Baptism of Fire (13 page)

The rhythmic beating of a
lali
lured Hannah and Merelita outside.

‘They make for war,' said Merelita.

Aggressive preparations were definitely under way. It hadn't taken long for the news to spread. While the two girls were seated in the
bure
discussing men, the men were gathering out here, preparing to fight. How odd. The woman in the
bure
had been left alone to die, and now the tribe was eager to exact vengeance.

Ratu Rabete, hair puffed out beyond belief, swathed in yards of fine cloth, strode among his warriors, calling out in a loud voice. With his height, stoutness, poker-straight posture and malevolent gleam in his black eyes, he was an imposing figure. One which should certainly instil fear in the hearts of those who faced him in battle.

The men had blackened their faces with powder, giving their skin a velvety darkness. Their teeth gleamed. Hannah felt the beat of the drums
begin to seep inside her brain; pounding, pounding. Chanting began, accompanied by bamboos struck on the ground. She felt a thrill of apprehension. A spectacular scene perhaps, but this was not a
meke
. It was war.

None of the men who had
lotu'd
were among the eager throng. Enoke was there; tall, imposing, his cheek puckered by the jagged scar. Curious, Hannah peeped sideways at Merelita. She paid no special attention to the man she would eventually marry, even though he looked militantly impressive. The gigantic pineapple club he held in both hands was even more impressive. How would Merelita feel if Enoke did not come back after the battle?

Ratu Rabete renewed his efforts to whip up a fighting spirit, louder than before, his long, barbed spear held aloft.

‘What's he saying?' Hannah asked Merelita.

‘Tomorrow this spear will have blood …'

The warriors shouted, waved their assortment of weapons: a deadly collection of clubs, spears, slings and axes.

‘Heads will be broken with clubs.'

Into this maelstrom of prewar fever, came the Priest. In his hand was a small branch, with nuts attached. Ratu Rabete gave the Priest a command.

Merelita interpreted. ‘He want Priest to tell about war. Who will win. Who will kill many men.'

In response, the Priest chanted a few words, gazed upwards, then shook the branch.

‘He see nuts fall to ground.'

Seemingly unhappy with the results, the Priest shook the branch a second time, harder. Nothing happened. Clearly, the nuts were green.

There was a groundswell of dissatisfaction: spears jiggled. Ratu Rabete bellowed. The mystical verdict was not to his liking.

‘He say nuts not good,' said Merelita with wide eyes.

The Priest retreated, a scowl upon his face, only to return with a different branch. This time a violent shaking sent nuts sprawling across the ground, and cheering broke out. ‘This mean our village win war.'

‘How convenient,' said Hannah. Merelita looked puzzled. However, Hannah deemed it
diplomatic not to enlighten her.

‘
Blood … clubs
…' The other part of the Priest's past prophecy came to Hannah. Was today the fulfilment?

The crowd in the centre of the village grew larger, the noisy preparations attracting spectators like pins to a magnet.

‘Look out now!' A voice called in English, swore, then cried out a second time in Fijian. That certainly wasn't Uncle Henry. Had even the ‘D' word crossed his lips, he would have proceeded straight to the beach to rub them on a rock and spent the next week in incessant supplication to the Lord. Hannah half-smiled, finding that mental image so attractive, she almost wished he would let slip an undesirable word. Just once.

Kurt Oslo came into view, jostling his way to the centre of activity. Hannah might have guessed who was behind the colourful adjectives. Mr Oslo was not empty-handed: he carried several long knives, a small box and two muskets. He was obviously strong because muskets were excessively heavy. During her journey to Fiji,
Jenkins had shown her how to load and clean one. ‘Yer never know when yer'll be needin' to fire one of these, Miss,' he had said. Hannah's major difficulty had been lifting it.

‘What's happening now?' Hannah placed a hand on Merelita's arm, eager to find out what Kurt Oslo was doing.

‘He want barter muskets.'

‘Oh!' Aghast at such irresponsible behaviour, Hannah considered the damage that a musket could inflict. ‘What does he want in exchange?'

‘Wife.'

Ratu Rabete turned and looked directly at the two girls standing in front of the
bure ni sa
. Instinctively, they moved closer to each other, and Hannah grasped her friend's hand. Mr Oslo leant forward and spoke to Ratu Rabete. The girls could not hear what he said. But Enoke could. He stepped in front of Oslo with his club held menacingly at shoulder height. Enoke said nothing. His glare was warning enough. Perhaps he had some admirable qualities after all.

Hannah should have guessed the din would carry. A figure wearing a familiar black hat bobbed
and weaved through the crowd, and her heart sank. Sidling behind Merelita, she peered over her shoulder to watch her uncle. Kurt Oslo was not pleased to see him either, his very posture testament to his dislike of the other white man.

At first Uncle Henry ignored him, arguing with the Chief in Fijian, amid apopleptic waving of arms and shaking of heads. Incensed, Ratu Rabete roared at him. Hannah slipped into the doorway of the
bure
, kneeling to watch what was happening.

