The Birthmark Read online

  ‘You shut your mouth, girl.’ Bwack! Against her jaw this time.

  Lily stumbled but was held captive by her hair. She tried to squirm her way free, ‘Man! You…’ ‘You shut up girl! You don’t go sneakin’ round Government Settlement. You don’t go round with that thief.’ The next blow hit her across the eyes. Darkness followed and she fell to the lino.

  ‘Trut!’ she heard her mother say. The doorway rattled as Lorelei left the room.

  Lily’s eyes burned with tears as she fought to open them. It took a moment for the blur of light to clear, then she focused on the upturned lino edge, blackened with filth and dust, and just out of reach, her mattress where the sword lay underneath.

  ‘Some help you are,’ she whispered.

  That night Lily woke to find the rain had come. Her feet were getting wet. A cool breeze carried the rain in through the open louvres. She stood up and lurched to the side. Unsure of her balance, she leant against the wall. Her eyes were puffy and her head throbbed. She moved her mattress out of the wet patch on the floor, exposing the sword. Its blade glinted at her in the pale light.

  She picked up the sword. It felt colder and heavier than before. Where could she hide it? Perhaps inside the wooden chest? But it didn’t lock. If anyone wanted to snoop inside they’d see it straight away. She decided to slip it behind the chest instead. It fitted easily. Satisfied, she went to shut the louvres.

  Outside, bathed in the glow of the security light, a figure caught her eye. There was someone out there. Lily drew in her breath sharply and flattened herself against her door. She knew what to do: don’t make a noise, don’t ever let them know you’re inside. Don’t ever talk to anyone prowling around.

  She struggled to breathe silently; her chest was tight with adrenaline and she thought she’d choke. She peeked through the louvres and saw the figure again, a Chinaman standing in the rain. He didn’t seem to see her. He just stood there. If it wasn’t for the rain, she’d swear he was saying something. His mouth and face were moving as if he was shouting, but no sound was coming out.

  She turned away. Had he seen her? She couldn’t be sure. She was getting wet standing beside the window, but she knew the screech and snap of shutting louvres would give her away.

  Lily looked again. He was closer now, only a few metres away. She could feel her heart thumping and her face began to burn, but a chill had entered the room and she shivered as the rain spattered over her.

  She was sure now that he was looking at her. She wanted to tear herself away from the window but found she couldn’t move. He was mouthing something, shouting at her and all the veins and sinews in his neck strained. His nostrils gaped and she saw hatred in his eyes. But he wasn’t wet, even though he stood in the pouring rain.

  Was she dreaming? Lily rubbed her eyes but the pain of her swollen face made her gasp. She couldn’t be dreaming; the pain was real. Maybe that was it? Her eyes were so busted she was seeing things that weren’t there. ‘Who are you?’ she stammered.

  He continued his silent ravings.

  Terrified, she held her breath. It had to be a ghost. She turned away from the window, knelt on the floor and fumbled for something to throw. Her rubber thong, yes that would do.

  She stood up and confronted him. His black eyes bored into hers.

  ‘Piss off, you yani!’ She threw the thong at him and watched with relief as his image faded before her.

  Lily slammed the louvres shut and crouched on her mattress, staring at the window. Her heart thumped and her whole body felt chilled. She shivered uncontrollably. But the most unsettling sensation was in her left hand. The purple of her birthmark tingled hot as if she’d been stung by dozens of red ants. Had she slept on it awkwardly before the ghost materialised?

  Would he come back? Why was a ghost hanging around here? So many thoughts and fears filled her mind, she thought she’d never sleep. But somehow sleep came to her as she sat with her back to the wall, wrapped in a sodden sheet in the far corner of her room.

  As dawn approached Lily dreamt she was drowning, drowning in a sea of blood and tears. A rickety boat bobbed on the waves, out of reach. It was a familiar nightmare, where she plunged into the black waters of the ocean only to find them filled with blood, and where the wail of a crying woman pierced her dreams.

  five

  Mawendo District

  3 December 1942

  The mist of dust and coral shards cleared from the blast and the marines signalled Tepu’s gang to clear the debris. The sun bit into his skin, sweat streamed from every pore of his body and his limbs ached. He longed to rest for a few minutes in the shade, but he dared not stop work. They were always watching, waiting for a man to stumble.

