Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

Paquette’s Birthday by Herb Henson

“There were no problems in Antipuluan until the American came here,” Jess said. As he talked, his strong fisherman’s fingers moved deftly, alternately weaving, then tying, two lengths of monofilament fishing line into small squares.

“The American bothers no one as far as I can see,” Meding replied. The old woman was stripping fiber threads from the husk of a dried coconut. Later, she would braid and splice these threads into a single strong line for use as the outer edge of the fishing net. The two were sitting on the porch of Meding’s house.

“Anyway, we don’t know that Tassig is dead,” Meding said.

Jess shook his head. “A man goes fishing as he has every day since he was a boy in waters he has fished many years. He doesn’t return to the village and his wife and children for three days and nights. Yes, I think he must be dead.”

They continued working for a few minutes without talking. Gusts of wind rustled the thatch roof of the house. As he worked, Jess watched the horizon to the east where black clouds had gathered, filling the sky. The bay and the Sulu Sea beyond the reef stirred restlessly, whitecaps forming in the freshening breeze. Outrigger fishing boats, nosed up to the nearby beach and tethered to coconut trees, rose and fell in the waves.

“Other unexplained things have happened, too,” Jess said. “Rosemary, the daughter of George, also mysteriously missing; pigs, dogs, and chickens gone without a trace. Things like these did not happen before the American came here.”

Meding studied the tone of his voice — something more than just concern, she thought. Resentment? What the young man said was true, but she could not see what part the American could have had in these things that were disturbing the tranquility of their village. As the oldest and most respected of Antipuluan’s elders, she was expected to know what to do to restore things to normal. She knew that Jess, the unofficial leader of the men, had come to her for her opinion and advice. But she wasn’t ready to give it yet.

“I will think about what you have said,” she told him, delaying any decision.

Jess nodded. His business finished, it was time for him to go. He got up and carefully laid the net aside. “I must see to my boat now,” he said.

He left the porch and walked quickly through the grove of coconut trees to the beach, his long black hair blowing in the wind. Other fishermen were already there. Bare to the waist, muscles rippling under sun-darkened skin, they worked together heaving their boats out of the water and up on the beach, safe from the approaching storm.

Meding folded and stowed the net under the porch. Inside the house, she closed and latched woven bamboo shutters over the windows. She was just in time. The rain began, only a few drops at first, then a drenching downpour. Snug inside, she stoked the cooking fire, palmed a handful of rice into a pan of water, then balanced the blackened pan on the rocks over the fire. She worked mechanically, her mind busy sorting and defining questions to be answered. Is the American somehow causing our troubles? Is it just coincidence that these things happened after he came to the village? What is the connection?

It had grown cold. She wrapped an old sweater around her shoulders and sat crosslegged on the floor by the fire. Underneath the house, sheltered from the rain, her animals complained noisily about their close quarters. She watched the water in the pan as it started to boil and thought back to when the American had arrived in Antipuluan two weeks earlier. The American’s wife, Paquette, had been born and raised here. Hers was a local success story. After finishing high school in Puerto Princesa, the island’s capital city, Paquette had gone to the United States to live with an American family and to go to college on a scholarship. Then and now this was a rare opportunity for a young Filipina from a poor family. Everyone in the village had been excited about Paquette’s adventure and good fortune. That was ten years ago. Now the young woman was back home to visit and had brought along her American husband and their young son. The three were staying with Paquette’s sister, a half-kilometer up the beach from Meding’s house.

The rice was ready. Meding spooned a helping into a bowl and mixed in wild greens and pieces of dried fish.

Seated again by the fire, she ate her meal and resumed her analysis.

The day after she and her family had arrived in Antipuluan, Paquette had come to Meding’s house to pay her respects. She came alone just after the morning meal and brought pandisal bread and mangoes in a basket. Like Meding, she wore the tapis dress favored by the island women, wrapped around her figure, tucked and secured above her breasts. Meding had been busy building small fires in her yard, making smoke to drive off the mosquitoes that always came during the night. After the two had embraced, Meding held Paquette at arm’s length.

