The Far Reaches (34 page)

“ 'Tis a party we need, Laddy,” she told the pup, which was resting across her feet. “ 'Tis a party, to bring at least a little joy into our lives, especially
now, as the day of the birth of our dear Lord and Savior approaches.” And, though she knew it was foolish, an indulgence of the first order in the face of death and danger, a birthday party for Jesus was what Sister Mary Kathleen would have.

The Perfect Nun

Break, day of God, Oh break!
The night has lingered long;
Our hearts with sighing wake,
We weep for sin and wrong:
O Bright and Morning Star, draw near;
O Sun of Righteousness, appear.

Break, day of God, Oh break!
The earth with strife is worn;
The hills with thunder shake,
Hearts of the people mourn;
Break, day of God, sweet day of peace,
And bid the shout of warriors cease!

—H
ENRY
B
URTON, A HYMN

Chief Kalapa was adamant. “I fear not, Sister,” he said, speaking in the Far Reaches dialect. “I will not let you convert my people to your Catholic God. They have enough trouble.”

“Faith!” Sister Mary Kathleen exclaimed in English, then changed to his language. “I do not wish to convert anyone. I asked to use the boathouse only to mark the birth of our Savior in a proper manner.”

“The missionaries who came before you used the boathouse to preach their gospel, too,” Chief Kalapa declared. “They yelled at us, told us we were all going to hell, and then sang their strange songs with harsh melodies. When we sang with them, we had to pretty their songs up as best we could. But no matter how hard we tried to make them welcome, the missionaries kept saying we were doomed to an afterlife of pain and misery. Their number one minister even pointed at me—
the chief!
—and said I was leading my people down the path of damnation. I asked him what I could do to change our path, and he said I had to rid myself of all but one wife. I instantly agreed, of course. We always agreed to everything they demanded. Of course, such agreement was only to make them stop yelling at us. Whenever a missionary came around to visit me, for instance, only Mori served food and drink while my other wives hid. Those white men were always so certain of everything. To them, it was all one way or the other.”

“I have known many Protestant missionaries,” Sister Mary Kathleen replied. “They do good work out here. Their doctors and nurses are firstrate.”

“They are sorcerers. As, I suspect, you are, too.”

“Sorcerers! Really, Chief Kalapa. That is silly. Those missionaries are
just dedicated men and women, eager to bring the word of God to this place. As for me, I am a simple nun, put here to serve in any way I can.”

“Perhaps you are, but how else other than magic could those missionaries have sustained themselves with their bleak outlook on life? Consider: They do not drink intoxicating beverages, they do not ficky-ficky except with their one wife, who is invariably ugly, they do not dance, they do not tell jokes or laugh. They do not even smile very much. When one of them took a village girl for a wife, I saw the union as a very good thing, that perhaps at least this one missionary might help the others to understand the way we live.”

Chief Kalapa sighed and shook his head, his mane of lustrous black hair draping itself around his neck. “It only caused him to be cast out by his fellows. This man later drowned, and the number one missionary said it was God who drowned him. This made us fear his God all the more, and so we converted. But now that the missionaries are gone, run away at the first whiff of the Japanese, I think we are much happier. We have their big god and our little gods. It is good to know all the gods. But no, Sister, a thousand times no. I have allowed you to teach our children, and you have done a fine job, but preach your Catholic faith? Never!”

“Ye must believe me, Chief,” Sister Mary Kathleen quietly insisted, “nothing like what ye fear will happen. I respect the way yer people live. Do I not bow to the totem before I enter the boathouse? Do I not let yer subchiefs come and tell the stories of yer island gods in the school? Ye say yer people converted to Christianity. Well, shouldn't everyone be allowed to celebrate the birth of Jesus on Christmas Day? Is it so much to ask?”

“It is very much to ask,” Chief Kalapa grumpily answered, though he recognized she had logic on her side. He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Let us say I agree. You will not berate us for drinking kava during the celebration?”

“Of course not. Ye may drink all ye want. I would imagine the marines will have their mangojack. I have gotten a whiff of their still, and it almost brings me to me knees.”

