Kik-e-pau

By Kathleen

Woodburn

OLD SOPHIE sat rocking to and fro under her mango tree. Her shrill, in termittent wailing was the only break in the silence that brooded over the house. The trade-wind whispered through the coconut palms and softly stirred the air at the corner of the verandah where the empty chair stood But the sun shone as usual on the uplands and the wide sweep of country beyond the watercourse and on the long slope of grassland to where it rose in an ever rougher jumble to meet the skyline in Uvetumungku'm, Wowis and The Hill Without a Name.

Down below, in the river gorge, the Valley Village was also hushed. The long wash of the waves where they met the river-bar and lapped along the shore alone broke the silence—a restricted silence, hanging more heavily than that of the open lands above, where the sun’s rays were not bounded by the cliffs— but through the stillness ran a sense of subdued movement, for the Valley Village was preparing for a feast, a feast unpre cedented in its history.

MARSTHER was dead. Marsther, who for nearly half a century had lived as an uncrowned king amongst them, calling them his boys and girls and ruling them with wisdom and discretion.

Their disputes had been referred to him and he talked them out of their anger or cannily played a waiting game, advising them to wait till “Gov’mint” came along —by which time all would be forgotten, or, if really serious, would pass into official hands.

They had loved him, and now he was dead. The news had come by the Talkie Machine up at the house, at which in his absence, Abell officiated as High Priest.

Marsther was dead, but repetition failed to bring realisation of the stupendous fact. He used to talk about it jokingly to the boys and to his great amusement

they, waxing eloquent, had promised him their best—the biggest funeral feast the island had ever known. They were child ren, detribalised children who, deprived of their age-old religion of ancestor worship, had little to live for but their periodic feasts. They seized any excuse to slip a little extra interest and ex citement into a purposeless life. Not that they wanted Marsther to die. but if die he must, well, they would honour him and enjoy doing so.

BUT now that the news had come, un expected and sudden, grief was para mount, although the excitement of the coming great feast ran through their sorrow. An added thrill was given by the announcement, through Abell and the Talkie Machine, that Marsther was to re turn from the sky and stay on his island in spirit to watch over them, and to minds steeped in ancestor-worship, this added touch of the supernatural was quite in accord with their traditions.

What the Talkie Machine had actually told Abell was that on this day a plane would scatter Marsther’s ashes over the home he had loved so well, but Abell’s translation added local colour to the plain announcement.

So they went about their preparations in silence with one eye on the sky and one on the business in hand. For such a feast special arrangements must be made.

The older men had slaughtered one of the wild cattle that browsed on the slopes of Uyetumungkum. Others were preparing wild pigs. Fresh banana leaves lay on the ground as wrappings for native pud dings containing crabs, coconut grated with the midrib of the palm leaves, taro, fish, yams, native cabbage, mangoes, paw paws, bananas . . . everything there was to hand on an island blessed with a good supply. Coconut milk, of course, and salt water to give the flavour. The Valley Village gave full rein to epicurean anti cipation, but with attention fixed on the sky, nevertheless.

Ovens were scraped out, the stones re placed and fires lighted above them, and the white smoke drifted softly up through the palms as preparations advanced and the morning drew on.

Noon came, and the heat beat down on the gorge, bringing the direct rays of the sun to light up the scene, but the white tropical sky remained empty and there was no sign of Marsther’s spirit coming to bless his feast. Canoes appeared, bringing natives from the south, who had heard the news and were coming for the ceremony. Never was there such a pre paration. Marsther’s spirit should have a welcome that left no doubts as to its sin cerity. 11HE afternoon shadows lengthened and the sun slowly sank towards the horizon. The hard white sky be came a tender green, and rose and apricot clouds, dappled with silver formed a halo for the central splendour that increased as it neared the rim of the earth and touch ing it, sent a golden path pulsating across the sea towards the beach. Then, out of the glory, came a great silver bird, a bird with a voice that shook the sky, and swooping over the island, it circled, dipped its wings in salute and sped away, leaving behind a soft trail of white which slowly settled over the green of the island, be coming one with it.

Marsther had come home to his people.

“Kik-e-pau,” they called and settled happily to the feast.*