“You have improved in size,” she said, smiling.

Paquette laughed, flashing perfect white teeth. “You mean I have become fat?”

“No, no. You are the same pretty girl I remember, only now you have filled out and become a beautiful woman.”

It was true. But if Paquette had stayed here in the village, Meding thought, she would now be gap-toothed and worn like her less fortunate schoolmates.

While Meding heated water for coffee, Paquette explained that she and her family had returned to Antipuluan so that they could celebrate her birthday in the place where she was born.

“When is your birthday?” Meding asked.

“Two days from today.”

“There will be a party?”

“Yes, in the evening when it is cool,” Paquette explained. “And during the day we will be taking a trip to satisfy a curiosity I have had since I was a little girl.”

Paquette pointed toward the sea to a tiny hump visible on the horizon.

“Since I was a child collecting shells along this beach, I have wanted to visit that island,” she said. “In my mind then it was a very beautiful place. Now, finally, I shall go there and see for myself. My brother-in-law, Roberto, will take us in his boat.”

“The place is called Arena Island,” Meding said. “No one lives there, only sea birds.”

“You have been to the island?”

“Only once. I brought something back. Come, let me show you.”

They put their coffee cups aside and Meding led the way around to the back of her house. A bamboo cage sat under the overhang of the house, supported above the ground on several flat rocks.

“Nick nick,” Meding said.

At the sound of her voice, a gray-plumed head on a long, feathered neck popped up between the bamboo bars of the cage.

“Nick nick,” the bird responded.

Paquette laughed with delight.

“He is my pet,” Meding said, loosing the catch at the top of the cage. The bird nuzzled her fingers. “His name is Nick-Nick and he is a sea heron. I took Nick-Nick’s egg from his mother’s nest in the sand on Arena Island two years ago.”

“He is wonderful,” Paquette said.

Meding lifted the heron from the cage and set him on the ground at her feet. The bird sprang away and bounded about the yard, his head bobbing up and down.

“Nick nick, nick nick,” the bird chortled as he ran. Meding’s sow squealed with annoyance as Nick-Nick sprinted past her bed of mud.

“You must bring your husband and son to see him,” Meding told Paquette. “Come at feeding time. He eats only fish, so his mealtime is just before siesta when the men return from fishing.”

“I will bring them,” Paquette promised.

Meding finished eating and rinsed her bowl. Outside, the wind and rain rattled and pelted her house furiously. This is a storm, she thought, not merely a squall. She wondered how long it would last. If the bad weather continued through the night, the men would miss a day’s fishing — another problem added to the others. The villagers needed to fish for their food and also to earn the few pesos they received selling part of their catch to the merchants from the nearby town of Narra. Lying down on the floor by the fire, she pulled her sleeping blanket over her, closed her eyes, and resumed examining what she knew about the American.

The day after the first meeting, as promised, Paquette had brought her husband and son to visit. The American was tall and lean. He had short brown hair peppered with gray, and brown eyes that were both intelligent and friendly. The boy was small for a six-year-old, but he was a handsome mixture of his father and mother’s features and skin coloring and seemed bright and happy. Both father and son were dressed in T-shirts, faded jeans, and dusty sneakers. After the introductions were over, the adults sat on the porch sipping coconut wine while the boy inspected the yard and Meding’s animals.

“You must find our ways here very simple compared to your life in the United States,” Meding had said to the American. Her English was good, remembered from her schooling and practiced at every opportunity.

“Different,” the American replied. “But your way of life here isn’t so simple. It requires skills few Americans have to live from the land and sea as people here do.” He spoke softly and, Meding thought, with confidence and authority. A man accustomed to being listened to.

“What work do you do?” she asked.

“I retired from the army just a month ago,” the American replied. “I was a soldier for twenty years.”

“We met while I was going to school,” Paquette explained. “My husband was teaching an army reserve training course at the college where I was a student.”

Meding nodded. “So what will you do now?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” the American shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that question yet.”