“How about ficky-ficky? Will you make us feel guilty that sometimes we do it without marriage? And may even do it that very night as a result of drinking kava and mangojack and because sometimes young women tempt us otherwise innocent men?”

She blushed even through her deep tan, accentuated all the more by her white corona and veil. “No, Chief. I am not here to judge anyone.”

“You are an odd missionary,” Chief Kalapa observed.

“Oh, Chief Kalapa!” she cried with exasperation. “I would hope by now
ye would understand I am not a missionary at all! My order is dedicated to the service of others, no matter who they are or what religion they practice. Preaching and proselytizing, we leave to the priests and preachers!”

Chief Kalapa gave it all a good think, then lapsed into pidgin to give his approval. “My word, then. I think more better peoples go along your Christmas jump-jump. Now you happy fella girl, Sister?”

Sister Mary Kathleen grinned. “Oh, I am, indeed. Thank ye, Chief!” She went down on one knee and kissed the chief's hand just as if he were a bishop, pope, or king, which he recognized at once to be a special honor from a nun.

She bowed her way out, leaving Chief Kalapa feeling charitable and benevolent, not to mention unburdened. But then Mori came to stand before him. “Why did you do this thing, husband?” she demanded in the cold voice she reserved for when he had done something irredeemable.

“What-what?” he demanded, for he had no idea what she was talking about.

“You gave the nun permission to celebrate on the eve of Christmas, did you not?”

“Yes, I most certainly did,” Chief Kalapa replied. “I thought it the proper thing to do, all in all. Why do you ask?”

Mori's face was stern, her lips pressed tight and her chin up, the expression she wore that Chief Kalapa dreaded the most. He knew he had blundered, though he still didn't know how. Mori was pleased to explain. “I ask because I wonder what kind of celebration you think she might manage. Does she own even a single chicken or pig? Does she know how to make kava? Can she dance the celebratory dances? Does she know how to invite the people and to let them know what is expected? There is much more to a celebration, husband, than to give permission to have one. It is called work, sir, and it is work that will surely fall on me and your other wives. So I ask you, what were you thinking?”

Chief Kalapa worried with his hands and licked his big lips. “I suppose I was not thinking at all,” he concluded.

“Indeed you were not,” Mori replied heavily “So now I and the other wives must begin the work, the very detailed work, in order that you and Sister can have this celebration. For your wise decision, we thank you, husband.”

Chief Kalapa chose not to reply, though he began to consider what gifts he might give to Mori and his other wives on Christmas Day. He no longer felt charitable and benevolent, and certainly not unburdened. Instead, he felt somewhat silly, which, he mused, was the effect wives often had on their
husbands, even when that husband was the chief and respected and adored by everyone else. He wondered, not for the first time, why he had collected three of the creatures and swore never to gain another, no matter how comely the girls or the fine gifts offered up by their fathers who wanted to be rid of them.

The celebration began on Christmas Eve with a rhythmic thumping on the traditional drums. Six men sat over the drums outside the boathouse and beat out an ancient cadence that started simply and built over the course of an hour to a crescendo of complex syncopation. Then, with the setting sun as a spectacular backdrop, a choir of women and then of men came to stand in front of the drummers. The singing was simple but glorious, the soprano trills of the women punctuated by the deep, velvety counterpoint of the men.

Aromatic smoke drifted past the choir and the drummers. It was produced by a spitted pig, basted with various lime and mango sauces, its dripping fat spattering into a bed of furiously glowing charcoal. Throughout the village, women were busily bringing to fruition various dishes including steamed
moi-moi,
boiled octopus, and lobster plus a kind of squash, roasted in stone ovens. There was also steamed chicken, dipped in coconut milk and wrapped in taro leaf. Whipped, sugared breadfruit mixed with morsels of fresh avocado was on hand for dessert.

