‘Are they all from the island?’
‘Oh no. Only Father Smice and the Canon.’
‘Are they all Malawian?’
The man shook his head. ‘They come from many parts of the world. Several are from your country.’
Tim decided he’d asked enough questions. He didn’t want the man to think him overly interested in the cathedral and its resident clergy. All he said was, ‘They are lucky to live in such a beautiful place.’
*
Once, Likoma had been the missionary headquarters of the Anglican Church in Central Africa, established in such an out-of-the-way place as a refuge from attacking Ngoni and Yao tribes on the Portuguese-controlled mainland. The cathedral was a grandiose idea of the first Bishop of Likoma, one Chauncey Maples, who unfortunately drowned near Monkey Bay and never saw his dream realised. Tim supposed that Bishop Maples was preferable to that other breed of evangelists who arrived in Africa around the end of the nineteenth century, with a Bible in one hand and a gun in the other, yet he wondered how the Bishop had managed to get the Oxford and Cambridge Universities’ Mission to central Africa to build such an edifice. It was completely over the top for such a small place. No-one was going to travel thirteen kilometres by boat to attend services, no matter how imposing the venue.
The roads, if you could call them roads, held no traffic at all. Come to that, Tim didn’t see a single car on or off the road. He thought about Hamilton. Where would the man hide documents? Somewhere in his house or room? With a friend? Buried on a beach? Hamilton had arrived in Malawi today sometime. Would he fly directly to Likoma, would he overnight in Lilongwe or even, would he wait and catch the Ilala in a few days’ time? Tim stopped and looked around. He had scrambled up Macholo and, as the camp manager had promised, it was a beautiful view. On all sides, the lake lapped at white, sandy beaches. The feeling of isolation was strong.
‘What must it be like to spend your life here?’ he wondered.
Coming down from the hill, Tim set off almost due north. On a peninsula ahead he could see one of the villages Father Smice mentioned. It looked idyllic – a place preserved in a time warp. If Father Smice was right, if there were plans to open the island up to tourism, Tim wondered if the benefits would not be suffocated by the down side. Tourists would bring capital to the island certainly but at what cost to the islanders?
Fifteen minutes later he reached the small cluster of houses. Children ran up to him laughing. Men smiled at him and raised their right hand, palm out. Women giggled. A small boy strolled by playing a penny whistle which appeared to be made of ivory. Tim walked to the far side of the village and stopped to admire the view. Set back from the dusty track, a man sat outside his hut, carving another penny whistle from wood. He had set up a stall of sorts against the wall of his hut. His work was quite good. Wood and ivory statues, candlestick holders, bowls and small carved animals were displayed but, by far the most prolific item was the musical instrument. Tim watched the man’s deft hands shaving the whistle into smooth perfection. He was completely absorbed by what he was doing.
There was something strange about the man. His skin was deeply bronzed but not black. Hair matted his bare chest and shoulders. Not sparse and peppercorned, this man’s chest hair was long and straight. Thick hair on his head was greying and curly, not frizzy, and grew almost to the man’s shoulders. Tim realised suddenly that the craftsman was not African.
Perhaps he sensed he was being observed or maybe he just wanted to stretch his neck muscles but the man glanced up at Tim. His features were pure European. His face and eyes wore a peaceful, almost vacant expression and the smile on his lips was not one of greeting, rather one of the pleasure he was taking in his task. Tim went cold. The shape of his dark brown eyes was startlingly familiar – Tim had deep blue ones just like them in his dreams. The family resemblance was unmistakable. At that moment Tim Gilbey knew, with no doubt in his mind, that he was looking at Lana’s father, John Devereaux.
FIFTEEN
Tim stared at John Devereaux. The man looked back, curious. Then he held up a penny whistle. ‘Ndalama zingati?’
Tim’s Chichewa was rudimentary but he understood that John Devereaux had asked him, ‘How much?’ Perhaps he meant how much would Tim pay for it, Tim couldn’t be certain. It seemed a strange way to put it and it was obvious that the words did not come easily. There was a stiffness to the way he moved his mouth. Tim walked to where he was working and dropped to his haunches. ‘Very good work, where did you learn to make these?’
