Uncle Henry then spoke in the woman’s native language. Hannah’s understanding of Fijian was slowly growing, but her uncle spoke fast and used words that were complicated. But every so often, he would break into English, whether for his benefit or that of the woman, Hannah didn’t know. She had rarely heard her uncle speak with such timbre in his voice. Was this the man who, only a few hours ago, had raised not only his voice, but also his hand in anger? At first, she thought him a hypocrite, but there was no mistaking his present sincerity. Fiji was full of surprises, and so was Uncle Henry.
A woman’s voice was speaking now. The words were muffled, so it was impossible to pick up what she said. There was the sound of movement inside the bure and then the earnest tones of Uncle Henry at prayer, no mistaking it. Having heard him beseech the Almighty several times a day, and a few extra on Sundays, Hannah was an expert in the ‘prayer’ voice.
‘Vinaka.’ The woman thanked him.
Keeping absolutely still, Hannah waited as she heard the sounds of Uncle Henry’s departure. When his footsteps faded into the distance, she still delayed, wanting to be sure he had definitely gone, and that it was safe. As she stood, the blood surged painfully through her cramped legs. Her skirt was sandy from the beach. She flicked the hem, then approached the front of the bure, calling a soft greeting.
She paused, then entered. The woman lay on her back, a light cotton covering over her, and a container of water at her side. Suddenly reluctant, Hannah tiptoed towards her, then knelt down. The feverish flush had gone, the lines of anxiety smoothed, and her eyes were half-open.
Hannah waved a hand in front of her face. No response. She stared at her chest. It, too, was not moving. Slowly, irresistibly, she reached out and touched the woman’s hand. The fingers were already cooling. The tide had turned.
Hannah had not expected to cry, but hot tears filled her eyes. She wept for the young woman, and for herself. How long she sat there in the bure beside the motionless body, she had no idea. Finally, eyes puffy and red, Hannah blew her nose fiercely on her handkerchief.
Not long ago, Uncle Henry had sat here and prayed for this woman. Now she was dead. When Hannah’s parents died, people told her it was ‘God’s will’ as if that was some kind of comfort. What comfort was it to believe there was someone who could have saved them, but didn’t? Why pray for the ill, the insane, the destitute, if God had already made up his mind?
Sighing, Hannah rose and left the bure. Should she tell someone there was a dead body here? It seemed indecent to simply leave her for someone else to discover. Largely neglected in her illness, it would be the final insult to neglect her in death.
For the first time all day, something went right. At the village, Hannah found Merelita straight away. She showed no surprise. ‘You wait. I come back.’
Hannah didn’t know who she’d gone to confide in, and she didn’t ask. Suddenly more tired than she had ever felt in her life, she sat on the ground, her back against a breadfruit tree. Between two branches, a spider had cast a magnificent web and he hung there, his arched, black legs hideous against the silken threads.
She rubbed at her wrist, a reddened lump still visible where the mosquito had bitten her. A sore had formed and refused to heal.
‘Kura leaf good for this. Pass over flame, squeeze juice on here.’
‘Oh. You’re back.’
Merelita knelt and took Hannah’s hand, inspected the swollen insect bite, then led her into a bure to sit on the mats. It was clean, spacious, and surprisingly cool. Without the calico linings like those at the mission house, the breeze was free to flow through the thatch. Hannah had been curious about the inside of a village home. On her arrival she had sworn never to go inside, but it was all a little different now.
Woven mats covered the floor and there were shelves containing earthenware utensils for storage and cooking. The fire for cooking was in a hollow and because there was no chimney, the smoke rose through the thatch, fumigating any vermin that might hide there. Sleeping mats, Merelita explained, were rolled up until the evening and stretched out over clean grass. It sounded a good deal more comfortable than the lumpy mattress Hannah slept on at the mission house.
‘Merelita carpenter of death.’
Startled, Hannah considered a quick exit until Merelita explained she meant ‘doctor’. Hannah laughed, then faltered as she realised that she seldom did so any more. When she was small, she had laughed so often that her father’s nickname for her was ‘gigglepot’.
