by Graeme Kent
Kella studied the artistry of the tree shouter with dispassionate admiration. Giosa was one of only half a dozen of his kind left on Malaita. Because of his reputation he was one of the few islanders with free access to every region of the island, encouraged to ply his trade in return for gifts of shell money and dolphins’ teeth. As a result, he was a font of news and gossip.
Kella had known the old man for some time. Before the war, Giosa had belonged to a family famed for its ability in savage internecine brawls. Some of its members were even rumoured to present themselves as potential hired muscle to less aggressive tribes who nevertheless had scores to settle with neighbours. Giosa himself, despite his lack of size, had played a prominent part in a number of affrays in areas not then patrolled by expatriate district officers. His cunning and speed of hand made up for any lack of bulk.
A few years ago one of Giosa’s recalcitrant sons, carrying on the family tradition, had badly injured a Toambaita man in an inter-tribal squabble. Kella had tracked down and arrested the youth and after his trial had escorted him to Honiara prison to serve his sentence, which by virtue of his family’s reputation for violence was more severe than it might otherwise have been. He had also used his influence to ensure that Giosa’s son had been left alone by a squad of Toambaita men who were also doing time in the same gaol for a variety of offences and who might have been tempted to exact vengeance for their stricken wantok’s injuries. Giosa, who by this time had abandoned violence in favour of the more lucrative and less painful tree shouting, had appreciated the policeman’s efforts and afterwards was usually prepared to share his accumulated information with Kella upon request.
The Kwaio men were ruthless fighters. Their paramount chief Pazabozi had laid the bones curse on Kella only a few months before, but had since died of old age. The pointing of the cursed bones at the sergeant had not worked, mainly because the old chief’s powers had been waning. Kella, aided by an American anthropologist, had killed Hita, his heir apparent, and a form of uneasy peace had spread over the district like a tattered blanket, until the recent arrival of the killman to upset the equilibrium once again.
In the centre of the glade Giosa had completed his stream of invective and stood in silence at last, his chest heaving, waving with the mock modesty of a flamboyant Victorian actor-manager in acknowledgement of the appreciative cries of his small audience. Then, as half a dozen of the village men picked up axes and attacked the tree, he walked over and sat down next to Kella, who offered the perspiring old man his water bottle. Giosa drank long from it.
‘You’re back from Tikopia, then,’ he said, using the Lau dialect.
‘I’m looking for the man who killed Papa Noah and two members of the Church of the Blessed Ark,’ Kella said.
‘I should hope so,’ said Giosa self-righteously. ‘That idiot, whoever he is, is very bad for business. People can’t be building gardens and paying me to shout at their trees if they’re away cowering in the bush somewhere.’
‘Nevertheless, some say that he is a killman and so to be feared.’
‘Then they don’t know what they’re talking about,’ said Giosa, spitting scornfully and with enormous trajectory at an undeterred line of red ants. ‘This man who kills is nothing like one of the old ramos. He is only a boy compared with the real killers we used to have.’
‘Who says?’ Kella asked.
‘I do. A ramo or a killman, whichever you call him, was a professional killer,’ said Giosa. ‘I grew up among them, so I know. The man who is murdering now is an amateur.’ Irritably the old man elaborated on his theme. ‘There have been three killings,’ he explained, ticking them off on his fingers. ‘Papa Noah was murdered outside his ark in a pool of water. The other two were also drowned, but no one knows how. It’s all too complicated. A professional killman used to take pride in his work. He would leave his signature, if you like, so that everyone would know that he had accomplished the task he had been paid to do. He would not make a children’s puzzle of his killings like this. A true ramo would strangle a victim in a particular way, or use a stone club that always left the same mark on his prey’s head, and so on. This would be his sign, known to all. That way he would gain a reputation and get more paid assignments. The man they’re calling a killman today is doing none of these things. He’s deliberately covering up after his crimes, so that no one knows who he really is. That’s why he blew up the ark.’ Giosa snorted disgustedly. ‘That’s not the handiwork of one of the old-time ramos. This is a guy who’s terrifying people so that they’re all running away to hide, leaving him to do whatever it is he wants to. He is trying to frighten people. I don’t even think he particularly wants to kill anyone. He just wants to stir up a lot of fuss on Malaita for some reason.’
‘But why?’ Kella demanded.
The tree shouter shrugged. ‘You’re the detective,’ he said.
Put like that, it made some sense, Kella admitted to himself. Could the dead men all have been selected at random for some reason, or even for no reason at all, perhaps by a deranged person? What would have been the point of that? Was he wrong to be looking for reasons? Of course not, he told himself. Nothing happened without a reason, and there were no coincidences.
‘Aha!’ said Giosa suddenly, quivering with triumph, a craftsman vindicated in his work.
The old man was staring across the clearing. The axemen, working in relays, were beginning to make progress. Their hatchets, which previously had rebounded harmlessly from the unyielding glossy bark of the akwa tree, were now finding a purchase. Wooden chips were flying wildly into the air like hyperactive brown butterflies. Such encouragement gave the fellers renewed strength, and now they were working harder than ever.