Devereaux shrugged. Not the slow, typically French shrug using shoulders, hands and mouth pulled into wryness, Devereaux’s actions were those of a small child caught out – a quick, almost defiant, up and down of the shoulders. Tim would have expected more eloquence from a man like John Devereaux. Was he putting on an act? He looked deep into Devereaux’s eyes. Tim saw neither fear nor furtiveness, cunning nor duplicity. What he did see was emptiness.
He wanted to hear Devereaux speak again. ‘I heard a boy playing one of these as I walked through the village. Do you make lots?’
John Devereaux just stared blankly at Tim.
A woman came out of the hut behind them. ‘He does not speak English,’ she said, putting her hand on Devereaux’s shoulder affectionately and patting it. ‘He is the only one on the island who does not.’
Tim stood. ‘He is not African.’
‘No.’ She looked down at Devereaux and smiled. He smiled back, like a pleased child. ‘He does not know where he is from.’
‘Are you his wife?’
The woman laughed at that. ‘He has no wife. We all look after him. Without our help he would not be able to live.’
Tim looked at Lana’s father with sympathy. Devereaux had gone back to his carving. ‘Can you tell me any more about him?’ Tim asked the woman.
She fidgeted a bit. ‘I do not know. It is not for me to decide. Wait here please.’ She set off down the track at a fast pace, looking back once or twice to see if Tim was still there.
Tim stayed where he was and watched John Devereaux, who was working with intense concentration. ‘John Devereaux,’ Tim said loudly enough for him to hear. But Devereaux did not react.
Ten minutes later the woman came back with an elderly man. ‘This is my father. He is the Chief. He will speak with you.’
Tim looked at the Chief and the only word he could think of to describe the man was ‘beautiful’. His hair was snowy white and, from the little Tim could see of it, worn longer than most African men. By Malawian standards, the Chief was tall. Nearly as tall as Tim. His skin was the colour of burnished bronze. On his face, it stretched taut over a high bridged nose and prominent cheekbones. He held himself proudly erect and, if the dusty and baggy Western-style trousers and old tennis shoes let the side down somewhat, the leopard skin across the old man’s shoulders and the feathered and beaded headdress more than made up for them. His dark eyes were shrewd and his lips might have been chiselled for a statue in a Pharaoh’s tomb. He was one of the few remaining full-blooded Nkonde tribesmen and he bore his Egyptian heritage with dignity and an air of self-esteem which was both regal and confident. When he spoke, his voice was rich and deep. ‘You ask about this man. Why?’
Tim felt the full force of the Chief’s undisputed power and, fleetingly, thought it a pity that such a prince of a man ruled such a small and isolated community. He should have been leading a nation. ‘I believe I know who he is.’
The Chief beckoned. ‘Come, we will walk.’
Tim joined him and, side by side, they went slowly down to the small beach where several men were bathing. ‘How are you known?’ Tim asked.
‘Chief Mbeya,’ the Chief said briefly. ‘How are you known?’
‘Tim Gilbey.’
‘Timgilbey,’ the Chief repeated slowly. Then he smiled. His teeth were yellowed with age but, unlike many, he had a full set. ‘At least it is easy to say.’
Tim knew the rules. To get the answers he required there would first be a le
ngthy discussion on other matters. ‘Your island is beautiful.’
‘Yes. It is also very small.’
‘Then the problems must be small also.’
Chief Mbeya produced a pipe and lit it. He puffed slowly, allowing the smoke to escape from the corners of his mouth. ‘It was not always so,’ he said eventually. ‘The Chiefs before me were great men.’
‘From where did your people come?’
‘Unlike the English, our history was not always written down. To go back more than several hundred years is not always possible. I know only what the storytellers relate.’ He removed the pipe from his mouth and looked at Tim. ‘Would you like to hear it, Timgilbey?’
As keen as he was to learn more about John Devereaux, Tim appreciated the compliment. ‘If you don’t mind telling it, Chief Mbeya, I would be more than honoured to listen.’