  Torn coconut leaves strewn amongst the rubble of logs and rock were all that remained of the life-giving palms. Tepu’s hatred of the Japanese grew with every fallen tree. Our food destroyed for the sake of a runway, he thought. What would they eat? Aeroplanes?

  He bent to lift one end of a log and saw a cluster of green coconuts in the wreckage nearby. Immediately he became aware of his thirst, but he fought the desire to reach out for them. He picked up a broken coconut leaf and threw it over the nuts. If he was lucky he could smuggle them out with the next load. The thought gave him a surge of strength as he dragged his log from the rubble to the bonfire site.

  Tepu heaved the log onto the pile. Sweat stung his eyes. He wiped a dusty arm across his brow and turned for the next load. Someone was shouting. He ran back towards the blast site.

  He was too late. Another worker, an older Tevuan with a large family, had found the coconuts and tried to hide them at the edge of the forest. The man hadn’t been careful enough: one of the marines had caught him and forced him to hand over the coconuts. Then the beating began, blow after blow with a large stick. The man bent and twisted beneath the punishment.

  Attracted by the commotion, the nearest Lieutenant strode towards them, barking orders and drawing his sword.

  The worker cowered beneath the blows. Tepu stared in horror as the Lieutenant closed in and the worker crumpled to the ground. But the Lieutenant didn’t use his sword. He used his boot instead, and the smack of leather in the worker’s face made Tepu wince. Don’t fall down, he thought—if they beat you, you mustn’t fall down.

  All the men hated this Lieutenant. They learnt to recognise him from a distance. He was the same size as the others but he walked quickly, his long black boots flashing in the sunlight and his head jutting forward. His face was thin and flat and his empty black eyes showed no emotion.

  The Tevuans called the Lieutenant ‘Egirow’. It was their word for angry. Most officers ignored the Gilbertese and Tevuan workers, but not Egirow. He was always interfering with the marines he supervised, joining in with the beatings. Some even said he beat his own marines.

  The Japanese were increasingly suspicious of any communication between the islanders. Each morning and evening when Tepu marched past the leper colony he looked out for Edouwe. He always positioned himself at the edge of the group so he could signal to her if he saw her. He would pretend to wipe sweat from his brow and Edouwe would look as though she was swatting an insect away. They both had to be careful not to attract the guards’ attention. Sometimes the guards were so close it was impossible even to look at one another.

  Most mornings Edouwe hid behind a cluster of coral pinnacles on the outskirts of the camp. If she couldn’t be there she left a sign: a rock strategically placed on top of one of the pinnacles. In the evenings he often heard her whistle from the shadows of the huts. He dared not look around, but he knew it was Edouwe calling to him. Sometimes he saw her dart from one hut to another just as they passed and the sight of her lifted his spirits. But the daily sightings were not enough. Tepu longed to speak to her.

  Anbwido

  Saturday 26 June 2004

  Barbecued fish and sausages and a huge mound of rice lay on the card table in front of them: Hector and his grandfather picked at the fish in turn, pulling
the soft white flesh easily from the bones that were like toothpicks.

  They sat on the porch looking out through the trees towards the sea. Soon the sun would be high in the sky. Between the trees and the ocean a stream of battered early model Landrovers, scooters, and rusted out sedans churned past.

  ‘The Japs had swords, didn’t they, Ibu?’ Hector asked as he sucked the grease from his fingers.

  The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘They had swords.’ ‘We found one a few days ago,’ Hector said as he picked up a portion of rice in his fingers.

  The old man stopped chewing. His hand stopped in midair, poised above the rice. He stared at Hector. ‘Where?’

  The boy nodded to the right, indicating the scrub behind the house. ‘Place I got the chicken.’

