Visitants (16 page)

‘What is this?’ said Misa Dolu’udi, through the mouth of Misa Kodo.

‘It is the stones called Ukula’osi,’ I said. ‘And the four standing stones have their own names, which I forget.’

‘It is a forbidden place?’ asked Misa Dolu’udi.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No one may touch these stones. Our ancestors placed them here. If anyone moved them, a great wind would come up and destroy the villages, and there would be a famine, and all the people would go mad. One time a man’s dog began to dig beside a stone, and the man killed his dog. Another time a woman called Olivilesi tried to move a stone. She went mad. It would be like that for all of us if the stones fell.’

‘I am afraid,’ said Misa Dolu’udi, but he laughed. ‘It is a place of spirits.’

‘Misa Kodo,’ I said, ‘Masta Interpreter, what do the Dimdims say about these stones?’

‘O, many things,’ said Misa Kodo. ‘Some people say they were like a church, where people sang. Other people say chiefs were buried here.’

‘E?’ I said. ‘And what else do they say?’

‘Others say that the stones point to places in the sky where some stars first appear, that tell the people it is time to plant or harvest.’

‘If that is true,’ I said, ‘no old man remembers. What more do the Dimdims say?’

‘Some think the stones are meant for reefs and islands, to teach young men how to sail between here and Muyuwa and Kinana.’

‘No, taubada,’ I said, ‘I do not believe that young men would learn like that. They learn by sailing with older men. Is that all that the Dimdims say?’

‘Yes, that is all,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘Except—we have some crazy people in Dimdim.’

‘Then what do they say, the crazy ones?’

‘They say,’ Misa Kodo said, smiling, ‘that there are people who come from the stars, flying in machines like the big tobacco-tins, and that these rings were like their air-strips, and that they will come again.’

When he said that I felt a great fear, and cried out: ‘Taubad’—’ staring at him.

‘O, why do you look like that?’ he said, surprised.

‘Taubada, will they stop? Will they get out and walk in the villages?’

‘E, you, mind-of-a-child,’ Misa Kodo said, and he was laughing at me. ‘It is a story, that is all. A Dimdim story, do you understand? There are no people in the stars.’

I did not know how to tell it to him, to make him feel the fear, which had come back and in that place was worst of all. I said: ‘Taubada, I want to speak,’ but when he looked at me and waited I could not begin. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not now. Now you would not believe. But tonight, I will come to the resthouse with some other men, to talk, to ask questions.’

‘I know what you will say,’ he said. ‘I will show you a picture in a book, and you will not be afraid any more.’

Then suddenly, over my shoulder, he saw what Misa Dolu’udi was doing, and began to shout, and I turned and saw and shouted even louder. ‘Forbidden, forbidden!’ we screamed at Misa Dolu’udi. ‘Forbidden to piss on the stones!’ And Misa Dolu’udi did not know at all what to do just then.

When we were walking back to the resthouse, in the dusk, terrible screams broke out somewhere in the village, and I looked back at Alistair and Benoni, dawdling behind me, to know what was going on.

‘Pig, taubada,’ Benoni said, in English. ‘You kaikai.’

I saw that Alistair was trying to take no notice, but he was wearing his bad sailor’s face.

‘What are they doing to the thing?’ I said to him. The screams were coming faster and louder. They didn’t sound all that much like an animal.

‘What?’ he said. ‘The
bulukwa
? They’re singeing the hair off it.’

‘
Alive
?’ I said.

‘It’ll die as it cooks,’ he said. ‘They’ll have speared it in the side.’

Then I felt as queasy as he looked, and thought of going on strike. ‘I’m not eating any.’

‘You’ll be given some,’ he said. ‘Better be polite. It’s a big day for them, having meat.’

Benoni was beaming at us, in the blue light, a blue tinge to his skin. I thought of the two of us fooling about on the path, pretending to box, and how he’d seemed such a nice ordinary young bloke, just like me, ordinary like me. And every scream of that animal was doing his heart good. Listen to what a good host I am, his face was saying; and he smiled at us, modestly, letting us know he had no doubt we’d have done the same for him.

That evening they made a great feast in the village, and Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood sat beside Dipapa on his platform and had every kind of food brought to them. Mister Dalwood ate sago dumplings and yams and taro and mangoes and bananas and nearly everything that there was, except pig. Mister Cawdor only chewed a piece of sugar-cane, which would have hurt the feelings of the people if they had not had so much pleasure in feeding Mister Dalwood.