The Chief glanced at him in approval. His contact with the white race was spasmodic. Generally he found them impatient, brash and rude. This man was different. ‘We will sit over there,’ he said, pointing to the deep shade of a mango tree. ‘Come.’
Once settled, the Chief began to speak. ‘One hundred years ago a great tragedy occurred among my people. It scattered the Nkonde into neighbouring tribal areas. They went north to the other great water [Tim surmised he was referring to Lake Tanganyika], they fled east to the high mountains and they came south as my village did. Some followed the setting sun and were never seen again. So far did our people flee from each other that they never regrouped. Those who remained where they were, who did not flee, suffered an evil fate.’ Chief Mbeya paused to collect his thoughts. ‘My father was Chief Mbeya but his father was not. The brother of my father’s father was Chief Mbeya then.’
Tim knew that the storyteller’s words could become rather convoluted. Africans seemed able to follow the complexities of historical relationships, often leaving Tim trying to sort out in his own mind the exact connection between people. On this occasion, however, he understood that Chief Mbeya was referring to his own great-uncle.
‘That Chief was murdered by Mlozi.’
‘The slaver?’
Chief Mbeya spat. ‘Exactly so.’
Tim spat too. ‘There was much evil in this land.’
The Chief hawked and spat again, further this time. Tim left it. He was no match for such a gifted expectorator. Slightly disappointed at such an easy victory, the Chief continued his story. ‘Nkondeland was a peaceful place. Chief Mbeya ruled as many as 5,000 people. The villages were scattered so he appointed elders for each. My father’s father was one such elder. He was the brother of Chief Mbeya. Do you understand, Timgilbey?’
‘Yes I do. They would be his representatives.’
The Chief nodded. ‘Exactly so. Four times a year the Chief met with his elders. That was how he ruled.’
One of the bathing men strolled, naked and unconcerned, out of the lake. Water beaded on his black skin, emphasising powerful muscles. He was a magnificent specimen, in the prime of life, and as natural as his surroundings. ‘My nephew,’ the Chief said, following Tim’s gaze. ‘I have no sons. He will be Chief Mbeya when I am gone. That is how it works with us. He will be a good leader. His heart is as strong as his body and every bit as good.’
‘A fine-looking young man,’ Tim replied. ‘You must be proud of him.’
‘Indeed,’ the Chief agreed. He puffed on his pipe in silence for a few moments before continuing his story. ‘My father’s father went to the village where Chief Mbeya lived. He was very worried. The drums had spread a warning of Mlozi but the drums also told that Chief Mbeya wanted his people to stay, not run. When my father’s father arrived at Chief Mbeya’s village he was too late. Mlozi and the ruga-ruga had already been. My father’s father found the body of his brother among the dead. This meant that he was now the Chief of Nkondeland. Knowing it would not be long before Mlozi raided his own village, he sent a new message on the drums. It told of the carnage and destruction he had seen. He said the Wankonde should not sit like cattle, waiting for slaughter. Every elder was to be responsible for the fate of his people. Entire villages moved in whatever direction their elders chose. My father’s father took his people around the top of this lake and down the other side. He took them as far away from Mlozi as he could.’ The Chief pointed to the Mozambique shoreline. ‘They settled there and became as one with the Nyanja people. My father was born there.’
‘But that was not the end of these troubles was it?’ Tim asked. ‘Many fled to this island to get away from other enemies.’
The Chief nodded in approval. ‘Indeed. The Yao and the Ngoni were enemies of the Nyanja.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘How is it you know this thing?’
‘Before I came to Likoma I read a little of this island’s history.’
The Chief puffed and nodded again. ‘It is good. More should follow your lead. White people should know of our troubled history.’ He smiled briefly. ‘At least now we live in peace, although, as you have already observed, Timgilbey, peace and beauty was traded for greatness and that is a sad price to pay.’ He went silent, staring reflectively out across the water. Then, ‘I will tell you what I know about the music man in our village.’
Tim had passed some kind of test.
‘It was in 1983,’ Chief Mbeya began. ‘My nephew found him on this beach. We thought he was dead. He had a terrible injury here.’ The Chief touched the side of his head. ‘And another here.’ Chief Mbeya raised a hand to the back of his head.
