‘Yes, of course.’
Should she apologise for all the fuss, or was it better to slip quietly back to the mission house? She cast a quick glance around the crowd, searching for Merelita. Would she forgive her? As her eyes swept the villagers, an invisible switch clicked in her brain. What had she seen? A second scrutiny brought her attention back to a man who was standing a little separate from the mass.
‘Can we go now, Hannah?’ Joshua was becoming more urgent in his request.
She grabbed his arm. ‘Just a minute.’
He winced but did not free his arm.
Hannah caught the man’s stare and held it. Uncertainty flickered over his face. He looked away, then back again. This man knew something. There was no time for civility or tactful drawing out of facts. It was life or death, and time was running out. ‘Wait!’
Startled, the people turned their attention her way. Those who had begun to drift back to the village changed their minds as it became evident that the drama was not yet played out.
‘Joshua, tell Ratu Rabete that I am most humbly sorry—you know what to say.’
He did. And he said it.
‘Could you please tell him that I’m intrigued by the new axe the Priest carries. May I take a closer look?’
The Priest looked left and right. He was surrounded. Ratu Rabete summoned him closer, but the Priest argued. Ratu Rabete argued back, and won. Edging forward, the man still kept the axe on his shoulder, reluctant to show it. The Chief barked at him. With a malignant glare at Hannah, the Priest reluctantly slid it from his shoulder, grasping the handle with two strong hands. The blade was clean and sharp.
Hannah asked Joshua to interpret. ‘This is a magnificent axe, and of rare design.’
The Priest didn’t speak, but the gleam in his eyes showed that he agreed with her assessment.
‘A man must work at least six months on a plantation to earn an axe like this.’
Joshua’s voice squeaked when relaying her meaning.
‘I wonder how the Priest earnt this wonderful axe.’
‘It was a gift,’ explained Joshua.
‘And what great friend would give such an expensive gift?’
The man licked his lips; hesitated. Hannah already knew, and she would be surprised if Ratu Rabete had not guessed by now. The Priest shouted at Hannah, his eyes blazing, and instantly, she took a step back. Audience or not, it would only take one swing of that axe to silence her. She threw a pleading glance at Ratu Rabete, begging his intervention.
A shadow, a swift movement, a shout: it was quick. Instinctively, she raised her arm to protect herself, stumbled backwards, trod on the dragging hem of her blue dress, and landed with a thump on the sand.
Sometimes time seems to freeze and becomes indelibly branded into memory. This was one of those moments. She remembered the grunt of the Priest as he swung the weapon, a shout and flash of movement as someone leapt forward and stayed his arm, squeezed it, and disarmed the attacker. In the midst of all the confusion, she still registered with surprise the identity of her saviour—Enoke.
Joshua flung himself down on the sand next to her. ‘Hannah! Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. Not bothering to brush the sand from her dress or straighten her crooked hat, she faced her opponent. Enoke stood to the left of the Priest, another man on his right. They each held one of his arms. The axe lay the sand.
‘Ratu Rabete is calling for the headdress,’ said Joshua.
It was not necessary. By now everyone knew the Priest had something to hide. His words spilled out. But she already knew who had supplied the axe. She recognised it from the bêche-de-mer drying hut. And there was the furtive, suspicious behaviour of Kurt Oslo and a native Fijian on the day she and Joshua had sailed around the island. That other man must have been the Priest. Hannah wondered which one of the men had been outside the mission house on the night of the fires. Oslo had warned her that he had no conscience, and he hadn’t lied. She thought of his furious face in the drying house, his bitter words. He had called Uncle Henry a bigot. He wants to get rid of me, but he won’t succeed. Better men than him have tried to beat me and lost.
‘The Priest says the white man asked him to share the secret of leaf magic with him and promised him an axe, and also a musket if the missionary left or … died …’ Joshua struggled to keep up. ‘Um … he says that he didn’t make the vakadraunikau himself, only helped Kurt Oslo do it.’
Ratu Rabete, face stern, arms folded in front of his massive chest, demanded to know why the Priest had behaved in such a shameful manner.