Some of the people were eating boiled bats. Benoni brought one to Mister Dalwood on a leaf, but Mister Dalwood said: ‘Thank you, no.’

‘You do not eat bats, taubada?’ I said.

‘No,’ said Mister Dalwood. ‘But once, with the black men in Dimdim, I ate a goanna.’

After that I did not feel hungry for a long time, thinking of Mister Dalwood’s disgusting customs.

When Mister Cawdor saw that there was no hope of putting more food into Mister Dalwood, he got down from the platform and said goodbye to Dipapa. This caused Dipapa to wake, and to say that he was enjoying Mister Cawdor’s talk. Then Dipapa held out his hand to Mister Cawdor, and Mister Cawdor shook it and looked shy, more like a boy than a patrol officer. I thought that time: It is not only me, it is not only black men, it is everybody who is careful of Dipapa. Dipapa looked straight into Mister Cawdor’s face; but Mister Cawdor never looked really at Dipapa, his eyes wandered away.

Afterwards we all went back to the resthouse, a great crowd of people, and especially a great crowd of girls, who crawled underneath the house and peered through the cracks in the floor, waiting for Mister Dalwood to take a shower. All the afternoon they had been talking about it, and they had hung the bucket-shower in a good place and filled it with water scented with flowers and sulumwoya. But Mister Dalwood sat down at the table on the veranda with Mister Cawdor and began to drink rum and would not take off his clothes. So the girls were bored, and started to sing, underneath the house, the song that they sing everywhere.

And the men, on the grass and on the veranda, sang back:

Mister Dalwood, who seemed to be drunk, but he often seemed to be drunk without drinking anything, sang this song with the men, and Benoni, who was sitting at his feet, looked ashamed. I knew what Benoni was thinking. Because it happens to everybody, that one day they meet a Dimdim and think: At last, here is a Dimdim that is kind and clever and cheerful and will be like my brother to me. And always the Dimdim turns out to be the same as the rest, only an ignorant person after all.

The idiot Kailusa was one who never learned better. He was old enough to be Mister Cawdor’s uncle, and that is what he was like: like a hunchbacked uncle with a handsome nephew. There was nothing in his mind but Mister Cawdor who never saw him. On the table where Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood sat that night was a wooden bowl, that went everywhere with Kailusa. In the bowl were the best flowers Kailusa could find. It was like a piece of Mister Cawdor’s home, that travelled with him, whether he noticed or not. So Mister Cawdor dropped his cigarette butts among the flowers, because that was his custom, whether he noticed or not.

The flying ants swarmed in towards the Tilley lamp. Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood and Benoni were brushing ants away from their faces, and ants were burning and falling back from the lamp on to the table, with a bitter smell. Suddenly Biyu came running, all important, in his Hawaii shirt. Nobody wanted him or noticed him, but he came running, carrying an enamel basin full of water. Biyu unhooked the lamp and stood it in the basin, and ants began to fall into the water and to drown.

‘What’s happening to the light?’ Mister Dalwood said, not bothering to look.

‘Biyu’s making an ant-trap,’ said Mister Cawdor.

‘Biyu?’ Mister Dalwood said. ‘Is he still about? I’m sick of being surrounded by Biyu.’

Soon the water in the basin was like one crawling heap of ants, and Biyu set fire to a piece of newspaper and began to burn them.

‘What’s that stink?’ Mister Dalwood cried, jumping up from his chair. ‘Biyu! Go and talk to some maries, we don’t want you here.’

So Biyu put out the fire, looking ashamed, and went away, and Benoni also looked ashamed because of his friend Mister Dalwood’s bad temper.

‘He was trying to be useful,’ Mister Cawdor said.

But Mister Dalwood muttered angrily: ‘I’ll have to get rid of him. He can’t do anything right.’

‘You’re in a sweet mood,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’

‘If I’m in a sweet mood,’ Mister Dalwood said, ‘you can bloody well lump it. I put up with plenty from you.’

When Mister Dalwood was bad-tempered, it always made Mister Cawdor more cheerful, and he laughed and pushed the bottle towards Mister Dalwood. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said; ‘rot your stupid brain,’ and Mister Dalwood poured more rum.

Then Benoni got up from where he was sitting and stood behind Mister Cawdor’s chair, leaning to whisper in his ear. Mister Cawdor seemed surprised, and his face turned, looking out from the lighted veranda to the darkness where all the people were. He spoke quietly to Benoni, and Benoni, also looking at the darkness, raised his arm and beckoned. Six or seven men came out of the clearing behind me, and mounted to the veranda and squatted at the Dimdims’ feet.