At this point, Paquette had changed the subject, asking Meding what had become of several of her classmates. Later they went around to the back of the house and Meding took Nick-Nick from his cage for feeding. The bird had made her proud, putting on a performance that had them all laughing. He ran around the yard bobbing his head and chortling, then dashing to them to snatch the pieces of fish they held out for him. When the heron’s stomach was full, he allowed the boy to hold him and stroke his feathers. The visit ended with Paquette asking Meding to attend her birthday party the following evening. Meding accepted.

Paquette’s birthday party had been memorable. All the villagers were there as well as many of Paquette’s relatives and former classmates who had traveled to the event from other villages and towns on the island. Roberto had killed a pig and several chickens for the occasion and roasted them on a spit over a huge fire built in the yard. To go with the meat, the women had prepared rice, adobo, and lumpia. For dessert there were sweet rolls, mango slices, and roasted bananas. After the meal, the men gathered by the fire, smoking cigarettes and drinking San Miguel beer bought by the American. The young children, including Paquette’s son, played tag among the trees, staying close to the light. Teenage girls danced with each other to American rock music from a transistor radio tuned to the station in Puerto Princesa. The girls giggled and pointed, trying to coax the boys their age to dance with them. The boys acted aloof, feigning uninterest to hide their shyness. The married women gathered on the porch to gossip.

“How was your trip to Arena Island today?” Meding asked Paquette.

“It was fun,” Paquette said. “We had a picnic; then my husband and I walked around the island on the beach. It was every bit as beautiful a place as I had imagined.” She leaned over and whispered in Meding’s ear: “We went skinny dipping.”

Meding laughed. “Then you had the island all to yourselves?”

“Yes. My husband and I liked Arena so much that we may be interested in buying the land and living there.”

“I don’t think there is an owner,” Meding said. “When I was on the island two years ago, there were no coconut trees. For someone to become the owner of the land, before petitioning the government, they must plant coconut trees and build a house.”

Paquette nodded. “You are probably right,” she said. “We didn’t see any coconut trees there today, and there was no house, at least not along the beach.”

In the yard, the teenage girls had succeeded in persuading two of the boys to dance. But the young men were embarrassed and shuffled to the music only half-heartedly.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Tassig had said. He put down his San Miguel bottle and grabbed one of the girls by the hand. In the packed dirt by the fire, the two stepped and swayed skillfully to the beat of the music. Rosemary whirled and laughed, long hair streaming, while Tassig swung her around, then stepped aside to let her go it alone, clapping his hands in time with the music. Sweat glistened on his bare torso.

On the porch with the women, Tassig’s wife snorted. “If he had as much energy for work as he does for dancing with the young women, we would not be so poor,” she said. The women laughed.

“Now you try it,” Tassig told the boys. He returned to the gathering of men by the fire, and the teenagers paired off again, waiting for the next song to start.

Meding remembered that this had been the last time she had seen either Rosemary or Tassig. Two days after the party the young woman had disappeared — run away from home, her parents thought and hoped. The girl had been restless, not content to help her mother around the house. George did not have the money to send her to school in Puerto Princesa. And then, not long after, Tassig had gone fishing as usual and not returned. No sign of either him or his boat had been found.

As the evening went on and more beer was consumed, the men’s conversation became more animated. From her place on the porch with the women, Meding couldn’t tell what the men were talking about, but she noticed that the American was active in the discussion, speaking mostly in English and at times in rudimentary Tagalog. She would have to find out what the men had talked about. Perhaps there would be a clue.

It took all night for the tropical storm to sweep across the island. By first light the rain was over and the violent wind was replaced by a light and pleasant breeze. To the east the sky was clear; to the west the backside of the storm was moving away from the village across the jagged mountain peaks in the island’s interior. Meding stepped out on the porch to survey the damage caused by the storm. Her chickens were in the yard foraging busily for food. She saw that the damage was slight: a few fronds on the house roof were awry; a small coconut palm had been blown over; the yard was strewn with tree branches; and brown and green coconuts of assorted sizes were on the ground everywhere.

