Devil-Devil (18 page)

23

BROTHER JOHN

Crowded in with Kella in the back of the jolting Ford truck were a dozen islanders, three pigs and several chickens. The vehicle was making its scheduled daily run along the narrow ribbon of winding road between the trees from the Malaitan district station of Auki to the jetty at the road-head, opposite the artificial island of Sulufou. The road extended for seventy miles. When Kella's father had been a boy it had taken three days by canoe from the district station to the lagoon containing the artificial islands.

Most of the passengers were returning from selling their garden produce at the weekly indoor market in Auki. Kella had been dropped off at the district station in the small hours of the morning by a subdued Deacon. He had picked up a change of clothing, a pack and some supplies at the Chinese store, before starting out on his journey to Ruvabi mission. He had broken his journey in this manner in case anyone had seen him on the Australian's vessel. The bush telegraph would soon spread the news that Kella was back but the sergeant still wanted his forthcoming journey to be as unobtrusive as possible.

He had no idea how the authorities would react to the abrupt way in which he had left Honiara. After all, Grice had told him to take some leave, even if the chief superintendent had been drunk at the time. Kella listened with half an ear to the monsoon rain pounding down on the roof of the truck and wondered if they would even make it to the end of the road. After this weather the rivers they would have to cross would be swollen and overflowing their banks.

The Ford continued on its hazardous, jolting way along the road, stopping to pick up more laden passengers whenever it was flagged down. After little more than an hour it shuddered to a halt at the first river.

All the passengers got out and joined the driver and his youthful assistant in surveying the rushing waters covering the surface of the road. The driver, a grey-haired Kilisakwalo man called Paul, stripped off his shirt and sandals and plunged ahead through the curtain of rain, waist-deep in the water.

Several times the force of the flood almost swept him off his feet, but the driver waded on grimly, flailing with his arms to retain his balance. He reached the far side and then stopped thoughtfully, his chest pumping with his exertions, mentally plotting the best track for the Ford to follow. From experience he knew that if he turned and drove back to Auki, as he should, his passengers would have to pay for their food and lodging at the district centre that night, and few of them could afford that. The driver waved to his suddenly apprehensive-looking assistant to get into the driver's seat and take the Ford across to him.

‘Quick time!' he shouted in pidgin.

With a great grinding of gears, the nervous seventeen-year-old edged the truck into the river. Painfully slowly, he steered the vehicle into the path of the flash flood, trying to follow the route being indicated by the frantically gesticulating Paul on the far side. Muddy water swirled around the truck, entering the cab and pouring out of the other side.

Half-way across, the engine cut out. The now stationary vehicle started to rock precariously in the path of the torrent thundering down from the mountains. Kella and the other male passengers pushed their way out through the water and put their shoulders to the back of the truck, straining to force it forward as the youth struggled to restart the engine. Several of the men then darted ahead of the vehicle and attempted to provide a firm bottom to the ford by piling large stones on top of one another, but most of these rocks were soon swept aside by the gushing water.

There was a creak and a groan and a coconut tree, its roots swept away by the flood, toppled into the water. A cheer went up from the passengers, followed by a mad rush to gather the nuts before they were lost from sight. According to custom, the coconuts were now public property, as the tree was no longer attached to the owner's land. Several of the islanders swam across to the remains of the palm tree, caught in the rocks. They tore off the nuts from the branches and threw them to the bank.

It was some time before the driver, aided by Kella, could persuade the passengers to return to the marooned truck. Soaked and buffeted by the current, they pushed as hard as they could, but the vehicle would not budge. Through the driving rain the police sergeant was dimly aware of someone coming up behind him. He was too busy trying to prevent the rocking vehicle from toppling over to pay much attention to the new arrival. Then a massive shoulder was placed against the tailboard next to him, and huge hands grasped the back of the vehicle.

‘Heave!' ordered a stentorian voice.

