Baptism of Fire by Christine Harris Page B

to coax them down. The women tittered. Hannah understood that a horse could be terrifying. She never wanted to see another one as long as she lived.
    Then the questions meandered on to In her country, how are babies made?
    Hannah immediately launched into a description of Australian native animals. With words, then actions, she tried to make them understand what a kangaroo looked like. At home, she would have felt a complete fool hopping round with her hands held up like paws. But here, where words were difficult, mime was the best answer. However the women still looked puzzled. Frustrated, she almost gave up, then remembered her paints.
    A few brushstrokes, a little colouring, and there was a passable kangaroo. The women were fascinated as a kookaburra followed, then a horse with misshapen back legs. Pictures made it easier to communicate while words were still being stumbled over.
    Hannah promised to paint pictures of the women on the next day, and in anticipation of this great event, several gifts were offered: a bunch of bananas; two green coconuts, which Merelita assured her were far superior to the drier brown ones; a polished shell; and a small woven mat. Merelita volunteered to help Hannah carry them back to the mission house.
    Startled, Hannah looked up. ‘What was that?’
    Merelita’s fingers scampered. ‘Rat?’
    Hannah wasn’t convinced. She stepped outside but there was no one nearby. Perhaps Merelita was right. But as Hannah turned to go back inside she saw something that made her skin crawl. On the outside wall, skewered by twigs, was her sunhat: just like the bêche-de-mer in that fiery hellhouse.

Merelita could turn a simple walk into an adventure. She did and said the most unexpected things. Flumping onto the side of the path, she waited as a man walked past. ‘He a Chief,’ she explained, then stood and dusted her gritty knees.
    She wouldn’t allow Hannah to tread a certain part of the path, but insisted they walk beside it. ‘Man die here—pineapple club.’ Violence was not surprising when most men carried a weapon. ‘Light spirit here where body fall.’ Merelita’s pupils grew large. ‘Sometimes when rain fall, spirit moans. He sit up. Bad pain in head.’ Having seen several clubs recently, Hannah could quite understand the victim’s ghost having a headache—a severe one at that.
    A shower fell, but soon both girls were dry and wishing it would rain again to ease the sultry atmosphere. Today Uncle Henry was with Timothy on the other side of the island. He hadleft before breakfast. Consequently, Hannah felt much more relaxed and able to be herself.
    Merelita had an endless supply of anecdotes. Some stretched the limits of credibility, but they were always entertaining. Hannah’s favourite was about a man who went out in a canoe with several others. The weather turned sour and when he stood to adjust the sail, he was pitched overboard into the writhing sea. It would have endangered all lives to attempt a rescue so, sadly, the men waved goodbye to their friend and continued their journey. Several days later, the man staggered ashore, exhausted but alive. Although far out to sea, he had worked out which direction to swim home by feeling the wind on his ears.
    Hannah responded by retelling the story of Jonah surviving for three days in the belly of a large fish. Merelita liked that one; asking a dozen questions about life inside a fish which Hannah couldn’t answer.
    Hannah stopped short as the path led them to a small bure . It was some distance from the village. ‘What is this place?’
    â€˜Not go there.’
    Insatiably curious, Hannah was about to ask why, when she heard a groan. Assuming it was not the spectre from the pathway with a migraine, someone was inside. ‘Someone lives here?’
    â€˜Bad bure .’
    â€˜Bad people live here? You mean they have done wrong?’ She was confused. Punishment