Baptism of Fire (3 page)

Defiantly, Hannah twisted a red ringlet over her shoulder. Let Joshua stare. She studied her reflection in the looking glass. Grass-green eyes, thick eyebrows, and a nose which her father had always described as ‘decent-sized'. Polite to a fault, he had shuddered at linking words such as ‘prominent' with nasal features, especially as he'd been blessed with a magnificent specimen himself. She also recognised her mother's high cheek bones, small but well-shaped lips and of course, the colour of her hair.

Hannah pouted her lower lip and puffed air to cool her forehead. It was only a short while since she had washed but already she felt in need of another dousing. However, it was time to make an appearance. Jenkins and the others would soon be back. They had briefly stumbled in with Hannah's trunks and the provisions, but one look at Uncle Henry's immaculate suit and they had turned tail, promising to return in
a tidier state within the hour.

A loud thump came from the front of the house, followed by shouting in Fijian. Hannah froze. She heard Uncle Henry trying to cut in on a man's heated tirade. Was it Enoke? No, he wasn't permitted to speak unless …

Heart pounding, she ran from her room and into the main living area, but the unexpected visitor was not Enoke. A stout native wearing a voluminous wraparound and white turban had Uncle Henry against the wall, large fingers squeezed against his throat. He was yelling right into his face. ‘…
jãina
!'

Deborah was screaming at the top of her lungs, Aunt Constance nowhere in sight, and Uncle Henry's face was turning as red as Hannah's hair.

Dashing back into her room, Hannah searched for a weapon. Her parasol! Unpacked as a reminder of home, it hung from the washstand. She snatched it up and ran back out with the parasol held at arm's length like a sword.

‘Stop!' Hannah forced the point of the parasol between the two men's faces then aimed it directly at the stout man's nose. ‘Stop it immediately or
…' she gulped while her mind searched for a suitable threat, ‘… or I'll rearrange your nostrils!'

Immediately the man eased off. His eyes gleamed as he stared down the barrel of the parasol, and a wide grin spread across his broad face. He made sounds of admiration and astonishment, ran a plump finger along the green material of the parasol, then bent to peer at its underside. One of his fingernails was perhaps an inch long.

He made to pull the makeshift weapon from her hand, but Hannah resisted and for a moment, the two indulged in a ridiculous tug-of-war.

‘Let the Chief have the parasol, Hannah.' Uncle Henry had recovered his voice. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged at his jacket.

Momentarily, she was tempted to let the Chief ‘have' it in a way in which her uncle would not approve. She looked around the room for support but found none. Huddled in a doorway were her aunt and Deborah, still wailing intermittently. The dark face of a girl whom Hannah assumed was Merelita peered over Aunt Constance's shoulder.
From behind the small group came Joshua's voice. ‘I can't see!'

‘Hannah, I asked you to hand the parasol to Ratu Rabete.' Uncle Henry was accustomed to being obeyed.

She edged the parasol forward and Ratu Rabete took it gently as though it were a sacred chalice.

‘
Vinaka
,' he said. After a thorough investigation, he tucked the object of his affection under his arm and clapped his hands.

Uncle Henry spoke to the Chief in Fijian, then looked over at his wife. ‘Mrs Stanton, there will be another guest this evening.'

Another guest? The Chief had practically choked the life from her uncle and now he was inviting him to share a meal! Surely this was taking Christianity a little too far.

Aunt Constance came forward to usher the Chief to a seat. But not before Ratu Rabete had crushed Uncle Henry in a bear-hug as though they were dearest friends together after a long separation. Then he peered curiously at Hannah's hair, making the same clicking noise Hannah had heard earlier that afternoon. Even when he was
seated, he kept a firm grip on the parasol.

‘But … Uncle Henry …'

‘There is no need to whisper, Hannah. The Chief does not speak English.'

‘That man just tried to kill you. How can you invite him to share a meal?'

Uncle Henry looked down at her with exaggerated patience. ‘Because he is the Chief.'

Confused, Hannah frowned.

‘Not a single thing happens in the village without the Chief's permission,' continued Uncle Henry. ‘If he withdraws his support, we must leave this island. And there is much work to be done.'

