52. Resolution

“I’m really sorry, Kara,” I replied, “I was miles away. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“That’s OK. I was worried that you were bored. You know that Jim asked me to look after you and, of course, I would do that as a favour for him. But I thought I should tell you that I think you’re a nice man. When you were here last time I thought you were clever and quiet and you have a great sense of humour. I wouldn’t want you not to have a good time.”

“I think you over-estimate me,” I said, “I didn’t mean the story about the chicken feathers to be funny, you know.”

“It wasn’t that. It’s more the way you say things. You think differently from the other people here.” She smiled at me. “Most people just want to be with Jim for what they can get out of it.”

“Well, they’re certainly getting their money’s worth this evening.”

“Yes, it’s one of the biggest parties he’s had since I’ve known him. And Iliva has really put on a feast. This food is delicious.”

Looking around, we could see that the party was beginning to liven up. In the centre of the tent, the tables had been pushed back and a space cleared for dancing. Half a dozen musicians had begun to play and a few people were already on the floor. Lukuni and Lomu were busily tucking into the fruit desert and Dana was snuggled on Manaku Jim’s lap.

Across the table, Sato, the footballer was telling a joke to a crowd who were laughing uproariously.

“Excuse me a second,” Kara said, “I need to visit the ladies' room.”

Left alone, my mind strayed back to my thoughts of Our Granny. Netto was right that She had created a singleness of mind in the Village that ensured that people would work together for more than their own short-term gains. Even if there was no way of knowing for certain what Our Granny really meant or wanted, perhaps it was worth behaving as if one knew just to provide some framework for one’s life. Or, more precisely, for the life of the Village.

As my father had observed, Our Granny provided a sort of tent within which we could shelter from uncertainty and, as long as it provided enough space, then that was a worthwhile sort of thing. I looked around me at my fellow guests and it was clear that for them, being in a tent was something they relished. Listening now, I could hear that the storm that had threatened in the afternoon had arrived with distant thunder and the patter of raindrops on the roof of the marquee.

Yes. Tents were definitely useful and I could see that this one sheltered a cross section of the Village. There were the Gardeners and Manaku Jim. I could also see the Guardian Captain, Bambafama sitting next to Lomu and there were footballers, their wives and girl friends and even ordinary people like Bahla, Fasi and Langanipa.

As long as there was a tent and everyone was happily inside it, what was the harm?

Perhaps that was the problem. There wasn’t just one tent and those who were excluded from this one – the people who had been re-housed from the shanty towns into the new townships where they could be surveyed and controlled, for example – were at this very moment probably plotting its downfall.

Both Netto and Hama Batu had asked me to choose which side I was on. I could not imagine myself lining up with the Gardeners and their system of greed and exploitation but, at the same time, I didn’t think that Hama Batu, in his bivouac in the jungle with his aversion to change and progress was any better. Why did one have to choose between these two versions of Our Granny?

The benefit, I could imagine Netto and Hama Batu answering in unison, was that she would look after us as a real grandmother cares for her children. She would wisely tell us what to do and guide us in what to think. Without Our Granny (or someone like her) how would we know right from wrong?

And yet that argument was not valid. As long as we had Our Granny to think for us we would remain in precisely that state: childhood. As long as we had a grandmother to tell us what to do, we remained children squabbling over our toys. We could never really grow up and take responsibility for our own actions and know right from wrong. What we really needed to do, perhaps, was to begin to think like grownups about the way we lived.

Perhaps, without the comfort of Our Granny’s authority, intelligent people like Hasiki and Langanipa could be encouraged to think about what the island needed and not just focus on the technical interest of what ever they were asked to do by the Gardeners.

We needed to understand what was necessary for the Village and the island. If there was a shortage of fuel for the Tractor, that needed to be accepted and the consequences evaluated. If we were clearing the forest in a way that would ultimately destroy the Village, then that had to be managed. It was not just wrong to rely blindly on the idea that Our Granny would provide, it was stupidity bordering on the insane.

Netto had said that there were people who believed that the island had been created from an Idea. If that were so, where had that Idea come from? It must have contained every detail of the island as it would exist at every point in time: every drop of water that had eroded a particle of stone, every beetle that had chewed on a leaf. The Idea was much harder to explain than the island was. In fact the whole concept was ridiculous. No. Not ridiculous, pointless.

It meant that, in the final analysis, there was no possibility of understanding anything at all. Even things that we thought we understood like the fact that water flows downhill only seemed simple. If you looked closely enough they were really parts of the overall Idea that we could never understand. If Our Granny changed her mind, water could just as easily run uphill.

We were convinced that Our Granny would look after us, that she loved us like a real grandmother and the Gardeners said that meant we didn’t need to worry. But how could we be sure that Our Granny – the Idea of Our Granny – was really interested in providing for us, even if She could? Once you got beyond Our Physical Granny to some Idea of Our Granny then you knew almost nothing about her. Everyone had a different idea of what She was. Even if She had told Hama Batu and the Gardeners that she had our interests at heart, how could we know it was true?

If the Idea of a Granny who was perfectly good existed by definition, then the same logic could be used to say that there was a Perfectly Evil Granny. If she was Perfectly Evil then her perfection implied her existence. How could we know which Granny we were dealing with? Was Our Granny perfectly good and trustworthy or was she perfectly Evil and falsely pretending to be good. Perfect Evil would, by definition, appear to be Perfectly Good. They would be indistinguishable.

My head was spinning. This line of thinking was as bad as drinking too much fruit punch and it was a relief to see Kara returning from the bathroom. She sat down next to me.

“You know, Tommu,” she said, “People think that we are very lucky to be Manaku Jim’s girl friends. They think that it is fun spending your time by the swimming pool and meeting famous people. When you grow up in the shanties, then you dream of getting out and not having to spend your whole life in the dirt.

When Jim invited me to come and live here I thought that it was the best thing that ever happened to me but it’s not the way it seems.”

I noticed that Kara was slurring her words slightly and realised that she must have had some of Gomal’s knock-out recipe.

“You’re a clever man. You don’t have to hang around all day waiting for Jim to tell you what to do. And you get to see different people all the time. It must be interesting for you to go and meet people. Here you see the same people every day and you are always on show. You have to spend all your efforts to look good because you know that as soon as you are a little less than your best, someone else will take your place.

I don’t want you to think that I don’t like Jim,” she sniffed, and a tear ran down her cheek, “he’s a lovely man. You don’t even have to sleep with him if you don’t want to – they say he used to be different, but he’s getting on now and he’s really kind most of the time – but there’s nothing to do. You spend your whole life waiting. And then everyone’s drunk by lunch time.”

I looked at Kara carefully. She was wiping the tears from her face on the edge of the tablecloth.

“I don’t know what to do,” she continued, “I want to get away but I couldn’t face going back to the townships.”

“Perhaps you could become a cook,” I suggested, “now that Iliva is going?”

“I don’t know how.” She folded her arms on the table in front of her and rested her head on them, “and I’m not feeling very well.”

