Hannah had no intention of doing so. A heart-to-heart discussion with Uncle Henry would be the last thing she wanted.
Now, as the last rays of light faded, Aunt Constance looked as though she were miles away. She was kind and hardworking, with never a cross word for anyone. But Hannah felt no closer to knowing her.
Some people kept themselves so private that they didn’t ever truly reveal themselves. You could know them for years, and yet not know them at all. Hannah sighed. Was it possible that you never really knew anyone? She thought she had known her father. He had a seemingly open nature; straightforward, uncomplicated. Yet he had held his silence regarding his brother for years. Hannah could not understand, and therefore could not quite forgive.
Insistent tapping on her left arm drew her attention to her smaller cousin. ‘Hannah, you promithed to fixth Charlie.’ Deborah sat with Charlie doll on her knee, facing the sunset.
‘I will.’ Hannah felt guilty that she’d forgotten. ‘Tomorrow. I promise.’
Deborah nodded solemnly.
‘We’re expected at the village soon,’ said Uncle Henry.
Obediently they stood, dusted the sand from their clothes, and followed the path to the village.
Hannah looked at Uncle Henry’s straight back and creaseless jacket. He never appeared untidy or ruffled, but how did he manage it, in this sweltering climate? The only sign of a battle with the high temperatures were the occasional beads of perspiration on his forehead. But he wouldn’t permit such a display for long, and would press his brow with a perfectly folded white handkerchief. This evening, however, was cool and Uncle Henry looked accordingly crisp.
‘Hannah, you’ll love the meke,’ said Joshua. He added in a whisper, ‘How did you get Father to agree?’
She smiled. ‘I didn’t. Ratu Rabete did.’
‘Oh.’ Joshua’s tone suggested that he knew the force of the Chief’s will.
The light was fading quickly now, and the ill-mannered mosquitoes were coming out of their daytime hiding places. The Stantons quickened their steps.
‘Ratu Rabete will have a whole pig in the oven,’ said Joshua. ‘He always does whenever there’s a meke. And fish and …’ His list of sumptuous foods ran on for some minutes. For a thin boy, he had a monstrous interest in eating. His face was glowing with enthusiasm, and tonight he looked only his eleven years: a boy on his way to a party.
Hannah remembered the women’s questioning a few days earlier. ‘What’s bokola?’
Joshua looked at her strangely. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Oh …’ Instinctively, she became evasive. ‘Somewhere. I’m not sure.’
She wished she had not asked the question as his boyish enthusiasm wavered. ‘It’s the Fijian word for baked human flesh.’
‘It tastes like mud.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hannah was startled by Joshua’s voice.
‘Yaqona. It tastes like aniseed mud. Looks like it too, doesn’t it? And it makes your tongue and lips go numb.’
Flustered, she merely nodded. For a moment she had misunderstood him. Chastising herself, she paid closer attention to the scene before them. The yaqona ceremony was in progress. In this case, as Uncle Henry had ruled it unsuitable for his family’s consumption, the yaqona was for the villagers’ own enjoyment rather than for sharing with the guests.
Ratu Rabete dipped a coconut shell cup into the brownish-grey liquid in a massive wooden bowl with little legs. As the shell was passed around, each recipient quaffed the contents in one go. Then the watchers clapped their hands, calling ‘maca,’ which Joshua said meant ‘empty’. Enoke sat at the Chief’s right hand and glared, the twisted scar on his cheek standing out like a threat.
Although yaqona was unappetising in appearance, Hannah would have been tempted to try some if Uncle Henry had agreed; until Joshua told her how it was prepared. ‘It’s made from roots. They chew it until it’s soft. Then they spit the little balls out into the bowl, and cover it with water. Some people say that if you drink too much, your skin goes grey and scaly, and your eyes sink in.’
Joshua was an authority on yaqona, Hannah was amused to note. She suspected personal experience but refrained from comment. Let him have his secrets. She had hers.
