The Samurai Inheritance

VIII

Kristian Anugu sat in the depths of the bikbus listening to the sound of his pursuers crashing through the undergrowth like water buffalo. A tall, spare man with arm muscles like tree roots and handsome, almost Aryan, features, his hair flared in a wiry, untamed bush and his skin appeared so black it could almost be called purple. He carried a long spear in his right hand and the yelopela treasure under his left arm. He knew it must be treasure because the white soldiers who unwittingly supplied him with his belt and loincloth carried similar kes and they protected them with unusual vigilance for men usually so careless. His theory had been confirmed one day when he’d watched them worshipping the contents of the kes as they talked to God on the dit-da machine that travelled everywhere with them.

Curiosity had drawn him to the crashed flying machine and the yelopela king who looked as if he was asleep. There’d been many things from the machine he’d have liked and had it not been for his natural wariness he would have taken them. Property ownership was not a concept familiar to Kristian Anugu, a warrior of the Koki, a sub-clan of the Naasioi people who populated Papa’ala, in the southern centre of the island. He was the son of Osikaiang, the queen, who owned the land, the sky and the sea. Osikaiang owned, and Kristian Anugu fought to keep. That was the way it was and the way it had always been. If a man could not protect what he had and a stronger or more cunning man managed to take it away, then he deserved nothing. He’d first been attracted to the yelopela king’s long knife with its glittering handle and silken braid. Yet even as he reached for it something made him pause. The way the dead man’s hand still gripped it confirmed his instinct that the king’s spirit was still strong and one of the ensels who surrounded God was guarding the long knife. Kristian Anugu considered himself one of the most cunning warriors on the island, but that didn’t make him foolish enough to mess with the ensels. He’d been watching from the bush when the yelopela soldiers came with their long guns with knives on the front. Once, beneath a full moon, he’d seen two yelopelas holding a man from another tribe while a third plunged the gun-knife into his body. He had no wish to be discovered by them and treated in a similar fashion.

Unlike other islanders who made alliance with one or the other, Kristian saw no difference between the yelopelas and the white soldiers who always stared at the sky through the glas bilong kaptens he coveted. They were outsiders and nothing to do with him, or his clan. If they trespassed on his lands on big mountain he would kill them if he believed they were weak, or avoid them if they were too strong. Sometimes the yelopelas would destroy crops or burn houses, but that didn’t change his attitude to them. More food might always be found and it was simple enough to build another house. Kristian’s attention had been drawn to the treasure by the chief yelopela who had quartered the crash site like a dog marking out his territory. He’d seen him worship the body of the yelopela king before going to the kes and spending much time furtively studying the contents. At first, Kristian had feared the man would remove the treasure. His heart had thundered like the waves on Loloho beach as he’d watched the soldier’s indecision before leaving the precious kes where it lay. When he’d been certain the men were gone he recovered the kes and set out for the longhouse on big mountain.

That was when he made the mistake. His way had taken him past the road where God sometimes rained fire on the yelopelas, who appeared to have incurred His wrath more than the white soldiers they hunted. He believed this must be the case because the whites were left untouched. Or perhaps they were too few and insignificant? Normally a man might cross the road with ease, because there were not enough yelopelas to guard it properly. Today he’d been delayed by the same soldiers who had surrounded the crashed machine.

After some thought he took a different route, using the bed of a stream a little to the north. By the time he reached big mountain he could hear the yelopelas and their Black Dogs, the native Bougainvilleans who supported them, not far behind. He was not overly concerned, he could outwit the yelopelas easily enough, but the Black Dogs were a different matter. They might be salt-water people from the coastal settlements, but even their limited skill would allow them to track him back to the longhouse. He must not let that happen. Maintaining his pace to stay just far enough ahead, he considered his position. If he abandoned the yelopela treasure it was possible he could talk his way past them, though it would cost him some pride. Normally, they did not kill without reason, however insignificant that reason might be. But he sensed that the crash of the flying machine and the death of their king would make the yelopela soldiers more murderous than usual, and, in any case, the treasure fascinated him. He would continue, he decided, and lure them away from the longhouse until he decided what to do.

The patch of thick jungle was like a hundred others and he had no idea why it attracted him. He burrowed deep in its centre with the treasure under his arm and the sounds of the hunters closing in. Once he was settled, Kristian closed his eyes and sought to make himself as insignificant as possible. When the sonorous voice began to echo inside his head it seemed entirely natural and proper.

Not far away, he could hear the yelopelas blundering through the brush, crushing twigs and leaves underfoot and making more noise than the wild pigs he often hunted. Sometimes he could smell them — the yelopelas — before he could see them. They perspired freely in the sultry jungle conditions and the scent of their bodies was acrid in his nostrils, along with the rice-cooking odour they carried with them. But the sounds in closest proximity were much stealthier: the soft, wary treads of a barefoot hunter. The Black Dogs were almost upon him.

You must trust in me, the voice of his long-dead grandfather advised. I will be the cloak that shields you from the yelopelas and their Hat Men. Hold the treasure of their king to your chest and sing me the song of the fire dance that was never sung and without which I will never be at peace.

At first, Kristian found the advice perplexing. Logic told him his grandfather was long dead and to make a noise would be fatal. The old man had been killed in a blood feud that had only ended, according to family tradition, when the jemeni polis hanged three members of each clan from the same tree. Kristian’s mother, the queen, had always preached respect for their ancestors, but it was the mention of Hat Men that convinced him to comply with the old man’s wishes. The Hat Men had been the Black Dogs of the jemeni polis in the days before yelopelas and Big War, but they had not been generally spoken of since long before Kristian was born.

Sing, the voice insisted, and I will sing with you.

In the sultry depths of the bush Kristian closed his eyes and the rhythm of the ceremonial drums filled his head, the click of wood on wood sharp and rapid. He could feel the flames all around him, could see their flicker as if through the eye slits of a ceremonial mask. The drone of the fire dance song filled his throat and his grandfather’s strong voice echoed his, the sound spiralling around the jungle grove where it hung like a protective fence against the outside world. As he sang, Kristian Anugu’s fingers worked at the straps of the yelopela king’s treasure and removed a thin sheet from within. On it were strange scratchings that looked like a five-toed bird had danced across a sandbank. Kristian knew this was how the outsiders communicated with their gods.

Now you understand, his grandfather whispered. But there is another task you must fulfil before I am freed.

The drone died in Kristian’s chest and he blinked as if he were waking to a new day. Birds twittered in the bushes around him and their voices told him he was alone. An intense sense of release made him want to leap in the air in imitation of the fire dance, but it was immediately overwhelmed by the responsibility he had felt when he replaced the god words in their leather kes. He ran a hand over the rough surface and nodded to himself. Yes, he understood everything.