I waited for her to go on but before she said any more, Rombo and Sato, the footballers came up to us.

“Come on Tommu,” Rombo called loudly, “everyone has to dance!”

“You too,” Sato said, taking the girl by the shoulder, “dancing, dancing, dancing!”

Kara remained collapsed over the table and Sato lost interest in her.

“Leave her,” he said, “she’s no use when she’s had too much fruit juice.”

He and Rombo seized me, one on each side and led me to the dance floor where a mass of gyrating bodies was leaping up and down in time to the music.

The deep sound of the bass drums mingled with the wooden percussion of sticks beating on different lengths of wood and bamboo. The sound of half a dozen sets of pan pipes, some deep and rhythmic, some high and tuneful, animated the music. The voice of the singer was almost inaudible above the whoops of the crowd.

Lomu, the Minister for War was dancing with one of Jim’s girls, almost enveloping her in the folds of his ample body and Sato was doing his own chicken hop, limping in a circle and every now and then letting out a shriek or a cluck. I could hear that the rain outside was now heavy, thundering on the roof of the marquee but in spite of that, it was steaming hot with everyone running with sweat from the exertion of the dance.

All at once, the heat and the noise seemed intolerable. I knew that I could not stay a moment longer in the atmosphere of the tent. The idea of joining Hama Batu in his tent in the jungle was equally repugnant but, somehow, I had to escape. Tearing myself away from the grip of the crowd, I walked quickly outside to the wall along the edge of the cliff.

With my back to the Village and its celebrations, I listened to the sound of the waves and the sea birds nesting far below and felt the force of the rain as it washed me clean.

THE END

51. To Dinner

Tahmo Lukuni’s speech was much longer than Jim’s and focussed (although that is the wrong word) on the greatness of Our Granny and her Gardeners, on the abilities and sad death of the artist, on the quality of the work and on many other things that no-one will ever remember.

“And so,” he finished, “it gives me great joy to unveil this masterpiece to the honour and glory of Our Granny!”

With a flourish, he seized the curtain concealing the picture and pulled it violently downwards. Having been attached to hooks to be lifted upwards, it remained firmly in position so that his hands slipped down and his heavily built bulk lost balance and staggered two steps forward. A muffled titter came from the audience and Lukuni glared angrily at the crowd.

“I unveil this masterpiece to the honour and glory of Our Granny!” he repeated belligerently and, taking hold of the curtain, dragged it downwards with all his weight. The fabric was strong and at first it seemed as if it might resist even this determined onslaught. Suddenly, however, the hook holding one end of it came out of the wall and the cloth at the other began to tear so that the curtain hung down on a thin strip next to the portrait which swung crazily from side to side and came to rest at an acute angle on one end of its cord.

Lukuni glowered at the audience, which was reduced to stunned silence, and stumped away to one side, leaving Manaku Jim to straighten the picture and invite everyone to take a closer look at it before making their way back to the marquee for food.

Most of the spectators had never seen a painting like Rega’s and were overcome with surprise and admiration for its realistic execution and natural colours so I left them to admire it and began to make my way back to the tent. As I did so, I was attracted by the delicious aroma of cooking to another new structure behind the gallery, a barbecue pit on which a number of pigs were being roasted. Iliva was supervising operations and greeted me warmly as I passed.

“Langanipa built it for me,” she said, “it’s better than anything else I’ve ever been able to cook with.”

I looked at the construction, which was shaped in cross section like a capital letter M with coals in the central trough for roasting and ovens, in which vegetables and bread were being baked, built into the inverted Vs on each side.

“Very Langanipa,” I commented, “I didn’t know that he had been involved in this. He didn’t sound as if he was at all interested in coming here.”

“Yes,” Iliva said, “Manaku Jim was so pleased with the ‘best barbecue in the world’ that Langanipa was afraid he might show it off to the crowds. You know how that would have embarrassed him.”

Returning to the tent, I found Langanipa himself seated alone at their table.

“You never told me that you had designed a barbecue.” I said.

“It was quite an interesting project,” he answered, “One of the problems was how to regulate the airflow and the oven temperatures. In the end I had to put a suspended floor into the charcoal trench with vents under the coal bed and dampers at the end to control the oxygen supply.”

We spoke for a while until Fasi and Bahla arrived and then I went back to my place at the table, where enormous serving dishes of roast pork, chicken and baked vegetables were being placed ready for the returning guests. Gradually the other diners came back into the room and began helping themselves copiously from jugs of fruit punch and beer. Tahmo Lukuni was clearly still smarting from the debacle of the unveiling and I could hear him remonstrating with Jim about the quality of workmanship in mounting the curtain and demanding punishment for the craftsman involved.

As the tent filled up, the noise of different conversations began to increase, each group beginning to speak louder to make themselves heard over the hubbub. My friends, the football players, were among the last to arrive and it transpired that they had a secret stash of especially potent punch hidden somewhere on the veranda of the house.

“We brought you some of our special mix, Tommu,” Rombo said, “You should taste this stuff. Gomal makes it to a secret recipe they have in the townships. It’ll knock you out.”

“Thanks,” I said, placing the bowl they gave me next to my plate, “I’ll taste it as soon as I’ve finished my beer.”

The footballers began helping themselves to the food and Kara, next to me, filled her own plate and heaped a large portion onto mine.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I don’t think that I can eat all that.”

“Nonsense, Tommu,” she laughed, “you need building up. Look at what Lomu and Tahmo Lukuni are eating.”

Taking a mouthful of food, I glanced over to where the Gardeners were seated, with Lomu and Lukuni on either side of Manaku Jim. Netto had served himself a small portion of meat and vegetables and was picking at it thoughtfully. Beyond him, the other two were, as Kara had observed, making significant inroads on plates piled high with food. Speaking through a mouthful, Lukuni was still complaining about the way that the curtain had been hung over the painting, even as he loaded another enormous spoon full of the food from his plate.

Netto had summed things up well when he observed that leaders needed to show no signs of recognising any point of view but their own. Lomu, sat with his left arm guarding his plate of food while his right hand carried a continuous flow of meat and vegetables wrapped in flatbread to his mouth. He reminded me of nothing so much as a giant frog. I wondered whether his carapace of self confidence would have been dented if he could see himself now but decided probably not. Whatever strengths the senior Gardeners might have, graceful table manners were not among them.

For all the justifications that Netto had offered for the war and the sacrifices needed to pursue it, it was clear that they were not impacting the men on either side of Manaku Jim. It was strange to think of the cost to Manesh and people like him who had sacrificed (in his case, literally) limb and life for the cause while those who had instigated the policy of confrontation remained unaffected. One could not help but feel that Hasiki had a point when he suggested that the Village as a whole might have been better off by treating the insurgency as a simple police matter.