Ratu Rabete was in fine form tonight. His hair had been teased and oiled until it stood out around his head like a glistening black shrub. He stood and delivered an impassioned speech, only portions of which the family bothered to interpret. ‘Mr Stanton was a good strong servant of his God … Mrs Stanton, a faithful wife, excellent cook …’ There was more, much more. Finally, ‘Welcome to the young lady from the land where animals jump …’ That brought a puzzled look from Uncle Henry. Hannah avoided his glance. She doubted he would be happy about his niece hopping around the church with her hands held up like paws—even if it was in the noble pursuit of the English language.
Hannah glanced up at the stars. Astonished, she recognised the Southern Cross. She hadn’t noticed it here before. Somehow she’d thought of those particular stars as being Australian. How odd to see them shining over this wild country, yet it was a comfort to see something that was familiar, a reminder of home.
She scanned the crowd for Merelita, but there was no sign of her. However, it soon became apparent there was one other person present that she had not expected, and one she did not welcome. A hot flush ran over her skin.
Kurt Oslo stood near Uncle Henry, hands nonchalantly buried in the pockets of his wide trousers, his face ruddy.
‘Hannah. I don’t believe you’ve met Mr Oslo.’ Uncle Henry sounded as though he didn’t want to introduce him, but good manners could not be pushed aside.
‘How do you do?’ she said, as though she had never clapped eyes on the man.
As he hesitated over his first public greeting to her, she knew he was tormenting her, dragging out the suspense. Would he mention her clandestine visit to the bêche-de-mer drying house? Hannah decided then and there that a life of crime would not suit her. It was bad for the nerves.
‘Miss Stanton …’ He inclined his head, then ambled across to the yaqona bowl and folded his body into a sitting position, his back to the Stanton family. Joshua and Hannah exchanged looks.
A shout announced the start of the dancing. Determined to enjoy the forthcoming spectacle, Hannah put Kurt Oslo out of her mind. In the jagged light cast by a large fire, several rows of women came forward: giggling, nudging. Green leaves were entwined around their arms, and garlands of flowers swung from their necks. Cross-legged on the ground behind them was a group of supporters, who began to chant and clap. Beni stood beside them.
Luata was in the back row. Giggling ceased as the dancers began to act out a story with gestures and steps. A strong smell of coconut filled the air as the oil on their bodies became heated from their exertions.
‘This one,’ said Joshua, ‘is about a baby’s first visit to its grandma.’ In unison, the women’s arms cradled an invisible child, rocking it from side to side. Then they appeared to be rolling something up. ‘The mother takes the gift of a mat to remind the grandmother of the visit.’
Feasting on the colour and rhythmic beat, she caught Ratu Rabete looking at her, and smiled. He smiled in return: broadly, openly, and with pride in her fascination with the meke.
The second dance was performed by men. Frenetic movements followed the chanting voices: hands, arms, legs, even neck muscles strained against their oiled skin, and eyes flicked left and right.
‘A man runs off to sea, stows away,’ Joshua explained. ‘The captain catches him. He escapes, climbs up the mast, looks around. But he is caught a second time, by a member of the crew.’ The line of dancers held their wrists together, their heads down. ‘The man is manacled and led to the brig.’
The last dance would not be easily forgotten. Shouting, their faces steely, the men made jabbing motions in the air with their spears. Closer and closer they stomped towards the mesmerised audience, row after row of warning feet beating
the earth. As they neared, Hannah saw that the long spears had spiked fish spines attached to the ends.
If one of those went through flesh, it could not be pulled back out, because of the barbs. The spear would have to be pushed right through. Hannah’s stomach flipped as she imagined being impaled on such a weapon.
Her hand on the coverlet, Hannah let loose a siren scream. She didn’t notice the movement of the others nor the flare of extra candles. Only when her uncle grabbed her elbow did she realise that her bedroom was suddenly crowded.
‘What’s the matter, Hannah?’
She pointed to a black centipede, at least six inches long, blatantly relaxing on the white sheets: all legs, sting and poison.
‘Fetch the broom, Joshua.’ Uncle Henry’s voice was calm. ‘Pray, settle yourself, Hannah. You are much larger than he is … you haven’t been bitten, have you?’
Silently she shook her head.