Obediently the assembled passengers pushed. The truck stopped rocking and even began to inch forward. Under the panic-stricken ministrations of the terrified young driver the engine reluctantly whined into life. Kella and the others continued to thrust forward. Slowly the Ford crawled towards the far side and up the bank on to the road.

Kella scrambled after the vehicle. He turned to peer through the rain at the newcomer who had been instrumental in getting the truck restarted. He found that he was looking at a giant of a man. Kella was big, but the other man towered over him and was much broader. He was about thirty, wearing the distinctive attire of a member of the Melanesian Brotherhood, black shirt and
lap-lap
, and a wide black and white belt.

Before the war this had been the uniform of the Solomon Islands Police Force. It had been adapted for the Brotherhood by Ini Kopuria, a former policeman who had founded the evangelistic order. Only Melanesians were allowed to join. Each brother spent a few years dedicated to poverty, celibacy and obedience, touring the islands, preaching and living off the land, before returning to village life.

The big man extended a massive hand. ‘I am Brother John,' he said. ‘I come from Santa Isabel.'

‘Ben Kella,' said Kella, shaking the massive hand.

‘Of course! Everyone on Malaita knows you, Sergeant Kella.'

Despite the cascading rain, the other passengers remained where they were, goggling in anticipation at the two big men, as if waiting for something to happen. The mission worker looked at Kella with placid interest. He had the quiet, built-in confidence of a big man who was also well coordinated and knew that he was capable of meeting most physical challenges.

It was the grey-haired driver who broke the silence. ‘Let's go!' he shouted, leaping into the cab as his assistant squirmed gratefully across to the other seat.

Brother John took care to sit next to Kella in the back of the Ford as it continued on its jolting journey along the slippery, branch-strewn road.

‘Where are you going, sergeant?' he inquired.

‘Ruvabi mission and afterwards the high bush.'

‘Then we can walk together for a while when we reach the road-head. I'm visiting the next saltwater village. An old man is dying and the family has sent for me.'

The big missionary relapsed into a comfortable silence. Kella was aware of the surreptitious glances being directed at them by the other passengers. Everybody knew that it had been a member of the Melanesian Brotherhood who had been murdered next to the bush waterfall six months before, and that Kella had been accused of negligence leading to the islander's death. The passengers were wondering if Brother John had been sent to extract some sort of payback. The missionary's broad, shining face betrayed nothing as he sat in the noisy, stinking vehicle with them. Kella wondered what lay in store for him that day.

The truck crossed the remaining rivers without mishap. Finally it disgorged its passengers and their animals at the road-head by the wharf. It was still raining. Through the mist covering the lagoon Kella could hardly make out his home village.

Most of the other passengers from the Ford were making their way down to the water's edge to canoes waiting to take them back to their artificial islands. Kella took the track leading from the shore into the bush. Brother John caught up with him and fell into step with the police sergeant, handling a heavy backpack with ease.

‘Not going home first then?' he asked pleasantly.

‘I have work to do,' said Kella shortly.

‘Me, too,' said the other man.

Kella stopped and faced Brother John. ‘If you've been sent to have anything out with me,' he said, ‘we might as well do it now.'

‘You misunderstand me completely, Sergeant Kella,' protested the massive missionary. ‘I'm just here to enjoy your company for a brief time; two pilgrims on the road together.'

They said no more until they were deep into the closely packed trees. The track was just wide enough for the two men to walk along it side by side through the vegetation. The interwoven overhanging foliage deflected most of the rain but they could hear it thudding down above them, like the sound of many women pounding taro with cooking sticks.

Brother John reached back into his pack with a long, sinewy arm and produced a hunk of sweet potato wrapped in a banana leaf. He undid the covering and broke the vegetable into two pieces. He offered one portion to Kella. The sergeant took it and muttered his thanks. The two men ate as they walked.

‘You know,' said Brother John judiciously after a while, ‘you're wrong to blame yourself for the death of Brother Leoni all those months ago.'

‘Who says I do blame myself?'

