Baptism of Fire (7 page)

She would have screamed if her voice hadn't been stifled by panic; run, if her feet hadn't been glued to the ground; hidden, if there had been the remotest chance of staying undiscovered.

A man entered, and despite the smoke, she noticed several things at once. He was thin, he was not Fijian, and he was pointing a long musket right at her heart.

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity and back again, they faced each other. Hannah realised that the man was as surprised as she. Without shifting his gaze, he kicked the door shut with one foot.

‘How do you do!' Her voice squeaked only once.

‘What in damnation are you doing here? Who are you?'

Stung by his abruptness, shaken by having a musket levelled at her, Hannah almost shouted. ‘Miss Hannah Rose Stanton.'

‘Stanton, eh?' He jerked the musket as he
spoke, and Hannah instinctively flinched. ‘I suppose you're the niece of that black suit at the mission house. I heard you'd arrived.'

He had heard about her, but Uncle Henry and Aunt Constance had said nothing about another white man living on the island. And neither had Joshua. The thought of her cousin was heartening. At least someone knew roughly where she was.

Abruptly the man lowered his musket, leaning it against a wall. After the first terror passed, Hannah had began to suspect that he wasn't serious about using the weapon. Still, she sighed with relief when she no longer had to face the firing end.

When he took several steps forward, she saw that his looks could only be described as homely. He had the ruddiest cheeks and nose Hannah had ever seen. She guessed that he was in his fifties. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, and a shirt which hung loosely over a pair of tattered trousers, rolled up at the cuffs. The lower few inches of material were wet. His feet were bare.

‘Who are you?' she asked.

A short, humourless laugh accompanied his
answer. ‘Me? I'm nobody.'

‘You must have a name. I can't call you Mr Nobody.'

‘Oslo. Kurt Oslo,' he snapped.

He had a strangely foreign name for someone with such an excellent command of English. ‘Are you English, Mr Oslo?'

‘My mother was English.'

‘But not your father?'

‘Questions. Questions. Questions …' Mr Oslo raised his eyes heavenward.

‘My mother told me he was Norwegian. I don't remember him. Now, if you're satisfied, perhaps you could answer
my
questions. Why are you trespassing?'

‘I …' Hannah smiled to delay her answer and tried to think of a good excuse. Heat from the trench fires was beginning to make her feel light-headed, or perhaps it was the smoke. ‘I thought it would be polite to pay a visit to the … occupants.'

Kurt grunted. ‘And just how could there be someone in here if the door was bolted from the outside?'

Hannah waved a hand in front of her face to
clear away the smoke. ‘I don't know.'

‘
You don't know
!' he mimicked.

His sarcasm stung. ‘You're very rude!'

‘And
you're
very nosy.' He took another step closer. She saw that the redness on his nose and cheeks was caused by a myriad of tiny veins. Perspiration trickled down his face. ‘Spying were you?'

She retreated a step, hoping he would not advance further. ‘Spying?'

‘For that self-righteous bigot.'

‘Uncle Henry?'

‘So
you
think he is too.'

Disconcerted, Hannah twisted her long auburn coil of hair around nervous fingers. ‘I … I didn't say that.' She blinked rapidly, her eyes dry from the smoke.

‘He wants to get rid of me, but he won't succeed. Better men than him have tried to beat me and lost.' He wiped a grubby sleeve across his forehead.

Hannah didn't like the way his eyes flashed when he spoke about her uncle. Mr Oslo was becoming angry again. She slid a sideways glance towards the pegged skins on the racks, telling
herself that she didn't really want to know what they were, just as the fatal words fell from her lips. ‘What are these?'

Kurt Oslo grinned slyly. His reply was irritatingly enigmatic. ‘This is a savage place, Hannah Stanton.'

The word ‘savage' conjured up all sorts of images in Hannah's mind, none of which was pleasant.

‘What do
you
think they are?'

Hannah shrugged. ‘Fruit?'

‘Fruit!' Mr Oslo slapped his leg with an open palm. ‘Have you ever seen fruit look like that, girl?'

