One Blood (26 page)

‘That isn’t Joe’s way. He had to tell them to their faces.’ The girl sniffed. ‘He even gave them their money back.’

‘Perhaps he paddled away to fetch help,’ suggested Sister Conchita.

‘Perhaps,’ said Kella. ‘Tell me, did he go straight to his canoe after he had left the Americans, or did he go somewhere else first?’

Mary frowned in concentration. ‘He stopped off at the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Then he ran down to the canoe.’

‘Was he carrying anything?’ asked Kella.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Mary.

Kella started looking round the small kitchen. He picked up a basket of clams. ‘Could he have taken some of these?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mary. ‘It’s possible.’

Kella started to move away. ‘I think I may know where he went,’ he said. ‘Look after Mary for me, will you, Sister Conchita? When she feels better, take her over to Gizo. Tell the District Commissioner what happened here this afternoon. Get him to radio Police Headquarters in Honiara to send a launch and half a dozen armed policemen to the lagoon to pick Imison and the others up.’ He looked at the still shaking Mary. ‘Have you any idea where the Americans might have gone?’

‘Olasana,’ said Mary Gui. ‘They kept talking about Olasana. They visited Kasolo but they said that it was too small. They wanted a bigger island visited by the survivors of PT-109.’

‘They will have stopped off somewhere else first,’ said Kella. ‘Do as I ask, Sister. I won’t be long.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Sister Conchita.

‘To find Dontate,’ Kella said. A thought struck him and he turned back. ‘I suppose it was Dontate who knocked me out in the bush village on Kolombangara?’

Mary nodded guiltily, biting her lip. ‘He said that you were getting too close,’ she confessed. ‘He’d come up to the village to keep me company when I had the custom tattoos.’

‘How did he get me back down to the coast?’

‘Some of the bushmen helped him carry you down. Joe didn’t want to hurt you, honestly he didn’t. He just wanted you out of the way for a week.’

‘But I didn’t know anything! I still don’t.’

‘Joe thought you did. He was sure that you’d seen something in the village. He wouldn’t tell me what.’

Kella shook his head in exasperation. He left the two women and went back to the mission canoe on the beach. He filled the tank from a tin of diesel kept in a shed on the sand. Then he pulled the canoe back into the water, started the engine and set off across the lagoon. It was a fine, cloudless morning. On his way he passed fishing canoes out searching for shoals of the multicoloured crayfish, tuna, kingfish and bonito that abounded in the local waters. Dolphins swam lazily alongside him before getting bored and veering off.

Kella thought of the first time he had met Joe Dontate. It had been ten years ago on Malaita. He had been a young constable accompanying a district officer on a tour of the saltwater villages. At one fetid, evil-smelling spot among the mangrove swamps, a headman had arrested a young villager for murder. The district officer had held a preliminary court in the village square, to determine whether the accused should be taken back to Tulagi to stand trial.

The accused was plainly guilty; he had stabbed to death
in plain sight a man from another family in the village, as payback for a long-running blood feud. The district officer had decreed that the killer would be dispatched to the administrative centre as soon as a government vessel visited the area. Kella had been standing next to the young villager, guarding him in the witness place, when the islander had produced a knife, smuggled into the court hearing by a
wantok
, and attempted to stab the policeman before escaping into the bush.

Fortunately for the young constable, a Chinese trading vessel had put in at the village earlier that day, and its crew had seized the rare opportunity for a little relaxation and entertainment by sitting in with the villagers at the open-air adjudication. One of the deck hands had been Joe Dontate. Although he was only about twenty, he already bore the facial scars of the successful amateur boxer he was becoming. His reflexes had been better than anyone else’s present as well. As the accused man swung the knife at an unprepared Kella, Dontate, sitting in the front row of the crowd, had swayed to his feet, caught the islander’s knife arm with one hand and thudded his free fist into the villager’s kidneys, sending the man choking and writhing to the ground.

Afterwards a sheepish Kella had tried to thank the western deck hand. Dontate had waved aside his attempts at gratitude.

‘Do me a favour and don’t ever tell anyone that I helped one of whitey’s policemen,’ he had growled.