Nothing Hannah had seen in the last ten minutes showed support. What would this man do if he
didn't
support them? She glanced at the club by the front door.

‘Ratu Rabete would not hurt me. If he'd been serious, he would have clubbed me instantly. He's rather boyish at heart and likes to test my nerve.' Uncle Henry positioned his hands as though he were about to embark on a magnificent prayer. ‘I understand it's your first day, my dear, and you have no knowledge of how things go
here … but, it's better not to meddle in things you don't understand. Perhaps next time you will think a little before you act. I am sorry that you were startled but acts of aggression are not permitted in our home, and do not befit one who serves the Lord. We must not take matters into our own hands. God will look after us.'

She stared at him as though he too spoke a foreign language. He was chastising her for saving his life!

Uncle Henry closed the front door. The Chief had left it ajar in his eagerness to manipulate her uncle's voicebox. ‘You see, Hannah, if we behave in the same manner, we become like the people we are trying to convert. If a man wants to clean the mud from his cow, he must first entice the cow out of the mud. He cannot accomplish his purpose by joining the cow in the mud.'

Hannah blinked and tried to work out what he meant.

‘It was generous of you to make the parasol a gift for Ratu Rabete …'

‘But …'

‘You couldn't possibly withdraw a gift.' He shook his head. ‘It wouldn't do at all.'

Hannah glanced again at the huge, spiked club, and said nothing, but she resented such arbitrary distribution of her belongings.

‘If a man strikes your cheek, you must learn to turn the other.' Uncle Henry sat at the head of the table, with Ratu Rabete at his right. ‘Mrs Stanton, perhaps a cooling drink before our other guests arrive?' he suggested.

Standing in the centre of the room, Hannah felt a smothering loneliness. She had felt like this not so long ago, when, her heart wrapped in bands of iron, she had stood by a graveside as everyone waited for her to toss the first handful of earth onto two coffins.

Today, however, there was some relief. Joshua came and stood by her side. She wanted to take his hand but restrained herself. Boys of eleven were usually above such displays.

‘What … what does
jãina
mean?'

Joshua flicked a glance towards the table as his father called them to be seated. ‘Banana,' he whispered.

‘The Chief was going to kill Uncle Henry over a banana?'

A gleam which Hannah did not quite like showed in the boy's eyes. ‘No. He said a white man tastes like a ripe banana.'

Hannah was uncertain whether to offer help with serving the food or remain seated. Would her aunt dislike interference in her kitchen or would she consider Hannah ill-bred if she expected to be waited on?

Catriona, Hannah's mother, had always said it was ‘better to offer and be refused than to sit like Lady-Muck-from-Claver-Castle'.

‘I'll help Aunt Constance.' Hannah looked at her uncle. He nodded without speaking.

In her eagerness, she jumped up and stumbled as her foot caught in the chair next to her. ‘Sorry.' A hot flush crept up her neck and face. She cringed over her awkwardness, knowing her cheeks would be crimson.

Not daring to look a second time at her uncle, she hurried to the rear door. As she stepped outside, Hannah paused to take in the luscious backdrop of trees and ferns. The beauty of this place astonished her, and her hands itched to be
at her paints.

Aunt Constance appeared in the doorway of a hut separate from the main house. ‘In here, dear. We keep the cookhouse away because of heat and the danger of fire … perhaps you would help Merelita bring in the food?'

‘Mama!' Deborah called from inside the house.

Aunt Constance was flustered, unsure whether to supervise or attend to her daughter, but maternal instinct triumphed and she headed for the door. ‘You girls can manage …?'

‘Certainly,' Hannah answered with false brightness. Merelita said nothing.

Left alone, the two girls took stock of one another. Merelita was slightly taller than Hannah. It was difficult to guess her age, perhaps sixteen? She wore a wraparound skirt and a sleeveless white top. Her feet were bare. Hannah tugged at her collar and envied the other girl her simple clothing which was far better suited to this hot climate, but she knew she would never dare show her arms like that.

‘My name's Hannah. I saw you earlier.'