Misa Kodo, seeing the old VC among the men, said: ‘O, Boitoku, what is this trouble that makes the minds of the people heavy? While he spoke, he and Misa Dolu’udi were both watching Metusela, who had come after the men into the light, and was standing in the grass by the corner of the veranda. The two Dimdims, and especially Misa Dolu’udi, did not seem to be able to move their eyes from the madman, though he was doing nothing, only standing there and listening. Misa Kodo, I saw in his face was thinking more about Metusela than about his words to the old man, and Misa Dolu’udi looked as if he would shout at Metusela to go away.

Boitoku was shy, and played with his badge. ‘It is difficult, taubada,’ he said. ‘Taubada, let Benoni speak.’

‘Well, Benoni?’ Misa Kodo said.

‘It is a question, taubada,’ I said. ‘Taubada, the war of the Dimdims with the people of Yapan is finished, isn’t it?’

‘E,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘Fourteen years ago.’

‘You see,’ I said to Boitoku, ‘I did not talk gammon.’

‘Good, then,’ Boitoku said with a shrug. ‘I was wrong. I have not been to Manus.’

‘Therefore,’ I said, ‘it is not a war-machine.’

Misa Kodo was still watching Metusela. ‘What do you say, Beni?’ he said. ‘What is not a war-machine?’

‘The star,’ I said. ‘The star-machine.’

Misa Kodo turned and stared at me, with great eyes. ‘The star-machine?’ he said. ‘What is that, a star-machine?’

‘It is like a star,’ I said, ‘at first, when it is far away in the sky. But when it comes close, it is a machine. With the brightest light, taubada, and people. Like a plane, taubada, but it is not a plane.’

It was very extraordinary to see Misa Kodo’s face. What was in his face was like joy.

His voice was strange too, with joy, or excitement. It was quiet, and as if his throat was tight.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Speak, Benoni.’

‘It comes in the night,’ I said. ‘It came eight nights ago. Then it came six nights ago. It comes from the north-east, and it is like a star, but it moves like a feather. Sometimes it falls, sometimes it climbs. But always it is very fast.’

‘
Ki
,’ Misa Kodo said, very quiet. ‘Go on.’

‘The first time,’ I said, ‘it came down out of the sky over Darkness-of-Evening, in the middle of the village. It had windows with lights, like a steamer. Suddenly a very bright light came out of it, like the sun. It was like daytime, taubada, in the village. All the people ran to their houses and peeped out at it. We saw men, taubada, looking at us from the windows. Then the big light went out, and the machine flew up into the sky and became a star again.’

‘And the look of it?’ Misa Kodo said. ‘What is it like?’

I made the shape of it with my hands. ‘Like you said, taubada. Like a tobacco-tin, that flies.’

‘And the second time?’ Misa Kodo said.

‘That time,’ I said, ‘these five men here were coming home from fishing, in the dark. They were on the path near the stones, taubada, and carrying torches. I think the machine saw the flames. It came down over their heads and turned on its light and followed them when they ran. It chased them along the path, taubada, till they were near the village. Then it went dark, except for the windows, and flew away like a star.’

‘And you saw people?’ Misa Kodo said, gazing at the five men. His face was moved, he was suddenly like a child. ‘In the star-machine, you saw people?’

The men began to stir, and murmur, and laugh uneasily. ‘We were very frightened,’ one of them said, and then they all laughed, ashamed of their fear. ‘We saw nothing,’ another of them said, ‘only the light. Taubada, the fear was very great.’

‘E,’ Misa Kodo said, nodding. ‘The fear, it would be great.’

‘But the first time, taubada,’ I said, ‘we saw people. Their heads and their shoulders and their arms. They were watching us, two or three of them, in the belly of the machine.’

Then Misa Kodo said: ‘Tim!’ and Misa Dolu’udi looked round from watching the madman. ‘Tim!’ cried Misa Kodo, and he began to talk in English very fast, sometimes laughing in his excitement, and Misa Dolu’udi’s strange blue eyes got big, and he began to laugh and chatter too. They kept saying to each other: ‘Boianai,’ which is a place in Kinana or Numa where some Osiwa men used to go. They kept saying it over and over again, ‘Boianai!’ and Misa Kodo sounded full of joy. But Misa Dolu’udi, though he was excited, shook his head sometimes, and said: ‘It can’t be.’ When Misa Dolu’udi said that, Misa Kodo cried out: ‘It is, it is,’ sounding passionate, and then spoke some more, very fast.