by Morris West
‘You’re not blind, Carl. Open your eyes. Look!’
For a long moment, he stood there gazing out on the blazing immensity of sea and sky and the sea-birds wheeling through it. Then, it was as if a new life took possession of his aged body. He threw out his arms in a gesture of total embrace. He tossed back his white mane and shouted:
‘God! It’s beautiful! – So beautiful!’
They caught him as he crumpled and carried him along the ledge, and sat him, cross-legged, upon the stone beside the skeleton of Kaloni Kienga the Navigator. Thorkild closed the dead eyes, folded the slack hands, and stepped back. Mark Gilman stood transfixed, staring at the dead man on his pedestal. Thorkild drew him forward, lifted his hand and laid it on Magnusson’s cheek.
‘That’s it, Mark…That’s death.’
The boy said nothing. He turned away and stood a long time staring out over the steep fall of the land, to the sun-drenched sea, and the empty sky beyond. Then, in a voice that was scarcely a whisper he said:
‘I hear it! I do hear it!…’
‘What do you hear?’
‘The voice…from the deep foundations.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. It’s so beautiful. Yes…I’m sure.’
‘Are you ready to go back?’
‘I’m ready.’
They walked side by side along the row of long-dead navigators. When they came to the last platform with its pile of yellowed bones, Thorkild stopped, picked up the weathered paddle and held it out to Mark Gilman.
‘Here! This is for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘The paddle with which he made his last journey…The symbol is that of the sea-god Kanaloa. Stick it in the sand outside your hut. It will remind you of what you are and what has happened to you today.’
‘But I can’t…It belongs to him!’
‘Take it! His journey is over; yours is just beginning.’
Their home-coming was an anti-climax. The sea-board folk were busy about their own concerns. The uplanders were anxious to be gone. The impact of the night’s drama had dissipated itself. All the obits for Carl Magnusson had been spoken. Molly Kaapu had been comforted with tears and embraces. The decencies being thus disposed of, they must close ranks and begin again the consoling humdrum round of existence.
Mark Gilman planted the paddle outside his hut and then went out fishing with Tioto. Thorkild gave a brief dispassionate account of the last hours of Carl Magnusson, said goodbye to the guests, wrote his log and retired gratefully for an afternoon’s sleep. Just before sunset, Sally woke him and they went down, together, to swim in the lagoon.
She was tired of people, she told him, weary of their pin-prick demands, their incessant plaguing problems. She was sick of being eaten up and seeing him eaten up by hungry piranhas. So please! tonight they would eat alone; they would drink some of the whisky Carl had left; they would get a little drunk, go to bed early and make love and never once talk about anybody but themselves. To all of which Gunnar Thorkild said yea, amen, and if he could whistle her away for a week by herself, he would be the happiest man alive.
He made a big ceremony of their solitude. Ten yards from the hut, he printed a large sign in the sand: ‘Do Not Disturb!’ He built a fireplace of stones outside the door, commandeered half a bottle of whisky, two fish and a basket of fruit from the common stock, set out stools and a bamboo bench, and proceeded to prepare the meal himself. One or two hardy spirits wandered by, hoping for a chat, but he hunted them away. Couldn’t they read? For once, just once, he’d like to be left alone to entertain his wife!
The exercise, however, proved more difficult than he expected. Sally was more low-spirited than he had ever known her to be. She ate little. She had lost her taste for liquor. She laughed at one joke and lost interest in the rest. She was too tired to stay up; too restless to go to bed. She would like to make love; but later. She was sorry to be bitchy; but she couldn’t help it. No it wasn’t the curse, and it wasn’t her fault and it wasn’t his and – Oh hell! – it was all such a bloody, tearful, useless mess! Then the dam burst and it all spilled out:
‘… I feel so helpless; that’s all! I spent half my life training for medicine, and now what can I do? Nothing. I’m – I’m just a barber-surgeon, cupping and bleeding! I can’t even lay on hands, or minister to the mind diseased like you did last night…Oh love! Don’t try to con me! I knew what you were doing. I knew why. I thought it was the greatest performance I’d ever seen in my life; and I was ten times more jealous than if you’d hauled a woman away from the fire and laid her in front of my eyes! You don’t even know how to empty a bed-pan; but you’re the healer, not me! Can you imagine how that feels?’