“Good morning.” Jess waved to her from the muddy road behind the house, then started down the path, picking his way through the fallen tree branches. He pointed to the misplaced fronds on the roof of the house. “I will fix,” he said. “I have the time — there will be no fishing until late tonight.”

While Jess worked on the roof, Meding fed her animals, then cooked rice and made coffee. From a young vendor who made regular morning rounds of Antipuluan on a bicycle, she bought pandisal to go with their breakfast. When the food was ready, she laid it out on the battered porch table and the two sat down to eat.

“At Paquette’s birthday party,” Meding said, “what did the men talk about?”

Jess shrugged. “The usual things: our families, our boats, fishing and farming — that sort of thing.”

Meding persisted. “Later in the evening your talk was of other matters?”

“Yes,” Jess replied hesitantly. “Roberto happened to mention that the leader of the bandits had come to see him and told him that there will now be a weekly tax on everyone in the village. The bandit said that Roberto would collect this tax. There was much discussion about this; of whether or not we should pay this increased tax.”

This was a development Meding was not aware of. The bandits Jess spoke of were the militant part of the longstanding Moro or Moslem uprising on their southern Philippine island. The improbable goal of this group was to take control of the island and secede from the rest of the Philippines, thus establishing a Moslem nation independent of the Manila government; this in spite of the fact that the majority of the island’s people were devout Catholics. Outlawed but tolerated by the government, several bands of pseudo-guerrillas subsisted in the mountains, coming down into the villages occasionally for food and to try to recruit supporters for their cause. When they came into the villages, they carried military rifles and wore bandoliers of ammunition draped across their chests. Because the men were armed and possibly dangerous, the villagers in Antipuluan and elsewhere put up with them, listened to their political speeches, and paid the nominal taxes the bandits demanded. The people considered the taxes a voluntary donation because sometimes they couldn’t pay and the bandits, so far at least, had done nothing in reprisal. Antipuluan’s elders, Meding included, had long ago decided that it was in their best interest to cooperate and meet the minimal demands of the bandit group.

“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Meding demanded.

“I was going to tell you today,” Jess replied sheepishly.

“Pah,” Meding spat out. Was she getting too old for her opinion to be respected?

“And what did the American have to say about this,” she asked, controlling her anger with an effort.

“He had much to say,” Jess replied. Meding saw the sudden fire come into his eyes. Resentment again?

“The American said that he had been an army advisor during the early years of his country’s fight with the Vietcong guerrillas in South Vietnam.” He pointed to the west; Vietnam lay just across the narrow South China Sea from their island. “He told us that in the beginning, the Vietcong behaved much the same as our bandits. But later they demanded that their taxes be paid and took the young men from the villages against their will to become Vietcong soldiers. He said that we must be careful to not let such a thing happen here.”

“This sounds like good advice,” Meding said.

“But what does he know?” Jess said. “He is an outsider here.”

“Right now he is,” Meding said. “But the American is considering living here with his family, so it could be said that he does have an interest.”

“I know that he is considering this,” Jess replied. His tone and smoldering eyes said to Meding that he wasn’t happy about the prospect.

“You and Paquette were schoolmates?” Meding asked, changing the subject abruptly.

Jess nodded.

“Did you like her then?”

“Of course I liked her; she was very popular.”

“I mean did you like her in a special way?”

Jess’s eyes flashed anger for a moment, then cooled.

“Yes,” he said. “In fact, I wanted her to be my wife after she finished school in Puerto Princesa, but—”

“But instead,” Meding added softly, “Paquette went to the United States and now is back here with an American husband.”

Jess nodded. “But this has nothing to do with what I suspect about the American,” he added quickly.

“What is it that you suspect?”

“The night of Paquette’s party,” Jess explained, “it was Tassig who argued that we should do whatever the bandits want. The American said—”

Their conversation was interrupted by a young girl running through the coconut grove to the house.

