Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

  And Max knew they had come during rainy season, but somehow he hadn’t been expecting so much water. It was all right for Bea, who had the luxury of never having to venture far from home. She could always duck back into Mission House and dry off. But the rain was awful on a walkabout. It was short-tempered and unpredictable. First, he would hear a quiet hush, like an old friend calling you aside for a juicy piece of gossip. Looking up into the cracked hills of jungle, a thick, pulpy grey cloud would be dumping gallons of water over the treetops. The cloud would gather pace, engulfing more and more green, speckling, advancing like a great dust storm. And the hushing and rushing of the rain grew louder as it grew closer, until it wasn’t even rain, but only water, great sheets of water cascading from the sky.

  Holy Week arrived as a series of rainstorms rolled across from the East. Wind hissed through the palm leaves in the hills around the village, building up into a symphony of low rustling. It filtered through all the windows of Mission House until it was like being slowly poached at the centre of a great saucepan. The paths around the village turned into a thick orange sludge. Max gave up washing it off and instead went to bed at night with a crust of mud painted on his shins. In anticipation of Easter weekend, the church singers’ rehearsals reached unforetold proportions. Singing practice began at five in the morning, followed by more singing at church at noon, another session with the service at six, then more singing practice after sunset, stretching long into the hours of complete darkness. The singing competed with a horrible chorus of frightened monkeys, whirring birds, and New Dog, who had been stirred into a whimpering frenzy by all the activity. At night, the church singing devolved into low chanting in F minor. Max and Bea lay in their separate beds listening to the dirge from the bottom of the hill. And then the screaming. High-pitched, sinewy, girl’s screaming that unfurled in their dreams.

  In honour of Holy Week, Aru had invited a group of ‘devil chasers’ from the South-East. Max stood on the porch of Mission House and received this news with a creeping sense of dread. He had been fixing the bracket on their kettle-balance when Aru knocked on the door, and felt caught off-guard, smeared in ash and grease.

  ‘It is kastom,’ Aru explained solemnly, ‘to cleanse the village for Easter.’

  ‘But are they chasing the devils, or …’ Max watched Aru’s face carefully.

  ‘They expel demons.’

  ‘Aha,’ Max said, nodding, ‘but – how exactly?’ He imagined a ragtag band of witch doctors dressed in red mats with feathers in their hair, knocking at each door in turn, like carol singers.

  ‘They will purify the village. With holy water, and prayers.’

  ‘This happens every year?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Aru smiled. ‘We are lucky to receive them for the holy festival! They tour the South for a month. Many villagers travel here to receive their blessing.’

  Sure enough, a stream of bedraggled pilgrims arrived in Bambayot to welcome the devil chasers. They slept on the benches in Chief Bule’s hut and in Willie’s nakamal, as rain poured through holes in the thatch. Some camped in the shallow bush around the village, constructing lean-to shelters with palm leaves. Max watched as a sodden teenage girl dragging a twisted club foot behind her shivered under a flimsy umbrella made from pandan leaves.

  Max pointed the girl out to Bea later that afternoon as they huddled under a sheet of plastic tarpaulin. ‘Should we ask her to stay in Mission House?’ he shouted over the rain.

  Bea’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Where would she sleep?’

  ‘In the living room?’ Max wasn’t about to suggest that Bea give up her bedroom. He hoped he could lead her into her own generosity.

  Bea blinked. ‘Maxis, we can’t,’ she hollered, as fists of water thumped on the top of the plastic. They both winced, and Max motioned back to Mission House with his head. They walked up the hill in step with each other. ‘Imagine inviting her in and turning other people away,’ Bea said into his ear, bouncing on her tiptoes.

  As they crossed the threshold, she wiped a drip of water from the tip of her nose. ‘And it’s not like you think,’ she continued, ‘people aren’t crippled here. It’s normal to have something wrong with your body. She’d think you were mad if you tried to help her. Mabo-Mabon laughed when I tried to explain about beggars. She said they must be very stupid not to build themselves a house in the woods.’

