Devil-Devil (24 page)

‘That is possible,' nodded Pazabosi, and waited.

‘But you're hoping that I'll find Mallory as well,' went on Kella, thinking aloud. ‘That could bring Hita and me into conflict. You don't care which one of us wins. If Hita and I come up against each other, one of us is almost certainly going to die, and that's fine with you.'

Pazabosi looked at Kella with the benign air of a schoolmaster whose pupil was doing unexpectedly well.

‘That's how I see it, too,' concurred the chief.

34

DREAM-MAKER

‘You're absolutely sure?' asked Sergeant Ha'a, looking dubiously at the line of carvings arrayed on his desk. ‘These are genuine custom carvings, not replicas produced by the schoolboys at Ruvabi?'

‘There's no doubt about it,' Sister Conchita assured him. ‘I recognized them as soon as the crate was opened on the wharf. Most of the carvings were made by the boys, but these six are definitely the genuine article. They're all listed in Melanesian ethnographies. Look at this shark hook! It's at least a century old and made of turtle shell, which has to be heated before it can be shaped. No schoolboy could produce work of this quality.'

She regarded the short, plump policeman with triumph. Several days had passed since she had discovered the artifacts in the case at the Customs shed. She had encountered Sergeant Ha'a in the entrance hall of police headquarters after her rapid departure from the shed. When she had gabbled a breathless explanation of what had happened on the wharf he had gone back with her to the harbour immediately and commandeered the box, returning with it to the headquarters building, She had heard nothing else until this morning, when she had received a message from Sergeant Ha'a, summoning her to police headquarters.

‘Hmm,' said Sergeant Ha'a.

‘Have you arrested the Customs inspector?' Sister Conchita asked eagerly.

‘Whatever for?' asked Ha'a, sounding shocked by her enthusiasm.

‘Well, for being involved in abstracting the genuine artifacts from the box, of course.'

Ha'a raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Have you any proof of this?' he asked.

‘Isn't it obvious?' asked the nun, beginning to get annoyed at the islander's apparent indifference. ‘Someone is putting valuable old carvings into the crates at Ruvabi, among the boys' efforts, and then removing them when they reach Customs at Honiara, and smuggling them out of the Solomons.'

She remembered the words of Jimmy, the malaria sprayer on Sulufou. He had warned her about getting involved with smuggling. She had thought that he was referring to Deacon's shell racket, but obviously he had heard rumours of what was happening at Ruvabi mission.

‘Again, I ask you, do you have any evidence?' asked the sergeant placidly.

‘Well, not as such, but it was obvious from the way that the Customs inspector behaved that something was wrong. He was far too keen to accept the crate without checking the contents, and then when I asked for it to be opened he looked terrified.'

‘Perhaps you had frightened him. Could that be possible?' suggested Ha'a gently. Sister Conchita opened her mouth to reply, but the sergeant was talking again. ‘Sister, this is a British Protectorate, policed by British-trained officers. The British rule of law applies here. We do not arrest people because they look worried when hectored by an expatriate member of a religious order with a strong personality and a pronounced sense of justice. However, you may take it from me that the matter is under investigation.'

‘Look, I know you don't know me, Sergeant Ha'a—' began the nun.

‘You underestimate yourself, sister,' interrupted the policeman. ‘Your fame precedes you from Ruvabi.'

‘It does?' asked Sister Conchita, for once at a loss for words.

‘Indeed. You are known for getting out to the Lau Catholic villages and leading the prayer sessions there. You conduct their worship with such verve and gusto that the islanders have even given you a name — mary talk-talk long God.'

‘What does that mean?' asked Sister Conchita.

‘Roughly — the Praying Woman.' Sergeant Ha'a rose and glanced at his watch. ‘And now I believe that it is time for you to leave. Aren't you meeting Father Pierre's aircraft at Henderson Field at nine o'clock this morning?'

‘How on earth did you know that?' asked Sister Conchita, finding herself on her feet despite her firm intention to stay.

Ha'a escorted her urbanely to his office door. ‘I would like to claim that it was due to unremitting toil and and instinctive detective work,' he admitted innocently. ‘In fact, I have a
wantok
who works as a cleaner at the mission headquarters and keeps her ears and eyes open! Good morning, Sister Conchita.'