“Madame Meding,” the girl shouted, “come quick. My brother is very sick and my mother told me to get you.”

The afternoon sun was sinking behind the mountain peaks by the time Meding trudged wearily down the path to her house. She was tired, but it had been a good day — she was satisfied with her work. The sick child was the son of the neighbor of Paquette’s sister. He had been running a fever and had gone into convulsions that morning. Cool water baths had broken the child’s fever, and Meding was sure that her herbal medicines and prayers would cure the little boy of his ailment within a few days.

The first unusual thing she noticed as she approached the house was that her chickens were roosting in the lower branches of the trees and bushes. This was not out of the ordinary after dark — the birds sought the safety of the branches while they slept — but it was still early, the sun not yet down. On the porch she found her two ducks huddled beneath the table. The cat wasn’t in his usual napping spot on the porch rail. Her baby chicks were gathered in a tight group under the house. She counted six chicks — two were missing and the mother hen was nowhere in sight. Perplexed, Meding hurried around the house to the back. To her dismay she saw that the sea heron’s cage had been knocked off its rock foundation. The cage door was ajar and Nick-Nick was gone. For the next Fifteen minutes she took inventory of her animals and searched the surrounding jungle for signs of the missing chickens and Nick-Nick. Nothing. When she had given up her search, the cat bounded out of the jungle, ran to her, and rubbed his body back and forth on her legs, purring softly. She patted his side. I wish you could tell me, she thought.

Meding was still visibly upset, walking around the yard studying the ground, when Paquette came down the path from the road carrying a basket full of soft drinks she had purchased at Antipuluan’s tiny convenience or “Sari-Sari” store.

“What is the matter, Madame Meding?” She set her basket on the porch steps and took Meding’s hands, searching her eyes. Meding told her what had happened.

“There is no sign of who or what did this thing?” Paquette asked. Meding shook her head.

“I have looked, but in the brush and mud it is difficult to tell the marks of my animals from any other, or one person’s footprints from another’s. In fact, in some parts of the yard it looks as if someone tried to brush away any marks or footprints, perhaps with a tree branch.”

“I’m sorry this has happened to you,” Paquette said, “especially losing Nick-Nick.”

Meding nodded. “This kind of thing has been happening to others in the village lately. I should not be surprised that it has happened to me.”

The two women sat on the porch steps. Paquette opened two bottles of orange soda and handed one of them to Meding. The cat jumped into Meding’s lap and resumed his purring. She stroked his fur absently.

“How is the son of my neighbor doing?” Paquette asked. “I know that you spent most of today looking after him. That’s why you weren’t home and—”

“The boy should be well soon,” Meding said, not waiting for Paquette to finish her sentence. “I will check on his condition tomorrow and make more medicine for his treatment. And you, Paquette? Have you and your husband decided to stay in Antipuluan, or will you be returning to the United States soon?”

“It’s almost time for us to go home,” Paquette replied, “if we are going to. We’re undecided. My husband is concerned for our safety here because of the bandits. He wishes he could convince the other men of the threat to everyone that these people represent.”

“Decisions that affect everyone in Antipuluan are not necessarily made only by the men,” Meding said. “Perhaps he should come here and also talk to me about it.”

“I will tell him,” Paquette said. “I must be going now before it’s dark. Would you like to eat with us tonight?”

Meding shook her head. “I am going now to see Jess. I will fish with him tonight if he agrees to take me along, then go to Arena Island to look for another sea heron egg. Nick-Nick, I am afraid, will not be found.”

When Paquette had gone, Meding gathered her orphaned chicks and put them in a covered basket along with a handful of seeds. She put the basket inside the house for the night. They will be safe, she thought, from whatever or whoever is doing these things to us.