‘It's obvious. The Brotherhood had observers at the white man's court of inquiry. You took most of the blame on your own shoulders.'

‘So I should have. As a
neena
he was under my protection.'

‘I think not,' said Brother John.

Kella stopped. ‘What do you know about it?' he asked.

‘I knew Brother Leoni,' said the big evangelist. ‘He was a good man, but he had one great fault. He liked to interfere. As a result, he was always turning up in places where he had no right to be. That was what was happening when you met him up in the bush that day, wasn't it?'

‘Does it matter?' asked Kella, starting to walk again.

Brother John caught up with the police sergeant with two enormous strides. ‘It does if you're tearing yourself up inside about it,' he said. ‘You may be the
aofia
but you can't hold yourself responsible for every outsider who is killed on Malaita.'

‘Who says I do?' asked Kella.

‘Do you know what I think happened on that day?' asked Brother John.

‘I can't stop you talking.'

‘I think', went on the giant, ‘that Brother Leoni disobeyed the mission's instructions and went up into the Kwaio high bush, preaching to the islanders. You heard that he was up there and you went after him, trying to get to him before he got into trouble with Pazabosi and his followers. Am I right so far?'

Kella looked straight ahead and said nothing. Brother John nodded and continued, unperturbed.

‘I think you found Leoni up at the waterfall by the killing ground. By that time he had infuriated the bushmen with his presence and they wanted to kill him.'

The memory of that dreadful morning, so long pushed to the back of the sergeant's mind, emerged in all its stark terror once again. He had found the Melanesian missionary, bruised and cut, surrounded by a dozen armed bushmen. Kella had managed to persuade them to release their prisoner. It had been obvious that as soon as Leoni left the village they would pursue him and hunt him down like a wild animal.

Kella had ordered Leoni to make his way down to the comparative safety of the coastal strip. He had then remained with the furious bushmen, trying in vain to pacify them before he had gone in search of the Melanesian missionary, but he had been unable to find the stubborn proselytizer.

‘From what we've been able to piece together at the Melanesian mission,' went on Brother John, ‘at some stage you and Brother Leoni became separated. Knowing him as I did, he probably deliberately gave you the slip and doubled back on you, and returned to the killing ground. Instead of making for the shore, he went the other way, up to the
faatai maea
next to the waterfall.'

Kella suddenly found himself taking up the thread of the story as Brother John relapsed into a sympathetic silence.

‘Pazabosi was conducting a custom meeting there,' the sergeant said, haltingly at first but then with increasing rapidity. ‘In the old man's eyes Brother Leoni had committed sacrilege by entering the killing ground and attempting to preach there about the Christian God.'

‘He had a point,' grunted Brother John. ‘So he and his men killed Brother Leoni and left his body as a warning to others. Is that what happened?'

‘Just about,' nodded Kella. ‘By the time I got there, it was all over.' Now that he had told someone it seemed as if a weight had been lifted from him.

‘Why didn't you explain all this at your court of inquiry?' demanded Brother John with exasperation. ‘That would have taken all the blame off you. You were a hero even going after Leoni.'

‘You know how it is,' said Kella. ‘I couldn't talk about custom ways at a white man's court. How could I explain it to them? They know nothing of the islands.'

‘No,' agreed Brother John. ‘They never have.'

‘Anyway,' said Kella, ‘I deserved to be punished. I'm supposed to be the island peacemaker. I didn't make much of a job of it with Leoni.'

‘That's absolute nonsense!' thundered the big evangelist, suddenly roused. ‘You can't impose order over the whole of Malaita by yourself.'

‘I can try,' said Kella.

They walked on for another hour until they reached a fork in the track.

‘This is where our ways divide,' said Brother John. He placed a hand on the other man's shoulder. ‘Take care, my friend.'

There was an air of calm inevitability about the big man. Kella sensed that their meeting today had not been entirely accidental.

‘You've been looking for me, haven't you?' he asked. ‘You wanted to reassure me that Brother Leoni's death wasn't my fault.'