabete was making a comparison. Hannah stared at his hand, remembering it around Uncle Henry’s throat.
‘The Chief does not want to interrupt,’ explained Joshua, ‘but he wished to see how the lesson was progressing.’
The class watched and listened. It was important that she give a careful reply. From what she had seen of the Chief, he could either make a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy; and his opinion was important to Uncle Henry.
‘Tell him it’s a good thing to have people in the village who are clever—as these people are.’
Ratu Rabete nodded, a secretive smile suggesting that although he knew Hannah was soft-soaping him, he didn’t mind: in fact, he approved.
‘These men,’ repeated Joshua, ‘have given up the old ways.’ He leant forward to make sure Hannah understood. ‘I think he means cannibalism.’
That was obvious, but Hannah smiled appreciation. Without Joshua’s help, she would be lost, and she didn’t want to put him offside by appearing a know-all.
‘Ratu Rabete says he would become Christian himself but the village needs a strong man to lead them. What if enemies attacked on the Sabbath? There would be no one to defend the village.’ Joshua listened, then added. ‘He says if their enemies heard they had all become Christians, they would light their ovens immediately.’
It seemed disloyal to Uncle Henry to agree, but Ratu Rabete made sense. Hannah decided it would be tactful not to comment.
Joshua said, ‘Enoke’s nephew was killed because he was a Christian. He would not lend his friend a knife because it was the Sabbath, so his friend became angry and clubbed him.’
That explained why Enoke was angry, but was it logical to blame Uncle Henry? In any case, the killer couldn’t have been much of a friend.
Ratu Rebete abruptly changed the subject, insisting, through Joshua, that a meke or dance be held to celebrate Hannah’s arrival.
‘Joshua, please tell the Chief that I am staying in my uncle’s house. Ratu Rabete must seek my uncle’s approval.’
A feeling of guilt touched her as she remembered all the things she had already done that her uncle would disapprove of.
Hannah watched the people in the village as she waited for the women. This morning had shown that time here was flexible. Perhaps the heat forced people to slow down.
From her vantage point she could see the unusually slim man from the morning’s class. His fine features unleavened by any sort of humour, he had arrived late, remained standing the whole time, said nothing, then slipped out before the lesson was over. Now Hannah could see that his walk was strange—jerky, with small steps as though he were in danger of toppling over. Again he stood, with his back to a bure. He didn’t appear to be handicapped in any way, because both legs were long and straight, and he had a correctly shaped foot attached to each leg. She was mystified.
‘Good after … noon.’
Hannah was delighted to see Merelita. Her solemn, careful greeting suggested recent practice. Unlike most of the other women, Merelita wore a camisole top over a petticoat, and she had a pink flower tucked behind one ear.
‘Hello, Merelita. Are you in this afternoon’s class?’
‘I help you.’
‘See that man over there …?’
‘His name Beni.’
‘Is it a special custom that he remains standing?’
Merelita’s brown eyes shone with amusement. Sometimes Hannah felt entirely ignorant in this place. She couldn’t comprehend the language, the customs and, often, even her new family.
Merelita shook her head. ‘Beni, he go underwater.’ She mimed swimming. ‘He go into house under water.’
Cave: that seemed to be what she meant, unless Beni was amphibious.
‘In waterhouse all is dark. Then Beni see something very bad. With teeth.’ With drawn-back lips she revealed a white row of teeth. ‘Beni turn in water quick. Try to swim away. Shark not like Beni.’ Arms out, she showed the shark taking an uncomfortably large lump from an invisible target. ‘… bite him here.’ She patted her rear. ‘Beni no sit down no more.’
Besides learning English, the forty women gathered in the church had another interest in common—Hannah. They wanted to know everything about her: things personal, others even more personal.
The afternoon became a bottomless well of questions. Hannah repeated main words in Fijian to expand her own minuscule vocabulary and, with the help of Merelita, encouraged the women to try English words.
Luata of the picket-fence teeth and mountainous body was there, smiling again. Stumbling and faltering with her English, she spoke first. Did Hannah have brothers and sisters?
No.
They liked Hannah’s answer. It explained why she was such a good shape and size. A white woman, being the only wife, often had too many children. So many white men were shrimps.
How many dresses did she have?
Five, plus several blouses and skirts which could be mixed and matched.
That elicited ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of good-natured envy.
In Hannah’s country, was it true that all the fowls laid their eggs at exactly the same moment—in time for breakfast?
She laughed.
What did they eat, instead of ‘bokola’?
The woman who asked that question was inundated with noises of reproof from the others.
What did that word mean? Merelita’s English temporarily and miraculously vanished.
Could she choose a man to whom ‘her heart flew’?
Yes. Most women, but not all, chose their own husband.
A thoughtful silence followed.