Well after midnight, Meding held the tiller while Jess waded and pushed his boat away from the beach. When he was up to his chest in the water, he scrambled aboard and started the old pump engine while Meding lit the boat’s running light, a candle waxed to the bottom of an old wine bottle. The other fishermen from the village were already gone, their running lights barely visible miles away beyond the reef. The night was warm, wet, and black like the ocean water; the only sounds the quiet lap of the sea on the reef and the chug-chug of their engine. Jess sat on top of the engine hatch, bamboo tiller in hand, and steered the boat carefully through the gap in the reef, then pointed the bow toward Arena Island. They couldn’t see the island, but knew that from their village it lay directly beneath the three stars of the constellation Orion.

The boat was slow, so it was much later when they saw the black profile of Arena looming ahead. Jess killed the engine and dropped the anchor, careful not to make a splash. He then lowered a sounding line and pulled it back up, measuring the depth of the water beneath the boat. Satisfied with their location, he made himself comfortable on the engine hatch. They would wait, then put out the net about an hour before dawn. The fish would be feeding then.

Meding poured two cups of coffee from her thermos and handed one of them to Jess.

“This morning, when the child came to get me, you were about to tell me of suspicions you have about the American,” she said.

“Yes,” Jess replied. “At the party, Tassig told the men that whatever the bandits want we should give to them so they do not make trouble for us. The other men were unsure of what we should do. The American said that what Tassig suggested would be the wrong thing to do; that the more we give to the bandits, the more they will take, and the worse it will become for us. He suggested that instead we should all of us, as a group, make a stand and tell them that their cause is not our cause; that we will not make trouble for them but neither will we give them our food or pay them a tax.”

Meding said nothing. Jess sipped his coffee, then continued. “It was about two days after this discussion at Paquette’s party that the unexplained things started happening in Antipuluan. I suspect that he wants us to believe it is the bandits who are responsible so that we will become angry and do as he advised us to do. The American is a professional soldier and knows of using such tactics to make things happen. Also, he would not have to actually do anything himself. He has money and there are many in this province who will steal animals and make people disappear if they are paid enough pesos to do it.”

“I don’t understand why you believe the American would do this,” Meding said.

“The American has said that he wants to live here with Paquette and his son. I think he is concerned about what will happen here in the future. He knows that he is not one of us and fears that he may have to face the bandits alone.”

“That would be a reasonable fear,” Meding said, “but I don’t think the American is so easily frightened and I think you may have misjudged his character. Have you considered that perhaps it is the bandits who are doing these things; that they want us to suspect the American and make him leave Antipuluan so that they will feel free to come and go in the village as they always have before? Perhaps they are nearby but are afraid to come into the village while the American is here.”

“It is another possibility,” Jess admitted. He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup. “We must get ready to fish now,” he said.

The sky was growing light in the east as Jess pulled up the anchor. With an oar, he sculled the boat along, parallel with the island’s shoreline, while dropping sections of his fishing net over the side. Floats began to trail out in the water behind them. In a few minutes the net was out. Again he dropped the anchor and sat down to wait, this time without conversation.

As they waited and watched, the approaching sun slowly pushed back the ceiling of stars. To the west, the mountains of the big island turned from black to gray to green as the sun lifted above the horizon. Close by, Arena Island emerged from the gray to become an emerald gem circled by a band of white sand. Jess stirred from his makeshift bunk on the engine hatch and motioned to Meding. It was time to bring in the net. With one arm, Jess paddled the boat along the line of floats; with the other arm, he reached down and dragged the net over the gunwale a section at a time. Fish caught in the mesh squirmed, their silver sides flashing in the bright morning sunlight. Soon their catch lay between them on the bottom of the boat. While Jess sorted the fish and put them on stringers, Meding folded and stowed the net in the bow. When the work was finished, Jess started the engine and they headed for Arena. Meding sat in the bow to watch for submerged reefs. They both laughed as a sea snake poked its head above the water, saw the boat, and quickly ducked back beneath the placid green surface of the sea.

They made their landfall in a pristine cove between two points of rock and sand. Meding waded ashore, waved to Jess, and started off down the beach.

When she got back to the boat, the sun was high overhead. She had been ashore on Arena much longer than she had intended. She had found a sea heron nest, and the egg she sought was safely wrapped in a cloth she carried in her hand. She had also found something else — something more important; something she had to keep to herself, at least for the present. Jess was annoyed with her.