She had not, but refused to answer aloud. The gleam in his eyes made her uncomfortable. It was the same look Joshua had when he told her about the centipedes and explained the Chief's comments about white men tasting like bananas.

‘I must go … my cousins are waiting just down the beach … they'll come after me if I don't return soon … they'll miss me … and all this smoke … they'll think I've been in a chimney …' She knew she was babbling, but could not prevent the words tumbling out.

‘What—leave without discovering the great mystery? You broke in here and now you don't even want to know what you've found?'

Hannah glared at him, hands on hips. ‘I did
not
break in. I haven't touched anything. All I did was look. Is there a law against looking?'

For a few seconds they tried to outstare each other, then he grinned again. This time it was more friendly. ‘You're a feisty one, aren't you?'

She would not reply to such a personal comment from a stranger—and a man at that!

He jabbed at one of the skewered substances. ‘Not ready yet. Another few hours. Once they're dry, they're shipped off to China. When a ship calls in, that is.' He traced lines across one of them with a fingernail. ‘The Chinese slice it thinly, like this, and make soup.' Mr Oslo turned his head to catch her expression. ‘Bêche-de-mer, Miss Stanton. Dried sea cucumber. It's a delicacy. Care to try some?'

Wrinkling her nose, Hannah declined. She wanted to leave, but Kurt Oslo stood in the narrow alley between her and the door. With fire each side of them, Hannah didn't fancy pushing
past him. ‘Well, it was pleasant meeting you,' she said, hoping he would move without being asked. It was a vain hope.

‘Please let me through,' she added in the firmest voice she could muster.

He stepped back, bowing elegantly as though he were in court acknowledging royalty. ‘Be my guest,
Miss
Hannah Rose Stanton.'

Keeping her eyes on him, she edged past, cautiously lifting her skirts clear of the trenches.

‘Does your precious uncle know you're here?'

Her expression said it all.

‘No, I didn't think so. So … you don't like rules any more than I do.'

She felt stung by the comparison of her motives and his. ‘It was my little cousin, Deborah. She lost her doll, Charlie. I was trying to get it back for her. It fell in the water and the tide carried it around here somewhere.'

‘Of course! A doll. Naturally it would be washed up here, fifty yards above sea level. Why didn't I think of that? Porridge for brains.'

Instead of flaring at his impertinence, she giggled.

‘This Charlie wouldn't have coconut fibre hair
and half a face, would he?'

‘Yes, he would.' Hannah's hopes rekindled. ‘Have you seen him … her … it?'

He removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald pate with only a few tufts of grey hair growing horizontally above each ear. ‘Down on the beach. I saw the face and decided it was beyond salvation.' At the word ‘salvation' his eyes darkened. ‘Go on.
Out
!'

Eagerly Hannah headed for freedom, confused and annoyed by his inexplicable mood swings.

Kurt called out just as she reached the door. ‘And make sure none of the rest of you comes round here, bothering me. You can all go back home because things have been going on all right here for years without interference. At least I'm honest—I'm only here for the money. I'm not sucking up souls.'

She slipped outside into the fresh air, delighted to be clear of the smoke and Kurt Oslo's bitterness.

‘At least there's one good thing to be said for missionaries,' he called after her. ‘They teach cannibals to say grace before the cannibals eat them.'

‘Hannah! … Hannah!'

It was gratifying to see Joshua and Deborah's enthusiasm about her reappearance on the beach. Perhaps eleven-year-old boys were not above occasional displays of affection, because Joshua threw his arms around Hannah and gave her a quick, awkward hug then stepped back.

Deborah snatched Charlie doll and hugged him. Because of his soaking in the sea, he was a shade or two darker and a little more of his painted face had washed away, but Deborah neither noticed nor cared.

‘You took so long!' Joshua's face was a mixture of relief and annoyance. ‘I was thinking about coming to find you … your face is all red!'

‘The tide was moving faster than I thought, and …'

‘Hannah thmells funny.' Sniffing loudly, Deborah looked up at her cousin.

Suspicion swamped Joshua's face.

Oh, no! Just when Hannah thought the afternoon's disasters were over. How could she explain the odour? Her aunt and uncle would know where she had been. The look of dismay on Joshua's face told her that such conduct would not be looked upon lightly.