Joshua returned quickly, and Uncle Henry, broom in hand, pinned the centipede to the mattress. It didn’t resist, didn’t even wriggle. He poked it again, this time with more force. With a scornful glance at Hannah, he pronounced it ‘dead’ and offered the opinion that it had been so for some time.
Hannah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was relieved the creature was dead, feeling no sympathy for anything with that many legs; but she felt humiliated that she had not noticed it was dead; and secretly wished that she was.
‘Perhaps you would take Deborah back to bed, Mrs Stanton?’ said Uncle Henry. ‘Now … Hannah.’ The moment of reckoning came all too soon.
‘I … I’m sorry, Uncle Henry. I just can’t stand … I don’t like …’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘We all don’t like, but we all don’t rouse the household late at night by exercising our lungs. Go back to bed now, and next time, think twice and act once.’ He marched out the bedroom door with all the dignity he could muster—for a man who was wearing a nightshirt.
‘Joshua …’ Hannah turned to her only remaining ally.
‘It’s not your fault, Cousin. Shall I help you check the rest of the room before I go?’
Joshua was a sweet, kind boy, and it was only after he had gone that it dawned on Hannah there had been a more sophisticated emotion than mere kindness in his smile—his very broad smile. And he was the only one in the room who showed no surprise when it was announced that the centipede was dead. An uncomfortable suspicion entered her mind, then she felt guilty for thinking it. Consoling herself with the idea that she may be doing him an injustice, she snuffed the candle and tucked in the mosquito netting.
Every sound outside seemed exaggerated: birds, insects, the wind rattling palm leaves and whistling through the thatch of the house; then a rooster crowed.
A loud crack echoed through the jungle. Was that a musket? No one in the house responded. Either they were deeply asleep or such night-time activities were not uncommon. And tonight had been a meke. But none of the menfolk who had hovered at the yaqona bowl had seemed capable of stirring up a storm. They had wished the guests goodnight pleasantly enough, their eyes alert and laughing, but their legs would be useless until the effects of the greyish liquid wore off … the red sunset after the bushfire … a swim in the creek … Joshua laughing … Hannah shook her head. Her thoughts were firing off like a cracker gone haywire.
At first she wasn’t sure what had woken her, or how long she had been asleep. Her ears strained to pick up unfamiliar sounds. What now? Not for all the tea in China would Hannah have called out a second time. She couldn’t stand her uncle’s reproaches, or exasperation or, indeed, his nightshirt. If this was Joshua playing tricks, she would do something to him that they might both regret. Exasperated, she pulled back the netting and for the second time that night, reached out to light her candle.
Back to the wall, claws ready for action, bubbling froth, was a crab. Rattling its armoured limbs it waddled sideways a few steps, then snapped its front claws. Was this a bedroom or a zoo?
Sleep would be utterly impossible with a crab running rampant. Crawling to the end of the bed, Hannah leapt off and escaped into her cousin’s room. ‘Joshua.’ She whispered as loudly as she dared. ‘Joshua!’ No reply: she scampered back to her own room before the snappy visitor could hide. Exasperated, she wondered if there was any chance of sleep tonight?
The village girls despatched crabs by piercing them behind a front claw, up and under the shell, with the spine of a coconut palm leaf. But Hannah didn’t have the stomach for that.
The crab never saw its nemesis coming. One minute clacking about on a soft matted floor, the next, it was shrouded in a cotton covering and lifted into the air.
Outside a half-moon shone down. Step by step, Hannah eased her way past the sad reminder of baby Rachel’s shortened life, then followed the bumps and dents of the pathway. At the first suitable shrub, she flicked out the coverlet. Remembering the episode of the broken plate on the night of her arrival, she hoped this sort of thing wouldn’t become a habit. With an indignant snap, the crab scuttled into the undergrowth.
Hannah sighed and ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. The plait had come undone. Suddenly, her hand still entwined in her hair, she peered into the shadows.
Snatching up the coverlet, she sprinted towards the front door, her white nightgown whipping her legs, only relaxing when she heard the snick of the doorcatch behind her. Her breath uneven, she pushed back the curtains, just a little, and peeked outside. Nothing moved. Was it the fancy of a tired mind or had she actually seen a figure beneath the trees, watching the house?