  ‘I don’t know that proves anything,’ Max interjected. ‘There’s what’s “normal” and then there’s Christian duty.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s Christian duty –’ Bea peeled off her sweater ‘– and then there’s people who want to camp out. I’m sure she knows how much it rains at this time of year.’

  In the end, Max gave up the vestry to a family of pilgrims from Mangarisu. He brought a pile of books into Mission House and scribbled notes for his sermon as Bea darned clothes on the other side of the table, or added to her encyclopaedia of nonsense vegetables. Drenched well-wishers knocked on the door to greet the Pastor, or receive yaws injections. A huddle of giggling children took turns to tap nervously on the lintel and run away. In between these interruptions, Bea and Max played rounds of their favourite ‘island games’. These included Guess the Temperature, after which they would consult Max’s thermometer. Or Bea’s invention: Guess the Time. Sometimes Max hummed a song, and Bea would try to identify the tune. But they didn’t know an awful lot of songs in common, apart from hymns. And Aru was providing enough hymns as it was.

  On Good Friday, the rain drew aside for a brief interlude of dark, hot prescience before the next downpour. Bea assumed her usual place at the back of the church for Max’s service. The benches were narrow and splintery, with legs of apparently random lengths that tipped to and fro according to the weight of their occupiers. Bea had chosen the back pew for her own, mostly because she could lean against the wall, and thus mitigate some of the discomfort. The church was crowded, and latecomers were standing along the walls of the building, with dejected faces peeping through the window from outside. The girl with the club foot was nowhere to be seen, but the congregation was still a relative showcase of injuries and afflictions – missing teeth, elephantine legs, and unseeing eyes quivering like poached eggs.

  New Dog had followed Bea in, as usual, but on this occasion, she was followed by a series of strange mutts. They ran in and out through the doors during the service, skittering through legs and attempting to mount New Dog under Bea’s bench. New Dog warbled in long, loopy howls, and Max paused his preaching to shoot Bea a look of extreme contempt. Bea pulled an apologetic face at him. With the devil chasers now delivering the Sunday morning service, Max had been working furiously on his sermon from Romans 8 as his only opportunity to witness in his own church. He’d enlisted a young boy called Nelson to translate into Bunti so the Northerners could understand. Bea wasn’t convinced the kid wasn’t just making it up, but there were lots of nodding heads, so at least he wasn’t saying anything scandalous. Yet another dog slunk in through the doors and sniffed in the direction of New Dog, before Abel Poulet kicked it decisively in the snout. At one point in the service, Othniel Tari pushed through the crowd, left the church, and returned with a strip of dried palm he had knotted into a lasso. He tried to wrestle it over New Dog’s head, but she merely whinnied and wriggled, diving further under Bea’s bench. Othniel gave Bea a look of utter exhaustion and reproach, but Bea shrugged. It wasn’t her dog – she had never made any claims to authority over its behaviour.

  That evening, Bea came across what could only be described as an attempt at canine assault in Mission House garden. New Dog was barking, her teeth bared, at a pair of strange dogs, one a glossy black animal that looked like a Labrador, and the other, a lean, long-faced dog, the colour of a gingersnap. They were taking it in turns to fight with one another while the other perched up, climbing on top of New Dog from behind.

  Bea found herself holding a long branch cut from an avocado tree, shaking it at the animals. ‘Get out of here! Get away, get away,
go!’

  They flattened their ears against their heads and ran off towards a burning heap of compost at the other side of the village. Bea dropped the stick, all the anger flooding away from her body. New Dog was watching after her retreating suitors, her teeth still bared. Bea turned her back on New Dog and walked slowly into the house. The dog came up to the front door, peering inside the house. Bea carefully closed the door and went to lie on her bed, fat saltless tears running into the collar of her shirt.

  The devil chasers arrived on Saturday, while Bea and Max were eating lunch. They were a group of elderly women from Wansan, a remote village in the South-East, led by a woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in a heavy navy-blue skirt and a stiffly buttoned linen blouse. She wore heavy spectacles, and had short hair that was compensated by a fairly luxurious beard growing on the underside of her chin. She introduced herself as Marisa Bulebatan, and inferred that Max should try to stay out of their way while they were touring the island, doing the Lord’s work. Max smiled politely, while she waved to the hills around the village.