In the end, the policy of confrontation, rather than reducing the number of Hama Batu’s followers and the support they received, seemed to have had the opposite effect. I thought of the ease with which Hama Batu had been able to abstract my manuscript from the heart of the Village and the help he must have had in suddenly appearing in my living room. One had to feel that Netto’s suggestion that we now faced a clearly identified external enemy must contain at least an element of wishful thinking.

I wondered whether Our Granny was aware of the evening’s celebrations. It would have been a great coup if Manaku Jim could have persuaded his mother to attend the unveiling of her portrait. In the end, I supposed, she would probably have been too frail to come. Taking the dates that Jim had given me, she would now be a hundred years old if, indeed, she was still alive.

Then a thought struck me suddenly like a shock of cold water. What if Our Granny were dead? How would anyone know if the Gardeners did not tell? And they would certainly have no interest in publicising so embarrassing a fact. Manaku Jim would probably know if she were no longer alive but he, too, would have every interest in concealing it. Perhaps she had actually passed away years ago. That would certainly be consistent with the fact that no one had seen anything of her.

I couldn’t very well ask Netto about this and, in any case, I knew what his answer would be. The life, death or even existence of the physical Granny was irrelevant. The perfect Idea of Our Granny was what was important and that was something that had always been there and would remain forever. The physical woman who embodied the Idea was useful only in explaining it to simple Villagers and that was where her importance ended.

I thought of Hama Batu’s contradictory interpretation of Our Granny, Our Granny Frum, as he had referred to her. I had more or less assumed that it was possible, in the final analysis to find out whether his or the Gardener’s view was correct by locating Our Physical Granny and asking her. If she was simply an idea, then that was no longer an option. In fact, the two sides could continue to argue forever and there was not even a theoretical way of resolving the question.

As soon as one side found a flaw or inconsistency in the other’s position, then their opponents would be able to shift their ground, producing ever more complex and convoluted explanations and adjustments because there was no possible way of disproving something based on an idea. Our Granny could just as well be a man or a monkey or a giant spider from another world. There was no way, ever, of knowing. In the end she just had to be taken on faith and Hama Batu’s faith was every bit as good as the Gardener’s.

They were just one of millions of possible faiths that people could have and every one, in the end could choose themselves what they believed. It would not be surprising to find that the Americans and the other tribes against which they had been fighting had not one, but millions of Grannies and Fathers and Spirits and so on. And, in principle, there was no way of deciding between them.

The thought shocked me with its logic. Under those circumstances, no matter what you believed there were likely to be more people who disagreed with you than agreed. And if they felt that ideas were more important than the physical reality then they would be prepared to sacrifice the entire physical world in favour of their beliefs.

It was a good thing, I decided, that neither Hama Batu nor the Gardeners possessed a weapon powerful enough to destroy our island. From what I had seen, neither would have bee shy about using it if they had.

At this point, my train of thought was interrupted by Kara.

“Tommu,” she said, “You have been awfully quiet. Are you all right? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

50. The Unveiling

It was ten days later that I found myself walking up the hill with Bahla, Langanipa and Fasi to attend the installation of the painting that I had given to Manaku Jim. The afternoon was hot and humid with thunder clouds building in the west and the smell of rain in the air.

“Do we have to go to this thing?” Langanipa complained.

“You know that Iliva wanted us to,” Fasi answered, “but don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the picture has been unveiled. And you don’t have to talk to anyone.”

“Wasn’t intending to!” Langanipa growled.

“I think that Iliva is quite proud of her arrangements for the evening,” Bahla said, “She’s thought of nothing else for the last week.”

“Now, has everyone got their invitation?” Iliva continued, “They were very particular that no one would be allowed in without one.”

“What a lot of nonsense!” Langanipa was not in a good mood, “Sending out invitations. If they know you well enough to invite you, they should be able to recognise you to let you into the place.”

“They have to be very careful these days,” Bahla said, “and the servants wouldn’t know everyone – or be able to read a list.”

“Bits of yellow cloth,” Langanipa added, “what do they think we are, Gardeners?”

“They’re triangular,” Fasi said, “that means that they can check the shape to see that people haven’t made their own invitations and tried to sneak in.”

“Strange,” I said, “mine is a purple square. I wonder why that is.”

“Perhaps they ran out of yellow.” Langanipa growled.

At the gates, two servants were on guard. They examined our tickets and one of them led us down the driveway to the front of the house, where a marquee covered half of the lawn. It was hung with coloured bunting and a crowd of guests was milling around it, drinking and exchanging small talk. I could see that the far end of the house had been extended, presumably the gallery for the new picture. The servant led us to a table at the back of the tent but, as we were about to sit down he turned to me.

“What is your name sir?” he asked.

“Tommu.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Tommu. That is why you have the purple invitation. You are one of the guests of honour. You will be sitting at the main table with Mr Manaku.”

“Celebrity, now, I see,” Langanipa muttered, “too good to sit with his old friends.”

“Would it be OK if I stayed with them?” I asked the servant.

“Oh no! Each seat is allocated. There would be no room for an extra person at this table.”

“Go on, Tommu,” Fasi said, “don’t pay any attention to Mr Grumble here. You go and sit where you’ve been placed and we’ll see you later.”

“OK.” I looked doubtfully at Langanipa, “I’ll get back as soon as I can. I can’t imagine that they’ll need me for long.”

I followed the servant to the front of the tent where I found a long table already quite fully occupied. I recognised Netto and some of the football players and girls I had met on my last visit to Manaku Jim’s. Jim, himself, was seated at the centre of the table talking to Lomu, the Minister for War. As I approached, he stood up and came towards me.

“Tommu, my friend,” he greeted me, “I am so glad that you could join us. I want you to see how well the picture looks in its new home. I have placed it so that the window is behind you as you look at it. It was quite a challenge because I didn’t want it to be in the direct sunlight at any time of day but we succeeded.

Also, I had some interesting conversations about it with my friend Tahmo Lukuni. He admitted that he had rejected the original sketch but, when he saw the finished painting he had some significant second thoughts and there was a moment when I thought that I might even lose it. His argument was that he had commissioned the work and that, therefore, even the rejects belonged to him.

I managed to convince him, though,” Jim winked broadly at me, “I said that of course he could have it but that the fact that he had changed his mind might damage the Gardener’s reputation for infallibility. It would give anyone who wanted it the right to question his judgement. He thought for a while and the picture was mine.

We’ll go through in a moment and do the unveiling but sit down and get yourself a drink while everyone arrives. Kara will be looking after you. I think that she was very impressed last time you were here so she’s looking forward to meeting you again.”

I found that I was seated between Kara and her friend, the lady Jim had introduced as the most beautiful on the island.

“Oh Tommu,” Kara said, “I was just telling Dana how funny you were and your story about the chicken feathers. Do you want some fruit punch? I remember how much you liked it last time we were here.”

“No thank you, Kara,” I answered, “It was very nice but it gave me a headache. I think I will just have a glass of pineapple juice, please.”

I recognised Rombo, the quarterback sitting on the other side of Dana and he reached out and shook my hand.

