Baptism of Fire (11 page)

She felt as though bricks pressed her eyelids shut, and no force on earth could open them. Despite her exhausted stupor she became aware of a presence in her room. Whatever it was could stay there. After the bizarre creatures she had already removed from her bedroom, nothing was going to make her stir again till morning.

Was that a cough? Discreet, muffled; but definitely a cough. Hannah sighed. Could she open her eyes at all? One lid responded, then the other. Her room was still half-dark. The raucous morning chorus of birds told her it was dawn. She blinked and focused. ‘Merelita!'

‘I sorry. Not good wake you if you sleep. Bad thing.'

Gradually it seeped through Hannah's tired brain that Merelita didn't make a habit of appearing in her room, especially uninvited. Propping herself up on one elbow, she brushed loose strands of red hair away from her face. ‘What
are you doing here?'

‘Sorry …'

‘How did you get inside?'

Merelita's furtive peep at the window answered that question. The curtains were ruffled by a breeze.

‘Fire,' said Merelita. ‘You come quick.'

Brought up in a country where the word ‘fire' was treated with respect, Hannah instantly swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She grabbed her wrap from the chest of drawers, tied the belt with clumsy fingers and ran, barefooted, outside.

It was true. The cookhouse at the rear had one wall engulfed in red flames, and smoke seeped from the back of the mission house.

‘
Uncle Henry
!' Hannah raced back into the house. Her aunt and uncle were already struggling to sit up when she barged into their room, without knocking. ‘The house is on fire! Hurry!'

In one swift movement, Uncle Henry was out of bed and through the door in his nightshirt, not bothering about modesty. ‘Wake Joshua and Deborah! Everyone—
out of the house
!'

Joshua was already right behind him.

Uncle Henry snapped, ‘Joshua, get all you can out of the cookhouse. That's our only supplies for the next six months!' He wrenched a low-hanging branch from the nearest shrub and began to belt the flames. ‘You girls, grab a branch.'

Aunt Constance pushed Deborah into Merelita's arms. ‘Take her over there where it's safe … please.'

Wide-eyed, Deborah clung to Merelita's neck. Merelita patted the little girl's back and retreated to a safe distance. Aunt Constance and Hannah worked alongside Uncle Henry; beating, smothering, slowing the spread of the cancerous flames. Hannah wasn't certain which was worse—the heat or the smoke which stung her eyes and caught in her throat.

‘Hannah! Help me with this!' Through the open doorway of the cookhouse, she could see Joshua, his face flushed, struggling to move the heavy barrel of flour on his own.

She threw down the branch and leapt to his aid. Inside the small building, the crackle of the fire, the smoke, were more obvious. Fear of being caught inside lent extra energy to their efforts,
and Hannah was gripped by a feeling that the walls were closing in around her.

The barrel was astonishingly heavy. With accompanying grunts, the two cousins manoeuvred the barrel through the door by twisting it in half-circles, then heaved it onto its side and rolled it clear.

Flying back into the fray, Hannah retrieved her branch and bashed at the back wall of the house, while her aunt threw buckets of water over the cookhouse, which was in a far worse condition. Water was limited. Only a single barrel-full was kept at the house and, again, Aunt Constance resorted to her branch.

The mission house itself had just caught alight. It took only a short while to smother the smouldering thatch. Joshua staggered, coughing, out of the cookhouse again, arms laden with foodstuffs. Uncle Henry beat the flames with almost superhuman strength and though Aunt Constance was slower, each pair of hands helped.

In the briefest of seconds, Aunt Constance swung her branch, her unrestrained hair flew sideways and brushed the naked flames. The ends
of her hair began to burn.

Hannah screamed. ‘Aunt Constance! Your hair's on fire.'

A look of terror flashed over the woman's face, and she did the worst possible thing: she ran.

‘No!' Hannah wrenched off her wrap and gave chase. A few quick steps with the wrap held high, and Hannah caught up with her aunt.

Constance tripped, sprawled and Hannah threw herself down beside her, hurling the wrap over her head to smother the enemy before it took hold.

Back in Australia, Hannah had seen two bushfires, but never had she seen anything burn as quickly as hair. Afraid she would suffocate the woman she had just saved, she removed the covering from her aunt's head.

Uncle Henry was yelling. Joshua was yelling. Deborah surpassed both by screaming. Her loyalties seemed to be divided: at fever pitch she demanded both her mother and her doll.

Hannah took a deep breath, then swallowed. Her throat felt hot, rough. Charred remnants of the cookhouse lay in heaps, and the back wall of the mission house was blackened, ugly. Soon the sun would be high enough to shine directly over the trees. The day would be hot.

Joshua sat on the grass, breathing a little too fast, sooty streaks across one cheek, and an arm around his mother's shoulders. She coughed, then turned to smile at him. ‘Don't fret, Joshua. I'm all right.' She tugged at her ragged locks. ‘I needed a cut anyway. The climate is far too hot for this much hair.'