  ‘We will beat back the powers of darkness. The evil spirit of Ukunu has a strong power here,’ she said.

  Bea noticed Max was biting his lip so sharply it had blanched white.

  When they returned to their lunch, Max sat in silent prayer for several moments before sighing and picking up his fork. He motioned for Bea to start eating.

  He tugged a string of runner bean from his fork. ‘This Marisa lady, she seems –’ he trailed off.

  ‘Crazy?’ Bea filled in.

  Max spluttered out a shard of rice, smiling despite himself. ‘Well, yes. A bit.’ He lowered his voice, ducking his head closer to the table. ‘You’ve got to wonder about all this – “devil chasing”. I mean, it’s practically a pastime here. I’ve met a few of these types at home.’

  ‘Crazy people?’

  He laughed. ‘People who think they need to rid everyone of Satan. I’m not saying possession can’t happen, but it’s really very extraordinary. Casting out spirits requires a lot of training and a steady hand. Going around telling the whole island that Bambayot is inflicted with demons …’ he trailed off again.

  ‘You think it makes it seem as if you’re not doing a good job.’

  ‘Well, exactly. If we were swimming in demons here, you would think I’d have noticed by now and taken care of it myself. And Aru – with his band of Puritan children. “Devil chasers” are the last thing we need!’

  Bea raised her eyebrows in reply. It was the first time Max had said anything to her about the nightly screams from the church. She felt relieved he was finally talking about it, rather than pretending nothing weird was happening.

  ‘You would think the resident missionary should have some say in these things. Or else what’s the point in us being here?’ he muttered, concentrating on the beans again.

  On Sunday, the devil chasers opened their service with a festive musical piece. Two of the old ladies had synchronized a dance routine with strands of string, which they fluttered in the air to the beats of a tambourine. Bea found it oddly funny, and was pleased to see Max’s moustache was twitching as well. Once the singing had finished, Marisa invited several young girls from the village, dressed in their best, brightly coloured island dresses, to join the devil chasers at the front of the church. The girls clustered to the left of the altar, smiling and giggling, covering their faces in shy delight. Marisa approached the front of the group, and addressed the church at length in Bislama.

  Bea didn’t understand any of it, although she caught the word ‘relax’. People in the front pews began to stir. Bea looked towards Max, who gave her the briefest stiff smile. The woman sitting next to Bea nudged her with an elbow, and whispered in Bislama, ‘They are going to pray over us to release the evil spirit. Don’t close your eyes.’ Bea had an urge to hug this woman. Two of the old ladies moved to each side of the church to shut the doors. Bea clutched her hands behind her back and thought to herself, ‘I am about to be exorcized.’ A cold flash of horror ran down her spine.

  The group of girls on the left of the altar began to shake their hands, and Marisa approached them, laying her palm on their foreheads, calling on Jesus. The girls in turn fell backwards on to the floor, where they lay fitting and twitching, as if electrified. Those who were not being prayed over had started shrieking and grunting. Bea smothered a fierce urge to run for the door, and glancing desperately back at Max, she saw he was staring at her with wide eyes.

  She sat up straighter on the bench, wondering why it was, exactly, she was not to close her eyes. Marisa and the women at the front began to sway backwards and forwards. Suddenly, Marisa stepped over the seemingly unconscious girls, and let out an ear-piercing scream, holding her arms above her head, and calling out, ‘Oh, Jesus!’ The others clustered behind her.

  In single file, the devil chasers began walking along the central aisle of the church and down the sides of the pews, holding their hands out, screaming and wailing, some clicking their fingers, some pulling at their hair. They approached Bea slowly, holding their arms above the congregation. Some of the churchgoers were swaying from side to side, a song breaking out in the middle pews and spreading to the rest of the congregation. Some stood dumbly, looking ahead, as if undergoing a necessary but unpleasant medical treatment. Some of the younger children clutched their parents. Bea looked to Max, who was standing stock-still at the front of the church, his eyes bloodshot.