“Hi, Tommu,” he said, “why have you kept away from us so long? We had a great time when you were last here. Sato still tells everyone your story.”

“Yes, and Jim keeps saying that he will invite you back,” Kara added, “but then he forgets. You know what he’s like.”

“I suppose he must have been busy preparing for this party.” I said.

“That’s no excuse,” Kara answered, “he has parties every week.”

Just then, the subject of this discussion interrupted it by clapping his hands loudly and calling the gathering to order.

“Now follow me, everyone,” he announced when the group had fallen silent, “and we will get the formal part of this evening’s proceedings out of the way.”

As Jim led us along the veranda and into the new wing built for the picture gallery, Netto fell in beside me.

“Any progress in recovering your manuscript?” he asked.

“Actually yes,” I replied, “it was returned last week.”

“Returned?” he raised his eyebrows, “How did that occur?”

“It turned out that it had been removed by the terrorists,” I said, “and they brought it back last Monday. I got home to find it lying on the table where I had left it.”

“That is most strange,” said Netto, “but how do you know that the terrorists had taken it.”

“Because it was returned by Hama Batu, in person.”

“Hama Batu! He was actually in the Village? That sounds completely impossible.”

“Yes. You can imagine my shock and surprise when I returned home and found Hama Batu in my sitting room. He said that he had heard what I was writing and wanted to discuss it with me. It was his people that had taken it.”

“I can’t believe you are telling me this, Tommu.” Netto’s voice confirmed his incredulity, “But I assume that you made an immediate report to the Guardians.”

“I couldn’t. He stayed for quite a long time - an hour or more – and then he called out and two of his men, who had been standing guard in my kitchen and across the road came and detained me until he was well away.”

“I assume that you made a full report later? Any information about Hama Batu – even what he looks like – would be useful.”

“I didn’t think of that. By the time I could talk to the Guardians, Hama Batu could have been anywhere. I did think of calling for help while he was there but thank goodness I didn’t. I think they would have killed me if I had.”

“Good grief, Tommu,” Netto said, “are you completely innocent? Surely you realize that by not reporting him you lay yourself open to a charge of aiding and abetting terror?”

“I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. But I suppose that you are right. What would you advise me to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do now, but first thing tomorrow morning, for goodness sake, get yourself down to the Guardians’ offices and make a report. Tell them that you told me about it and that now you are reporting it to formalise the process. You really are incorrigible, you know.

Still, there’s no point in worrying about it. Tell me, what did Hama Batu say to you?”

“Difficult to know. He told a lot of stories but I still haven’t made much sense of them. I’ve written up my notes. You’re welcome to take a look if you want to.”

“You’d better bring them to my office tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s go and take a look at this painting. I gather you were friendly with the artist.”

“Yes. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been killed. She was brilliantly talented.”

By this time we were in the new gallery. To the west, a gap in the clouds showed the last of the sun about to sink into the sea. The room was illuminated with a rosy light. The picture itself was concealed by a cloth and Manaku Jim stood next to it to make a short speech. He outlined the history of the painting, something of the tragic death of Rega who had been the finest artist the island had ever produced and referred in passing to my role in procuring it for his collection of wonderful objects.

“And now,” he continued, “it gives me great pleasure to ask someone known to all of us to step forward. This painting would not exist if it were not for the foresight and wisdom of our Head Gardener, Father Tahmo Lukuni. It was he who originally commissioned this work.

In the end, it did not meet the exacting standards of a creation fit for the Gardeners and he was forced to reject it in relation to the purpose for which it was originally intended. But the Gardener’s misfortune is great good fortune for me because, as you shall see, despite failing to meet his specification it is, nevertheless, in relation to the rest of us a thing of incomparable beauty.

I therefore ask Our Father Lukini to honour us by drawing aside the curtain to show to all of us this work of art, this beautiful painting of a young woman made in honour of Our Granny.”

“Very, very clever,” Netto muttered to me under his breath, “What did I tell you about our friend, Jim. Not only has he acquired the picture but he has placed Tahmo in a position where he has, at least, to pretend to be happy about it. Masterful!”

49. ... And Choices

After another long silence, I said to Hama Batu, “Your father’s death must have been a great tragedy in your life.”

“That is what I thought at the time. But looking back I can see that it was through losing him that I discovered Our Granny’s purpose for me.

In the forest, the branches of the treetops cast a dense shade so that there is very little light at the level of the ground. Not enough for the lush growth where there are no trees. When one of the enormous forest giants dies and is blown over by the winds, it opens a great gash in the forest through which the light of the sun can penetrate.

In the glade that is formed, seeds germinate, different plants grow and the forest is reborn. It is sad to see the death of an ancient tree on whom the insects and flowers, creepers and animals depend. And yet, this is part of the natural process of the jungle; changing always just enough to remain the same. The individual tree dies to give life to the forest. The individual man dies to give life to the tribe.

We can even think that my father may have been fortunate. He lost his life but his soul was not eaten and, through his death, my purpose was revealed and my soul was also saved and, with me, many others. We see in his death Our Granny’s purpose, Morakeewa’s purpose and that is the most important thing that we must accept.

Every one and every thing has a purpose and one of the reasons that I have come to see you tonight is to ask you whether you have found your own purpose. Do you know what Our Granny plans for you? When you write down the thoughts of others or, indeed, your own thoughts, do you have that burning sense of Our Granny’s Will? That should be your aim. You should search for the purpose of your own life.

If, in dying, I can achieve as much as my father did, if my life can fit into Our Granny’s great scheme, then I will die gladly. My prayer is that after I have gone, then I will leave people that are awake, that burn to execute Our Granny’s will. And perhaps you could be one of them. With your talents and your knowledge of the island, perhaps you could be a great warrior in Her cause.”

“But, Hama Batu,” I answered, “What if I do not know what that purpose is for me? A person doesn’t choose what they believe. By choosing, I cannot make myself believe that if I throw a stone off a cliff, it will not fall to the bottom. My mind interprets my experience automatically and believes its conclusions.

I can concede that my belief may not be true, I can hold my belief with greater or lesser certainty and I can act as if my belief does not exist, but in the end the belief itself is a fact, outside of my own control.”

“You have fired your arrow into the heart of the question. Your belief is based on your experience. If you do not have a belief, it is because you have insufficient experience, or perhaps you ignore experience that you have.

When we sit in the dark of the forest, with a small fire to warm us, then we can see a little way and we do not know what lies beyond the light of the fire. All is shadow, fear and uncertainty. So we build our fire until it shines brightly and then we can see a little further. By our own efforts, we can never see everything. We must wait for the sun to rise before we can see the whole forest. Until the morning, though, we must try and understand that which the sun owns, that which can come within our comprehension.

That is how we seek the Will of Our Granny, by finding now some part of what she would show us. When I read what you had written, I saw that you are a seeker after truth. That is why I have come to speak to you tonight.”

