Kundu, page 17
“I take it you have been told all that has happened with Sonderfeld?”
Oliver nodded. “Most of it, I think. ‘Where’s Sonderfeld now ?”
Curtis jerked his thumb vaguely towards the valley.
“Down there somewhere—we think. We haven’t seen him and we don’t think anybody else has.”
“Would you know if they had?”
Père Louis waved his pipe in a Gallic gesture.
“You must understand that my people are down there also. My catechist came up to report to me last night. He will be here again soon after dark. He says Kumo has been seen conferring with the elders and the other sorcerers. But there is no sign of either Sonderfeld or N’Daria.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t been killed?”
“Oh, yes. There is still talk of the corning of the Red Spirit. And besides, these people have a sense of theater. Kumo will wish to stage-manage the entrance of the Red Spirit. I believe he will proclaim him at the moment of climax, which is at the great slaughter of pigs outside the house of the Red Spirit.”
“So that’s where he is!” Oliver snapped his fingers as if at a sudden revelation.
Père Louis shook his head slowly.
“No, my friend … no, I do not think so. Sonderfeld is too clever to sit in a cage like a bird waiting for the fowlers. He will be hiding somewhere on the slopes of the valley, in the caves perhaps, or in one of the smaller villages. When all the preparations are made, Kumo will bring him down under cover of darkness.”
Curtis broke in, as if anxious to have his own part in the discussion.
“The important thing seems to me to be that Sonderfeld is still master of the situation. According to Père Louis’ boy, lots of the ceremonies are being telescoped, while others are being left out altogether, to bring the big ceremony forward. That means Sonderfeld is directing operations and not Kumo.”
“He’ll continue to direct ’em so long as he holds Kumo’s life in his hand.”
“He holds it no longer,” said Père Louis in smiling triumph.
“What?”
Oliver and Lee Curtis stared at him in gaping amazement. Grinning like a conjuror at a children’s party, the old priest held under their noses a small bamboo tube.
“Mrs. Sonderfeld will have told you that she found the brother to this in her husband’s pocket.”
Oliver nodded. “That’s right. She did. She also told me that you’d given her orders to replace it.”
“But what she did not tell you, because she did not know, was that I had removed the contents and substituted another piece of cotton wool, soiled with spittle and blood and tobacco juice to resemble the one I have here.”
“We’ve got him!” said George Oliver with sudden triumph. “We’ve got him!”
He threw back his head and laughed and laughed till the tears ran down his face. Then he looked up and saw the face of the old priest, and the laughter died in him like a match flame. Père Louis was smiling no longer. His eyes were grave and his old face was lined with fatigue and with sorrow for the follies of the world in which he had lived too long.
“As you say, my friend, we have got him. The power he holds now is an illusion, because we, in our turn, have come into possession of the vital essences of Kumo. It falls to us—you and me—to decide how we shall use it.”
“So—so this is what you meant by your stratagem?”
It was Curtis who asked the question. George Oliver was chewing the cud of a new and unpleasant thought.
“That’s right, my son. This is my stratagem.”
“But—but you said-”
“I said that its use would involve the life or death of a man.” He gestured with his pipe. “Ask your superior officer. He will tell you that it is so.”
George Oliver looked up and nodded in weary assent.
“It’s time enough.”
“But I don’t see—”
“You tell him, Father.”
He heaved himself up from the ground and walked a little way down the slope, where he stood backed against the rock looking down into the green emptiness of the valley approach. Père Louis turned his old eyes on the puzzled youth squatting on the ground in front of him.
“To understand what is at stake in this, you must realize that we can do nothing until the great moment of the festival. You could go down now into the valley, you and Oliver and the police boys. You could demand that Sonderfeld and Kumo be handed over to you. You would be met with blank stares and hostile murmurs, but you would achieve nothing. They would be there. You could beat the valley and still you would not find them—and all the time the people would be laughing at you.”