Their paths had crossed on a number of other occasions in the decade that had passed since that day. On several occasions Kella had arrested Dontate for drunkenness and other minor offences, but soon the islander had become much too shrewd to attract official notice. He had never taken offence on any of the occasions that Kella had closed in on him, and over the years the policeman had developed a considerable unofficial liking for the taciturn, straightforward and extremely brave
miscreant. He was not looking forward to what he thought he might see before the morning was over.

Half an hour after leaving Munda, Kella steered past the island of Parara. He cut out his engine as he approached a much smaller island a few yards away. He jumped out and pulled the canoe up on to a narrow strip of coral.

The island was flat, less than fifty yards long and not as wide. Trees grew right down to the water’s edge, leaving no room for a beach. A well-trodden track led into the trees. Kella began to walk down it. He exercised care. He was on the notorious Kundu Hite, more commonly known as Skull Island. For centuries it had been used as a shrine for the skulls of priests and the leaders of the headhunting expeditions that had flourished in the adjoining lagoons of Roviana and Vonovana. The bodies of prisoners taken on such raids were buried beneath the ground and blessed by the priests, called
hiamas
, who prayed that the accumulated
mana
of the dead warriors would be transferred to their conquerors. Not only might there be guards stationed on the island, but there would be the spirits of the dead headhunters to contend with as well. He almost wished that he had brought Sister Conchita with him. It would have been interesting to see how strong her
mana
was among the dreaded malevolent ghosts that haunted the island.

A few minutes’ walk took him to a sandy mound in the centre of the islet. Triangular open-fronted stone and wooden shrines revealed hundreds of human skulls piled high in gruesome towers. Offerings of shell money on long strings of vine decorated some of the shrines. Decaying stone axes, some of great age, had been discarded on the ground as a reminder of the place’s bloody past.

Carefully Kella trod among the shrines until he saw what he had come for. Lying in front of one of the larger stone monuments was the body of Joe Dontate. There were three bullet wounds in the front of his bloodstained shirt. Kella bent over
to examine the body. Four or five empty clam shells lay on the ground. Stones had been placed over the dead man’s eyes. The ex-boxer had not been dead long. Presumably the Americans in the launch had tracked him down and killed him. They would have had no trouble in making him out across the flat, open waters. In any case, Dontate would not have been trying to avoid being seen. The islander would have made no attempt at concealment or even resistance. Knowing that his death was inevitable once he had spurned the Americans’ offer, he had come to Skull Island for two reasons: to draw the Americans away from Mary Gui, and to reach the traditional resting place of western chiefs, so that he would at least die among his peers.

Kella heard someone moving behind him and turned, clenching his fists. Three islanders in loincloths were standing on the path. Two were young and had picked up axes from the ground. Standing in front of them was a tall, dignified islander in his fifties.

‘Youfella luuai bilong Kundu Hite?’ asked Kella.

‘I look after the skulls,’ said the older man in English, nodding. ‘I am Tapi. It will cost you ten dollars to land on Skull Island.’

As custodian of the skulls, Tapi would know the lineage of every chief in the lagoon area. Kella reached into his pocket and produced a note, and handed it to the tall man. The two younger men relaxed a little. Kella took out another ten-dollar note and gave that to Tapi as well. The younger men’s eyes widened at the sight of so much money. Both banknotes vanished into the older man’s skimpy loincloth with a celerity born of long practice. The islander would have perfected his English on the tourists who occasionally visited the lagoon. He opened his mouth to go into his introductory address. Kella forestalled him.

‘Do you live on Kundu Hite?’ he asked.

Tapi shook his head and indicated the adjoining island. ‘On Parara,’ he said. ‘I only come across when we have visitors.’

‘Did you hear gunshots this afternoon?’ asked Kella

‘Three,’ answered Tapi. ‘We thought the spirits of the chiefs were fighting among themselves. We saw a canoe on the shore and a bigger ship with an engine anchored off the island.’

‘But you didn’t come over to see what was happening?’

‘As I said, it was a matter for the ghosts. There are many of them on Kundu Hite. Mortals do not get involved in matters of the gods.’