  The old man coughed and his body heaved with each hacking bark. Finally, he composed himself and spat over the side of the balcony. Hector offered him a jug of water and a metal cup. The old man poured himself a drink, his large fingers fumbling with the lid as he tried to replace it. ‘Where’s the sword now?’ he asked.

  ‘Lil’s got it.’

  ‘I’d like to see it,’ he whispered.

  Hector knew he would. He was always interested in things from the war, old photos, legends and stories of long ago. ‘I’ll tell her. She didn’t believe me when I said the Japs had swords.’

  ‘Probably her family doesn’t know much about the past. So much is lost. The young parents don’t tell their children anything now. They don’t guide them.’ He looked steadily at Hector. The lines under his eyes made his expression sag. ‘You’re unlucky to have lost your parents, but you are blessed to have an ibu to teach you.’

  Hector rolled his eyes. Blessed! Sometimes he thought he was cursed. Like when his grandfather decided to lecture him. He went on and on, telling the same old stories Hector had heard a thousand times before.

  ‘It is a sad island, Hector. Before, we were proud people. Now we’re just a land of drunks.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, “don’t come drinking beer round here”,’ Hector mimicked.

  The old man leant back on his chair and scratched his bald head with both hands. The muscles in his arms sagged the same way his face did. Hector reckoned he would have been a strong man in his youth—not muscular, but wiry. Now his belly had thickened and his wrinkled face had the suppleness of rubber.

  ‘Ibu, why did they chop people’s heads off? You know, like you said they did to some men during the war.’

  ‘Very cruel, the Japanese, Hector. Very cruel. They thought the men were spies for the Americans. They thought they told the Americans to bomb the runway. So, chop, chop.’ He made a cutting gesture at his throat.

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No, but others did.’

  Hector swallowed hard. What if the sword they’d found had killed someone? The skin on his spine prickled. ‘But why did they kill people and not just keep prisoners?’

  The old man chewed on one of the charred sausages, taking his time to answer. ‘They didn’t kill everyone…I don’t know, Hector. They did everything for their god. They had to win the war for their god.’

  Hector knew of only one god. The one they’d been dragged along to church to worship every Thursday and Sunday. ‘Who’s their god?’

  ‘The emperor.’

  ‘What emperor?’

  ‘He’s like their king. They were so stupid. They thought he was a god, like Jesus maybe.’ The old man turned the fish over to expose the uneaten side.

  Hector was puzzled. ‘But didn’t they go to church? Was it so long ago we didn’t have churches then?’

  ‘Suh! They were not Christians.’ The old man began to chuckle. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t long ago. How old do you think I am? One hundred?’ He laughed at his little joke, coughed roughly then leant over the balcony and spat again.

  ‘Well, when was the war, Ibu?’

  ‘About sixty years ago.’

  ‘So how old were you when they came?

  ‘About the same age as you…fifteen I suppose, I don’t know what year I was born.’

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ Hector said, secretly pleased that his ibu thought he was older.

  ‘Well then, something like that.’ The old man nodded. Hector knew what five years, or even ten were like, but when people said sixty or one hundred it didn’t mean much to him. ‘So when did the churches come?’

  ‘Oh before that, when the Germans came, maybe a hundred years ago or more. They brought Christian stories, their Lutheran church. Some Tevuans married Germans. Lots of German names, German words, German customs mixed with island ways. They stayed a long time, till World War One, then the British came.’

  ‘OK, so before that, didn’t we go to church?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did we know about Jesus?’

  ‘No. Tevuans had stories about their own gods. And the Gilbertese had different gods: gods of the sea, the earth and the dead. The Gilbertese had ancestor spirits and the Tevuans had legends, like the girl in the moon. Both people knew of ghosts and witches and evil demons. You know those stories.’

  Hector remembered all the ghost stories from when he was a child. He was still frightened by the story about the evil witch at Baringa who lured children away from their mothers, but he dared not admit it. Even though he felt the power of these old stories, he didn’t know whether he should believe them or not. ‘But are they real, Ibu, these ancestor spirits and ghosts?’

