sand. Presumably they had landed on what seemed to be a deserted island to fish from the reefs. Something there had alarmed them greatly.
The two men splashed out into the shallow water and pulled Sister Conchita and her canoe up on to the beach, assisting her out.
‘Quick time,’ urged one of them worriedly. ‘Whitefella, himi sick too much!’
Sister Conchita hurried through the trees. As she moved over the rough scrub underfoot, her brain reacted like a camera, automatically taking snapshots of the bush area. She passed hibiscus bushes with scarlet and white flowers, giant ferns and tiny orchids. Coarse spiky grass grew everywhere to a height of several feet. She noticed one patch, a few yards long, which had been flattened, presumably by the weight of a canoe dragged up from the shore. They crossed several rock pools of rainwater.
The nun followed the men to a clearing among the trees a few yards inland. There the scream of cicadas sounded like humans in pain. The open area seemed to have been used as a camp. A one-man tent was pitched in the centre. There was a scoured petrol can three-quarters full of rainwater. The ashes of a wood fire smouldered close by. She noticed the charred remnants of several gutted small fish discarded among the embers. On the ground lay a long sapling fishing rod.
Sister Conchita hurried over to a sleeping bag outside the tent. A white youth lay inside it. He was perspiring freely and thrashing around, muttering incoherently, in the grip of a fierce hallucination. She heard him say ‘
Painim aut! Painim aut!
’ and then he was silent. She leant over the boy, wondering if he was dying.
Chapter Six
KELLA STOPPED PADDLING and looked ahead at the ruined logging island of Alvaro rising jaggedly out of the sea ahead of him. This is what
suulana ano asa
must be like, he thought with a shudder. The notorious bottom of the pool into which the souls of the dead sank was reputed to be a place of fire and torment where unmentionable practices were carried out and the forsaken ghosts of the dead wandered screaming in torment among the fires of the eternally damned.
The last time he had seen Alvaro had been during the war. Then it had been as beautiful as any of the other atolls in the Roviana Lagoon, and it had remained a tranquil haven for its inhabitants throughout the fighting, even if it had lain on a dangerous route, where for the best part of a year Japanese destroyers cut through the surrounding water and Mitsubishi G4M3 bombers soared vengefully overhead, seeking the small scouting American PT boats. The passage of a decade and a half had certainly changed that. Now the island was little more than a tortured scar, suppurating on the surface of the lagoon. The coral reef that had once surrounded it had been torn from the seabed, leaving only a few jagged, blackened stumps. The water surrounding them had been transformed into a slurping cauldron of hollowed-out oil-stained debris and floating mangled logs and rubbish. The narrow strip of beach was little more than a series of dumps for abandoned, rusty machinery cannibalized almost into extinction. Huge patches of discoloureddiesel oil mottled the scuffed surface of the sand. Floating in the water in a large wooden pen was the business of the island: piles of logs waiting to be collected and winched aboard by the timber ships when they arrived. On the far side of the pen, a launch bobbed at anchor. Painted in white letters on its side was the inscription
Alvaro Logging
.
The coastal mangrove swamps with their slender, distorted trees, being of no commercial value, were still in place and continued to ooze stinking mud and thrust their tangled roots grotesquely into the air, like the clutching talons of drowning witches. The mouth of a sluggish river coughed gobbets of red mud into the sea where its banks had been eroded by bulldozers. Smoke drifted over the island from dozens of bush fires lit to clear land in the interior.
Most
The two men splashed out into the shallow water and pulled Sister Conchita and her canoe up on to the beach, assisting her out.
‘Quick time,’ urged one of them worriedly. ‘Whitefella, himi sick too much!’
Sister Conchita hurried through the trees. As she moved over the rough scrub underfoot, her brain reacted like a camera, automatically taking snapshots of the bush area. She passed hibiscus bushes with scarlet and white flowers, giant ferns and tiny orchids. Coarse spiky grass grew everywhere to a height of several feet. She noticed one patch, a few yards long, which had been flattened, presumably by the weight of a canoe dragged up from the shore. They crossed several rock pools of rainwater.
The nun followed the men to a clearing among the trees a few yards inland. There the scream of cicadas sounded like humans in pain. The open area seemed to have been used as a camp. A one-man tent was pitched in the centre. There was a scoured petrol can three-quarters full of rainwater. The ashes of a wood fire smouldered close by. She noticed the charred remnants of several gutted small fish discarded among the embers. On the ground lay a long sapling fishing rod.
Sister Conchita hurried over to a sleeping bag outside the tent. A white youth lay inside it. He was perspiring freely and thrashing around, muttering incoherently, in the grip of a fierce hallucination. She heard him say ‘
Painim aut! Painim aut!
’ and then he was silent. She leant over the boy, wondering if he was dying.
Chapter Six
KELLA STOPPED PADDLING and looked ahead at the ruined logging island of Alvaro rising jaggedly out of the sea ahead of him. This is what
suulana ano asa
must be like, he thought with a shudder. The notorious bottom of the pool into which the souls of the dead sank was reputed to be a place of fire and torment where unmentionable practices were carried out and the forsaken ghosts of the dead wandered screaming in torment among the fires of the eternally damned.
The last time he had seen Alvaro had been during the war. Then it had been as beautiful as any of the other atolls in the Roviana Lagoon, and it had remained a tranquil haven for its inhabitants throughout the fighting, even if it had lain on a dangerous route, where for the best part of a year Japanese destroyers cut through the surrounding water and Mitsubishi G4M3 bombers soared vengefully overhead, seeking the small scouting American PT boats. The passage of a decade and a half had certainly changed that. Now the island was little more than a tortured scar, suppurating on the surface of the lagoon. The coral reef that had once surrounded it had been torn from the seabed, leaving only a few jagged, blackened stumps. The water surrounding them had been transformed into a slurping cauldron of hollowed-out oil-stained debris and floating mangled logs and rubbish. The narrow strip of beach was little more than a series of dumps for abandoned, rusty machinery cannibalized almost into extinction. Huge patches of discoloureddiesel oil mottled the scuffed surface of the sand. Floating in the water in a large wooden pen was the business of the island: piles of logs waiting to be collected and winched aboard by the timber ships when they arrived. On the far side of the pen, a launch bobbed at anchor. Painted in white letters on its side was the inscription
Alvaro Logging
.
The coastal mangrove swamps with their slender, distorted trees, being of no commercial value, were still in place and continued to ooze stinking mud and thrust their tangled roots grotesquely into the air, like the clutching talons of drowning witches. The mouth of a sluggish river coughed gobbets of red mud into the sea where its banks had been eroded by bulldozers. Smoke drifted over the island from dozens of bush fires lit to clear land in the interior.
Most
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