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There’d been many things from the machine he’d have liked and had it not been for his natural wariness he would have taken them. Property ownership was not a concept familiar to Kristian Anugu, a warrior of the Koki , a sub-clan of the Naasioi people who populated Papa’ala, in the southern centre of the island. He was the son of Osikaiang, the queen, who owned the land, the sky and the sea. Osikaiang owned, and Kristian Anugu fought to keep. That was the way it was and the way it had always been. If a man could not protect what he had and a stronger or more cunning man managed to take it away, then he deserved nothing. He’d first been attracted to the yelopela king’s long knife with its glittering handle and silken braid. Yet even as he reached for it something made him pause. The way the dead man’s hand still gripped it confirmed his instinct that the king’s spirit was still strong and one of the ensels who surrounded God was guarding the long knife. Kristian Anugu considered himself one of the most cunning warriors on the island, but that didn’t make him foolish enough to mess with the ensels . He’d been watching from the bush when the yelopela soldiers came with their long guns with knives on the front. Once, beneath a full moon, he’d seen two yelopelas holding a man from another tribe while a third plunged the gun-knife into his body. He had no wish to be discovered by them and treated in a similar fashion.
    Unlike other islanders who made alliance with one or the other, Kristian saw no difference between the yelopelas and the white soldiers who always stared at the sky through the glas bilong kaptens he coveted. They were outsiders and nothing to do with him, or his clan. If they trespassed on his lands on big mountain he would kill them if he believed they were weak, or avoid them if they were too strong. Sometimes the yelopelas would destroy crops or burn houses, but that didn’t change his attitude to them. More food might always be found and it was simple enough to build another house. Kristian’s attention had been drawn to the treasure by the chief yelopela who had quartered the crash site like a dog marking out his territory. He’d seen him worship the body of the yelopela king before going to the kes and spending much time furtively studying the contents. At first, Kristian had feared the man would remove the treasure. His heart had thundered like the waves on Loloho beach as he’d watched the soldier’s indecision before leaving the precious kes where it lay. When he’d been certain the men were gone he recovered the kes and set out for the longhouse on big mountain.
    That was when he made the mistake. His way had taken him past the road where God sometimes rained fire on the yelopelas , who appeared to have incurred His wrath more than the white soldiers they hunted. He believed this must be the case because the whites were left untouched. Or perhaps they were too few and insignificant? Normally a man might cross the road with ease, because there were not enough yelopelas to guard it properly. Today he’d been delayed by the same soldiers who had surrounded the crashed machine.
    After some thought he took a different route, using the bed of a stream a little to the north. By the time he reached big mountain he could hear the yelopelas and their Black Dogs, the native Bougainvilleans who supported them, not far behind. He was not overly concerned, he could outwit the yelopelas easily enough, but the Black Dogs were a different matter. They might be salt-water people from the coastal settlements, but even their limited skill would allow them to track him back to the longhouse. He must not let that happen. Maintaining his pace to stay just far enough ahead, he considered his position. If he abandoned the yelopela treasure it was possible he could talk his way past them, though it would cost him some pride. Normally, they did not kill without reason, however insignificant that reason might