She decided that it was also time that she looked in on Father Pierre.
The old priest was lying on the iron bedstead beneath rough blankets in his tiny simple room when the nun took him in a glass of lemonade. There was a basketwork chair on the old woven carpet. A wooden cross was suspended on bush twine from a wall. An oil lamp with a trimmed wick stood on a small table. Termite-infested books were piled everywhere on the floor.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Conchita, handing her patient the glass.
‘Better,’ whispered the old priest unconvincingly. He was a thin, wizened man in his eighties. A few wisps of white hair were drawn across his scalp. A pair of spectacles with bottle lenses balanced precariously on his nose. For such an aged man his face was curiously smooth and untroubled, like a river pebble worn smooth by the rushing water of time. He was wearing an old-fashioned white nightgown, buttoned at the neck despite the heat. He had arrived in the Solomons from Alsace-Lorraine more than fifty years before. Over the ensuing decades he had carved Ruvabi Mission almost single-handedly from the bush.
‘I wish you would let me take you to the hospital in Honiara,’ said Sister Conchita as she smoothed the old priest’s pillow.
‘Don’t fuss, girl,’ said Father Pierre calmly. ‘You’re merely witnessing the incipient ravages of old age. My end isn’t near yet. Have you heard anything more about the death of the so-called Papa Noah?’
Conchita shook her head and took the proffered half-empty glass from the old man. The best part of a week had passed since she had returned from the lethal feast at the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark. She had sent a radio message to the mission’s headquarters in Honiara recounting the events she had witnessed, but so far had heard nothing in return.
‘It’s a strange business,’ said Father Pierre, his voice growing weaker. ‘These breakaway churches are usually a bit of a joke, but when someone gets murdered, that’s a different matter.’
‘I suppose Shem, the Tikopian, will take over the sect now,’ said Sister Conchita idly.
‘Who?’ asked the old priest.
‘You remember I told you that there was a Tikopian claiming to be Papa Noah’s son? He even called himself Shem, like Noah’s son in the Bible.’
‘You never mentioned that he was a Tikopian,’ said Father Pierre, trying to sit up. ‘What did he look like?’
Sister Conchita tried to recall the features of the broad-shouldered, shambling Polynesian. She did her best to describe him to the old priest. Father Pierre listened in silence until she had finished.
‘I wish you had told me this earlier,’ was all he said.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was important,’ said Sister Conchita, gently easing the distracted man back on to his pillow. She was pretty sure that she had mentioned it, but Father Pierre tended to forget things
‘Of course it’s important,’ said Father Pierre weakly. ‘It’s probably the most important thing about this whole business. You must tell Ben Kella about it at once, if you haven’t already done so. And while you’re about it, tell that big Anglican Guadalcanal man, Brother John, too.’
‘Brother John already knows,’ said Sister Conchita soothingly. ‘He was asking Papa Noah all sorts of questions at the feast about the future of the sect.’
‘That makes it worse,’ breathed Father Pierre. ‘He’s a shrewd fellow. So is Sergeant Kella, fortunately. You’d better send for him. That’s it! Send for Ben. Tell him there’s a Tikopian connection. There’s trouble on Tikopia. The Anglicans thought that they’d converted the island to Christianity, but if you ask me, it didn’t quite take. That’s why there’s going to be trouble.’
His head fell to one side and soon he was asleep. Sister Conchita smoothed his pillows once more, and looked down at the sleeping man. She admired Father Pierre more than any other man she had ever known. She
The old priest was lying on the iron bedstead beneath rough blankets in his tiny simple room when the nun took him in a glass of lemonade. There was a basketwork chair on the old woven carpet. A wooden cross was suspended on bush twine from a wall. An oil lamp with a trimmed wick stood on a small table. Termite-infested books were piled everywhere on the floor.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Conchita, handing her patient the glass.
‘Better,’ whispered the old priest unconvincingly. He was a thin, wizened man in his eighties. A few wisps of white hair were drawn across his scalp. A pair of spectacles with bottle lenses balanced precariously on his nose. For such an aged man his face was curiously smooth and untroubled, like a river pebble worn smooth by the rushing water of time. He was wearing an old-fashioned white nightgown, buttoned at the neck despite the heat. He had arrived in the Solomons from Alsace-Lorraine more than fifty years before. Over the ensuing decades he had carved Ruvabi Mission almost single-handedly from the bush.
‘I wish you would let me take you to the hospital in Honiara,’ said Sister Conchita as she smoothed the old priest’s pillow.
‘Don’t fuss, girl,’ said Father Pierre calmly. ‘You’re merely witnessing the incipient ravages of old age. My end isn’t near yet. Have you heard anything more about the death of the so-called Papa Noah?’
Conchita shook her head and took the proffered half-empty glass from the old man. The best part of a week had passed since she had returned from the lethal feast at the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark. She had sent a radio message to the mission’s headquarters in Honiara recounting the events she had witnessed, but so far had heard nothing in return.
‘It’s a strange business,’ said Father Pierre, his voice growing weaker. ‘These breakaway churches are usually a bit of a joke, but when someone gets murdered, that’s a different matter.’
‘I suppose Shem, the Tikopian, will take over the sect now,’ said Sister Conchita idly.
‘Who?’ asked the old priest.
‘You remember I told you that there was a Tikopian claiming to be Papa Noah’s son? He even called himself Shem, like Noah’s son in the Bible.’
‘You never mentioned that he was a Tikopian,’ said Father Pierre, trying to sit up. ‘What did he look like?’
Sister Conchita tried to recall the features of the broad-shouldered, shambling Polynesian. She did her best to describe him to the old priest. Father Pierre listened in silence until she had finished.
‘I wish you had told me this earlier,’ was all he said.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was important,’ said Sister Conchita, gently easing the distracted man back on to his pillow. She was pretty sure that she had mentioned it, but Father Pierre tended to forget things
‘Of course it’s important,’ said Father Pierre weakly. ‘It’s probably the most important thing about this whole business. You must tell Ben Kella about it at once, if you haven’t already done so. And while you’re about it, tell that big Anglican Guadalcanal man, Brother John, too.’
‘Brother John already knows,’ said Sister Conchita soothingly. ‘He was asking Papa Noah all sorts of questions at the feast about the future of the sect.’
‘That makes it worse,’ breathed Father Pierre. ‘He’s a shrewd fellow. So is Sergeant Kella, fortunately. You’d better send for him. That’s it! Send for Ben. Tell him there’s a Tikopian connection. There’s trouble on Tikopia. The Anglicans thought that they’d converted the island to Christianity, but if you ask me, it didn’t quite take. That’s why there’s going to be trouble.’
His head fell to one side and soon he was asleep. Sister Conchita smoothed his pillows once more, and looked down at the sleeping man. She admired Father Pierre more than any other man she had ever known. She
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