“By the time we get back to the village, the fish buyers will have left for Narra,” he grumbled. As Meding climbed aboard, he pushed the boat out into the water, jumped aboard, and started the engine.

“I’m sorry,” Meding said, but she offered no explanation. To make up time, Jess ran the old engine harder than he normally would; the bow and the outriggers sliced through the water as they closed the distance to the big island at a ten-knot clip.

Gliding over the shallows they saw that most of the other fishing boats from the village were pulled up on the sand. They exchanged waves with fishermen patching their nets on the beach and with pre-school children playing in the shade of the coconut palm and mangrove trees that bordered the beach. Near a cluster of nippa huts, they saw a group of men and women gathered around several brightly colored motor tricycles.

“Good,” Jess said, “at least some of the fish buyers are still here.” He cut the engine and they drifted forward until the bottom of the boat crunched in the sand. Meding waded ashore and secured the bow line to a tree trunk while Jess, stringers of fish over his arm, sloshed out of the water and headed for the group of people by the motor tricycles.

Later, the business of selling fish completed, Jess and Meding walked up the beach in the direction of Meding’s house. Jess had saved several choice fish and carried them dangling from his hand on a stringer. Meding carried the sea heron egg in its protective cloth. She had insisted on preparing fish and rice for their noon meal.

Shouts: “Madame Meding, Jess!”

They turned to see Paquette, the American, and their son on the beach behind them. Laughing, the three ran to catch up, racing each other in the loose sand. Paquette and the boy, running hard, arrived first. The American was right behind them, jogging easily.

“We were on our way to your house to see you, Madame Meding,” Paquette said, breathing hard and struggling to catch her breath. She laughed. “When I was a girl I used to run the length of this beach and never even breathe hard.”

“If you lived here again for long, you would get your wind back,” Meding said. “I’m glad you have come. You can join us for fish and rice. Also, I have a new pet.” She unfolded the cloth and showed them the sea heron egg. “You can watch while I persuade one of my hens to adopt it.”

“That should be fun,” Paquette said.

The group continued walking up the beach a short distance, then turned to walk through the coconut grove to Meding’s house. They had no sooner reached the shade of the trees when they heard the ruckus: chickens were squawking and Meding’s sow was squealing. Alarmed, Meding dashed ahead, Jess close behind her. What she saw when she reached the yard made her pull up sharply.

In the middle of the yard was the biggest komodo dragon she had seen in all of her life. It was about ten feet long; thick, squat, and leathery. The big reptile was devouring a chicken, mashing the bird in its massive jaws. Other chickens were frantically fluttering their way to the safety of the tree branches while Meding’s sow strained at her rope, eyes rolling in terror. The cat was on the porch rails, his back arched and fur bristling. Jess hesitated only a moment, then dropped the stringer of fish and ran past Meding, waving his arms and shouting. The American was there too, casting looks around the yard for something to use as a weapon. The dragon saw them.

Startled, it paused, then dropped the mangled chicken, whirled, and, stubby legs churning in the dirt, slithered away from them toward the edge of the jungle on the far side of the yard. What followed all happened in a matter of seconds. The dragon had chosen its escape route unwisely and found itself trapped between the pursuers and an impassable stand of bamboo. It turned and lunged for Jess. Jess pulled up fast — too fast. He slipped in the mud and went down on his back. Instantly he cocked both legs to ward off the attack. The dragon never reached him. The American was there, grabbing the thrashing tail with both hands and arms. Its tail and back lifted off the ground, the dragon twisted its head around and snapped at the American. Grunting with his effort, the American spun and slung the huge reptile into the bushes by Meding’s garden. Clear of obstructions, the komodo dragon didn’t look back. It barrelled away into the jungle and was gone.

Hearts pounding, they were all transfixed for several moments. The American was the first to move. He helped a speechless and shaken Jess to his feet. Paquette and the boy ran to the American’s side.