“You may well be right,” I said, “but I have not found that my certainty has increased as I have gathered information. In some ways, the opposite. When I began to write, I had a few simple questions and I thought that, if they were answered, I would know the island and its people. Each time I discovered something, however, I found further problems that required more answers so that the more I know, the more issues I seem to discover.

Sitting by the small fire, I see a small amount of darkness near me but, as I increase the light to illuminate that small darkness, I also discover a greater darkness beyond.”

“That is why we must have faith. That is why we have to believe that there is a purpose to everything. How else can we interpret what we know if we do not think that there is a purpose beyond what we can see and understand? That is the doubt that we must fight against. You have lived in the Village and the plantations all of your life. You have heard of the Shai Hathan, but you probably do not have any direct experience of such an animal. Let me tell you about it.

The Shai Hathan is a large lizard but it is not much longer than a man is tall and it stands a little lower than his knee. It has small teeth and yet it is the most fearful inhabitant of the forest. It cannot tear through healthy meat and it does not attack its prey directly from the front. No.

The Shai Hathan cannot win in open combat so it must conquer by stealth. From behind it creeps up, silent and unobserved and then it bites. Not much more than a scratch, but filled with deadly venom. Venom that paralyses the victim so that he cannot escape.

Once its prey has been poisoned, the Shai Hathan waits patiently for it to become immobilised. This may take some considerable time and, for a while, the victim may not even be aware of what has happened. He has a scratch on his leg, say, and he thinks that it was cut by a thorn or by grass but all the while, the Shai Hathan is following him, stalking silently behind until he begins to move more slowly and then he cannot move any longer.

Then the true nature of things is revealed. The Shai Hathan emerges from the shadows and begins to feed. It starts with the soft parts, the stomach and the intestines and the victim can still feel the pain. If the paralysis is not yet complete, he may be able to call out or shout or scream. But he is beyond help. The poison will kill him in the end and anyone who goes to help him is himself at risk. Just a scratch and the poison of the Shai Hathan will kill the rescuer too.

The best thing for such a one is to take an arrow and to shoot it into his brain so that he dies quickly and his pain is relieved. Then the Shai Hathan will be left with his prey, waiting for it to rot and soften so that it can be eaten.

In the forest, we hunt the Shai Hathan with fire. When we know that there is a Shai Hathan in a particular area, then we must first of all confine it so we begin to cut down the forest around it. Gradually, the Shai Hathan will retreat into the thickest jungle and gradually we cut off its means of escape. We do not go near it. That would be too dangerous and expose us to its venom.

Then when we know its exact whereabouts, we pile brushwood around it. Dead wood that forms a pile, with dried leaves and fronds. We know that the only way to destroy the Shai Hathan is to create a great fire that will consume the brushwood and dry the jungle so that it will burn. We build the pile like a fence about it and then we light fires all around. Small fires to begin that dry the brushwood and the leaves and when that is dry it begins to burn and the fires grow larger and larger and in the end, they consume the dense jungle where the Shai Hathan is hiding and the Shai Hathan itself.

That is Our Granny’s Will.”

“I do not understand,” I answered thoughtfully, “why you have told me this story of the Shai Hathan.”

“Tommu, there is a great struggle on this island. I tell you about the Shai Hathan because of that. Many people have already been bitten by the Shai Hathan. Their death is just a matter of time. The Tractor has already paralysed their souls and the kindest thing for them is a simple arrow.

The Tractor, if left to itself, would destroy the whole island. The jungle would be no more. There would be no other animals so the people would become animals, living in cages with no thought except how to have more of what little is left than their neighbour next door. That is the future and then, the fuel for the tractor will be exhausted and there will not be enough to eat. The true nature of the Shai Hathan will be revealed as the people fight over the crumbs of what is left.

Some of us are resolved to prevent this. We have begun to create restrictions and isolation which already show those in the new townships the true nature of what is being done. More and more people begin to see that they must act, that they must destroy what is eating the soul of the island and return to Our Granny Frum, Our Pure Granny of Morakeewa who will save them by her Will and return the island and its people to what it should be.

I come to invite you to avoid the Shai Hathan, to help us to destroy it before it poisons you and before it destroys the island and the Village and the people in it. There are many ways to serve Our Granny. For some of us, it is meet to be out in the forest, in a small tent, moving from place to place. Others remain here, waiting. Waiting for the brushwood to become dry so that the fire can take hold.

I do not know which of these is Our Granny’s Will for you but I invite you to join us and discover it for yourself. I invite you to find your own purpose and the purpose of your book, to end here, with Our Granny’s Will.”

48. Turning Point

I waited for Hama Batu to continue but he said nothing then, as the silence stretched, I tried to think of an appropriate question to ask him. Abruptly he resumed.

“Some nights I sit on the edge of the precipice and I look out over the plain. The sounds of the forest surround me and I can see the lights of the Village in the distance. You would not think that things that look almost like stars could be so dangerous.”

He paused a moment and then continued, “There are places in the jungle where the trees suddenly stop and there is a clear green field before you, covered with the most beautiful flowers. When you have spent the morning cutting your way through the undergrowth and hacking away at creepers, then it seems like the answer to your prayers to find an open path.

You walk out into the field before you realise that there is a good reason for the absence of trees. The grass and flowers float on a muddy quicksand that enfolds you in a fatal embrace. There is nothing to cling to. You are without any solid point of attachment and sometimes the worst thing to do is to struggle. The only way that you can escape is if someone comes to intervene.

Sometimes the most attractive seeming things are the most dangerous.”

I thought a moment, then I asked him, “What is the difference, Hama Batu, between living in a comfortable house and living in a tent in the forest? Surely the house is just a better sort of tent and the tent is just a worse type of house?”

“Yes, Tommu, you are right. They both provide shelter. Nevertheless, there is a difference. If a man has five pairs of shoes, then you have to ask yourself, ‘How many feet does he have?’

Among our people, there have always been times when one man would accumulate property. He would be the best hunter in the tribe or the strongest fighter and others would look to him for leadership. Then over a period of time, he might have several wives and many sons and they would hunt together and be able to build strong shelters that could be occupied all the year round, with pigs and chickens grazing nearby.

That man would be in danger of becoming separated from the tribe, of being excluded from what gave him his strength in the first place. The traditions of Morakeewa therefore prescribed a duty to him and, on a given day, he would bring all of the tribe to his home. He would kill the pigs and chickens. His wives and his sons and his sons’ wives would gather fruit and corn and prepare a feast.

So the danger was dealt with. What was not needed was consumed and the man would rejoin his fellows. That is my answer to your question.”

“I understand. If there is a surplus, you are saying that we should share it. I can see that our Gardeners in the Village would agree with you. They rely on sharing. And in some ways, that must be right, but some of our people do not even have enough, despite the best that we can do to feed everyone.”

“But is that really true? We see that some people in the Village have far more than they need while others have less. Producing more does not solve the problems of those who have nothing if they are not allowed to share it.

I see walls and fences built for the very purpose of preventing those who have nothing from obtaining what they need. They live in separate locations so that they can be watched and controlled. They must be where they are told and any morning they might receive a visit to see that they are in the right place.