Merelita carefully squeezed the juice from the heated leaf over Hannah’s wrist, her dexterity unaffected by the mere stump of her forefinger.
‘Is this your family’s bure?’ asked Hannah.
‘This bure ni sa, strangers’ bure. For visitors. Man, woman, not sleep same house. Woman house and man house.’
That seemed a good idea to Hannah, having endured Uncle Henry’s snoring and his clumping about early in the morning; not to mention her suspicions about Joshua’s nocturnal antics with insects.
‘We have war now.’
‘A war? What do you mean?’ Merelita jumped subjects like a flea: up and down, here and there. Often it took Hannah a little while to follow her meaning.
‘Woman in hut. She cursed by man from other island. He want make her wife. She not want him; run away. She want man her heart fly to. Other man big angry. Vakadraunikau. He make her die. Man she want marry in village is Ratu Rabete’s nephew. Chief must do what nephew say. Nephew say, she die, I go kill him. Chief say, we come with you.’
Hannah was astonished. ‘But you can’t have a war just like that—can you?’
Carefully laying the kura leaf over the ulcer on Hannah’s wrist, Merelita shrugged.
‘Some day, maybe soon, me be wife.’
‘Oh?’
‘For Enoke.’
Mouth flapping like a stranded fish, Hannah stared … and stared. ‘You—you’re not going to marry that man.’
‘I not?’
‘I mean—Merelita, he’s years older than you for a start.’
‘He be good husband. All his wives say he good husband.’
A hot flush swamped Hannah’s face. ‘All his wives?’ Her voice squeaked as she emphasised ‘all’. ‘How many does he have?’
‘Enoke not many wives. Only ten.’
She was jesting! Ten wives—Merelita to be number eleven? She would have to make an appointment to wish him good day. But having seen the man in question, perhaps that would not be such a bad thing.
Now that Merelita had finished tending to her sore, Hannah flopped both wrists onto her knees, struggling for words. She could not let Merelita go through with this marriage. It was dreadful.
‘Ratu Rabete have much wife. A hundred, maybe.’ There was a sparkle in Merelita’s eyes which suggested that she enjoyed her friend’s shock.
Running a hand through her tangled hair, Hannah shook her head. ‘But Enoke has not lotu’d. You are Christian. How can you marry someone who doesn’t believe in the same things as you? This is not good, Merelita.’ Hannah scarcely believed those words came from her own lips, but in this situation, any argument would do—even a religious one.
Merelita appeared to consider that comment, then she shrugged. ‘Enoke not lotu but man who lotu have only one wife. Other wives he say, “You go now, find another house.” Wives much cry. Children have no father. He father for long time then not father.’ Merelita leant forward and whispered even though the bure ni sa was empty apart from themselves. ‘You know Timothy?’
‘With the big feet?’
Merelita nodded. ‘He lotu, say to wives, “you go”. His chief wife cry, “Please, not send me away and keep new, young wife!” But big Lord say only one wife for man. Big Lord not change mind. Is in book. Timothy show wife, but she no can read, no speak English good like Merelita. She no want book. She want husband.’
Hannah whispered in return. ‘What happened?’
Drawing the corners of her lips down in sympathy, Merelita s
aid, ‘Wife angry. Wife sad. She run to cliff and …’ She waved an arm, miming a fall. A long silence followed.
‘Me think.’ She tapped her head. ‘Me be wife for man not lotu.’
‘But Merelita, if you marry a Christian man, you would be his only wife!’
A sneer of disapproval appeared on Merelita’s swarthy face. ‘Good mans already many wife. Other men …?’ She covered her teeth with her lips to suggest no teeth, then held her hand two feet from the ground to indicate children.
‘Do you like Enoke?’
After a long pause, Merelita said, ‘He strong. He not beat wife.’
‘But do you like him?’
‘He be husband,’ was all she would say. That was it, fait accompli. Merelita seemed neither distressed nor joyful: just accepting. Hannah could not fathom such calmness. Her father used to tell her, affectionately, that she was born with the word why already forming on her lips.