Sister Conchita was still fuming at the sergeant's smooth dismissal of her protests as she drove the mission jeep over the Matanikau Bridge out of Honiara along the eight-mile stretch of road flanking the sea to Henderson Field, the airport serving the capital. If only Sergeant Kella was still on Guadalcanal, she thought bitterly, he would have paid proper attention to her theories. Then, with a pang of remorse, she remembered how earlier she had impulsively accused the Malaitan of deliberately implicating Father Pierre in his inquiries.

Sister Conchita usually managed to see the bright side of most situations, but this morning she was undeniably depressed. Father Ignatius had been decidedly cool in his attitude towards her lately. The fact that she had unwittingly implicated Ruvabi mission station in the alleged smuggling of carvings out of the Protectorate had done nothing to increase her popularity with the precise administrator. As a result Sister Conchita had been banished lately to the headquarters motor pool, with long hot days of grappling with wrenches and ill-fitting and antiquated engine spare parts.

She drove over the speed limit past the Kukum golf course and King George VI Secondary School. Soon there were no more buildings, only the foothills to her right and green plains skirting the sea on her left. Father Ignatius had allowed her to meet Father Pierre's flight only because no one else had wanted to waste a morning waiting for the erratic Baron Beechcraft service to arrive from Auki.

‘Father Pierre is an old man who has spent rather too long in the bush,' the administrator had told her with hauteur. ‘In fact it is feared in some quarters that over the years he has allowed his message to become diluted with pagan practices. In short, sister, we fear that he has suffered the fate of more than one long-serving missionary, and gone native!'

Sister Conchita had suppressed the angry retort trembling on her lips. If she antagonized this complacent and ignorant headquarters pussy-cat further the man might rescind his decision to send her to meet the priest, and she needed to see Father Pierre again more than anything.

It would also be nice to see Sergeant Kella once more, she admitted wistfully to herself. Not only did she want to apologize for maligning him, but she realized how much she had taken comfort in the big man's taciturn but solid presence. If anyone was going to solve the mysteries surrounding Ruvabi mission, she was sure that it was going to be the
aofia.

She parked outside the unfurnished single-storeyed brick building, which doubled as reception lounge and Customs and Immigration area for the bi-weekly international flights from Papua New Guinea and Fiji. Inside, a large ceiling fan lethargically pushed aside layers of hot air.

Sister Conchita passed through the building and emerged on the far side, stopping behind a small fence running parallel to the airstrip. Only a handful of expatriates and islanders waited in the morning heat to meet the scheduled inter-islands flight from Malaita. For once the Baron Beechcraft was on time. Sister Conchita could see it flying across the bay, banking over the heavily forested island of Nggela. Within minutes the trim aircraft was shuddering to a halt outside the airport building. Half a dozen passengers emerged from the plane, among them the unmistakable form of Father Pierre, bowed, shuffling, clad in a long black habit and carrying his belongings in a Gladstone bag.

Sister Conchita shook the old man's hand vigorously, shocked at the change in him. The sprightly air that usually distinguished the old priest was gone. If she did not know him better Sister Conchita would have believed that he was defeated. She dismissed the thought; her mentor was merely tired, she assured herself.

Forcing herself to chatter inconsequentially, the nun conducted Father Pierre to the makeshift car park. The old man's eyes widened in mock wonder as he saw the waiting vehicle. ‘The mission jeep!' he exclaimed reverently. ‘I was expecting something much less grand; a bicycle, perhaps. Don't tell me Father Ignatius said you could use it?'

‘He didn't say I couldn't,' said Sister Conchita.

A chuckle escaped the priest's lips. For a moment he looked like his former mischievous self. ‘Oh, sister,' he said solemnly, ‘unless we are both very lucky we shall spend so much time in purgatory together!'

They sat in the jeep. Sister Conchita made as if to start the vehicle. Father Pierre lifted a restraining hand.

‘First, tell me everything,' he invited.

It was as if a dam within her had been breached. Sister Conchita found herself telling her expressionless listener all that had happened since she had arrived in Honiara, of her run-ins with the headquarters administrator, her encounters with Kella and her increasing unease at the danger the police sergeant seemed to be heading into.