‘And what, my sweet, brought all this on?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘I want to know.’
‘Peter Lorillard. I examined him this afternoon. His throat’s raw with what looks like streptococcal infection. His lymph nodes are enlarged and he’s got a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg in his groin.’
‘Which means what? Filariasis?’
‘It could. But there’s no way I can prove it without blood tests. Even if I could, it wouldn’t make any difference because I’ve got no drugs to treat him with. It might also mean that he’s got glandular fever, or quite possibly cancer.’
‘So what did you tell him?’
‘Oldest lie in the book. I substituted the symptom for the disease. He’s got swollen glands. I told him they’d probably clear up quickly.’
‘You really have had a bad day at the office.’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ll start crying again.’
‘I’m not laughing. Come on lover, I’ll take you to bed.’
‘I haven’t even asked you about Carl or what happened up there.’
‘It’ll keep. Come to bed.’
‘Please! Be patient with me tonight. I’m rather fragile.’
‘Your command is my pleasure, madam!’
Afterwards, even that small joke turned sour. As he was caressing her breasts, his fingers encountered a hard lump. She moved his hand to another spot. He would not be put off. He asked:
‘Is this something new?’
‘Yes. It’s nothing. A blocked duct probably.’
‘And possibly?’
‘All right! Possibly!… What difference does it make? If it gets better, fine!’
‘If it doesn’t?’
‘At my age, and without surgery, it means a quick development of secondaries and a negative prognosis…And before it gets too bad you, my dear lover, are going to walk me up that mountain and very quietly put me to sleep the way I showed you!… And if you weaken on me I’ll walk myself up and toss myself off the highest cliff I can find! Is that clear?’
‘How long have you had this?’
‘Three weeks, a month.’
‘Is it operable?’
‘Either way, yes. But who’s going to operate? You?’
‘The best surgeon in the best hospital. I’m going to get you home, if it’s the last goddam thing I do.’
‘Oh my love, don’t torment yourself. My way’s much easier – less messy too. I wish you hadn’t found out.’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t tell me sooner.’
‘It wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference. We’ll talk no more about it. Just hold me. Give me good dreams.’
When she lapsed finally into sleep, he eased himself away from her and went outside. The night was full of stars, low and tempting as fruit on a tree – dead sea fruit, dust and ashes in the mouth. He walked over to the spot where the great log was being slowly shaped and hollowed. Hernan Castillo stood leaning against it, chatting with Franz Harsanyi. Thorkild asked him casually enough:
‘How long do you give it now, Hernan?’
‘Six months at least. Possibly more.’
‘What? With everyone working?’
‘It’s not the manpower – or the woman-power, Chief. We’ve got
plenty of hands, but not enough effective tools to put in ’em. Stone axes don’t last like steel. The handles break; the bindings come off. Then I have to stop work and repair them. The two steel ones we have must be constantly honed…I’ve tried teaching Franz and some of the others how to make stone heads and blades, but they haven’t the knack. There’s another thing too. We’ve established a good rhythm now. If you break it you’ll find the work will go slower and not faster.’
‘I guess it will at that.’
‘What’s the hurry, anyway? We’ve got a perfectly serviceable craft out there. Why rush the big one and botch it?’
‘No rush, Hernan. It was just cracker-barrel chat…Franz, I didn’t have time last night to compliment you on your epic.’
‘Thanks. It’s crazy. But it passes the time.’
‘When we get home I’ll guarantee to find you a publisher!’
‘That’s a nice safe promise,’ said Harsanyi with a laugh. ‘It leaves all your options open.’
‘Yes, doesn’t it?…Have you fellows handled the new boat yet?’ ‘Just round the lagoon. Why?’
‘I’ll have to start training you, soon, for the big water.’