The position of their bodies can be checked and controlled but this separation is what frees their thoughts and their minds. When a man has all that he needs then his mind remains tied to the things that he owns. A man who has nothing can think what he likes. It is thin people that change the world.

When you were in the plantations, Tommu, you made the people fat. They ate the food you gave them and the food ate the people who consumed it. You allowed the people to fall asleep and it was necessary to waken them. That is why we must struggle in this life. We must, at all costs, remain awake.

If we fall asleep, then life is just a dream, between the time we are born and the time when we die. A dream that is no more real than a reflection in a lake; you try to touch it and it shatters. If we are asleep when we are alive, then what happens when we die? A moment of awakening, perhaps? Or perhaps just forgetfulness. That is why you should not encourage them to fall asleep. When you took away their cares, they had no reason to struggle and without struggle, they had no reason to be.

That is a sad thing, Tommu, a man who has no reason to be. If you take away his reason to be then he will try to create one, and the danger is that he will think that his creation is real. It would seem that nothing could be more futile than a group of men struggling over which end of a field a coconut is to be found.

And yet, thousands of men watch that struggle. They begin to imagine that they are less than the men who struggle on the field. They imagine that the struggle over the coconut is important and that the carrying of the coconut is reality and the squalor of their lives is not.

How have we come to this, Tommu? How have we come to the position where a pointless game can blind people to what is important? Where the name of Our Granny can be distorted to persuade people with no purpose that they have one? Where the only relief is in sleep and sleep can only be obtained through liquor?

That is the sad truth, Tommu. In the forest, we were the only humans among the animals. Outside the forest we, ourselves, are the animals because the other animals are gone.”

“You are very pessimistic,” I replied, “is it not our ability to dream that separates us from the animals? Are we not human because we can imagine a world that is different from what we see before us?”

“We cannot know whether animals dream. Our duty as humans is to distinguish between wakefulness and sleeping; between what is real and what is not; between what is good and what is not. Do you remember my father?”

“I don’t think that I ever knew him,” I answered.

“Possibly not. You were a little younger than me but I can remember when your father would come to visit us and bring you with him but I was only young myself so you are likely to have forgotten.

My father served with yours. He was one of the first to learn to drive the tractor. I can remember how proud I was to see him, seated high up on this giant machine, clearing the fields and ploughing long, straight furrows in the earth. A child could not avoid being taken with the sight of his father in control of that snorting beast.

I would go with him to the fields and the other Guardians would carry me as we followed the tractor across the plain. The plough would cut through the soil like a knife cutting through the skin of an animal and we would see the furrows, rich and black as they were turned by the blade, revealing a whole, unsuspected world underneath of insects and worms. It was as if we were seeing what no-one had ever seen before.

I think there were only two drivers in those days so, as the child of one of them, I was sure of special treatment and, naturally, I took it at face value. I thought that the whole village was there to treat me well and that the world revolved around me. I was allowed to insert the pin that held the plough onto the tractor. I rode next to my father, leaning against the mudguard as he drove the great machine along. I imagined that the tractor was the greatest gift to the world that there had ever been.

I saw that my father had more power over the earth than a hundred men with hoes. I was a part of something greater than the tractor, greater than the fields, greater than the island. I do not know if my father thought that too. Sometimes I fear that he did. He was not very old and it would be no shame if he was taken in by the power and the honour that people did him.

In any case, I certainly did not see how much he presumed by thinking that he could change the pattern of the ages and that the island would simply accept it. Week after week, field after field, the work proceeded and field after field, week after week, confidence grew.

Oh, foolish confidence.

Then one day my father was breaking new ground, ploughing an uphill stretch away from the village when the plough caught on a root deep under the earth. The tractor was just moving off and my father, in his confidence had given it too much power so that the front of the machine reared up. My father was thrown to the ground, upon which the engine stopped and the machine ran backwards.

For my father that was the end of everything. His head lay behind the wheel and it was crushed like a pumpkin.

I was at the other end of the field. I did not see what happened but I knew at once that something was wrong. The men did not tell me anything and that was the worst thing of all. They took me home to my mother and all that I can remember are her screams of rage and grief. I could not understand what had occurred. It has taken me many years to begin to understand what happened that day.”

“It was your father whose head was crushed by the tractor? I had never made the connection. All the Guardians know that story but no-one ever told me that you were the child.”

“Who would remember the name of a six year old child? And perhaps it is better that they did not make that linkage. My mother was never the same after my father’s death. I was left much to my own devices and I used the time to think deeply. When she died a few years later, I spent time as a Gardener to learn the ways of Our Granny and it was then that I understood how far things had deviated from Her intentions. That was the beginning of the next part of the journey.”

47 Not The End, Really

“But it isn’t the end, really, is it Tommu?” The voice from the gloom startled and disconcerted me as I disconsolately entered my sitting room. At the end of a week in which I had lost all of the work I had done on the history of the island, an unidentified intruder was the last person I wanted to confront.

Just when it had seemed that I was making good progress, with my interview with Netto completed and written up, things had all gone badly wrong. I had spent a morning with my father and returned to my own house in the afternoon to work on my history of the island – provisionally titled ‘Our Granny’s Will’ – only to find the window at the side of my house banging in the wind, the glass broken, rain soaking into my furniture and the manuscript gone.

My first thought was that the authorities might have heard of my writing through Netto and decided that they should break in and confiscate my papers. I therefore went directly up to his office to discuss it with him. I found him alone and he seemed almost as shocked as I was to learn that the manuscript had disappeared. He was adamant that, if he had thought it a problem, he would not have returned it to me and that there he had told no-one else about it.

“Tommu,” he said, “I’m not entirely sure what Lomu would have made of your book but, as he doesn’t read and he certainly does not know of its existence, the question is purely academic. In any case, I know that he would not act without my advice in a matter of this type.”

My next step was to report the theft to the Guardians. They said that they would send an officer to investigate and, when no one came, I decided to ask my neighbours whether they had seen anything. No one was able to supply any concrete information although an elderly lady across the street was convinced that she had seen someone loitering outside my house the previous week. Unfortunately this turned out to be Bahla who had been looking for me to tell me about his engagement.

After days of futile enquiries, I had had to resign myself to the loss of all my work and to face the fact that it was now unlikely to be recovered. The thought of having to begin again after the weeks of effort I had spent on writing down the results of my researches was soul destroying. I had just decided that this was what I faced and I was feeling entirely dejected as I unlocked my door to be startled by the strange voice from the darkness.

“Who is there?” I called, lighting a match and removing the chimney of my lamp, “What are you doing in my house?”

As the mantle warmed up and light began to fill the room, I could see no one. But looking down at the table, my pile of papers had returned.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I looked around but could see no one.

“Calm down, Tommu,” the voice came from somewhere low down and behind me, “no one is going to hurt you.”

I looked down, to see, sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall next to the door and his legs straight out before him a very old man, suntanned and wrinkled, his white hair a curly mop on the top of his head.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I repeated.