An unexpected pain touched Hannah's heart and she turned away, not able to watch the show of affection between mother and son. Right now, she would have given anything to place a loving arm around her own mother.

A few minutes' delay during the fire and the crisis could have turned to tragedy. Legs suddenly
as wobbly as two reeds in the wind, Hannah sat before she crumpled.

A light breeze lifted ash, teased it, then let it float earthwards. Hannah reached out and pinched a flake of ash between her thumb and forefinger as it danced in front of her face. But when she opened her hand, it had dissolved into a black powdery stain on her fingers.

‘Let us thank the Almighty for our salvation.' Uncle Henry's suggestion was predictable, but under the circumstances, understandable. Hannah had suspicions about God, but on this occasion it would be churlish not to join in with a loud ‘Amen'. Besides, she was in a good frame of mind. For the first time since she had arrived, her uncle had commended her. With one hand on her shoulder, he had said, ‘We thank you for looking after Mrs Stanton.' Hannah didn't mind at all that her moment of glory was shared with the Lord.

Joshua saw Timothy first. He was trudging towards the house on his canoe-sized feet, his expression serious. Merelita must have spread the news when she returned to the village.

‘Oh, my goodness!' An embarrassed outburst from Aunt Constance, combined with an athlete's dash for the inside of the house, reminded them all that they were still in their night attire. Deborah, clinging to her mother's nightgown, was almost pulled off her feet.

Slipping into the house, which smelt strongly of smoke, Hannah threw on a blouse and skirt, only bothering with a single petticoat. Several scrapes of the brush subdued her tangled mop of hair. She didn't want to miss what Timothy had to say.

‘Some
bures
burned in the village,' said Timothy.

‘Was anyone hurt?' Uncle Henry gave voice to the question that was in everyone's mind. Timothy shook his head. Even in his grubby nightshirt, Uncle Henry was dignified. Besides, Hannah noticed with amusement, he was still considerably more covered than Brother Timothy.

Occupied with preserving house and goods, and in the case of Aunt Constance, her life, their ears had heard nothing but the roar of their own flames, their eyes saw only their own danger, and their skin felt only the immediate heat. Hannah
sighed, thankful that no one had been hurt.

‘People pulled out the grass between their
bures
but fire is faster than people.'

Timothy painted a vivid picture of the night's events. At first, the villagers had tried to stem the outburst of fire, clearing away anything that might help it spread. But as the flames took hold, they shrugged, resigned to losing their huts. They stood back, laughed, told jokes. Unfortunately for some, once the fire was deemed to be unstoppable, all rights to property became muddled. If people saw something of their neighbour's that they coveted, they snatched it. Fire changed the rules.

Aunt Constance appeared in time to hear the final part of Timothy's story. She was calm, but pale. Despite the increasing warmth of the day, she had a shawl draped over her shoulders. Strands of singed hair dangled around her neck. ‘How did the fires start?'

She had said ‘fires'—plural. Hannah hadn't stopped to think, but, yes, it was impossible for fire to spread from the village to the mission house without burning the jungle in between. And that degree of spontaneous combustion would be
preposterous.

Timothy shrugged. ‘All
bures
with fire belonged to those who had
lotu'd
.'

The notion of accidental eruptions was definitely out of the question. Fire was not that selective with its targets.

The conversation between Uncle Henry and Timothy faded to a background rumble as memory seized Hannah's attention … ‘I
see fire … lotu
'. The Priest's words had come true. Coincidence, surely. But what if it wasn't? He had made other utterances:
blood, spears and clubs?
And another, even more unpleasant, thought beat against her consciousness like a drum.

‘Hannah.' Joshua tapped his cousin's arm. ‘You've gone a peculiar colour.'

‘I'm tired. I think I'll go inside and rest.' She reached out and wiped a sooty smear from his right cheek as she spoke.

‘What's wrong?'

Piqued at his inquisitiveness, she guarded her privacy. ‘Joshua! I'm exhausted! I have been up half the night, found a dead centipede under my coverlet, chased a snapping crab, had Merelita
climb in my window at dawn, and spent the next hour fighting a fire and extinguishing your mother's rapidly incinerating hair.' She glared at him. ‘Any further questions?'

Not daring to utter a peep, he shook his head.

Hannah made for the relative safety of her bedroom without a backward glance. Careless of crabs, centipedes, or anything else, she flopped onto the bed, angry that her one moment of glory, the only time her uncle had shown her the slightest approval, was tainted.

She stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed. If she had raised the alarm when she suspected someone was watching the house, could she have prevented the fires? Last night, she had convinced herself she was mistaken, that her tired brain was playing tricks; why stir the household a second time and arouse their indignation?

Even if there had been a watcher in the dark, that didn't necessarily make him or her the arsonist. She sighed. There was nothing to be gained by revealing her suspicions now, and much to lose. Besides, she had no proof, no idea who the supposed watcher might have been. She
desperately wanted to keep that rare warmth of approval in her uncle's eyes. Even so, Hannah's instincts told her that the mysterious figure was connected to the attacks.