“I know. It’s happened to me before in the villages. I’ve been looking for a man wanted for a tribal killing. I might as well have saved my boot leather.”
“Exactly. So now …” Père Louis took another long draw at his pipe. “So now we are back to the big moment of the festival, the moment when Sonderfeld is revealed as the Red Spirit and proclaimed to the people by Kumo. It is a wild moment, remember. The people are drunk with the slaughter of the pigs, their skins are smeared with blood, the smell of blood is in their nostrils, their memory is full of the old bloody frenzy of the wars. We are there, too. We watch as spectators from the shadows. But we do nothing, because there is nothing to do—nothing at all until the moment of proclamation.”
“And then ?”
“Then George Oliver—or I, myself—steps forward with this tube and proclaims that Sonderfeld is not the Red Spirit but a liar and an impostor.”
“It’s one thing to proclaim it,” said Curtis dubiously. “The point is, can you prove it to Kumo?”
“That’s the least of our worries,” said Geroge Oliver bluntly. “The Kiap and the priest—two men who have never lied to the tribes! We’ll convince him all right.”
“So!” Père Louis took up his theme. “So, if Kumo is convinced as we hope, he is released from his bondage. No matter that he enters into a new one. He is released from Sonderfeld. What happens then?”
“Then,” said Curtis slowly, “then, I think, somebody’s going to get killed.”
“Exactly,” said Père Louis softly. “But who? Kumo or Kurt Sonderfeld?”
“God knows,” said Curtis lightly. “I don’t see that it matters so very …”
Then he saw George Oliver leaning against his rock in an attitude of dejection and utter weariness, and the truth hit him like a smack in the mouth.
“The poor bastard!” he whispered. “The poor, tired bastard.”
“I know,” said Père Louis softly. “Love is a terrible burden—and the burden of justice is more terrible still.”
Shortly after dark Père Louis’ catechist came up to join them on the ridge. He was sweating with fear and exhaustion and his eyes were rolling in his head. Oliver gave him a cigarette to soothe him, then he squatted in front of them and, in a mixture of pidgin and place-talk, embellished with many gestures, he told them:
Tonight, in the village, they were making the preparatory magic. Already the first pigs had been taken to the burial ground to be clubbed to death in sacrifice of the ancestor spirits. Their blood would be collected in bamboo tubes and smeared on the house poles and on the lintels of the spirit houses. Tonight the people would eat their meat and feed some of it to the living pigs to fatten them for the great sacrifice.
Then they would sit in silence round the cook fires while, inside the spirit huts, the sorcerers played the spirit flutes so that ancestor spirits would hear them and would know that they, too, were invited to the big festival. The women would huddle together and clasp their children close to stifle their crying, and if any of them asked what the flutes were, they would be told that they were the voice of a great bird whose name was Kat and whose wings they heard beating in the wind and in the storm.
When the flutes stopped playing, there would be a mock battle between the clans. They would shout and stamp and charge each other, stopping in the second before impact. They would rehearse old wrongs and cover each other with insults in memory of the time before the white man came, when there was enmity and killing between the clans.
Then they would sit down together and eat the pig meat and the taro and the kau-kau wrapped in banana leaves and cooked in the ashes of the fire pits. They would sing together and tell stories and the young ones would make kunande and carry-leg until, at the rising of the moon, the sorcerers would drive everybody into the huts to wait for the coming of the Red Spirit. The flutes would play all night, and on the morrow there would be the great slaughter of the pigs and the Red Spirit would show himself to the people.
When the catechist had finished, Oliver handed him another cigarette and the four of them sat smoking in silence, listening to the small creaking noises of the night and the shuffling murmurs of the police boys settling themselves to sleep. It was George Oliver who broke the silence.
“When will the great killing be made?”
The catechist swept up his arms in a double quadrant so that they met at the zenith.
“Tomorrow, when the sun is high.”