‘Like I’ve always said,’ Giosa murmured happily, ‘bringing a tree down is very much like dealing with an opponent in a fight. You’ve got to soften both of them up first and then move in for the kill.’ He looked surreptitiously at the policeman. ‘I’m just giving you the theory of course, Sergeant Kella, and telling you what I’ve heard.’
‘You underestimate yourself. I would call it more of an informed opinion,’ Kella said.
‘In fact,’ said a perfectly straight-faced Giosa, ‘strange as it may seem, I have also heard that it is the custom of whitey to treat his women in much the same way, by paying considerable attention to them at first. What a waste of time and energy! Of course, you would know much more about that than I would. I shall defer to your opinion on the matter.’
Kella ignored the barbed remark, which was just as well, because the old tree shouter seemed to be rambling on at a tangent.
‘You can never tell with the expatriates,’ Giosa said. ‘It is a problem that has often occupied my thoughts over the years. They have no customs of their own, so we cannot judge them by ours. It is good when we get a chance to see them at first hand and can work out what they are trying to do, no matter how stupid or dangerous what they are attempting may appear.’
‘But so few of them come to this part of Malaita to take part in your no doubt valuable survey,’ said Kella, wondering where this was taking them.
Giosa seemed to agree. ‘True, aofia. The climate is not good for their delicate pale skins, and the crashing of the great waves can be so daunting to their sensitive ears.’ The tree shouter stood up. ‘Well, much as I’d like to, Sergeant, I can’t stay here chatting all day. I must go and find the headman and collect my fee. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘You haven’t done anything for me yet,’ Kella pointed out. ‘In fact, however, there is something you can help me with. I’d like you to look for someone.’
‘Who might that be?’ asked the tree shouter.
‘His name is Abalolo. He’s a Tikopian. I believe he’s been on Malaita for a few months now. I think he may have been hiding in the bush somewhere near Papa Noah’s ark for most of that time.’
‘How – disguised as a tree?’ asked Giosa sceptically. ‘These Tikopia are big, awkward fellows and
hard to conceal. Besides which, they know nothing about living in the jungle, and they usually start to go mad unless they’re herded with at least a dozen of their own kind, like dolphins.’
‘That should make him all the easier for you to find,’ said Kella.
‘Is he the one you think has been doing the killing?’
‘We’re hoping that he might be able to help us with our enquiries,’ said Kella. It was another phrase that he had always wanted to use in the bush and could now at last tick off his list.
Giosa pretended to consider the request. Although he owed Kella for looking after his son, he still retained enough basic bloodymindedness to make the sergeant wait each time the latter requested a favour.
‘Do you think you can find him for me?’ Kella asked.
Giosa flashed his two verdant teeth in his dentally challenged response. ‘Do skinks copulate in the treetops?’ he asked.
25
FINISH NOW!
Sister Conchita stood in the clearing on the plateau by the waterfall and looked at what remained of the ark. She could hardly recognize Papa Noah’s former labour of love. The building had been flattened into a pile of kindling, the remaining planks and spars twisted out of shape by fire. A few feathers of flame still fluttered defiantly through the shattered wood on the ruined site.
On her dogged eight-mile trek up from the coast she had passed several almost deserted villages, but she had been conscious all the time of frightened islanders hiding in ditches and behind trees, witnessing her progress. There must have been hundreds of men and women on this small section of Malaita alone still reluctant to return home. On her way Sister Conchita felt increasingly angry that so many decent, harmless people should be affected like this. Soon she was simmering with indignation at the injustice of it all.
The track was rough and little used. Part of it consisted of a dried-out riverbed, caked with thick red mud. This gave way to a swamp bridged by a succession of gigantic tree trunks with no handholds except for guiding creepers slotted into long canes along the way. The path was steep. At one point Sister Conchita emerged from the trees to find herself on the edge of a cliff. Far below she could see the tops of trees wreathed in clouds. She drove herself on because ever since she had awoken that morning she had felt convinced that there was to be a special purpose to this day. Enough things had fallen into place, or the Lord had so designed them, that it would be possible to make a special decision. From this would follow an action, she was sure.
By the time she reached the plateau, the weather had cleared up. The air smelt clean and fresh. Sister Conchita recalled the black aroma of sin and malevolence she had encountered the first time she had entered the ark. It seemed to have been washed away entirely by the fire and then the cleansing rains. She could have sworn that the evil had slunk away back to its hole.
So much had happened in such a short time, she thought. Briefly the ark had been the focal point of intense activity. Because of its existence both Papa Noah and Shem had lost their lives. Now that their sacrifices had been made, the evil spirits had departed from the hollowed out, blackened shell, she was convinced for ever.
Sister Conchita’s sense of outraged decency deepened still further. It was wrong that basically good-hearted and well-meaning men like Papa Noah and Shem should have been used and then discarded by the shades inhabiting the ark. If, as she was convinced, the evil spirits had gone back to their festering pits, it was her duty to see that they did not return. She could not allow the area to remain a vacuum when with a little effort it could be filled with God’s benevolent presence again.
