A Trader's Tale

As told to "Tukopo Koko"

I ONCE knew a branch-store manager in the Lower Cooks, who was his firm’s pride and joy.

He was a jolly, boozy, little man—red, rotund and fifty-ish.

He also was a War Veteran. In 1900 to 1902 he served in the Boer War. From 1914 to 1918 he served in the Bore War, of which he had a deep and sleep-in ducing fund of reminiscence. One listened to his interminable adventures without hearing, responding “Yes” or “No” during pauses, or was silent as he drank copious draughts of beer. Between wars this Bacch analian hero had been in the Cook Is lands for 30 years.

Steered judiciously off wars, he could tell many a merry tale of schooner trips and trade. Chaucer would have been charmed, and Pepys provided with Cytherean soliloquy enough to fill twenty diaries. He would beam and belch; chuckle and choke; winking, refill his glass, or call cholerically for “another

bottle p.d.q.!”.

“But I had a Slashing Girl at Pen rhyn”, said Silenus. “She was a Bewt. Her name was Ra-Ono. She had (censored) and her (censored) and she (censored).”

I registered polite envy.

“When they (the firm) appointed me supercargo on the ‘Lime Flower’, I had to leave Penrhyn and Ra-Ono. Oh, it was a wrench!

“We went round the Group for years.

There were so many other girls that I forgot all about Ra-Ono. So it would have been the same, even if I’d married ner.”

I agreed. Man is but weak.

“One trip, when the ‘Flower’ was loaded with people going round the Group, we ran into a howling storm between Aitu taki and Atiu. We lost a sail, and the wind grew worse. Things looked bad. The Family (native passengers) began to pray. Apparently, the Lord wasn’t having any. The harder they prayed the louder the wind howled.

“They got a better idea. The girls took off their bracelets and rings, ‘Apinga Akaturi’, and gave them all to the cap tain to heave over the side. He took away the gifts of guilt. The sea soon after calmed, and the wind died down.

“Then the skipper produced the Ac cursed Things. He’d only hidden the gifts in his bunk. The girls joyfully put back on arms and fingers the brass of Baby lon, and the guilty gold-plate. The rest of the voyage the weather was just simply as if we’d got it to order.”

He poured another glass piously, blew off the “suds” with pontifical dignity, hiccupped.

“And, later, I went Fiji way. You know Makongai, up there, where they put lepers from all the Pacific Islands. I went ashore there to have a look round.”

“Wasn’t that rather risky?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Quite safe so long as you have no sore or scratch where infection might enter. It was awful. Natives, brown, black; yellow folk; men, women and kids. All dying on their feet, rotting away. Hand less, toeless, lipless, noseless. Oh Lord, it was a show.”

He paused, took a grave drink; re garded the glass with shocked pity.

“And then I saw some from our own Cook Group. I talked to them about their

home islands. The poor (censored) were as pleased as Punch—just like a holiday to them.

“And then I saw a woman coming up.

Oh, Christ! She was terrible. No breasts, no hands; no toes on her bare feet, as she clumped along. Just rotting away in places.

“Strangely, her face was untouched as yet, and she had been a Bewt. She came up to me. I legged it to the wharf. I was young then, and back on board I blubbed Ra-Ono!”