‘He had a dream where Ove, the maker of all heaven, told him to get rid of the false white priest,’ translated Joshua. ‘This false priest would only do harm to the people, make them all lotu. Then their enemies would walk over them, defeat them … eat them. The old customs would be forgotten. He says he feared that they would all become white men with black skin.’
A savage gust of wind hurled sand and debris against half-naked bodies. Several coconuts were flung to the ground and rolled across the sand. Heavy drops of rain splattered onto the sand, and soaked in. A storm was brewing, but no one left the beach, not just yet. The mystery was only half unravelled and they were staying until all was revealed. The Priest had probably never had such an attentive audience in all his life.
‘I would not have put my hand against the foreign priest if my God had not persuaded me,’ said the Priest.
How did you chastise a man of God for ostensibly following that God’s commandments? And how did anyone know whether it was an Almighty command or an almighty deceit?
Clutching at the brim of her hat, Hannah yelled above the wind. ‘Joshua, ask him where the magic leaves are hidden!’
Obediently, Joshua asked, then turned to his cousin. ‘He says he did not touch it himself, only watched.’
She controlled herself with difficulty, her stomach twisting into tight knots. Why didn’t he just answer the question? ‘Where is it?’
Ratu Rabete added his gruff command to Hannah’s impassioned entreaty. He told the Priest he was ravenous and, in his opinion, the Priest would go very well with yams.
The Priest spoke. Instantly, the crowd turned and dashed back towards the village. ‘What is it?’ Hannah screamed, all attempts at politeness vanishing.
‘This way!’ Joshua ran after the others.
Like a line of ants before rain, the crowd scurried along the path and into the village, past the Chief’s massive residence, through the clearing, and gathered outside a bure that stood by a thick backdrop of tropical trees.
Merelita appeared at Hannah’s side, taking Hannah’s fingers in her own. ‘Priest say leaves under breadfruit tree.’
Digging implements passed from hand to hand just as the heavens opened and a downpour soaked them all. Shouts added to the din as each one suggested which patch of ground looked as though it had recently been dug. With pigs and fowls roaming free, digging where they chose, it was not an easy task. Ralula began to dig first; the other men followed.
No one spoke now. There was only the grinding, scraping sound of tools being driven into the earth, and the drumming of rain. Joshua’s face was stark white, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. A rush of wind forced the rain sideways and ripped the hat from Hannah’s head, but she barely noticed its loss. It was the first time in her life that she felt as though she was being physically battered by rain. They were taking too long. She flung herself down onto her knees and began to scrape at the soil with a rock. Uncle Henry’s time was running out.
Minute by anxious minute ticked by, then, with a victorious shout, a swarthy arm was raised high. In his dirt-covered hand was a gauze bag tied at the top with a length of sinnet.
As though unseen fingers had turned an invisible handle, the wind increased. A child was thrown backwards, crashing into the people behind her. There was a crack of thunder, a jagged spear of lightning and one of the breadfruit tre
es was cleft in two. The upper half of the tree dangled uselessly like a broken arm, a trace of smoke wafting from the wound.
Dropping the gauze bag, the man fled. The crowd scattered, seeking the dubious safety of their bures.
Merelita tugged at Hannah’s hand, shouting, ‘Come quickly. In, bure.’ Hannah read her lips rather than hearing the words such was the colossal violence of the storm. She tried to argue but the wind filled her mouth and tore out the words.
Physically pushing against the wind, her dress flying behind her like a flag, she strained towards the leaf compound. She hadn’t gone through all this to leave it lying, abandoned, on the soaked earth.
A slight lull enabled her to move forward, snatch up the bag, and turn towards the bure. A blast of wind flung Hannah off her feet and into the mud, but she retained her grip on the bag.
Half-dragging her, half pleading, Merelita and Joshua managed to hustle Hannah inside the nearest bure. Merelita took over, ordering Joshua to push a row of shelves for cooking utensils against the tiny doorway. Hannah sat, stunned, the gauze bag still in her grasp.
The bure strained and bucked against the storm, threatening to collapse. Something fell into Hannah’s lap. Shaken from her frozen state, she screamed and flicked away a dead spider. Several centipedes landed on the mats beside her. The storm was dislodging vermin from the roof.