“Daytime,” Oliver grunted laconically. “That makes it awkward.”
“There is a way.”
Père Louis took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed eastward along the jagged rim of the crater.
“It means that we rise early and make a half-circuit of the ridge. There is a steep fall into the basin, but if we follow the creek that begins there, we can come down through the jungle and the kunai without being seen.”
“How close can we get?”
“A hundred meters perhaps.”
“Good enough. Curtis, warn the boys to be ready to move at first light. Then we’ll al turn in. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day.”
Lee Curtis nodded and walked over to the police boys to give them their orders. Père Louis dismissed the catechist with a word and a pat of encouragement and watched him melt quietly back into the shadows. Then he turned to face George Oliver. Oliver held out his hand.
“If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll take possession of the evidence.”
“It’s more than evidence, my friend,” said Père Louis soberly. “It is a man’s life.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I am sure you do. I should like to be equally sure that you understand your responsibility in the matter.”
For a moment it seemed as though Oliver would break into anger, then his mouth relaxed into a rueful grin.
“And what is my responsibility, Father?”
Père Louis shrugged.
“To keep peace among the tribes. To administer justice without fear and with favour to none—not even to yourself.”
“Easy to say. But how can one be sure where justice lies?”
“One can never be sure. When in doubt, one is free to accept the most expedient course.”
“That doesn’t help much, either—afterwards.”
“No. Therefore—” Père Louis seemed to hesitate. He bent down and knocked out the dottle of his pipe on the heel of his boot. Then he straightened up. “Therefore, if you wish, I am prepared to keep this—this thing in my possession to do what we both know must be done, and to accept the full responsibility for what comes out of it.”
“That makes you the scapegoat for me.”
Père Louis smiled a wise, tired old man’s smile.
“I am a priest of God. My life is barren of love and my loins are without issue. Why else but to be a scapegoat for my brethren and my friends? It is a little thing, believe me. I am too old to fret and the mercy of God has long arms. Well, my friend?”
“No!” said George Oliver bluntly. “No! I’m grateful, but I can’t do it.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me, Father”
Without a word the little priest handed him the bamboo tube that held the life of a man. Oliver looked at it a moment, then thrust it into his pocket.
“Thanks, Father.”
The old man’s eyes were soft with compassion.
“You are a hard man, George Oliver, Hardest of all, I think, to yourself. I shall pray for you tonight.”
“Pray for both of us, Father,” said George Oliver simply. “Pray for both of us.”
Chapter Fifteen
•
DURING THE NIGHT the sorcerers had been busy. To the sound of the flutes they had danced around the house of the Red Spirit and smeared its posts with pig fat and hung about it the clattering jawbones of the slain pigs, so that the people would say that the spirits had eaten of their sacrifice and were pleased with their offering.
Then, from a secret place, they had brought out little boards of casuarina wood, each pierced with a rhomboid hole and daubed with moss. Each of these boards were handed up to a man standing on the roof of the spirit house and slipped over the long, projecting center pole, in symbol of the act of union. The Red Spirit was the spirit of fertility. Through him the seed quickened and grew to life in the womb of the earth and of pigs and of women.
All through the ceremonies the sorcerers spoke in the whispered voices of spirit men and the flutes played and the tribes listened, fearful and withdrawn in the smoky darkness of the huts.
Then, when the flutes were silent and even the sorcerers had retired to rest their strength for the great killing, a shadowy figure emerged from a clump of bamboos at the edge of the compound. He wore no ornaments, his face was lowered against recognition and he peered about the deserted compound as if afraid some late-walking lovers might surprise him. But at the sound of the flutes even the lovers were afraid, and they had all gone into the huts to lie in one another’s arms until the sunlight came and the evil haunters of the night were blown away with the leaves of the sacred plant which is called bombo.