Unaccustomed to sitting with them crossed, Hannah sighed and began to stretch out her legs. Frowns told her that this was not allowed, so reluctantly, she tucked them back under.
Where were her mother and father?
She hesitated. Killed. In a carriage accident.
What was a carriage?
You sat in it and horses pulled you along.
What were horses?
When she replied, the women suddenly lit up. Ah, yes. Some time ago a missionary on a far island had brought prancing, four-legged creatures in a ship. The people there had never seen such animals. On their first sighting, the men had scuttled up coconut palms; and it took some time to coax them down. The women tittered. Hannah understood that a horse could be terrifying. She never wanted to see another one as long as she lived.
Then the questions meandered on to In her country, how are babies made?
Hannah immediately launched into a description of Australian native animals. With words, then actions, she tried to make them understand what a kangaroo looked like. At home, she would have felt a compl
ete fool hopping round with her hands held up like paws. But here, where words were difficult, mime was the best answer. However the women still looked puzzled. Frustrated, she almost gave up, then remembered her paints.
A few brushstrokes, a little colouring, and there was a passable kangaroo. The women were fascinated as a kookaburra followed, then a horse with misshapen back legs. Pictures made it easier to communicate while words were still being stumbled over.
Hannah promised to paint pictures of the women on the next day, and in anticipation of this great event, several gifts were offered: a bunch of bananas; two green coconuts, which Merelita assured her were far superior to the drier brown ones; a polished shell; and a small woven mat. Merelita volunteered to help Hannah carry them back to the mission house.
Startled, Hannah looked up. ‘What was that?’
Merelita’s fingers scampered. ‘Rat?’
Hannah wasn’t convinced. She stepped outside but there was no one nearby. Perhaps Merelita was right. But as Hannah turned to go back inside she saw something that made her skin crawl. On the outside wall, skewered by twigs, was her sunhat: just like the bêche-de-mer in that fiery hellhouse.
Merelita could turn a simple walk into an adventure. She did and said the most unexpected things. Flumping onto the side of the path, she waited as a man walked past. ‘He a Chief,’ she explained, then stood and dusted her gritty knees.
She wouldn’t allow Hannah to tread a certain part of the path, but insisted they walk beside it. ‘Man die here—pineapple club.’ Violence was not surprising when most men carried a weapon. ‘Light spirit here where body fall.’ Merelita’s pupils grew large. ‘Sometimes when rain fall, spirit moans. He sit up. Bad pain in head.’ Having seen several clubs recently, Hannah could quite understand the victim’s ghost having a headache—a severe one at that.
A shower fell, but soon both girls were dry and wishing it would rain again to ease the sultry atmosphere. Today Uncle Henry was with Timothy on the other side of the island. He had left before breakfast. Consequently, Hannah felt much more relaxed and able to be herself.
Merelita had an endless supply of anecdotes. Some stretched the limits of credibility, but they were always entertaining. Hannah’s favourite was about a man who went out in a canoe with several others. The weather turned sour and when he stood to adjust the sail, he was pitched overboard into the writhing sea. It would have endangered all lives to attempt a rescue so, sadly, the men waved goodbye to their friend and continued their journey. Several days later, the man staggered ashore, exhausted but alive. Although far out to sea, he had worked out which direction to swim home by feeling the wind on his ears.
Hannah responded by retelling the story of Jonah surviving for three days in the belly of a large fish. Merelita liked that one; asking a dozen questions about life inside a fish which Hannah couldn’t answer.
Hannah stopped short as the path led them to a small bure. It was some distance from the village. ‘What is this place?’
‘Not go there.’
Insatiably curious, Hannah was about to ask why, when she heard a groan. Assuming it was not the spectre from the pathway with a migraine, someone was inside. ‘Someone lives here?’
‘Bad bure.’
‘Bad people live here? You mean they have done wrong?’ She was confused. Punishment was meted out instantly by the head Chief, Ratu Rabete. A wrongdoer’s crops could be destroyed, or a wife taken away, or his skull reshaped with a club, but there had been no hint about locking people up. Merelita must have meant something else.
‘Sick.’
‘Oh.’ Hannah struggled to understand. ‘Do you mean that sick people live here?’
Merelita shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Is anyone in there now? I thought I heard something.’
A second and, this time, unmistakable groan drifted through the thatch.
‘That person may need help.’
A blank expression settled on Merelita’s face.
Hannah waited for further reaction, but as none was forthcoming, made her way towards the miniature doorway. ‘Ni sã bula … hello,’ she called, then poked her head inside.
There was only one person in the bure. A woman. She lay on her side, scarcely moving.
‘Merelita! Come here.’ Hannah not only needed assistance with interpreting, but longed for moral support. Courage increased tenfold in the company of a friend.
The woman opened her eyes and stared unsmilingly at, or perhaps it was through, her uninvited visitors. There was nothing to fear, Hannah told herself. She sat beside the woman and, sensitive to custom, crossed her legs beneath her bulky skirt and petticoats.