Joshua wouldn't say anything to his parents. If he did, he'd be in just as much trouble. But Deborah was a different matter. The two older cousins swapped knowing glances, but said nothing aloud that Deborah could repeat, even innocently. Hannah wondered how much she actually understood. She was young for her age, but she wasn't stupid.

‘
Charlie
had better not go around there ever again, don't you agree, Cousin Hannah?' suggested Joshua.

‘
Charlie
doesn't want to.' Hannah thought about Kurt Oslo's grimy fingernail tracing lines across the skewered bêche-de-mer; his enjoyment of her discomfort; his animosity towards missionaries—Uncle Henry in particular; his bad manners. She added with emphasis, ‘Not
ever
.'

‘We'd better go home before Mother comes looking for us.' Joshua glanced at the greyish clouds which had thickened overhead. ‘And I think it'll rain.'

The sky did look dark, but how strange to think it would rain when it was this hot. Back home, rain was associated with winter days, chilling winds and a fire in the hearth.

Looking anxious, Joshua turned to leave. ‘If it rains, it will come down suddenly.'

‘Just a moment,' said Hannah. A close scrutiny of her skirt showed some wrinkles and a sandy edge on the hem, but smoothing it out would accomplish nothing. Her petticoats still felt damp, but no one else could know that. She fidgeted with her collar and tucked her blouse down firmly into the waistband. In lieu of a brush, she ran her fingers through her hair, then deftly plaited it, twisting the ends into a small knot. ‘How do I look?'

Joshua smirked. ‘You'd look better with your boots on.'

‘Oh!' Hannah looked down at her laddered, sand-covered stockings.

They retraced their steps to the rocky outlet where she had hurled her boots.

‘We'd better check Charlie before he goes home, Deborah,' she suggested.

‘Hannah! We must go now,' argued Joshua.

Kneeling on the white sand, Hannah gently slid the doll from Deborah's gasp. ‘And what about his hair?' Just as she had done with her own curls, she ran her fingers through the coconut fibres, untangling them. Then she straightened his pink dress, talking as she worked. ‘I'm so glad I rescued Charlie for you, Deborah. He almost went right out to sea—far, far out.'

The little girl's eyes widened. ‘So far that we would never have seen him again. Or Charlie may have stayed there on a lonely beach, all by himself, forever. With crabs crawling over him …'

‘
Hannah
!' Joshua protested but she ignored him.

‘Why, if the tide had washed him out into deep water, a big shark with sharp teeth might even have bitten him … like this …' She made a chomping motion near the doll's head with the fingers of one hand.

‘No!' Deborah snatched back her wooden
friend. ‘Charlie'th mine.'

‘Of course he is. We wouldn't let those horrible things happen, would we? That's why I was gone so long. Rescuing him. You and Charlie should be together always. But … we have to be careful, Deborah. This must be a secret between you and Charlie.'

Hannah looked up at Joshua and saw that he understood.

‘Deborah … if anyone finds out how naughty Charlie was today, they might send him far away. And you'll never see him again.'

Deborah stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Joshua and I will help you. We promise never to say a word about today, don't we Joshua?'

‘Yes, we promise.'

A large drop of rain splashed onto Hannah's forehead, then another on her nose. ‘Now,
you
promise, Deborah.'

The little girl nodded.

Hannah took her cousin's arms in a firm grip. ‘Say the words, I
promise
.'

‘I promith.'

‘Good girl. Charlie should be safe now …'
Hannah ended her sentence with a gasp as a downpour began. The rain was a solid sheet, as though someone had up-ended a gigantic bucket.

They began to run. Not that it was any use. Within seconds they were soaked to the skin which might earn them a reprimand, but it was safer than smelling of smoke. Hannah charged along the path behind Joshua, Deborah in tow, glad that today was almost over. More things happened here in one day than happened in a month at home, if they would happen at all.

Rain lashed at Hannah's face, blinding her at times. She wished fervently for a parasol or hat, then a bolt of anxiety shot through her. Earlier this afternoon she had left the house wearing her best sunhat, and now her head was bare. Where had she left her hat?