‘Don’t bust a gut over it Chief,’ said Hernan Castillo. ‘I can wait.’
‘The longer the better,’ said Franz Harsanyi. ‘After seeing young Gilman’s performance, I abdicated!’
‘From this, nobody abdicates,’ said Thorkild flatly. ‘I’ll be breathing down your neck in a few days.’
He left them groaning a duet of protest and walked over to the fire-pit where Molly Kaapu sat, alone, warming herself at the embers, swaying and crooning an old lament. He sat down beside her, took her big, work-hardened hand in his own, and began to talk to her in the old language.
‘You miss him Molly?’
‘I miss him Kaloni.’
‘Something you should know Molly. You made him very happy.’
‘He said that?’
‘He said more. He said he loved you.’
‘Ai-ee! That breaks my heart Kaloni…Why did he go like that? Why didn’t he stay with me?’
‘Because he wanted you to remember him as a man – a high man! He didn’t want to be an old man, turning into a child again.’
‘I’m a lonely old woman Kaloni. Who needs Mother Molly now that he’s gone?’
‘I need you.’
‘You have your own woman.’
‘Molly, I’ve got a shark on my tail.’
‘You want to tell me why?’
‘Not now. Tomorrow, maybe – or the next day. I need to think.’
‘Kaloni, when you got a shark on your tail, you got no time to think. You hit the first big wave and ride it into the beach. You hear me?’
‘I hear you Molly…Thanks!’
‘Kaloni.’
‘Yes?’
‘You miss the wave; you have to turn and punch the shark on the nose. No other way.’
‘And what if he bites my arm off?’
‘Stick your head in his mouth. He’ll break all his teeth on it, eh?’
‘And to hell with you too, Molly Kaapu! Come on, you can’t sit here all night! I’ll walk you back to the hut.’
In the morning, early, while Sally was still sleeping, he left the camp and walked up the jungle trail to the terrace. When he got there he found Lorillard already at work, slashing out a new clearing on the far side of the plantation. Lorillard was surprised to see him:
‘You’re a rare visitor Thorkild. Something wrong?’
‘Yes. I need to talk to you. I’d rather the others didn’t know about this for a while.’
Lorillard led him out of the clearing, into the jungle fringe.
‘We’re private enough here. What’s the problem?’
‘Before I start, let me say something. You and I have always been at odds, Peter. I’m begging you now to forget all the past and help me if you can. Will you do that?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Here it is then. Sally examined you yesterday. She gave you a bland diagnosis, because she’s helpless to do anything for you. It’s her opinion you may have filariasis – or as a long shot, something more serious.’
Lorillard nodded and gave him a thin smile.
‘I guessed as much.’
‘There’s more. Sally has a lump on her breast which could be a malignancy.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘Now, that’s two people in urgent need of medical attention.’
‘Which they can’t get. So they’re forced to endure what can’t be cured.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t that simple – at least for Sally. If it turns out that she has a malignancy, she’s asked me to kill her!’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Lorillard was very calm about it. ‘I’d probably do the same thing. To me it seems normal and logical; if the patient suffers unbelievable pain without any hope of relief, how can you refuse the mercy of death? If there is no case against you at law – and here there certainly isn’t – how can you possible reject the plea? This is one of those situations where conventional morality has no reference; and there’s certainly no room left for hypocrisy. I’m sorry if that sounds cold-blooded; but I’ve been toying with the same thought as Sally.’
‘I understand. From a personal point of view, I’m in no position to argue the proposition. From the point of view of this small society of ours, it raises some frightening consequences. Every one who falls terminally ill claims the same right of release from suffering. The rest are all doomed to become, at some future time, executioners.’
‘Or executors of a filial or social duty…You’re the traditionalist, Thorkild. I never thought to find you so squeamish.’
‘I’d like to avoid the issue if I could.’
‘No doubt. But we patients may be denied that luxury.’
‘Which is the point I came to discuss. If there were a chance, a reasonable chance, to get you and Sally back to civilization for diagnosis and treatment, would you take it?’
