Lead, Kindly Light!

—And a Tribute to Bush-beer

By W. S. Bond

THE usual tranquillity of night in Rarotonga was disturbed by agonised cries coming from the summit of a steep bush-clad hill at the back of the settlement. A nervous crowd gathered as near as they dared to the foot of the hill.

They listened. “Aue! Aue! Help!

Help! Save me! A ghost brought me up the hill and now I cannot get down!”

The crowd retreated a few paces.

“A ghost ” they whispered. “A GHOST!”

Footsteps approached from the rear.

Ah! Thank heaven! The inevitable policeman has arrived.

“A ghost!” they tell him. ‘‘A ghost has taken someone up the hill and now he cannot get down! Listen!”

Again the agonised cries floated down from the high darkness.

A Rarotongan policeman is a brave and stalwart man—but a ghost! There is nothing in the regulations on what to do about a ghost on top of a hill at midnight. This was a matter for the sergeant.

Some time elapsed while the sergeant was located and brought to the scene.

The pleas from the hill were more ter rified but weaker. Something must be done. But it was a tough assignment.

There were graves at the foot of the hill. First one must run the gauntlet through the graves. Then the climb up the steep track through the dark, crowd ing bush—and somewhere up there . . .

Shoulder to shoulder the policemen started the ascent. “We must stick to gether. Whatever happens WE MUST STICK TOGETHER!” So they came upon poor Tamate prostrate with exhaus tion and fright. With difficulty they got him down the hill and bit by bit the awed crowd heard his story.

He had spent the evening chatting with friends and eventually started out to make his way home. But when he neared the fatal hill he noticed a light before him and a Voice bade him follow the light and it would lead him home.

Instead of leading him faithfully home The Light had enticed him up to the top of the hill and there left him to perish.

The exhausted victim was taken home and for the next nine days the story was whispered round the island from neighbour to neighbour. “Did you hear about poor Tamate? A ghost with a light led him up the hill and left him there to perish! Aue!” rE denouement? Well, cold scientific research reveals that" during their long evening chatting together, Tamate and his friends frequently moist ened their throats with that golden nec tar commonly known as bush-beer. The night was very dark and the departing guest took with him the oil-lamp from the table. Bush-beer being what it is, he failed to notice that The Light was held in his own outstretched hand.

But the people will not believe that. If Tamate says a ghost led him up the hill, then a ghost led him up the hill. You must not cast doubt on a ghost story.

Ghosts Have ears and an annoyed ghost can be a nasty customer to meet on a dark night.

This tale may or may not have a moral.

Perhaps it is “Don’t take the oil-lamp with you when you go.” Or something.

Note By The Editor

rpHE things that that fermented orange- X juice (bush-beer, in other words) will do to one!

One evening, when he was young and

slim and irresponsible, the editor of the “PIM” 'was led by certain European and Polynesian friends to a place in an orange grove, in a valley behind Avarua, and introduced to. Rarotongan bush-beer.

It was a pleasant party. The company was amusing, and the new liquor slid ingratiatingly across one’s tongue. When the future editor and friends departed, dawn was creeping across the central peaks. The guests walked on air, and generally were in a condition of high exaltation. One simple sailor had don ned a pareu, and carried his trousers draped across his arm.

As they walked towards the port, and passed the Residency, the future editor, through the star-spangled haze which made all things beautiful, saw the official flag-pole. He was inspired.

He took the trousers from the purring sailor, climbed a couple of fences, attached the garment to the lanyard, and hauled the unaccustomed signal to the top of the pole. The happy company signified unanimous approval. The morning breeze spread the trousers out like a modern airfield’s wind indicator.

The high official in the Residency—an unimaginative colonel from New Zealand —later set his entire police force furi ously to track down the perpetrators of this foul insult to HM Agent; and boiffi policemen spent a busy day. But the early morning roysterers were dumb, and the flying of the disgraceful pants on the official flagpole finally was cata logued as an unsolved crime.

Now. long years afterwards, the mys tery is solved, by way of tribute to the potency of Rarotongan bush-beer.

Mr. and Mrs. H. H. Ragg. of Fiji, re turned to Colony in June after a visit of 4i months to New Zealand and Australia.