Devil-Devil

Devil-Devil "Published in Great Britain in 2011 by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd."--T.p. verso. Full description

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THE GLORY SHELL

Sister Conchita clung to the sides of the small dugout canoe as
the waves pounded over the frail vessel, soaking its two
occupants. In front of her the Malaitan scooped his paddle into
the water, trying to keep the craft on an even balance. Sister
Conchita could see the coastal village a hundred yards away. The
beach was crowded with islanders. She wondered whether it had
been worth the perilous sea journey just to see the shark-calling
ceremony when all she wanted was a shower and a meal. Of
course it was, she told herself severely. If she intended serving
God in the Solomons then she had to get to know everything
about the islands.

The half-naked islander in front of her suddenly gave a scream
of terror. Turning, he thrust the paddle into the sister’s hands and
dived over the side of the canoe, disappearing into the frothing
white foam. Sister Conchita sat rigid with apprehension, the
pitted wooden blade clutched loosely in her hands. Bereft of
the islander’s control, the canoe started pitching and swinging
wildly.

For a moment all that Sister Conchita wanted to do was to
cower helplessly in the bucking wooden frame. Then her
customary resourcefulness took over. Snap out of it, she thought
grimly. You got yourself into this hole, better get out of it the
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same way, girl. Muttering a fervent prayer, she tightened her
grip on the paddle and thrust it with all her force into the water.
For the next five minutes the wiry young sister fought the sea.
The momentum of the current was sending her at breakneck
speed in the direction of the beach and the watching islanders,
but the waves were crashing over the canoe at an angle, buffeting
it from side to side. Several times the entire tree shell was
submerged beneath the surface, but on each occasion it surfaced
sufficiently for the sodden nun, coughing and gasping, to resume
her paddling.

Doggedly she kept the prow of the canoe pointing at the
beach. After an apparent eternity of choking, muscle-aching
effort the shore actually seemed to be getting closer. One final
shock of a wave descended on the canoe and hurled it sprawling
up into the shallows off the beach.

Half a dozen brawny, cheering Melanesian men in skimpy
loincloths splashed into the water and laughingly hauled the
canoe up on to the sand. The crowd of assembled islanders broke
into delighted applause. Dazedly Sister Conchita stood up and
limped out of the beached craft.

Gradually her vision cleared. She blinked hard. Standing in
front of her, joining vigorously in the acclamation among the
large crowd, was the islander who had discarded his paddle and
left her to fight the sea alone. Struggling for breath, Sister
Conchita fought for the words adequately to express her opinion
of him.

‘They’ve just been pulling your leg, sister,’ drawled a
contemptuous voice from behind her. ‘They wanted to see what
you were made of. You didn’t do so bad. Most sheilas just stay
in the boat screaming bloody murder.’

The nun turned to see John Deacon, unshaven and clad in
khaki shorts and shirt, regarding her coolly from the edge of the
crowd.

GRAEME KENT

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‘Mr Deacon,’ said Sister Conchita, trying to keep her balance.
Deacon was an Australian who managed a local copra plantation.
She did not like him, suspecting him of ill-treating his labourers.
However, she always tried, she suspected in vain, to conceal her
feelings.

‘Local custom,’ explained the stocky, broad-shouldered Australian
laconically. ‘Any stranger approaching the beach, the
guide jumps overboard. Actually the current is bound to bring
the canoe up on to the shore, but if you don’t know that, it can
be a mite disconcerting.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Sister Conchita.

‘At least you had a go,’ acknowledged the plantation manager.
‘The natives like guts.’

‘Have you come for the ceremony?’ asked Sister Conchita
politely, trying to change the subject. She did not wish to be
reminded too much of her undignified arrival.

The Australian snorted with derision. ‘I don’t believe in
superstition,’ he told her. His eyes scanned her tattered, oncewhite
habit. ‘Any superstition,’ he told her with emphasis. ‘I’m
here to pick up a cargo.’
Suddenly Deacon was swept aside by a phalanx of island
women, offering the nun rough blankets with which to dry
herself, together with a husk of coconut milk. In a chattering
group they conducted her to a site at the water’s edge and waited
eagerly with her. An artificial lagoon about twenty yards in
diameter had been constructed there with piles of stones marking
its edges, and an aperture on the seaward side to allow fish to
swim in and out.
As the nun watched, an old man in tattered shorts and singlet
emerged from one of the huts and walked down towards the
stones. A profusion of ancient bone charms rattled on a string
around his neck. A naked small boy of about ten years of age
accompanied him.