‘Not sit in doorway,' said Merelita. ‘Not good. You look you not know to go in, or come out.'

‘Not now, Merelita!' It wasn't the time for a lesson in village etiquette. Hannah wanted to see without being seen. ‘What's Ratu Rabete saying?'

‘He say, go home or my club break your head.'

Not swayed by this argument, Uncle Henry continued trying to talk the Chief out of his murderous intentions.

‘Chief say, go home because your bones will make nice earrings for wife.'

Although appearing undaunted by the blood-
thirsty threats, Uncle Henry must have discerned his efforts were futile, and he turned to Kurt Oslo.

‘And you … do you know what you're doing?'

Kurt laughed in his face.

‘You're a fool. Use your brains, man. Don't give them muskets.'

His face twisted with emotion, Kurt leant forward and shouted, ‘Don't tell me what to do, preacher. I'm not one of your mealy-mouthed congregation.'

The throbbing of the
lalis
became one with Hannah's heartbeat and, as the drums quickened, so did her pulse. She began to feel light-headed, oddly detached, as though what was happening just outside the door was in reality a thousand miles away.

With increasing passion Kurt Oslo and Uncle Henry argued, while around them a seething mass roused themselves into a state of mind to make their enemies tremble. It was almost as if the battle had already begun on home ground. Insults flew: ‘gutter rat', ‘scoundrel' and ‘fool' ricocheted between them. Uncle Henry was no coward. And neither was Mr Oslo.

Sighing, Hannah rested her forehead on one hand. She was so tired. A blink; the sound of white water rushing through her head; Merelita's blurred face; a kaleidoscope of noise and colour; and Hannah crumpled at Merelita's feet.

Aunt Constance drew the sheet lightly over Hannah. ‘Have you had anything to eat or drink since breakfast?'

Hannah shook her head. All day her thoughts had tumbled around like cream in a churn, her emotions swinging from melancholy to rebellion. Food and drink had been the least of her concerns.

‘Joshua!' Aunt Constance called to her son. He'd be listening. They all were, even the unexpected visitor. ‘Would you please bring Hannah a glass of water?'

‘Yes, Mother.' For a scamp, Joshua sounded incredibly meek with his parents.

Whisking Hannah's brush from the chest of drawers, Aunt Constance began a battle of her own with the myriad of tangles in her niece's thick hair. As gently as she could, drawing only a few squeaks of protest, she made certain that Hannah was suitably groomed. ‘Now, I shall prepare you
something delicious to eat, and don't you dare tell me you're not hungry!' She smiled to show that her threat came with the best of intentions.

Hannah smiled back. ‘Thank you.'

There was a tap at the door. Aunt Constance, her grey skirt swishing the mats, bustled over to the doorway and returned with a large glass of water. It threatened to dribble over the sides with each step she took. ‘Drink this.' She waited to ensure that Hannah obeyed. ‘I'll bring a pot of tea with your meal, and I want you to drink all of it. Some extra liquids, a tasty meal, a good night's sleep and you'll be as good as new.'

Her aunt looked younger today, somehow softer. Her hair was braided differently, perhaps because it was shorter: a result of the fire.

A plump of the cushions, a twitch of a misguided curl and Aunt Constance left Hannah's bedroom with a final comment. ‘Your uncle wishes to have a few words with you. Shall I ask him to come in now?'

Hannah barely nodded. There was no escaping retribution. She only hoped the presence of a visitor would curtail her uncle a little. Still, Uncle
Henry had carried her all the way back to the mission house without an angry word and his manner had been solicitous. She had been passed into Aunt Constance's tender care without a sermon.

Uncle Henry coughed politely to warn of his presence.

‘Come in.' There was no necessity to soften her voice and feign weakness: of its own accord, it came out as little more than a whisper. Her limbs felt as though they were composed of feathers, a lingering giddiness dulled her thinking.

Uncle Henry seemed uncomfortable. He took a few steps inside the room, hands folded in front of him, and remained standing. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Better, thank you.'

‘You gave us all rather a shock.'

‘Yes.' She looked down and wriggled her toes, watching the sheet quiver.

‘I …' Her uncle seemed to be having difficulty searching for words. It was not one of his usual foibles and Hannah looked up at him. He was staring at the watercolour of her parents on the
chest of drawers. Judging by his startled expression, he had failed to notice it during the centipede fiasco. She was intrigued to see a suggestion of hurt cross his features. No matter what he said, she was not hiding the portrait of her parents. She was proud of it, and while she remained in this house, the portrait would stay in full view.

‘Hannah …' His voice was tremulous at first, but he soon recovered. ‘You and I have not made the best start to our relationship. I regret that.'

She felt tongue-tied.

‘I believe there is some fault on both sides,' he said quietly. ‘I was wrong to blame you for your father's behaviour.'

She bridled, incapable of ignoring suggested slights on her parents, even if it did enrage others—Uncle Henry included.