The woman was young, probably in her mid-twenties, and obviously ill. Her cheeks were flushed; her glazed eyes excessively bright. She licked her lips as though thirsty.
‘Merelita, would you ask if we can get her anything?’
‘Wai,’ the woman whispered.
‘She want water.’
A quick scout round the room showed Hannah there was no water here, no food, no comforts of any kind. ‘Is no one looking after her?’
‘She dead,’ was Merelita’s reply.
‘Dead?’ Hannah was shocked. ‘She is not dead. She just spoke to us. See … she moves.’
‘Her spirit already gone.’
‘Nonsense!’ Irritated and uncomprehending, Hannah demanded Merelita fetch liquid for the patient. Her tone brooked no argument.
While Merelita was absent, she took a handkerchief from her pocket, mopped the perspiration from the woman’s face and smoothed back her hair. The bed looked comfortable enough—a mat unrolled over a thick layer of grasses. With her scant knowledge of Fijian, Hannah had few words to communicate, and the woman didn’t have the strength to try.
Before long, Merelita returned with a length of bamboo. She handed it to Hannah and retreated to a corner. Apparently she felt her contribution was over. Now it was up to Hannah. This was not the sort of drinking utensil she was used to, but after a few false starts, she managed to get a little liquid into the woman’s mouth. The rest tipped onto the floor, onto her navy skirt, and a trickle or two down the woman’s face. Out came the handkerchief a second time.
‘Why isn’t she with her family, so they can look after her?’ Hannah asked.
Merelita gazed at a point somewhere above Hannah’s head, ‘Maybe she spit in water. All get sick. Better here.’
Cleanliness was important, and so was preventing the spread of disease, but it was beyond Hannah to imagine an ill person deliberately spitting into the family’s drinking water.
‘What’s the matter with her? Should I fetch my uncle?’
Eyes wide, Merelita shook her head. ‘Vakadraunikau.’
‘What, may I ask, is that?’ Trying to assure a reply, Hannah used her most imperious voice.
‘She cursed.’
‘Poppycock! How can someone die from à curse? They die because they have a disease, or have had an accident, or because they’re old.’
Merelita said nothing. In the distance a dog howled plaintively and a knowing look, tinged with apprehension, showed on her face. It did sound eerie, but that was only because of the echoes, and any dog set one’s teeth on edge when it bayed in that manner.
‘She die!’
Uncertain whether to be irritated at Merelita’s blind conviction or embarrassed, Hannah shushed her, and hoped the sick woman didn’t understand English, but even if she could, she was probably too drowsy to pick up the meaning. Still, it was not the done thing to speak like that in front of someone, especially when it concerned her own death.
The woman opened her eyes and muttered.
Merelita interpreted: ‘She say in two days, when tide go out, she die.’
‘Merelita …’ Hannah faltered. Was there any point in arguing with someone who, although mistaken, had already made up her mind? How could she convince Merelita that it was impossible for anyone to predict their time of death, that a dog’s howl meant no
thing sinister, when stubbornness had set her face like a mask?
Uncle Henry would not unbend enough to sit on the sand with the rest of his family, but he consented to stop and watch the sun set.
A massive red ball, the sun hovered over the horizon, painting the sky and sea scarlet; then ostensibly slipped into the ocean. A breeze rustled the palm leaves, the sound imitating the sea. Waves sloshed onto the sand, receding a little with each wrinkle of water. The tide was going out.
Hannah shivered. ‘She die in two days, when tide go out.’ Merelita’s words were not easily forgotten.
Hannah looked at Aunt Constance. After hearing Hannah’s garbled story that afternooon, she had responded swiftly, taking boiled pawpaws down to the woman. She had even tried to persuade her to come to the mission house until her health recovered, but the patient would have none of it. She was going to die, and no one could stop that. Not even ‘the white man’s God.’
‘But can’t we do something?’ Hannah had pleaded with her aunt when she returned from the bure.
‘What do you suggest, dear?’ Aunt Constance was kind, but resigned to the facts. ‘She doesn’t want our help. I’ve seen this sort of fatalism before, Hannah. They believe it and it happens.’
Hannah pursued her argument. ‘Then you think sorcery and curses are true?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘But if that woman dies, then it is true!’
Aunt Constance paused before replying. ‘… it’s true to her.’
How could something be true to one person and not true to another? Either it was true or it wasn’t. ‘But how can someone foretell the time of her own death?’
‘The poor woman has a fever, remember? Her mind could be playing tricks.’ Although Aunt Constance’s words had been sensible, and no doubt designed to calm Hannah’s disquiet, her voice had been hesitant and she would not be drawn into further discussion. ‘Perhaps you should ask your uncle about these things.’
Baptism of Fire Page 7