‘His skin was very white and wrinkled. He must have been in the water for a very long time. We did not think he would live. The women cared for him. He was sick for many, many weeks.’
‘Can you tell me of this sickness?’
‘He was like a baby. He could not walk. He spoke not a word. He would soil himself as an infant does. The spirits had taken his memory. He had to learn everything again, how to walk, to talk. In some ways he is still helpless. He is a little . . .’ the Chief hesitated, ‘a little like a boy of five years. He cannot concentrate for very long. He is happiest making his music pipes.’
‘He uses ivory and wood. Where would the ivory come from?’
‘I do not know,’ the Chief said evasively.
‘Why does he not speak English as the rest of you do?’
The Chief shook his head. ‘We are taught by the men of God but only speak it when they come here. That man – we call him Mpasa – knows only my people. For fifteen years he has heard only Chichewa but, even so, he speaks the language like a child.’
‘Why do you call him Mpasa?’
The Chief chuckled. ‘He came from the water. We have a fish by that name. It is a fighting fish and very large. Mpasa must have been fighting to be so badly hurt.’ He pulled on his earlobe. ‘What name does Timgilbey have for Mpasa?’
‘John Devereaux.’
‘John Deborie,’ the Chief repeated.
It was close enough. ‘There is a problem,’ Tim told the Chief.
‘Why is this?’
‘Mpasa has a daughter. She has come to Malawi to try to find her father.’
The Chief closed his eyes. ‘She will find him,’ he said quietly. ‘And she will also find that her heart has broken in two.’
‘You may well be right,’ Tim agreed. ‘He might not know her.’
Chief Mbeya sighed and rose. ‘My heart weeps for such pain.’
Tim stood as well. ‘As does mine.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I have feelings for his daughter, Chief Mbeya. I would spare her this pain if possible. However, it would be wrong to keep from her the very truth she seeks.’
‘You have a good heart, Timgilbey, and you speak well.’ They began walking back towards the village. ‘We are not God,’ the Chief added. ‘We can only stand and watch.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘She will not be able to take him away.’
‘Why not?’
‘He becomes confused and frightened. This is his home now. He knows nothing else.’
Tim had a thought. ‘
Do the missionaries know he’s here?’
‘This is a small place, Timgilbey. Secrets do not stay that way for very long. The priests from this island know of Mpasa. I do not know if the others do. Perhaps not. Mpasa is not seen by many. Today is one of his good days. There are many when he shuts himself away and makes tears of great sorrow. We ask why he is crying but always he tells us, “Sindikumva” – I do not understand – and we can see he speaks the truth. He lives with that which he does not know.’
‘Perhaps he can be helped.’
‘Perhaps.’ Chief Mbeya did not sound convinced.
‘Would you have any objection to my trying?’
‘No,’ the Chief said soberly. ‘But you will see. Our own medicine men have tried to help him. It is no use. Inside Mpasa’s head there is only Mpasa. The John Deborie who once was there is gone. I have known Mpasa for fifteen years. The only spirit left is that of Mpasa.’
Tim made his way back to the tented camp, deeply disturbed. The post office must have a telephone. He could contact the High Commission and ask them to get in touch with the hospital and arrange for someone to fly here and examine Devereaux. Tim had met one of the doctors only last week – a young Swede who was on two years’ sabbatical leave and donating his services for very little remuneration. What John Devereaux needed was to be treated gently – not bundled up and rushed into some hospital or worse, asylum, to be treated like a specimen in a bottle.
And what about Lana? What earthly good would it do for her to see her father like that? Tim decided to postpone telling her until a suitably qualified doctor could be found. Then at least, if there was no hope that John Devereaux could be helped, Lana would be pre-warned. Even so, Tim knew Lana’s life was about to be torn apart.
Were there other family members? She had mentioned her mother. With her father declared officially dead, her mother might have remarried. God! What if she has? What if the sight of his daughter was the catalyst for Devereaux’s recovery. What a mess that would be. Tim briefly considered not telling Lana anything at all but, just as quickly, discarded the thought. A mess it might become, but the family had a right to know.
Echo of an Angry God Page 28