Satisfied that there was no one watching, the stooping figure signalled with his hand, and two others stepped out from the cane clump. They, too, were bowed and naked of ornament, but they carried in their arms the ceremonial wigs and little gourds and coloured pigments and a small bundle of food against the long hours of waiting. They hurried across the compound in the wake of their guide and came to the house of the Red Spirit with its clacking bones and its crown of coital symbols.
The grass curtain was lifted and they climbed inside and drew it close behind them. Then their guide stole another furtive look at the circle of huts and, satisfied that no one had seen him, straightened up and walked swiftly back into the shadows.
Kumo the Sorcerer had accomplished his task. The ransom of his life was almost paid. Tomorrow the Red Spirit would reveal himself to his people.
In the stinking darkness of the spirit house Kurt Sonderfeld and N’Daria lay together in loveless union, and when the first light showed through the chinks of the bamboo wall, N’Daria began to daub her master’s body with pig fat and paint his face for the moment of revelation to the tribes.
In the village they rose with the sun and purged themselves and began to dress themselves for the festival. Even the married women were absorbed in the unfamiliar rituals of adornment. Some wore coronets of feathers and beetle shards, but most wore headdresses of leaves from the sweet-potato vines. Their pubic belts were of fresh twigs and green leaves, and their necklets were of green snail shells and crescents of gold-lip trochus.
The bucks and the unmarried girls wore cane belts and bird of paradise plumes, while the chiefs and the sorcerers and the ceremonial dancers wore massive wigs of plaited hair, daubed with golden gum and glistening with green beetles and tossing plumes—scarlet and orange and purple and iridescent green.
When they were dressed, the men took up their clubs, whose shafts are made from the wood of the sacred tree, and which are used only for the ritual killing at the pig festival. The women followed them out of the huts into the sunshine, each carrying the family store of taro and kau-kau and bananas, which they arranged in a small mound in front of the spirit house.
Then they squatted on the ground, jostling one another to come as close as possible to the dwelling of the Red Spirit, gasping with wonderment at the sight of the pig bones, nudging one another and pointing at the symbols of fertility that crowned the roof. The children hung about them, chattering, giggling, lost in the wonder of the carnival day, awed by the noise and the colour and the air of tension and expectation. They, too, wore pubic skirts of fresh leaves, and the little girls wore on their foreheads or round their necks the diamond of womanhood, so that their breasts would grow and they would mature quickly.
Now the men had withdrawn from the compound, hiding themselves in the bushes and the kunai grass while they donned the last of their finery and finished their face-painting and warmed up the drums for the dance of the Red Spirit, while the sorcerers gave the last instructions on the ritual of the ceremony.
They then formed up—the sorcerers and the chiefs with their great golden wigs, the drummers with their black kundus and behind them the warriors with clubs and spears and stone axes.
Kumo stood in front of them, greatest of the sorcerers, chief paramount of the secret valleys by virtue of his alliance with the Red Spirit himself. His headdress was a triple tier of bird of paradise feathers, blue first, then orange and scarlet. His wig hung almost to the nipples of his breast, and two crescent shells hung down from its green fingers. His forehead was green, dappled with yellow, his cheeks were red, and his nose ornaments were a crescent pearl shell and a circle as large as a saucer. Round his neck were ornaments of shell and a stole of possum fur, and in his hand was a great club made of the sacred wood, with a circular head of dark obsidian.
He was a monstrous, challenging figure as he stood surveying the serried ranks of the tribes, holding his stone club high above his head, signalling them to attention, holding them rigid and expectant till his arm swung downwards and the drums burst out like thunder and the chant rang round and round the ridges of the valley.
He led them in a wild charge into the compound and through the dancing grove. He dropped to his knees and the whole army followed him. He rose again, shouting, and led them five paces, then dropped again to his knees—three paces, and another genuflection—two paces—one—and they were ranged in front of the spirit house, the drums thudding and the chant going on and on—“Ho-ho-ho-ho”—a surging, wave-like monotony in the still and sunlit air.