‘We must get back to the house!’ Joshua shouted. For a boy who disliked displays of emotion, he looked to be on the brink of a large one right now, and with good reason. He was in danger of losing his father.
Hannah began to crawl towards the doorway.
A loud crack, a deafening thump against the roof, then a line of sagging thatch showed that a tree had come to rest above their heads.
Merelita grabbed Hannah’s ankle, refusing to let go. ‘Stay. You die in storm.’
Hannah gave up. She avoided looking at Joshua for fear of what she might see in his face. It was physically impossible to beat the power outside, so they huddled in the driest corner of the bure, sitting close for comfort, Hannah gripping the dirty gauze bag to her chest.
‘Merelita! Is it enough to uncover this?’ Hannah nodded towards the bag, raising her voice, against the noise.
The Fijian girl shrugged.
Hannah trembled, oblivious of the mud streaks across her face. They had done all they could, but was it enough?
How long they crouched inside the sagging bure they couldn’t tell. It seemed like an. eternity: nothing but the roar of wind and rain, with the thud of objects being hurled against the thatch. The afternoon had to be well advanced by now.
Hannah tapped Merelita’s arm to draw her attention. ‘Enoke spoke today.’
She nodded.
‘Does that mean he broke his vow of silence? Will he be in trouble?’
‘He kill man who murder nephew.’ She mimed a blow. ‘Enoke look for this man. Put hole in head. All finish now.’
No, it wasn’t. That meant Enoke was free to take wife number eleven.
It was Joshua who first noticed a change. ‘Listen. The wind has eased, I’m certain of it.’ Hope shone in his eyes.
Gradually, painstakingly, nature’s fury had slackened. Stiff from sitting for so long, they tore at their self-made barricade. Outside, debris was strewn across the ground; coconuts, breadfruit and tree branches. The palms had been stripped bare, and were now giant poles with no foliage, repulsive in their nakedness. There was still a strong wind, but after the blast of the last few hours, no one paid attention to it. Overhead, the sky was gloomy with clouds.
Joshua nudged his cousin and pointed to the roof of their bure. A coconut palm rested heavily on the thatch.
The two cousins thanked Merelita and ran, dodging rubbish, the mud making sucking noises as it clutched at their shoes. They rounded a corner and stopped short. A huge tree had crashed down over the path, blocking their passage, and the jungle each side was impassable. Hannah shrugged and hitched up her sodden skirt. It wasn’t the first tree she’d climbed, and at least this one was lying sideways. She dragged herself over it, then realised it was a familiar specimen. Dozens of incisions marked one side. She scarcely paused before stumbling after Joshua, urgency gripping the pair of them.
‘Not much further,’ he called, then stopped at the edge of the clearing.
Hannah looked at the mission house. The windows were broken, and there was some loosened thatch. Branches lined the front garden. Thankfully, baby Rachel’s memorial appeared undamaged. For the first time Hannah thought of the mission house as home.
A cold hand clutched at her heart. Joshua sucked in his breath. Aunt Constance appeared in the front doorway and sat heavily on the step, with her face buried in her apron.
Hannah and Joshua bolted.
Joshua flung a muddy arm around his mother’s shoulders, and they both started talking at once. ‘We’re here. Father … is Father …?’
‘Oh, Joshua. I was so worried. And Hannah.’
She hugged him back, uncaring of his filthy state. Not able to rise because of his embrace, she extended a hand to her niece, squeezing it warmly. So warmly, in fact, that Hannah was in danger of losing circulation in her fingers.
‘We couldn’t come home. We had to wait out the storm in the village,’ Hannah explained.
‘How sensible.’ One hand occupied with her son, the other holding onto her niece, Aunt Constance had no hands spare to mop at her tear-stained face and sniffed like a toddler.
‘Father..?’ Joshua was in an agony of suspense.
Lips quivering, his mother replied, ‘He said … he said he was hungry!’
A wave of relief washed over Hannah and she couldn’t speak.
‘I can’t explain it. Just as the storm hit, he seemed to turn the corner towards recovery. He opened his eyes and said, “Mrs Stanton. I’m feeling rather peckish.”’ She had deepened her voice and gave a fair imitation of her husband. ‘Hannah, what’s that in your hand?’