  ‘They’re real if you believe,’ said the old man, ‘and if you feel ancient magic in your blood then they are true and real like you and me.’

  Hector grunted and cleared away the remains of their lunch. ‘I don’t know, I think I need to see a ghost first, before I believe,’ he said. Should he dismiss the ancient magic as superstition or put his faith in it?

  The old man looked at him with a tired expression. ‘One day you will understand, Hector. You are about old enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Some people feel these things as children and others as teenagers. Some with Gilbertese blood are shamans; they know the spirit world.’

  Hector felt uneasy, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. He shivered and changed the subject. ‘I met an Australian yesterday, a girl. She’s here on holidays.’

  His grandfather smiled.

  ‘I’m going to show her the pillbox down near Lily’s house today.’

  ‘You go with another girl, please.’

  ‘Yes, I’m going with Lily,’ Hector was irritated. Didn’t his ibu know those old customs weren’t important anymore? The old man grunted and began washing the dishes.

  Hector said goodbye and left the house. Today had been a good day—his grandfather had felt like talking. Sometimes they would go weeks without his ibu saying a word. Hector was used to it, but no one else understood Riki’s strange behaviour. People thought his ibu was crazy and their reactions annoyed Hector more and more. Why couldn’t people just accept that the old man was different?

  The track from Hector’s hut was covered with potholes. He pedalled his bike expertly between them and took the turn that led downhill past where Lily’s cousins lived. He saw figures on the meneaba beside the house. It was Lily and her cousin Decima.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Decima screeched.

  He hit the brakes and skidded to a halt. Black slush from the track sprayed sideways. ‘I was going to get Lil,’ he said looking at Lily.

  She turned away from his gaze.

  ‘Remember, we said we’d take Christina to see the pillbox.’

  ‘We’ll go soon. Decima’s coming too,’ she muttered.

  ‘Aren’t you going to the hospital?’ he asked Decima. ‘Not today, Mum said she’ll be fine for a while. So I’m free!’ She grinned.

  Hector got off his bike and propped it against the meneaba. The girls were sitting cross-legged, playing cards. He climbed up onto the platform with them. Lily didn’t look too good. One side of her face was fa
t and her eye was dark and bloodshot. She must have had a fight last night. ‘Want to play last card?’ Decima asked. Her straight narrow features made her look serious, even when she was being friendly.

  ‘Yeah, why not.’

  Decima shuffled the cards and began dealing them. Lily sat in silence. Hector tried to catch her attention, but she avoided him.

  ‘Hector, you know anything about ghosts round here in Anbwido?’ Decima said.

  ‘Ghosts, there are ghosts all over this island. That’s what my grandfather says.’

  ‘Riki! Riki!’ Lily taunted him.

  Hector blushed.

  ‘Suh!’ he spat at her, ‘Shut up!’ He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed hard. Lily laughed and fell off the platform onto Hector’s bike. She and the bike toppled to the ground, her feet tangling in the handlebars as she fell.

  Hector couldn’t help chuckling. She looked ridiculous lying beside the bike with her legs stuck in the air.

  Lily glared up at him, her expression hard to read through the puffiness of her face, then she laughed again. Decima joined in, but ran to help her up.

  ‘Ngaitirre! I’ll get you for that,’ Lily snapped.

  ‘You couldn’t catch me,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, sit down,’ Decima said, gathering up the scattered cards. She sat down and began counting them.

  Hector was enjoying this: two older girls giving him all this attention, talking to him like like a friend. What a way to spend the afternoon!

  ‘What are these ghosts your ibu talks about?’ Lily asked. ‘Has he seen any?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. You know that story about the witch who calls for her children?’

  ‘We’re missing some cards,’ Decima whined, but Hector and Lily weren’t listening.

  ‘Has he seen her?’ said Lily.

  ‘Well, he thinks he knows who she was. Says she was ‘Come on you guys, help me look for these cards. Three are missing.’ an evil woman…lived at the edge of Anbwido and Baringa long ago. She ate babies.’

  ‘Everyone knows that. What about men ghosts?’