DEVIL-DEVIL
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‘Fa’atabu,’ muttered an awed woman. She translated for the
nun’s benefit. ‘This one is the shark-caller,’ she said, indicating
the old man.

Four islanders splashed out into the shallow waters of the shark
area. They were carrying large flat stones, which they banged
together under the water. Simultaneously the shark-caller started
chanting in a high, tuneless voice. The crowd, which had swollen
in numbers to several hundred, looked on in expectant silence.
For several minutes nothing happened. Then a reverent
murmur went round the crowd. The fins of half a dozen sharks
could be seen entering the enclosure.

The men, still clashing the stones together, fled from the
water. Women picked up a few baskets of raw pork and placed
them at the water’s edge before withdrawing hastily. Completely
unperturbed, the boy hoisted one of the baskets up on to his
shoulder and staggered out with it into the water, to a depth of
several feet. To the accompaniment of screams and shouts from
the crowd on the shore the sharks began to swim steadily towards
the boy.

Sister Conchita found herself clenching her fists at the sight.
The boy stood still for a moment. Then he reached up into the
basket and started feeding the sharks lumps of raw meat,
dropping these into the water just in front of him. As the sharks
approached, accepting the food, the boy began to caress them.
Throughout, the shark-caller continued his keening.

Sister Conchita looked on, fascinated by the sight. Out of the
corner of her eye she became aware of Deacon and two
Melanesians carrying a bulky sack along the ramshackle wooden
jetty protruding into the sea. A dinghy was tethered there,
bobbing in the water. Farther out to sea she could see the
Australian’s trading vessel at anchor.

The sister did not want to leave the ceremony but she thought
that it would only be courteous to say goodbye to the brusque
GRAEME KENT
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plantation manager. Reluctantly she slipped through the crowd
and made her way along the wharf. Deacon and his helpers were
trying to load the sack into the heaving dinghy. The islanders
were struggling to lower the sack to Deacon, waiting impatiently
below. As she approached, one of the Melanesians dropped his
end of the bulging sack. It burst open, disgorging a cascade of
seashells.

Sister Conchita increased her pace to see if she could help.
Some of the shells rolled across the wooden platform and nestled
at her feet. The nun stooped to pick them up.

‘Leave that; we’ll sort it!’ ordered Deacon, scrambling up from
the dinghy.

Sister Conchita ignored him. She had cradled three shells in
her hands and was examining them with increasing excitement
and anxiety. She would have recognized them anywhere. Before
she had left Chicago she had attended a museum display of South
Pacific seashells. The ones in her hands were a delicate golden
brown in colour, with a round base tapering exquisitely to a
point.

‘Are you deaf? I said I’ll take those!’ shouted Deacon,
lumbering towards her.

Sister Conchita was intimidated by the Australian’s looming
presence but stubbornly she clutched the beautiful shells to her.
‘I think not, Mr Deacon,’ she said, refusing to take a pace
backwards, although every instinct warned her to get away from
the plantation manager. ‘I believe these are glory shells,’ she went
on. ‘You have no right to be taking them off the island. They’re
a part of the culture of the Solomons.’

The Conus gloriamaris, or Glory of the Seas, was the rarest of
all seashells to be found in the Solomons, sought after in vain by
almost every islander. It fetched over a thousand dollars among
collectors. Its export was expressly forbidden by the government.
‘Mind your own business!’ grunted Deacon. ‘Or . . .’

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‘Or what, Mr Deacon?’ asked Sister Conchita, still standing
her ground, although she was conscious that she was trembling.
It had been a long time since she had been exposed to an
example of such apparently uncontrollable wrath.With relief she
realized that a group of village men, attracted by the altercation
between the two expatriates, had abandoned the shark-calling
ceremony temporarily and were hurrying along the jetty behind
them.

‘This is a Catholic village, Mr Deacon,’ said Sister Conchita
clearly. ‘I don’t think its inhabitants would take kindly to seeing