She swung the gauze bag behind her back. ‘Oh, it’s a gift from someone in the village.’
‘Jothua,’ Deborah appeared in the doorway, her voice strident. Her nose screwed up with disapproval, she added, ‘You’re dirty. Farver wanths you and Hannah.’
Hannah wondered how she would feel when she saw her uncle after all that had happened. Both she and Uncle Henry had their own strong, often opposing ideas. She would always question things, which irritated him, but she couldn’t help it. Not only because, as her father said, she ‘was born with the word why already on her lips’, but also because questions were more important than the answers.
And of course, she sometimes disliked what Uncle Henry said or did. But he had begun to open his heart to her, shared memories of his brother—her father. Neither of them could pretend those things had not been said. Now she understood him a little. That helped and they would never again be strangers.
‘The Lord is merciful,’ said Aunt Constance. ‘We’re all together again.’ She smiled at Hannah. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, my dears. Prayer can work miracles.’
Could it? Hannah wondered. Was Uncle Henry’s recovery due to prayer, vakadraunikau, his own will to survive, coincidence—or a combination? She couldn’t be sure. Perhaps she never would be: which was fine with her. Then she could go on asking.
REFERENCES
Askenasy, Hans: Cannibalism: From Sacrifice to Survival 1994, New York, Prometheus Books
Brewster, A.B: King of The Cannibal Islands 1937, London, Robert Hale & Co
By a lady (Mary Davis Wallis): Life in Fiji (Or Five Years Among the Cannibals) 1851, William Heath
By a Peripatetic Parson: Parts of the Pacific 1896, London, Swan Sonnenschien & Co
Calvert, James: Fiji and the Fijians 1870, Oxford, Hodder & Stoughton
Cooper Stonehewer, H: Coral Islands of the Pacific 1882, London, Richard Bentley & Son
Clunie, Fergus: Fijian Weapons and Warfare 1976, Suva, Fiji Museum
DeRicci, J.H: Fiji—Our New Prov
ince in the South Seas 1875, London, Edward Standford
Erskine, Captain John: A Cruise in the Western Pacific (Among the Islands) 1853, London, John Murray
Fobres, Litton: Two Years in Fiji 1875, London, Longmans, Green and Co
Gordon Cumming, C.F: At Home in Fiji 1882, London, W. Black & Sons
Henderson: Journal of Thomas Williams, Volumes I & II 1931, Sydney, Angus and Robertson
Horne, J: A Year in Fiji 1881, London, Edward Stanford
Sahlins, Marshall: Culture and Practical Reason 1976, Chicago, University of Chicago Press
Schütz, A.J: Say it in Fijian 1994, Brisbane, Robert Browne & Associates
Reeves Sanday, Peggy: Divine Hunger: Cannibalism as a Cultural System 1986, New York, Cambridge University Press
Smythe, Mrs: Ten Months in the Fiji Islands 1864, Oxford, Parker
St Johnston, Alfred: Camping Among Cannibals 1883, London, Macmillan
Williams, Thomas: Fiji and the Fijians, Volumes I & II 1858, London, Alexander Heylin
The writing of this book was assisted by
the South Australian Government
through the Department of the Arts
and Cultural Development.
Christine Harris’s first collection of short stories, Outer Face (1992), was an instant bestseller and her second and third collections, Buried Secrets (1993) and Party Animals (1995), have established her as one of Australia’s leading writers of short stories for young adults.
Strike! (1994), set on the Australian waterfront of 1928, was her first novel but it was in her second, Baptism of Fire (1996), dealing with 19th century Fiji, that she began to explore in depth the implications of cultural contact. Christine takes this subject even further in her latest collection of short stories, Fortune Cookies, lifting aside the familiar imagery of places like China, Vietnam, Singapore, Korea, the Philippines, Bali and Australia and allowing us to share the reality of lives that are at best only half understood. In her brilliant new novel, Foreign Devil (1999), she shares startling insights into a China that few people know about. An outstanding achievement, this is Christine’s best novel yet.
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