“You don’t recognise me, do you, Tommu?” he replied, “And yet you look much as I remember you.”

“Am I supposed to know you?” there was something vaguely familiar about his voice or rather about his tone, but I could not think where I might have heard it before.

“Yes,” he continued, “it has been a long time. I had heard that you were writing something, so I felt that I needed to take a look at it.”

“You stole my manuscript?”

“One of my associates borrowed it on my behalf. I am sorry if that caused any problems, but you need to understand that we are not welcome visitors to the Village.”

“So who, exactly are you?”

“Tommu, you really do not remember me? Hama Batu? But I suppose that I must have changed more with the years than you. The forest is less kind to the body than this comfortable house of yours.”

“Hama Batu!” I looked more closely at the man sitting on the floor, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you. How did you get into my house? Are you here to take revenge on me?”

“We come and go. There are many who are prepared to help us,” he looked at me sadly, “and I am here simply to talk.”

What does one do when confronted, unexpectedly, by the world’s most wanted man? The thought of the reward offered for information leading to the arrest of the evil Hama Batu passed through my mind but I instantly discarded it as being irrelevant (and dangerous). I wondered if I should offer him a cup of tea but decided that he might not approve.

“Would you care for something to drink?”

“Thank you,” he answered, “may I have some water, please?”

I fetched a bowl of water and offered him a seat at the table.

“Thank you, no,” he replied, “I am more accustomed to sitting lower down. But let us get down to business. You have written an intriguing document. But there is much that you do not understand. Our Granny’s views have been much distorted by your informants.”

“How could that be?” I looked down at him.

“They try to separate Our Granny from the world. They try to pretend that she is some sort of abstract concept. That is a lie. Our Granny is of this island. She cannot be turned this way and that to suit different people. Our Granny and Morakeewa are one. To destroy the island is to destroy Our Granny and to work against Our Granny is to work against the island.

We have seen those who wish to use the island for their own purposes. They give no thought to the future; they do not consider the Spirit of Morakeewa. For the sake of their own pleasure and indulgence, they simply exhaust what is given to them and then, separated from the purposes of Our Granny and of Morakeewa, they are consumed by their own appetites.

Long ago there was a man who lived in a garden. There were plants and fruit of every sort and each year the seeds of the plants provided what he needed for the next season. For some time, he lived happily. His needs were supplied each year by the abundance of the garden.

One day he thought, each year I leave some fruit unused. It is wasted in the ground. Why should I not eat all of the fruit in its day and so that is what he did. There was no seed for the next year and when the new season came, there was one fruit less. The man did not see this as a problem. All that he needed to do was to eat more of some other fruit.

And so he continued as, one by one, the fruits in his garden were reduced until the garden was no longer as it had been and then the man wished for the fruits that were no more. But it was too late and they were gone.”

I felt uncomfortable, standing and speaking to Hama Batu so I joined him, sitting next to him with my back to the wall.

“Surely, though,” I said “what we have done on our island is the opposite. We have found ways to produce more than would naturally occur. We could produce food for many more people than lived here before we found them.”

“But at what cost! In the forest, we are human. We wake in the morning and we feel the rain on our faces. Each tree is a friend or, perhaps, an enemy. There are a hundred different mushrooms. To live we must eat them. Eat the wrong ones and die. If you do not need to use your ears then they stop listening. If you do not use your eyes, they stop seeing.

A man in a cage is half a man. Who wants to be a pig kept for meat?”

“Are you saying, Hama Batu,” I asked, “that it is not possible to live as a human being in the Village?”

“Who is to say that anything is impossible? I know that a person who can choose how to live can choose to live badly. In the forest it is not possible to remain asleep for the whole of one’s life. In the forest it is necessary to feel; it is necessary to remain awake; it is necessary to decide. In the forest it is necessary to be alive and to adapt to the natural world in which we live.

Is it comfortable? Perhaps not. Is it safe? Almost never.

But it is not sleep. It is life or death.

In the market in the Village is an old woman. She sits on a cage of chickens. Each morning she places a cup of corn into the cage. The chickens eat it. For the chickens, the only thing in their lives is the corn in the morning. They do not need to find their corn. It is provided for them.

Those are the saddest chickens in the world. The cannot fly into the trees. They cannot even spread their wings out. They spend their days doing nothing. They fall into arguments and peck each other and pull each other’s feathers out. I am sure that they each think that it is important which part of the cage they occupy and how much of the corn they eat.

Perhaps, if they were to find the door of the cage open they would be afraid to leave. They would not know where their next cup of corn would come from. They may even think that they are happy because they know nothing else. They do not know the true life of a chicken; of scratching for food, of flying, of laying eggs and becoming broody. And in the end, the old woman reaches into the cage and takes out a chicken. She holds it for an instant and then twists its neck. A coin passes and the chicken is dinner.

You ask me, is it possible for a chicken in that cage to live a good life? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps one of the chickens could conclude that the cage was not important and that reality was an idea somewhere else, in which they could be free.

Maybe the chicken can separate itself from its miserable existence and convince itself that the truth is on a higher plane, away from the mud and the pecking and the market and that, in spite of everything, life is really good.

I am sure that the market woman would like the chickens to think that.”

46 The End of The Matter

Having given the matter some thought, I decided that it would be safe to share my draft with Netto so, the next day, I returned to his office and handed over the manuscript. We agreed to meet again a week later and I went back to my father’s house.

Much to my surprise, I found that he was not at home but, on the table in the kitchen, there was a note in Bahla’s handwriting to say that they had gone together to Langanipa’s house and asking me to join them when I returned. It was already growing dark when I arrived there, to find the doors and windows open and the lights burning. People were walking in and out but no one seemed to know what was happening. Eventually I found my father and he, too, was none the wiser.

“I was out in the garden when Bahla arrived with Iliva,” He said. “and asked me if I could spare the time to come here with them. He wouldn’t say why, but he was very insistent.”

I found a table laid out with food in the dining room. Fasi insisted that I help myself but I could not get an answer from her as to the occasion and, even though I spoke to various people that I knew, I found all of them as puzzled as I was.

At last, Langanipa came into the room and called for silence.

“Friends,” he said to the crowd, “Fasi and I would like to thank you for coming round at short notice – with no planning at all, in fact – as we have some news that we would like to share with you.

You all know, I think, how pleased we have been to have found our niece, Iliva. I think that we had feared her lost to us forever.

Well, just as we were growing used to having her here, I have to tell you that she is about to leave us again. Do not be alarmed. She will not be going far because Iliva has, today, agreed to marry our good friend Nayir Bahla!

They told us this afternoon that they will marry at the next full moon and we decided immediately that a celebration could not be delayed. Now, I would like you to drink to the health of the happy couple. Bahla! Iliva! Our warmest congratulations and blessings.”

When the cheering died down, Iliva began to speak.

“It may seem strange,” she said, “that after so many years and so much difficulty, we would have the confidence to decide so quickly to marry.