Cautiously the nun patrolled the clearing, examining the scorched ruins of the ark from every angle. She was conscious still of being watched by many pairs of eyes from among the trees. A growing sense of conviction was beginning to strengthen within her. She went back to the debris and continued to study the blackened remains. She was no longer aware of any sense of wickedness in the clearing. In the background, the purifying force of the waterfall pounded down to the frothing river below. Soon the blackened grass would be green again and the singed branches of the trees would be renewed. The nun fell to her knees and started to pray for guidance.
When she had finished, she rose and looked around the clearing. In one corner she saw the store of wood and metal accumulated by Papa Noah ready to be used for the construction of his ark. Some of the contents had been scattered over the plateau by trampling feet during the storm, but the fire had not reached this part of the glade with any great ferocity. She selected two thin pieces of wood, each about two feet long. She searched for nails and found a cache of used but serviceable ones in the lid of an old cocoa tin. Using a flat stone to pound away at the nails, she joined the two sections of wood together to form a rough but recognizable cross. Then she took a deep breath, and with trembling hands held the cross high above her head and walked to the centre of the clearing.
‘Finish now!’ she cried. ‘It is over! The ghosts have gone! Mefella talk true! Tambarin himi go finish! You can go home! It is safe!’
Using a combination of English, pidgin and the few Lau phrases that she had taught herself, Sister Conchita beseeched her listeners to emerge from the jungle and return to their homes in the village below. At first there was no response, but slowly a few women and children came out of the trees. They were followed by half a dozen men, clutching their spears aggressively. As she continued to beg, more and more islanders began to congregate. They looked weary and emaciated and regarded the nun with wary, scarcely flickering hope. Sister Conchita pointed down the hill to their huts.
‘Go!’ she cried. ‘God is here! He will guide us!’
Several of the older men exchanged uncertain glances. Then, shoulder to shoulder, they walked with obvious trepidation down the hill. Halfway down, they linked hands. Other men fell in behind them. The women took their place at the rear of the now surging crowd. Children joined in everywhere, darting in and out and getting under the feet of the adults. Sister Conchita watched the villagers approach their huts and stand in the village square, casting watchful glances over their shoulders. Then one or two, greatly daring, entered their huts. Others followed. Soon most of the homes were occupied again as the village gradually came back to life. Cooking fires were lit and smoke curled up to the sky. Neighbours started gossiping. Children needed little urging to begin to play together. Even so, the circumspect headman placed half a dozen of the younger men as temporary guards on the fringes of the settlement.
Sister Conchita looked on from the plateau on the top of the hill. Only when she was satisfied that all was well did she turn aside and enter the jungle, holding her cross before her.
Later, when the events of that day had entered Malaitan legend and were being recounted regularly over cooking fires all around the island, the diviners, whose task it was to discover the truth behind events, started to embellish the tale by declaring that they had it on the best authority that in the course of one afternoon the Praying Mary from Ruvabi had traversed the length and breadth of the northern part of the island with giant strides, from Farasi in the south to Fouia in the north, and that in the process she had even approached several villages among the foothills of the central mountain range. All the time, said the story-tellers, this time with truth, the nun called upon everyone she met to return to their villages, promising them that the killing time was over, that enough blood had been shed and that her God would protect everyone. By the time darkness fell, averred the tale-bearers, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men, women and children had emerged from their hiding places in the bush and at the missions and were returning home in great streams, the latter stages of their journeys illuminated by blazing torches, following the passionate sister all over the island.
In fact, in the course of that day, Sister Conchita progressed in an uncertain and unplanned zigzag line along a number of different bush tracks from the plateau of the ark to Ruvabi Mission far below along the coast. Some time afterwards, w
hen variously exaggerated versions of the story were even being recounted amid much condescending laughter at expatriate dinner parties in Honiara, Auki and Gizo, an inquisitive government geologist took the trouble to measure the actual route of the young nun’s pilgrimage, as endorsed by reliable eyewitnesses. The official confirmed that over half a morning and a long afternoon in temperatures averaging ninety degrees Fahrenheit, Sister Conchita had covered sixteen miles of rocky, undulating terrain on foot. In the course of her journey she had climbed four sheer hills, forded six rivers in spate and thrown half a dozen stones, most of which had missed, at a young crocodile with the temerity to threaten to impede her path. In the whole of that time no one ever noticed her lower her cross for more than a few minutes.
No researcher ever managed to detail the number of islanders she rescued from their primitive hiding places and sent on their way home. Later, on the very few occasions that she could be persuaded to give the most fleeting account of her hot-headed actions during what became known in pidgin as ‘plentyman’, the day of the crowds, Sister Conchita would declare that by the time she set out to gather them in, the majority of the refugees were heartily tired of their current self-enforced nomadic lives and were easily persuaded to return to their abandoned villages. Senior members of the church in conclave in the capital agreed privately that this may have been true, but that the islanders had needed a catalyst to start them moving, and that this impetus had undoubtedly been supplied by Sister Conchita, undisciplined, unpredictable and indisputably courageous.
It was a fact, ascertained by patrolling government officers as well as village headmen and occasional missionaries, that word of the mass return in the nun’s wake spread amazingly quickly all over northern Malaita, and that within three days most islanders were settling back with relief into their villages and taking up their normal lives again.
