wondered why you threw the sand into the air. It was a tribute to the eagles, wasn’t it?’
Kella nodded. Before he could answer, the two young men came running back from the direction of the pile of fishing nets. Their beatific expressions were enough to tell the waiting men that the ghost no longer rode in the fishing village. A ragged cheer went up from the assembly. The headman seized Kella’s hand and pumped it.
‘Thank you,
aofia,’
he said fervently. ‘Tonight we shall have a feast in celebration. Will you stay for it?’
Before Kella could answer, there was a cry from the crowd. One of the men pointed a tremulous finger at the sky over the island of Savo. Far away in the distance across Ironbottom Sound, the outline of a large bird soaring on a current of wind could just be made out.
‘An eagle!’ whispered the man. ‘It is carrying the ghost of the old woman over to Momolu!’
Cries of reverent acquiescence came from the others. Kella knew that the bird was too far away to be identified. It could be a hawk, or some other small bird of prey. Or just possibly it might be an eagle carrying another tired soul to the fabled delights of the heavenly island. In any case, it was time he was leaving. There was only one more task to perform before he went. He did not expect any great results from such a long shot, but all the same he summoned the compliant headman.
‘I must go,’ he told him.
‘Let us know if ever we can help you,’ said the other man.
‘Count on it,’ Kella said.
He shook the other man’s hand, waved farewell to him and climbed back on to the main road heading towards the town, mulling over this latest contribution. It was imperative that he get back to Malaita immediately, investigate the deaths of the two villagers and, most important of all, find out what Mayotishi had meant by a third killing.
He stopped and looked back at the village. Already life was proceeding normally. The shade of the old woman who had haunted it so recently no longer hovered over the huts. Some of the men were pushing their canoes out into the sea. Others had returned to the recently
tabu
site of the fishing nets and were starting to assess and repair them again. Older men were chattering cheerfully in groups, already embellishing and exaggerating the story of the
lau agalo
sending-off ceremony that had almost gone so badly wrong.
It was important not to have preconceptions and imperative to take nothing for granted, thought Kella. If there had only been one old villager remaining who knew the truth of the old woman’s antecedents and tribal loyalties, the villagers might have investigated the matter of the eagle gods for themselves. He had only been the catalyst, looking at things through fresh eyes. Yet there was no denying the importance of his brief contribution. Kella was a modest man and he always gave the spirits their full due. As a boy he had been shown the path granted to few others. The old custom priests who had trained him in their mountain recesses had taught him how to approach the Lau gods with confidence as a go-between. The success of his recent efforts at the fishing village only underlined the importance of his continuing to use his gifts as the
aofia
to bring peace and law to Malaita.
That meant that above all he must track down and apprehend this killman who was causing so much distress on his home territory. Furthermore, he must do so without taking Chief Superintendent Grice and the other white policemen into his confidence. If he was to be free to use his literally god-given gifts for the benefit of the islanders, he could not risk being restricted by the expatriates’ often inexplicable regulations, even if the results did not bode well for him in the carefully supervised and seldom deviating world of the old colonials.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ asked a voice.
Kella looked up. One of the capital’s small fleet of ancient taxis was waiting at a lopsided angle at the side of
Kella nodded. Before he could answer, the two young men came running back from the direction of the pile of fishing nets. Their beatific expressions were enough to tell the waiting men that the ghost no longer rode in the fishing village. A ragged cheer went up from the assembly. The headman seized Kella’s hand and pumped it.
‘Thank you,
aofia,’
he said fervently. ‘Tonight we shall have a feast in celebration. Will you stay for it?’
Before Kella could answer, there was a cry from the crowd. One of the men pointed a tremulous finger at the sky over the island of Savo. Far away in the distance across Ironbottom Sound, the outline of a large bird soaring on a current of wind could just be made out.
‘An eagle!’ whispered the man. ‘It is carrying the ghost of the old woman over to Momolu!’
Cries of reverent acquiescence came from the others. Kella knew that the bird was too far away to be identified. It could be a hawk, or some other small bird of prey. Or just possibly it might be an eagle carrying another tired soul to the fabled delights of the heavenly island. In any case, it was time he was leaving. There was only one more task to perform before he went. He did not expect any great results from such a long shot, but all the same he summoned the compliant headman.
‘I must go,’ he told him.
‘Let us know if ever we can help you,’ said the other man.
‘Count on it,’ Kella said.
He shook the other man’s hand, waved farewell to him and climbed back on to the main road heading towards the town, mulling over this latest contribution. It was imperative that he get back to Malaita immediately, investigate the deaths of the two villagers and, most important of all, find out what Mayotishi had meant by a third killing.
He stopped and looked back at the village. Already life was proceeding normally. The shade of the old woman who had haunted it so recently no longer hovered over the huts. Some of the men were pushing their canoes out into the sea. Others had returned to the recently
tabu
site of the fishing nets and were starting to assess and repair them again. Older men were chattering cheerfully in groups, already embellishing and exaggerating the story of the
lau agalo
sending-off ceremony that had almost gone so badly wrong.
It was important not to have preconceptions and imperative to take nothing for granted, thought Kella. If there had only been one old villager remaining who knew the truth of the old woman’s antecedents and tribal loyalties, the villagers might have investigated the matter of the eagle gods for themselves. He had only been the catalyst, looking at things through fresh eyes. Yet there was no denying the importance of his brief contribution. Kella was a modest man and he always gave the spirits their full due. As a boy he had been shown the path granted to few others. The old custom priests who had trained him in their mountain recesses had taught him how to approach the Lau gods with confidence as a go-between. The success of his recent efforts at the fishing village only underlined the importance of his continuing to use his gifts as the
aofia
to bring peace and law to Malaita.
That meant that above all he must track down and apprehend this killman who was causing so much distress on his home territory. Furthermore, he must do so without taking Chief Superintendent Grice and the other white policemen into his confidence. If he was to be free to use his literally god-given gifts for the benefit of the islanders, he could not risk being restricted by the expatriates’ often inexplicable regulations, even if the results did not bode well for him in the carefully supervised and seldom deviating world of the old colonials.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ asked a voice.
Kella looked up. One of the capital’s small fleet of ancient taxis was waiting at a lopsided angle at the side of
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