That is not how we see it. Bahla and I have known one another for many years. I have always relied on his help and good will and in the time that we have been apart, both of us have realised separately that we now wish to be together. When one has made as many mistakes as I have, then it comes as a relief to recognise something that is definitely not an error.

I would like to thank all of you, family and friends, for your help and support. In particular, I would like to thank my Aunt and Uncle, Fasi and Langanipa and also especially Tommu, without whose heroic inebriation and intervention I might never have returned to a normal life.”

A burst of laughter rang through the room, increasing as I blushed and hid my face in my hands. I have never liked being on public display but on this occasion, with so much joy and good will in the air, there was nothing for it but to smile and nod as the crowd started to applaud.

Later I had an opportunity to congratulate Bahla and Iliva.

“I’m not surprised,” I said, “that you are getting married. It was clear before Iliva went away that you were good for each other. I am shocked and taken aback, though, that you didn’t give me some warning of your intentions.”

“Hah!” Bahla responded, “And where were you this morning when we came to your father’s house so that you would be the first to know our news?”

“OK! OK! Point taken,” I laughed, “I was up in Netto’s office. He’s going to take a look at my manuscript.”

“I thought that you didn’t want any Gardeners meddling with the contents?”

“I got on really well with him.” I defended myself against the implicit accusation of giving in to pressure, “and he has promised not to change anything. But tell me more about your own plans.”

“I’ve made an agreement with Manaku Jim.” Iliva answered, “He is so pleased with the picture you gave him that he is going to have a formal event to celebrate it and hang it in a special room that he is having built onto his house.

I’ll supervise the arrangements and the catering and then Bahla and I are going to get married and live happily ever after. I have a new job in the Reading Room so I’ll see my new husband, my son and my daughter at home and at work. It may sound a lot but, having missed each other so much, I can’t imagine that I can ever get too much of them.”

“And, even if I can’t speak for the others, I feel exactly the same.” Bahla continued gallantly.

The celebrations continued late into the night with friends coming and going and were thoroughly enjoyable. In view of my recent experience, I was careful to avoid any strange fruit concoctions, limiting myself to two glasses of beer, which, having been made by Langanipa, had a precisely predictable alcoholic content.

My invitation to Manaku Jim’s party arrived the next day and the rest of that week slipped by, time stolen by the excitement of the various preparations, so that it was almost with surprise that I found that the day of my next appointment with Netto had arrived.

I found him waiting for me, as before, behind his desk and he stood up to shake my hand warmly. Although I had decided earlier that at all costs I should not appear too eager, I could not resist opening the conversation.

“Good morning, Father,” I began, “Have you been able to take a look at the manuscript?”

“Indeed I have, Tommu, indeed I have. And it has been a pleasure to read. I must compliment you on your handwriting. Entirely legible and clear and, if I may say so, almost a thing of beauty in itself.”

“And the content?”

“Very interesting,” he replied, smiling, “although I did find it difficult to discern what message you were trying to convey. I do not think that you should give up your job as a Reader to pursue writing; you would have a very thin time.

I think that most people would prefer to see a clearer point of view. This vague retailing of other people’s opinions can only go so far. At the same time, I think that for me, personally, it provided a number of fascinating insights. In particular, I think that you take both Captain Hasiki and Manaku Jim rather too much at their own estimation.

Jim is far from the bluff, sociable character that he pretends to be. In fact, I think he may be the shrewdest politician we have on the island. Even given his unique position, it took real skill to create for himself a status that is almost beyond attack. Think of the touch of scandal and impropriety that has always attached to his name and the rather self indulgent lifestyle he leads, and yet even Lomu and Tahmo Lukuni cannot touch him.

Hasiki is also a clever man – you have obviously recognised that yourself – and he manages to say rather a lot by not saying it. At the same time, though, you have to understand that today he has very little influence on things. Perhaps Tommu, he is like you and me and lacks the singleness of purpose necessary for leadership.

It is instructive to compare him with Minister Lomu. He certainly has a more subtle mind than Lomu, who is altogether more direct. But in some ways, that is to Lomu’s advantage. If a leader sees more than one side to a question it is imperative that he does not let anyone know. He needs to demonstrate a simple faith in what he proposes that gives others no choice but to follow.

Hasiki’s solutions have always been too complicated, refining arguments and relying on people to line up with him on the same side of a split hair. So give Lomu credit for the way he has mobilised people to support him. The lines he has drawn are very clear and, as a result, it is easier to tell today whether someone is for you or against you.

The Fire was his opportunity, of course. It provided the incentive to bulldoze the old barrios and to transfer the inhabitants to properly built housing, documenting them and ensuring that anyone living there illegally could be rounded up. Then he was able to create the detention centres for suspicious individuals so that they could be processed and properly dealt with.

That was a breakthrough because the barrios were almost no-go areas for the Guardians. Once we had built the New Settlements, separate from the Village itself, on a uniform plan of two and four room houses, we could keep track of everyone. Any sign of trouble and, come five a.m. the Guardians could be there, knocking on the door, checking identities and anyone unauthorised...”

“I’d heard that the New Settlements were hard to control?” I looked at him in surprise.

“Not without their problems, I’ll admit.” He answered, “It does concentrate people who might have issues in one place. But that is also a benefit because the problem is on the outside, so we know where the enemy is to be found. Sometimes simplicity has a lot of advantages.

And we also have the detention centres, of course. The real hard cases are housed there and we keep them too busy working to cause trouble. They build houses and they take a lot of the load of the work in the fields – all for the cost of lodging and food.”

“How long, generally, does it take to reform someone who is sent to the detention centres?” I asked.

Netto looked at me narrowly.

“Tommu,” he said severely, “if someone else were to ask that, I don’t think that it would be a permitted question. I shall, however, give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you really do not know the answer.

I don’t think that there is much hope of reforming any of those people. And even if one of them did reform, how could you ever trust them? They would pretend to reform and then, as soon as they were released, they would be burning and killing again. No. The detention centres are permanent, I think. They are there as a reminder of the threat we face. You see, Our Granny has a place even for the evil doers. They are a warning to us all.

And now, I think, your book requires an ending. I have thought about how it should end and how it can be concluded on a note that puts everything into the right perspective:

Fifty five years after the departure of the Americans, the great work of Our Granny on the island of Morakeewa was attacked with fire. Many of our people lost their lives and we thought, at the time, that this was the greatest disaster that might befall us.

On reflection, however, we found that it was part of the wisdom of Our Granny to include this event in her Plan for the Island. The attack generated a great cleansing, undertaken with a new sense of purpose, in which the miscreants and dissenters who threatened Her Plan were separated and placed apart.

Today, the Village is smaller and, physically, less prosperous. Spiritually, however, it is closer now to Her plan. The enemies, outside, are gradually being combated, caged and controlled. Tithes and tributes increase, respect for Our Granny grows across the Village.

Our Granny’s Will Be Done.

THE END"