When all the people were gathered, the songs sung, and the food prepared, Chief Kalapa came out on the porch of the boathouse. The drums ended abruptly. He waved his arms, called everyone in attendance his children (more than a few actually were), and then introduced Sister Mary Kathleen, though he said she needed no introduction except to remind everyone that she was a bride of Christ and therefore might be a sorcerer.

Sister Mary Kathleen put a hand to her heart. “Faith, Chief Kalapa,” she lightly scolded, “I am no sorcerer. I am but a simple Irish girl. But there was once another simple woman, this one of Israel, who was given a great honor by God and his angels, and that was to bear a divine living being who
would grow up to be our Jesus the Christ and Savior.” She made the sign of the cross and kissed her medallion and then, to accede to Chief Kalapa's demand for no preaching or proselytizing, handed the proceedings over to the presumably secular Mr. Bucknell. The British diplomat, reading from his Bible, intoned, in his crisp British accent, the ancient story from Luke while beside him a dancing girl in a red and green lava-lava acted out some of the parts, mainly the angels: “And it came to pass in those days…”

As Mr. Bucknell read the old story, the circle of watchers widened below, and a woman, a very fetching woman in a white lava-lava, was seen kneeling on a woven mat and cradling a sleeping baby. A muscular, tattooed, half-naked man stood protectively over her with his arms crossed. His chin was raised proudly and belligerently.

Josh, standing on the edge of the crowd with his family, sourly thought to himself,
If these fella boys could fight as well as they strut, we'd have no trouble with the Japanese.
The marines and their women were in attendance, and Josh searched through the crowd until he could see them. He wanted to make sure he knew where they were, if needed. The Ruka fella boys were also there, looking already a bit glassy-eyed from kava. Ready O'Neal was there as well with his fiddle, his eyes never leaving the nun.
Poor man,
Josh thought.

Mr. Bucknell continued telling the story, which seemed at first to have something to do with taxes, a concept alien to the people of the village, though they suspected it was nothing that they would like, nor would anyone else. The dancing girl changed her expression to one of sadness and placed her hands on her hips to indicate her displeasure.

“Husband,” Rose whispered into Josh's ear, “why do you Europeans put up with taxes?”

“It's our way of paying off the crooks we elect, Rose,” Josh explained. “Sometimes, they even do good things with our money, such as build roads, but not usually. One way or the other, it ends up in their pockets.”

“All right, then. Why do you elect crooks?”

“Because it's better to elect them than to have them try to take over. You see, in our world, crooks always end up running things, one way or the other. So we have elections to pretend we agree they should be in charge.”

“I find it odd the manner in which you rule yourself,” she said.

“Me, too,” he replied while thinking what he ought to do was to go over and politely ask the marines, the rotten mutineers, to at least carry around their rifles, although such might seem a bit strange at a Christmas celebration.
He worriedly looked up at the moonless sky. It was a perfect night for an invasion.

“And this shall be a sign unto you,” Mr. Bucknell went on, remarking about the shepherds above Bethlehem, another alien concept since none of the villagers had ever seen a sheep, although there were wild goats on the leeward side of the island. “Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and… “ The dancing girls started swiveling their hips most provocatively and raised their hands to the sky. The villagers cheered, glad that at least the angels knew how to dance.

Mr. Bucknell read on until he got to the visitors from the East, which the villagers especially liked since they figured they might be island folk. From the crowd came three fella boys, each carrying presents. One of them had a basket of mangos, one bore a monkeypod carving of Juki (who was the main goddess of Tahila), and the last fella boy held a boar's tooth necklace. They placed these most reverently at the knees of the woman holding the babe, then backed off to receive congratulatory bowls of mangojack from the marines. They knocked the drink back instantly.

With this accomplished, the choir and the drums went back to work, and Mr. Bucknell, accepting his own bowl of mangojack, was obliged to quit the story and descend to join the great feast. Using palmetto leaves for plates, the people of the village queued up at tables groaning with food. Just inside the shadows of the bush behind the boathouse, kava was also being dispensed, as well as more mangojack. Some of the men drank both, and it wasn't long before they were lying wherever their knees chose to buckle.