Merelita smiled and looked away. For a
moment, Hannah wondered if the girl could speak English but a moment later Merelita handed her a large bowl of strange-looking fruit.

‘You.'

That was one word at least.

It took several trips but eventually they transferred most of the dishes: pork, a vegetable that looked like potato, nuts, pineapple, bananas, slices of a sweet-scented fruit that Merelita called mango, and other things that Hannah could not identify. A welcome change from dreary shipboard rations.

Despite the Chief's spectacular entrance this evening, Uncle Henry was unmistakably master at the table. Crowded around it were Ratu Rabete, Jenkins, Henderson the first mate, and three other sailors, Gallagher, Smart and Stephenson. Hannah wondered if they were ever called by their Christian names, or even remembered them.

She wondered how Jenkins had managed to slick his hair down so well. On his arrival she had looked twice to make sure it was really him. All through the voyage, his hair had sprung out uncontrollably, making him look remarkably
careless: which he certainly was not. And his crooked face didn't help any: a result, according to ship's gossip, of sleeping on deck with his head in direct moonlight.

Also at the table were Aunt Constance and Joshua, his eyes missing nothing. Deborah sat on the floor near her mother.

Each time Merelita approached the Chief, she stooped, hunching her back as though she were either injured or hiding. The Chief ignored her, devoting his attention to Uncle Henry while occasionally patting the green parasol. Hannah vowed that she would not bow in that ludicrous fashion—not to
anyone
.

‘Hang me from the yardarm and tickle me …' Jenkins rubbed his hands together with pleasure. A warning frown from Hannah stopped him, mid-sentence. While Jenkins' outbursts were amusing and witty, they were occasionally scandalous and Hannah feared that her uncle's sense of humour would not stretch that far.

Scattered conversation began, and Hannah returned to the small cookhouse to check that everything had been taken inside. As Merelita
handed her a plate with yet more fruit, oranges this time, Hannah noticed she had half a finger missing. Merelita slid her fingers beneath the plate.

‘What happened to your finger?' It was rude to ask but Hannah couldn't resist.

Merelita thrust the plate forward and shrugged. Hannah waited. Sometimes a silence could persuade confidences where further questions would fail.

With short, quick motions Merelita made sawing actions with the side of her hand.

Hannah felt faint. ‘It was … cut off?'

The Fijian girl nodded.

‘Why? Was it infected?' Hannah remembered that back home an old man on a nearby farm had his leg amputated because it had begun to rot. They needn't have bothered, because he died anyway.

‘Father.' Merelita pointed to the ground and Hannah knew all too well what that gesture meant. ‘When he die … cut. Everyone.' As she spoke, Merelita showed her shortened forefinger, then lifted a lock of hair which dangled over her
forehead. Her meaning was plain. Cutting hair as a sign of mourning was one thing, but amputating digits …?

Gripped by morbid curiosity, Hannah whispered as though that disguised the question. ‘What do they do with the fingers?'

Merelita looked upwards.

Even as she spoke, Hannah felt foolish. ‘You put them on the roof?'

The Fijian girl smiled. ‘Yes. Many fingers on roof. Show what is in here.' She gestured to her chest.

Surely there were other, less painful, ways of displaying grief. ‘But what if you have many people in your family who die?'

Merelita held up both hands, then folded down the tops of her remaining fingers at the knuckles.

‘I … I see.' Hannah wanted to ask what happened when they ran out of fingers, but resisted. Now might be a good time to change the subject. ‘Are you coming inside with me?'

Merelita shook her head.

Somehow, as the girl turned, her hand knocked Hannah's plate to the floor. Orange slices and
broken china were scattered across the mats.

Hands clasped to her mouth, Merelita rolled her eyes.

Hannah remembered the crash she'd heard earlier and Joshua's words ‘she breaks things'. She touched the other girl gently on the wrist. ‘It's all right. I'll fix it. No one will know.'

Quickly, Hannah retrieved the fruit, rinsed it with a scoop of water from the barrel and replaced the slices on another plate. With the crockery shards in her hands, she crept from the cookhouse into the gathering darkness to hide the evidence under a leafy bush.