She felt as though bricks pressed her eyelids shut, and no force on earth could open them. Despite her exhausted stupor she became aware of a presence in her room. Whatever it was could stay there. After the bizarre creatures she had already removed from her bedroom, nothing was going to make her stir again till morning.
Was that a cough? Discreet, muffled; but definitely a cough. Hannah sighed. Could she open her eyes at all? One lid responded, then the other. Her room was still half-dark. The raucous morning chorus of birds told her it was dawn. She blinked and focused. ‘Merelita!’
‘I sorry. Not good wake you if you sleep. Bad thing.’
Gradually it seeped through Hannah’s tired brain that Merelita didn’t make a habit of appearing in her room, especially uninvited. Propping herself up on one elbow, she brushed loose strands of red hair away from her face. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Sorry …’
‘How did you get inside?’
Merelita’s furtive peep at the window answered that question. The curtains were ruffled by a breeze.
‘Fire,’ said Merelita. ‘You come quick.’
Brought up in a country where the word ‘fire’ was treated with respect, Hannah instantly swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She grabbed her wrap from the chest of drawers, tied the belt with clumsy fingers and ran, barefooted, outside.
It was true. The cookhouse at the rear had one wall engulfed in red flames, and smoke seeped from the back of the mission house.
‘Uncle Henry!’ Hannah raced back into the house. Her aunt and uncle were already struggling to sit up when she barged into their room, without knocking. ‘The house is on fire! Hurry!’
In one swift movement, Uncle Henry was out of bed and through the door in his nightshirt, not bothering about modesty. ‘Wake Joshua and Deborah! Everyone—out of the house!’
Joshua was already right behind him.
Uncle Henry snapped, ‘Joshua, get all you can out of the cookhouse. That’s our only supplies for the next six months!’ He wrenched a low-hanging branch from the nearest shrub and began to belt the flames. ‘You girls, grab a branch.’
Aunt Constance pushed Deborah into Merelita’s arms. ‘Take her over there where it’s safe … please.’
Wide-eyed, Deborah clung to Merelita’s neck. Merelita patted the little girl’s back and retreated to a safe distance. Aunt Constance and Hannah worked alongside Uncle Henry; beatin
g, smothering, slowing the spread of the cancerous flames. Hannah wasn’t certain which was worse—the heat or the smoke which stung her eyes and caught in her throat.
‘Hannah! Help me with this!’ Through the open doorway of the cookhouse, she could see Joshua, his face flushed, struggling to move the heavy barrel of flour on his own.
She threw down the branch and leapt to his aid. Inside the small building, the crackle of the fire, the smoke, were more obvious. Fear of being caught inside lent extra energy to their efforts, and Hannah was gripped by a feeling that the walls were closing in around her.
The barrel was astonishingly heavy. With accompanying grunts, the two cousins manoeuvred the barrel through the door by twisting it in half-circles, then heaved it onto its side and rolled it clear.
Flying back into the fray, Hannah retrieved her branch and bashed at the back wall of the house, while her aunt threw buckets of water over the cookhouse, which was in a far worse condition. Water was limited. Only a single barrel-full was kept at the house and, again, Aunt Constance resorted to her branch.
The mission house itself had just caught alight. It took only a short while to smother the smouldering thatch. Joshua staggered, coughing, out of the cookhouse again, arms laden with foodstuffs. Uncle Henry beat the flames with almost superhuman strength and though Aunt Constance was slower, each pair of hands helped.
In the briefest of seconds, Aunt Constance swung her branch, her unrestrained hair flew sideways and brushed the naked flames. The ends of her hair began to burn.
Hannah screamed. ‘Aunt Constance! Your hair’s on fire.’
A look of terror flashed over the woman’s face, and she did the worst possible thing: she ran.
‘No!’ Hannah wrenched off her wrap and gave chase. A few quick steps with the wrap held high, and Hannah caught up with her aunt.
Baptism of Fire Page 8