‘Ben Kella's all right,' said Father Pierre after Sister Conchita had finished, half-ashamed at revealing so much about her feelings. ‘I saw him recently at the mission station. He's probably heading for trouble in the high bush, but if anyone can look after himself it's Ben.' He paused. ‘You like our sergeant, don't you?'

‘I don't know what I feel about him!' said the nun.

‘How so?'

‘Well . . .' Sister Conchita struggled to express her feelings and to put into words what had been bothering her ever since she had first met the police sergeant. ‘Yes, I like him fine,' she conceded. ‘He's a great guy, he's brave and he knows so much about Malaita. But . . .'

‘Yes?' prompted the priest. ‘You find it difficult to come to terms with his background, is that it?'

‘Exactly,' said Sister Conchita miserably. ‘Father, Ben's a pagan. He worships his own gods. His beliefs go against everything I've been taught. Yet he's putting his faith and his ideology to use to help the mission.'

‘He's not doing it for the mission,' Father Pierre corrected her. ‘He's doing it for his people, because he's the
aofia.
'

‘It still worries me.'

Father Pierre was silent for a few seconds. When he spoke it was almost with reluctance. ‘I knew that we would have this conversation one day,' he said. ‘I just hoped that you would have learned a little more about the islands before you had to make a decision.'

‘What decision?' asked the nun.

‘You've agreed to dedicate your life to God in the Solomon Islands, and I'm glad that you've done so, because you have so much to offer, Sister Conchita. But to be effective you've got to immerse yourself in the customs and traditions of the islands.'

‘I'm trying to do that!'

‘I know, I know. But you won't get it all from books. Over the years to come you've got to mix with plenty of islanders like Ben Kella — highly intelligent and just as dedicated to their gods as we our to Our Lord. And you've got to understand their beliefs and appreciate that sometimes they can bring about miracles too, if people believe in them strongly enough.'

‘Are you asking me to—'

‘I'm putting a choice before you. You can follow in the way of Father Ignatius and go by the book. Many do and lead useful and productive lives within the Church. Or you can do what a number of priests and nuns who have spent much of their time in the bush do, and appreciate that there are two worlds of the spirit in the Solomons, and that sometimes they intermingle. It's a big decision for someone as young as yourself to make, and perhaps I'm being unfair in urging you to take it so early in your career. But I think you're ready to make up your mind. To do that you've got to experience both sides.'

‘How do I do that?'

‘I'll show you,' said Father Pierre.

Sister Conchita toiled up the narrow track leading to the top of Mount Austen, a few miles outside Honiara. Leaving the airport, she had driven inland up the unmade road as far as she could persuade the jeep to jolt along. Then Father Pierre had told her that she would have to go the rest of the way on foot by herself. He would wait for her for as long as it took.

‘But I don't know where I'm going or what I'm looking for,' she had objected.

The priest had shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing,' he had said. ‘But if you want to begin to understand Kella and what he stands for, you will have to put yourself in a position to learn about his faith.' He had seen the look of incomprehension on the nun's face and reluctantly had explained a little further.

‘On the hilltop there's a Malaitan community,' he said. ‘They're men and women who have come over from the Lau Lagoon to Guadalcanal. They don't own land on this island, so they're squatting in an area the local people don't want. Make no mistake, it's a long hike up to the summit and it's pretty rugged when you get there too.'

‘But what am I looking for?'

‘You'll know when you arrive — if you're lucky. The Lau people have transferred their culture to this area, remember that, and they'll be reluctant to disclose it to strangers. But this is the only place on Guadalcanal where you can get in touch with Kella, and maybe begin to understand him. On the other hand, you may just have a long and unpleasant walk for nothing. It's up to you!'

‘I'll do my best, father.'

‘I know you will. Just one word of advice — if you do get lost, don't follow any water-course up there. An apparently harmless stream could lead you straight into a swamp or a gorge. Don't worry; you ought to be safe enough. If I'm right you should be looked after all the way.'

The old priest would be drawn no further and, despite the voices screaming inside her not to go, the bewildered young sister had set off up the steep incline. Before she had gone more than a few paces Father Pierre had called her back. The old man's face was lined and strained.