He held up a hand. ‘Please don't take umbrage, my dear. I meant no insult. You are also partially to blame. You must learn to control your temper.' A tiny smile threatened to erupt. ‘Unfortunately, it's a Stanton trait, I cannot deny it. But, you are young, female and by nature, volatile, and this
could lead you into trouble. There is a difference between being courageous and being brazen. It is my duty to see that you are trained in the righteous ways of the Lord, and the proprieties of society.'

She bit her lip, unwilling to inflame the situation, but she resented his intimating that when
he
became fired up it was righteous indignation, while on
her
part, it was insolence.

He looked at her earnestly. ‘I may have acted a little harshly this morning but when a horse is skittish, a man must tighten the reins. And when a horse has a hard mouth, it's necessary to pull the reins even tighter. I trust you understand what I am saying?'

She refused to answer, merely stared at an invisible speck on the white sheet. A feeling of mortification not easily forgotten consumed her. How
dare
he infer that she could be reined in, trained to perform, forced in a direction she was unwilling to go! And to have that said in the hearing of others was even more humiliating. None of this conversation, be it ever so hushed, would be missed. She longed to snap at him, to say
that although she was tall and her nose somewhat generous, she was not a horse. But she didn't. Her reserves of courage were depleted after the demands of the day, and the more she spoke, the more their conversation would be prolonged. It was better to stay silent and wait for Uncle Henry's speech to end.

Any hope of securing an outright apology for his behaviour vanished. She had been expecting too much.

Uncle Henry cleared his throat. ‘I must go away for a little while with Reverend Flower, the gentleman you saw earlier. We intend to go on a short journey to some of the other islands.' His eyes blazed. ‘How will they hear without someone to preach? We must save these poor souls from their savage existence. The fire and brimstone of hell await the ignorant and unrepentant. Hannah, if we don't try to guide them onto the path to life, we will be responsible for their everlasting torment. Reverend Flower and I can help these people.'

Reverend Flower? A strange name for a minister, but somehow suitable. While he didn't
actually resemble a flower, with his small stature, protruding ears and wispy greying hair, he was rather like a thistle.

‘It will take several days for preparation and planning, and I'm not sure how long we will be absent, but I trust you will support your aunt in the appropriate manner.' He uttered the words as though he didn't actually believe that she would. ‘It would also be wise to avoid the village for a few days.'

Hannah nodded. What could she say to him? He was autocratic, he blundered from one
faux pas
to the next, trampling over her sensitivities—and yet, he had carried her all the way from the village, gently, without complaint. And now he stood in her room like an awkward schoolboy, unspoken appeal in his eyes. But his rigid correctness had built a wall between them. Hannah sat, no words at her command, and another brick was added.

‘Oh, and I mustn't forget …' He felt in his right pocket, obviously did not find what he sought, then dug in his left. A flash of memory lit his face and he slid a hand into the inside pocket of his
jacket, producing a creased and besmeared envelope. ‘A ship called at the village on Reverend Flower's island and brought mail.' That might explain the unusually happy expression on her aunt's face. She must have received correspondence from their son in New Zealand.

Uncle Henry stepped forward, offering the envelope. ‘This is for you.' He smiled. ‘It doesn't say who the sender is.'

How could he have stood there discussing their differences, when all the time he had a letter in his pocket? Hannah forced herself not to snatch it from his hand.

She turned the envelope over. ‘I don't recognise the handwriting.' She didn't offer to open it in front of him. Very little was private in this place, and she wouldn't open her letter until she was alone. She waited;
he
waited. But this time,
she
was more determined and Uncle Henry gave in first. ‘Excuse me. Your aunt will have your meal ready by now.'

Hannah's first impulse had been to rip the letter open immediately and devour the contents. A link with the outside world was wondrous. But on
the other hand, she could wait, savouring the delicious anticipation of that square of paper addressed only to her. With a rush of excitement, she slid the envelope under her pillow.

After her meal, having parried polite hints about her letter and, alone at last, she lit her candle, which had burnt down considerably, drips covering the base of the holder. Tomorrow she would ask her aunt for another but, for now, it was enough.

Slowly, prolonging the moment of exquisite curiosity and pleasure, she took out the envelope and carefully tore it open with her forefinger.

It began to rain, drumming on the roof and soaking the ground. Hannah looked over at the barrel of flour in her room. It was fortunate that their foodstores had been strategically tucked into various corners of the house.

She unfolded the two sheets of paper which lay inside the envelope. The handwriting was messy, and the page splattered with blobs of ink, hastily blotted no doubt, but irretrievably stained. The spelling left a little to be desired, but Hannah was not bothered. In fact, she scarcely noticed the flaws. Her lips moved silently as she read.

Hannah put down the letter and sighed. The rain had not eased. There was a flash of lightning at the window. Nestling back against the pillows, she rubbed at her eyes. Dear Jenkins. Somewhere out there she had a friend, who had remembered her, missed her and wished her well. It bolstered her fragile self-esteem to be referred to as a lady when only a short time ago her uncle had likened her to a obstreperous horse.