‘Naturally…But the chance diminishes with every day. The big boat can’t be finished for months yet.’
‘I’m thinking of the little one.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘No, wait! You think about it for a while. You’re a seaman. You’ve been through survival training. You know that, with sane and experienced people, the odds in favour of survival are pretty good. That craft is fast and it’s seaworthy. We’ve got a fairly accurate fix on our present position. We’re at most five hundred miles from the nearest inhabited atoll – east or west. Say you make a hundred and fifty miles a day – no, put it at the very lowest, a hundred. That’s a five-day journey at most. And once you’re up among the atolls you’re home free. The boat’s not too roomy but can carry food and water sufficient for four people. It’s not really such a stupendous undertaking…If you’re fit enough to work like a dog up here, you’re fit enough for a week’s sailing. So is Sally. If I gave you Mark, who is a good navigator and light to carry, and one more man, I think you’d have a much better than even chance. Once you got anywhere within shouting distance of a radio station you’d have the whole goddam Navy steaming out to pick you up.’
‘And if we don’t make it…?’
‘Then you and Sally wouldn’t be that much worse off. And we’d lose two men, who would have accepted the risk anyway.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘They’d still be here, living, building the big boat.’
‘And who would be the other man?’
‘There’s a choice. Willy Kuhio, Adam Briggs, Tioto and myself. The rest you can forget. They lack the training and the sea sense for this kind of job.’
‘Strike out Tioto. He’s good and he’s willing; but he’s handicapped.’
‘That leaves three.’
‘Two,’ said Lorillard with sober conviction. ‘The others would kill us, before they’d let you go.’
‘I’m prepared to put it up to them, if you’ll
buy the general idea.’
‘What have I got to lose? I’ll buy it. I wonder if you’ll be able to sell the others. Have you spoken to anyone else?’
‘No. You were the first. I’d like you to keep it to yourself until I give the word.’
‘Of course. I’ll give you a warning though. You take away two men, the women are going to have something to say about it; and with the doctor gone, and two babies on the way, they’re going to say more.’
‘Molly Kaapu’s a passable midwife.’
‘I didn’t say there weren’t answers. I was just preparing you for the questions. You realize that you’ll have to come to an open debate on this.’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, let’s get our debate over now. If we do mount this – this expedition, who commands it?’
‘If I go, I command it.’
‘If you don’t?’
‘Then you’re the natural choice.’
‘And you’d support me?’
‘Man. I’ll be putting three lives in your hands. My wife’s among them!’
Lorillard held out his hand. There was in his voice a note of regret and reluctant admiration.
‘A pity we didn’t learn to trust each other sooner. Still, that’s water over the dam! I’ll come down any time you need me. I wish you luck. You may have a bigger battle than you expect…’
His first and his longest battle was with Sally herself. It went on for two days and a night of tears, angers, endearments, arguments, counter arguments and finally outright rebellion. She would not go. They could carry her to the boat by main force; she would leap over-board rather than submit to this ignominious dismissal, this useless risk of four lives. There was no proof, no way to prove yet, that the growth was malignant. Lorillard was obviously ill – yes. He had chosen to go. Fine! He was a free agent; which was exactly what she, herself, demanded to be. And what about her duty to the community? There were two women coming to term, who would need all the skill she commanded. There would be infants to be nursed through the first dangerous months. More! How could she expect other married women to risk their husbands’ lives on her single behalf? The whole idea was monstrous. She would not entertain it an instant longer.
Was it more monstrous, Thorkild brought her back, time and again to the wintry argument, was it more unthinkable than to ask a lover, a husband to contemplate for months on end, an execution in cold blood, knowing all the while that a chance of salvation and cure had been thrown away? Which would she rather share with the group: the risks of an escape, or the long-drawn horror of a painful dissolution, that all would read as the paradigm of their own end?… Dilemma? Sure there was dilemma; and every single man and woman was impaled on the horns. If someone didn’t pull them off, they would all bleed to death…