And another killing on the island would only add to its macabre reputation and provide more tourist money for the custodian, thought Kella.

‘When the big ship left, which way did it go?’ he asked.

‘That way,’ said the custodian, pointing south.

‘How many men were on board?’

‘I saw three.’

Kella pointed at the body. ‘Do you know this dead man?’ he asked.

‘Of course; he is Dontate, a big man in the lagoon. He comes from a bloodline of warrior chiefs. He went out into the world, some say to be a warrior among the whiteys. Then he returned, with much gold. It is sad that he has died so young. One day he might have become a chief of chiefs in Roviana. He was of the bloodline of Chief Ingava of Nusa Roviana, who worshipped the great rock that looked like a dog.’

‘I’ll send someone over to take Dontate’s body back to Gizo,’ said Kella.

‘No, we will bury him here,’ said Tapi firmly. ‘Dontate was a big man; it is fitting that he should lie with the other warriors. He knew that and travelled here when he knew that his time had come. We shall put his skull in an honoured place in one of the shrines.’

Chief Joe Dontate would have liked that, thought Kella. There was nothing to gain by taking his body away. As far as Kella was aware, he had no relatives, and once she got over her
shock, the pragmatic and calculating Mary Gui would soon find another man. The authorities in Honiara would regard the hasty burial as irregular and premature, but Dontate would have been long under the coral before they heard about it. Tapi would be discreet about the matter. The custodian had been lying when he had said that he had not witnessed the murder. He had probably been hiding on the island when the Americans had landed. Only an islander would have had the consideration to place stones over the dead man’s eyes to prevent their being pecked out by scavenging birds. But Tapi would never give evidence in a white man’s court. He was a keeper of the secrets. Every tribe had one.

‘Very well,’ Kella said to the three islanders. ‘See that it is done.’

• • •

SISTER CONCHITA WAS
waiting for him on the beach at Munda when he grounded his canoe.

‘I thought you were taking Mary over to Gizo,’ he said disapprovingly.

‘I got her a lift in a United Church canoe that put in for diesel,’ Conchita said. ‘Don’t worry, she’s a bright girl and can look after herself. She’ll alert the District Commissioner and then the police in Honiara. Did you find Mr Dontate?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Kella. In a few words he told Sister Conchita of his experience on Kundu Hite. The nun crossed herself.

‘How did you know he would be on Skull Island?’ she asked.

‘I guessed that when I saw the basket of brown
derasa
clams in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘They were eaten by the Roviana warriors as a
vavolo
, the death feast they dined on before going into battle against insurmountable odds. Dontate knew that he was going to die. He just wanted to draw Imison and the others away from Munda, so that Mary Gui and any other innocent bystanders wouldn’t get hurt as well.’

‘He was a brave man,’ said Sister Conchita.

‘A warrior,’ agreed Kella. ‘So why didn’t you go with Mary?’

‘I thought I might be needed.’

Kella frowned. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to be busy for the rest of the afternoon.’

He found an axe and a sharp knife in a toolbox in the rest-house and spent several hours amid the trees at the far end of the runway. He cut a dozen branches each about a foot in length and sharpened them into deadly stakes, with points at both ends. Then he went deeper into the bush until he found a
kwilla
tree. This possessed some of the strongest and heaviest wood of all the trees in the Solomons. He cut off a substantial branch several feet in diameter and three feet long. Carefully he sharpened one end of the branch into a point. Then he carried all the shaped pieces of wood and put them into the bottom of the canoe, together with some lengths of creeper and the knife he had been using. For good measure he fetched a spade from the tool shed and added it to the pile.

Sister Conchita carried across two plates of boiled rice and tinned corned beef from the supply of food she had brought with her. They sat on top of an upturned canoe and ate.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said the nun.

‘Definitely not,’ said Kella. ‘It’s going to be dangerous.’

‘I may be useful. You said you would need someone with her own
mana
to help protect you so far from home.’

Kella ate in silence for a few minutes. Then he said: ‘That’s not the real reason why you want to come, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Why then?’