“Well, now we know,” Meding said. Then she laughed. “I think that the lizard was more frightened than we were. He will not stop running for miles and I do not think he will ever do his raiding in Antipuluan again. His brain is small, but he has a very good memory.”

“This net should be finished soon,” Jess said. He held up the nearly completed corner he was working on. “This is all I have left to do.”

Meding was working her way around the outside edge of the net, tying the fiber rope to the mesh every few inches with short lengths of monofilament line.

“And just in time,” she replied. “Tassig has agreed to buy this net from me to replace the one he lost in his accident.”

The two were seated crosslegged in the shade on Meding’s porch, the net draped between them. It was midday and hot. They were both tired; their morning had been a busy one. Early that morning, Jess had walked to Narra and arranged to rent a jeepney to take Paquette, her husband, and their son to Puerto Princesa. While he was doing this, Meding had helped the family with packing their things, and had gathered fruit for them to eat during the long trip back to the city. Later a large group of villagers had gathered by the road for the goodbyes. Paquette had promised that she and her family would try to return next year for her birthday. She was crying, but her husband and son, Meding thought, appeared to be glad to be on their way home. Soon they were gone, the jeepney speeding away up the dusty road. Their visit had been something new and interesting for everyone in the village. A little sad, they returned to their chores, to the routine of their existence.

Jess shook his head and laughed. “I am having a hard time believing Tassig’s story about his accident. It is difficult to believe that a man who knows boats could have his engine quit on him, then drift all the way to the southern tip of the island before he could get the boat ashore, find parts, and make repairs. I would not be surprised if there is more to the story than he told us when he showed up on the beach last night.”

“You are right. There is more to the story,” Meding said, “and I will tell you the rest now, but you must promise to tell no one else.”

Jess nodded his agreement, and Meding continued.

“Rosemary will also be home soon. Her story to her parents will be that she ran away and was staying with friends in Narra. But she found that she missed her family and decided to come home. The truth is that Rosemary and Tassig have been together on Arena Island all this time.”

Jess’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “I begin to understand now,” he said.

“While I was ashore on Arena yesterday looking for a sea heron egg, I saw a small house built back in the jungle a short distance from the beach. When Paquette was on the island the day of her birthday, she walked all the way around the island and did not see a house. So I looked some more and soon found Tassig’s boat pulled up in the bushes where it could not be seen from the water. After that, it didn’t take me long to find Tassig and Rosemary. There is much difference in their ages and things had not worked between them as well as they had expected. Both of them wanted to go back to Antipuluan and their families, but did not know how to do it.”

“And so you helped them with their stories,” Jess said.

Meding nodded. “Of course there may be a problem later — Rosemary could be pregnant. If that should be the case — well, we will worry about that if it happens. I have counseled with families and worked out such troubles before.”

“So now all of the unusual things that have happened here recently are explained,” Jess said. “And, as you thought, the American had nothing to do with any of them.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes.

“It was best that Paquette and her family went home instead of trying to live here,” Meding said. “Life here is hard and much different from what they are accustomed to in the United States. That is true even for Paquette; she has been gone from here for a long time. And the American, even though his intentions were good, he was wrong and could have brought us serious trouble with the bandits.”

Jess raised his eyebrows in question.

“The American is used to dealing with problems from a position of power,” Meding explained. “He is used to having money and, if needed, guns. Here, we are not in that position. The government cannot help us against the bandits, and neither will they give us the weapons we must have if we are to stand up against them ourselves. As it is now, one bandit with a gun could kill everyone in the village. The bandits and their foolish cause have been with us for many years, and during that time their numbers haven’t grown. It is best that we continue to throw them our scraps to make them satisfied, and keep on living in peace. This is something the American would not understand.”

“But he is a good man,” Jess said. “Paquette did well.” He paused, then added: “And you are a wise woman, Madame Meding.”

She smiled but said nothing. Experience and the wisdom that comes from it are the things your elders are good for, young man, she thought. I hope you remember this the next time there are problems in the village.