  Max watched as the girls at the front of the church primly closed the legs of those fitting on the floor, and turned his head away in disgust. These children, these women, exorcizing his flock, his wife! Bea had lost all the colour in her lips, and she was wringing her little wooden fan between her hands. He was, for the first time, grateful New Dog had followed her into church that day. It was sitting in front of her, resolutely gnawing at the fleas on its flank and farting. The devil chasers seemed hesitant to step over the dog, and when they approached the animal, they turned around and started walking back up the aisle, pausing to beat on the walls of the church, or grip a member of the congregation.

  After a further hour of wailing, and fitting and crying, and one final tambourine dance, Marisa concluded the service with a prayer of thanks. As soon as her devil chasers began to file out of the doorway, Max pushed through the churchgoers to reach Bea. New Dog sat up at his approach and circled his legs by means of a welcome. Max gave it a cursory kick on the backside.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Bea. Her hands felt clammy in his.

  Bea nodded.

  ‘Will you stay in Mission House this afternoon? I think –’ Max looked over his shoulder at the row of well-wishers queuing up outside the door ‘– it might be best. Let’s just keep you at home, nice and snug, OK?’

  Bea gave him a wan smile. ‘Happily,’ she said.

  Max strode past Marisa, who was receiving limp handshakes from the congregation. He went to find Aru. But he was not in his hut, nor on the log by Willie’s nakamal. He came across Aru’s nephew halfway up a guava tree by the coast, and he pointed Max towards the store. Max marched the hour’s walk north, indignation tickling in his chest.

  As he climbed the hill to Aru’s store, he spotted a glint of white teeth inside the building.

  ‘May I have a word with you?’ Max called into the metal shack.

  ‘Of course, Pastor,’ Aru’s voice came from within.

  The store was hot, and so dark that white stars furrowed his vision. The soap on the shelves was baking in the heat, and the cabin was heady with astringent perfume.

  ‘I think we should talk about the devil chasers,’ Max said, sitting on the painted red stool in the corner. He took care not to touch the scorching steel with his shoulder.

  ‘Have they completed their service?’

  ‘Yes, they have. And I don’t intend to ask them to stay.’

  Aru was silent.

  ‘Look –’ Max said, swallowing. His mouth was dry. ‘I appreciate your help. I re
ally do. I’m blessed to have your support.’

  Aru looked at his sandals.

  ‘But you must leave me to take care of any sort of devil, or demon, or what have you. Anything like that. Anything to do with Ukunu. This shall be my responsibility from now on.’

  Aru said nothing. So Max continued. ‘If I need help, I will consult you. But there must be no more devil chasing, or night-time prayers. At all.’

  Aru looked up at him sharply. ‘But I can continue to purify?’

  ‘Purify how?’ Max steeled himself.

  Aru thought for a moment. ‘With holy water. To cast away any evil.’

  Max sighed. ‘Sure. Go ahead. Water away. But please, no more prayers.’

  ‘Of course, Pastor.’

  That night, Max couldn’t sleep. He escaped from his mosquito net and opened the front door, grateful for the salty breeze, and the heavy night – warm and dark as ink. A distant moon cast a smudgy white halo in the sky. Max crouched by the front door, leaning his back on the frame. He took a deep breath. It was easy to take the natural beauty of the island for granted. He allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming about how he could instruct Willie to build a writing desk, when he heard the unmistakable crunch of bare feet on the coral surrounding the house. He held his breath unconsciously, his heart giving a tiny jump. He looked round the left side of the house, and the crunching stopped abruptly. It was probably one of those infernal dogs that had been hanging around the bushes, thought Max, squinting into the darkness.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. He heard a scuffing sound, and could make out two bare feet in the moonlight, sticking out from under the shadow of an orange tree. ‘Hello?’ he said again, standing upright. The feet shuffled forward, and revealed themselves as belonging to the round face of Filip Aru.

  Max started back. ‘Oh, good evening. Is everything OK?’