Magic

'Any Ruck?'

A Tale of Mangaian Magic

DURING three recent months, the natives of Mangaia have contributed £l4O to the Patriotic Fund —the highest figure, I believe, for the Cook Group outside of Rarotonga itself. The total from the whole Group is really splendid—particularly when one bears in mind the poorness of the Cook Islanders since copra lost value.

While a large number of purely spon taneous gifts have swelled the Mangaian total, a considerable proportion has be Q n derived from the patriotic dances held in the onen-sided, cement-floored cargo shed on the beach, which serves as the local “Royal Hall”.

I have endeavoured to make myself useful at these functions by providing

conjuring interludes. Carrying a kit of conjuring apparatus in the Pacific Is lands affords one not only a vast amount of amusement, but some remarkable in sights to native character.

On the occasion of the last patriotic dance, I was sitting on the counter in my store, running over final points of the evening’s programme with Tere Williams our Iccal N.M.P., who renders valuable assistance as my interpreter and “gag man”, when Makike, our village con stable, called in to make a small pur chase.

While pulling his money from his hip pocket, he unwittingly dropped a £1 note, and I was just about to call his atten tion to the fact when my companion gave me a “pipe-down” signal. As soon as Makike had left the store, Tere retrieved the note and handed it to me.

“Here is the chance of your lifetime!”, he exclaimed. “All you have to do is to wait until Makike discovers his loss, then ‘find’ the note—and your reputation as a ‘tangata manamana’ will know no bounds! ”

By a coincidence, I had arranged to run a series of all the “money-making” tricks that I know to “make money for the Patriotic Fund”.

Well, we watched P. C. Makike, and for the greater part of the evening he was his old, cheery self. The shock came when he visited the stall, where an enterpris ing Rarotongan gentleman was dispens ing drinks in the form of rain-water tinted a delicate pink with cochineal, (fully complying with the Cook Islands alcohol laws), and jaw-testing dough nuts.

When he felt for his money, a change came upon the constable’s countenance as a storm-cloud darkens a summer sky.

I felt horribly guilty as we watched the poor fellow “frisk” himself, and start to hunt around with his flashlight.

It was some time before he came into contact with us, when Tere inquired why the look of anguish.

“Don’t worry”, he said, having lent a sympathetic ear to Makike’s sad tale.

“Wait until the ‘popaa’ has finished his performance, and then we will see if he can do anything for you.”

Makike waited anxiously until I had concluded my turn, when I invited him to join us round my “black art” table.

I showed an empty metal case, closed it, and placed it in the centre of the table. There were a couple of minutes of strained silence while I “concentrated”; then I reopened the case, and there, sure enough, was the missing £1 note.

There were tears in Makike’s eyes as he cranked my arm and thanked me again and again. I felt mean at playing

such a trick, but Tere was screwing him self up in knots, trying to control his laughter.

The next day, of course, the whole is land was talking of this latest demon stration of my wonderful powers. But another day later came a somewhat em barrassing sequel.

Ngai, a young women of ample pro portions, entered the store with solemn countenance, and beckoned me to the far end of the counter, where, with fur tive glances at the other customers, she addressed me in a low whisper—so low that I was some* time in getting the drift of her own particular brand of English mixed with Maori.

It turned out that her poor mother was crying her eyes out over the loss of a £1 note, and she had come to me quite confident of my ability to “find” it!

Here was a fine go. My ears burned as I paced the back-yard seekiqg a solu tion. To gain time, I suggested that Ngai call back at four o’clock.

When in difficulty, I make a point of appealing to the superior knowledge of our Resident Agent, and I hurried to “the office”, where I found that gentleman with my friend Dr. Williams.

I explained my predicament—and waited patiently until the pair of them had recovered from an extraordinary fit of convulsions.

“Ha! Hum!” said the R.A., having re gained his composure. “For the sake of your reputation, I think the best thing you can do is to give the girl a pound.”

To which I replied, “Oh yeah! And I suppose you fellows will get a lot of fun sitting on my verandah to-morrow watching me handing out quids to heart-broken Mangaians?”

However, punctually at four o’clock.

Ngai entered the store door and fixed me with a searching gaze.

"Any ruck?” she asked.

“No luck.” I replied.

“Aue! Pad ruck!”

I tried to ease myself out by explain ing that as the loss was in the next village, it was a bit beyond my sphere.

In the case of Makike, the loss was much closer to me—which was telling the truth, if nothing else!

For the next two days, Ngai hung around my store, watching my every movement, as though expecting that any moment I might pull a £1 note from my ear or something, until I felt almost like giving .her a pound to be rid of her haunting presence.

I have since learned that her poor old mother is herself a noted “lady witch-doctor”, and it has been suggested that the lost note may have been a “frame-up”, prompted by professional jealousy, to test my powers. But, which ever way you look at it, I can always point out that the “physician was unable to cure herself”.

Anyway, I have decided to cut out all “money-making” tricks—or I am afraid it may cost me quite a lot of money to uphold my reputation as a “Tangata Manamana”—and that would be very “pad ruck”.—W.S.B.

Mr. Harold R. Rabone, of Sydney, has followed in the literary footsteps of his distinguished grandfather, the Rev.

Stephen Rabone, of Tonga, and published a book. Rabone’s Tcngan dictionary is now regarded as a Polynesian classic. The former’s work deals with Lord Howe Is land, and is based on a lecture which he delivered some time ago before the Royal Australian Historical Societv. Mr. Rabone has frequently visited Lord Howe, Norfolk and the Tongan Islands.

Captain A. S. Fitch, managing director of Steamships Trading Co., Ltd., Port Moresby, is spending his annual furlough, as usual, in Sydney.