Hannah wondered how much of a choice, if any, Merelita had truly been given. The women in the English class had made it clear that there was often no consideration given to the feelings of the woman in these arrangements. Luata had told her that one man in the village wanted to barter for a musket from the captain of a visiting ship. The captain had asked for two pigs in exchange for one musket. As the man didn’t have two pigs, he sent one pig and one wife. And the captain sent back a musket. The woman who sailed away on the ship, never to return, was Luata’s sister.
Hannah sighed and tried one last time. ‘Must it be Enoke?’
‘He give me whale’s tooth. Me be wife, some time. Not his wife until he payback man who kill his nephew. When Enoke speak, Merelita be wife.’
Hannah wished for silence.
The rhythmic beating of a lali lured Hannah and Merelita outside.
‘They make for war,’ said Merelita.
Aggressive preparations were definitely under way. It hadn’t taken long for the news to spread. While the two girls were seated in the bure discussing men, the men were gathering out here, preparing to fight. How odd. The woman in the bure had been left alone to die, and now the tribe was eager to exact vengeance.
Ratu Rabete, hair puffed out beyond belief, swathed in yards of fine cloth, strode among his warriors, calling out in a loud voice. With his height, stoutness, poker-straight posture and malevolent gleam in his black eyes, he was an imposing figure. One which should certainly instil fear in the hearts of those who faced him in battle.
The men had blackened their faces with powder, giving their skin a velvety darkness. Their teeth gleamed. Hannah felt the beat of the drums begin to seep inside her brain; pounding, pounding. Chanting began, accompanied by bamboos struck on the ground. She felt a thrill of apprehension. A spectacular scene perhaps, but this was not a meke. It was war.
None of the men who had lotu’d were among the eager throng. Enoke was there; tall, imposing, his cheek puckered by the jagged scar. Curious, Hannah peeped sideways at Merelita. She paid no special attention to the man she would eventually marry, even though he looked militantly impressive. The gigantic pineapple club he held in both hands was even more impressive. How would Merelita feel if Enoke did not come back after the battle?
Ratu Rabete renewed his efforts to whip up a fighting spirit, louder than before, his long, barbed spear held aloft.
‘What’s he saying?’ Hannah asked Merelita.
‘Tomorrow this spear will have blood …’
The warriors shouted, waved their assortment of weapons: a deadly collection of clubs, spears, slings and axes.
‘Heads will be broken with clubs.’
Into this maelstrom of prewar fever, came the Priest. In his hand was a small branch, with nuts attached. Ratu Rabete gave the Priest a command.
Merelita interpreted. ‘He want Priest to tell about war. Who will win. Who will kill many men.’
In response, the Priest chanted a few words, gazed upwards, then shook the branch.
‘He see nuts fall to ground.’
Seemingly unhappy with the results, the Priest shook the branch a second time, harder. Nothing happened. Clearly, the nuts were green.
There was a groundswell of dissatisfaction: spears jiggled. Ratu Rabete bellowed. The mystical verdict was not to his liking.
‘He say nuts not good,’ said Merelita with wide eyes.
The Priest retreated, a scowl upon his face, only to return with a different branch. This time a violent shaking sent nuts sprawling across the ground, and cheering broke out. ‘This mean our village win war.’
‘How convenient,’ said Hannah. Merelita looked puzzled. However, Hannah deemed it diplomatic not to enlighten her.
‘Blood … clubs …’ The other part of the Priest’s past prophecy came to Hannah. Was today the fulfilment?
The crowd in the centre of the village grew larger, the noisy preparations attracting spectators like pins to a magnet.
‘Look out now!’ A voice called in English, swore, then cried out a second time in Fijian. That certainly wasn’t Uncle Henry. Had even the ‘D’ word crossed his lips, he would have proceeded straight to the beach to rub them on a rock and spent the next week in incessant supplication to the Lord. Hannah half-smiled, finding that mental image so attractive, she almost wished he would let slip an undesirable word. Just once.
Kurt Oslo came into view, jostling his way to the centre of activity. Hannah might have guessed who was behind the colourful adjectives. Mr Oslo was not empty-handed: he carried several long knives, a small box and two muskets. He was obviously strong because muskets were excessively heavy. During her journey to Fiji, Jenkins had shown her how to load and clean one. ‘Yer never know when yer’ll be needin’ to fire one of these, Miss,’ he had said. Hannah’s major difficulty had been lifting it.
