I seek Waylao—The Heart of Fiji—I discover Traces of the Fugitive—The Bathing Parade—The Knut’s Indiscretion—A Submerged Toilette—The Knut as Travelling Companion—A Philosopher—A Noumea Nightmare—The Knut meets his Fate
AFTER my interview with Mr and Mrs Pink I strode away, hardly knowing where I went to, I was so upset about Waylao’s disappearance. I slept out beneath some palm-trees just outside of Suva township; or it would be more correct to say that I rested out, for I did more thinking than sleeping. Ere dawn came and the swarms of mosquitoes had finished their repast on my sweating frame I had made up my mind to go in search of Waylao.
It was a glorious daybreak, the brilliant sunrise streaming through my branched roof, and the tiny réveillé of the tuneful bush birds acted like a strong stimulant on my worried mind.
Before the sun was up over the ocean’s rim I had tramped two or three miles. I was on my way to N——, the native village where Waylao’s relatives were supposed to live. I felt quite sure that the outcast girl must have gone that way. Nor was I mistaken, for I had not gone far on my journey when I heard news of her.
It was wild country that I had to pass through. One could hunt the Pacific Isles and not find grander or more desolate scenery than those mountainous districts I crossed. I had a little money in my possession, and this fact considerably eased my journey, for I got a kindly native to paddle me up the Rewa river for quite five miles. After that beneficial lift I tramped it through the forest-lands, but I was not very lonely, for as I passed by the palm-sheltered native villages the children came rushing forth from the huts. They gazed inquisitively at me, then shouted “Vinaka! Papalagi!” and tried to steal the brass buttons off my tattered seafaring suit. They looked like dusky imps as I passed through those forest glooms, roofed by the giant bread-fruit trees.
As I rested by the dusty track two little mahogany-hued beggars stole out of the shadows with their hands outstretched—they had brought me oranges and wild feis (bananas), fancying that I was hungry. Nor were they mistaken in their fancy, for I had had nothing to eat since the last nightfall.
As I ate the gift of fruit, they clapped their hands and then somersaulted with delight. “Vinaka! White mans!” they screamed, as they rushed off back to the hut villages to show their frizzly headed mothers the brass button that I had given them.
I stayed in that village that night. My feet were very sore, and I could not manage to get along without rest.
I felt pretty gloomy as I sat by the huts of those wild people, wondering what was best to do, as I slashed the multitudes of flies and mosquitoes away. Suddenly one of the dancing kiddies stood before me and said: “Marama, beautiful white womans, come likee you, Signa tamba [Sunday].” In a moment I was alert, and on inquiring of the chiefs who squatted by me, I heard that Waylao had sought rest in that very village.
In a moment all the Fijian maids were standing round me, gabbling like Babylon, telling me how the pretty Marama had crept out of the forest. Seeing my intense interest in all that they attempted to tell me, they lifted their soft brown feet up and, with their eyes looking very sorrowful, intimated plainer than by word of mouth how Waylao had come amongst them in dilapidated shoes, footsore and weary.