Life was fickle. One moment you were happy, soaring above the clouds; then suddenly you were miserable, plummeting straight towards the ground. If only each day would begin with little signs that said ‘pleasant' or ‘exciting' or ‘caution'. You never knew where you were, but stumbled along, adapting as best you could—sometimes getting it all horribly wrong. Like today.

The single halcyon day of Uncle Henry's approval had come and gone like early morning mist evaporating under the hot sun. Silently, miserably, Hannah followed her uncle along the path to the mission house. The more despondent she felt, the more puzzled about what she had done wrong this time, the angrier she became. She glared at the back of his head, resentment rising.

Uncle Henry marched along the path with firm strides, back straight, hands held rigidly at his sides, like a young soldier en route to his first battle: eager, well trained, righteous in his cause,
but not knowing just how gory the confrontation was going to be.

Once they reached the house, she braced herself for the storm of her uncle's fury to break.

‘How dare you!'

Hannah felt incapable of replying.

‘I judged you to have more sense. You are supposed to be an example to the women in that class. They watch you, imitate you. Every one of your actions is seen not merely as something Hannah does, but as something done by the
missionary's niece
. Your behaviour reflects on
me
.

‘Your sole responsibility was to teach English, not this …' Uncle Henry extracted a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it with finicky care and held it up by the corners, as evidence. It was a watercolour portrait of Luata. Dark, frizzy hair, missing teeth: it was a good likeness. Head and shoulders only, as Hannah had been shy of drawing anything south of the shoulder line. She could see nothing in the portrait to excite such emotion.

‘Have you been painting pictures like this every day in class?'

‘Well … I … yes.'

Uncle Henry flushed. ‘Education is an important part of bringing civilisation to these people. They cannot progress without it. You must not underestimate the value of proper education.'

‘But …'

He paid no heed to her attempt at explanation, but launched into a tirade about taking responsibilities lightly, what the Lord would think of her drawing pictures in his meeting place, cheapening her standing in the local community, and so on.

‘
Uncle Henry!
'

He faltered, unaccustomed to being interrupted.

‘I showed pictures to illustrate the words we were learning. I used them to teach.'

Again, he waved the paper. ‘And what word was this?'

‘That was when we were getting to know each other. It made the women feel at home with me, and they liked it.'

‘Know you! They don't have to
know
you to learn from you. You are there to instruct, mould,
improve; not play games. Perhaps if you behaved in a more adult manner, they might respect you more, and therefore learn more.' He shook his head. ‘This is a child's game. Scribbling in school. Only it's worse:
you
are the teacher, not the pupil.'

Hannah tried again to make him understand. ‘Painting is a gift, Uncle Henry, a gift I was born with. If the Lord gave it to me, why not use it?'

A nervous tic began under his right eye. ‘
You blaspheme
! Are you blaming the Almighty for making you draw pictures? Have you no principles? Painting! Pah!'

With a sickening wrench, he tore the paper in two, then four.

‘
No
!' Hannah reached out but dared not snatch the torn pieces away from him.

Slowly, he let the fragments drop to the floor. ‘Your upbringing has been sadly neglected.'

‘My mother and father were the kindest, sweetest people in the world!'

He laughed: a harsh, cynical croaking. ‘Your mother and father lived with their heads in the clouds. They had no idea of propriety. You're just like your father.'

‘I'm proud to be like him.' Hannah's voice was becoming louder.

Uncle Henry took a step closer, and she wanted to edge back but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat. ‘Your father was a dreamer, a wastrel. He ran off to Australia to paint, and it broke our father's heart. Our lives were turned upside down, and did your father care? For generations, the youngest son in the Stanton family has become a minister. No one questioned it. It was a way of paying back the Lord for His many blessings. But your father wanted no part of family responsibility. A grown man earning his living by painting pictures! Ridiculous.'

If anyone was ridiculous right now
, it was
certainly not her father
. Hannah glared at her uncle, refusing to lower her gaze.

‘Not one letter. Not a word from him—in eighteen years.'

All this pushing blame onto her father, who was not here to speak for himself, inflamed Hannah's sense of injustice. ‘Did
you
ever try to contact
him?
'

Head held high, her uncle replied, ‘I was not
the one who ran away. He made his bed, he had to lie in it. It was up to him to make the first move, to repent, turn around from his former course of conduct. There can be no forgiveness until repentance has taken place.'

‘My parents were good people, no matter what you say. They never let a friend go hungry, and helped whenever they could.' Hannah looked at her uncle and, for a moment, hated him. Hated him for soiling the memories she had, for casting aspersions on her father, hated him for his bombastic lack of understanding. He didn't know about her father. He didn't know
anything
! ‘My mother and father had more love in their little fingers than you have in your whole body!'

Uncle Henry reached out and slapped her face. ‘Go to your room.'

Hannah spun on her heel and fled. Through the door, down the path, and the sound of his voice ordering her back echoed in her ears. Her cheek stinging, she ran with absolutely no idea where she was going.