‘What’s happening now?’ Hannah placed a hand on Merelita’s arm, eager to find out what Kurt Oslo was doing.
‘He want barter muskets.’
‘Oh!’ Aghast at such irresponsible behaviour, Hannah considered the damage that a musket could inflict. ‘What does he want in exchange?’
‘Wife.’
Ratu Rabete turned and looked directly at the two girls standing in front of the bure ni sa. Instinctively, they moved closer to each other, and Hannah grasped her friend’s hand. Mr Oslo leant forward and spoke to Ratu Rabete. The girls could not hear what he said. But Enoke could. He stepped in front of Oslo with his club held menacingly at shoulder height. Enoke said nothing. His glare was warning enough. Perhaps he had some admirable qualities after all.
Hannah should have guessed the din would carry. A figure wearing a familiar black hat bobbed and weaved through the crowd, and her heart sank. Sidling behind Merelita, she peered over her shoulder to watch her uncle. Kurt Oslo was not pleased to see him either, his very posture testament to his dislike of the other white man.
At first Uncle Henry ignored him, arguing with the Chief in Fijian, amid apopleptic waving of arms and shaking of heads. Incensed, Ratu Rabete roared at him. Hannah slipped into the doorway of the bure, kneeling to watch what was happening.
‘Not sit in doorway,’ said Merelita. ‘Not good. You look you not know to go in, or come out.’
‘Not now, Merelita!’ It wasn’t the time for a lesson in village etiquette. Hannah wanted to see without being seen. ‘What’s Ratu Rabete saying?’
‘He say, go home or my club break your head.’
Not swayed by this argument, Uncle Henry continued trying to talk the Chief out of his murderous intentions.
‘Chief say, go home because your bones will make nice earrings for wife.’
Although appearing undaunted by the blood-thirsty threats, Uncle Henry must have discerned his efforts were futile, and he turned to Kurt Oslo.
‘And you … do you know what you’re doing?’
Kurt laughed in his face.
‘You’re a fool. Use your brains, man. Don’t give them muskets.’
His face twisted with emotion, Kurt leant forward and shou
ted, ‘Don’t tell me what to do, preacher. I’m not one of your mealy-mouthed congregation.’
The throbbing of the lalis became one with Hannah’s heartbeat and, as the drums quickened, so did her pulse. She began to feel light-headed, oddly detached, as though what was happening just outside the door was in reality a thousand miles away.
With increasing passion Kurt Oslo and Uncle Henry argued, while around them a seething mass roused themselves into a state of mind to make their enemies tremble. It was almost as if the battle had already begun on home ground. Insults flew: ‘gutter rat’, ‘scoundrel’ and ‘fool’ ricocheted between them. Uncle Henry was no coward. And neither was Mr Oslo.
Sighing, Hannah rested her forehead on one hand. She was so tired. A blink; the sound of white water rushing through her head; Merelita’s blurred face; a kaleidoscope of noise and colour; and Hannah crumpled at Merelita’s feet.
Aunt Constance drew the sheet lightly over Hannah. ‘Have you had anything to eat or drink since breakfast?’
Hannah shook her head. All day her thoughts had tumbled around like cream in a churn, her emotions swinging from melancholy to rebellion. Food and drink had been the least of her concerns.
‘Joshua!’ Aunt Constance called to her son. He’d be listening. They all were, even the unexpected visitor. ‘Would you please bring Hannah a glass of water?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ For a scamp, Joshua sounded incredibly meek with his parents.
Whisking Hannah’s brush from the chest of drawers, Aunt Constance began a battle of her own with the myriad of tangles in her niece’s thick hair. As gently as she could, drawing only a few squeaks of protest, she made certain that Hannah was suitably groomed. ‘Now, I shall prepare you something delicious to eat, and don’t you dare tell me you’re not hungry!’ She smiled to show that her threat came with the best of intentions.
Baptism of Fire Page 10
