“Well, if this is a typical Solomon Island homestead, I’d sooner go out visiting in dear old England,” thought the apprentice, as Oom Pa suddenly prostrated himself on the prayer-mat and, turning over on his back, blew his stout, wrinkled stomach out with enormous breaths in some religious rite. Hillary made a solemn face and, responding to Ingrova’s appeal, placed his brow against a dead man’s beard that hung by the window hole. It was with a feeling of considerable relief that he so graciously bowed when two pretty native girls suddenly rushed into the room and stared at him with wonder-struck eyes. His white face fascinated them. They were attractive-looking maids, their massive crowns of hair tastefully ornamented with frangipani and scarlet hibiscus blossoms. Threaded shells dangled from their arms. One had large earrings hanging from her artificially distended lobes. They were two of Ingrova’s granddaughters. They at once proceeded to flirt with the apprentice, giving captivating glances from their fine dark eyes. And when he accepted a flower from pretty Noma, the tallest girl, he swiftly accepted a like offering from her companion, who had shot a jealous glance at her sister from her warm dark eyes. In the meantime, Oom Pa and Ingrova had met under the palms just outside the palavana.
Ingrova’s eyes flashed with fire as old Oom Pa spoke close to his ear, for they liked not a white man to call in their village without asking. Though Ingrova was a brave chief, he too was a religious bigot, and his heart swelled with much devotion as he thought of what his gods would think to see the apprentice’s skull hanging amongst his most sacred religious trophies. He felt that a skull adorned with dark bronze curls would be a prize worth securing. Oom Pa placed his dusky hand to his mouth, coughed and looked around to see that none heard; then he said: “I say, O mighty Ingrova, this white papalagi may seek our hidden idols and be after no maid at all. What think you?”
And Ingrova replied: “O mighty Oom Pa, favoured of the gods, did I not hear you say that you had seen such a one as this white maid?”
Oom Pa puckered up his wrinkled eyebrows and swiftly told Ingrova how a white girl had danced unbidden on his great tambu pae pae and then run away into the forest. On hearing this much Ingrova looked towards the palavan to see that the white man was not within earshot, and then, swelling his majestic, tattooed chest and shoulders, said scornfully: “It seemeth a grievous thing for a white maid to be missing, yet, I say, do not these cursed papalagi come into our bays on their ships and steal those we love, our wives, our sons and daughters, taking them to slavery, O Oom Pa?”
“’Tis as thou sayest,” responded the priest. For a moment he reflected, then he looked up into Ingrova’s eyes with deep meaning and said: “Methinks ’tis true that he seeks a white maid, for he who hath a leg of wood did pass this way, calling in strange tones to all whom he met; and mark you, O Ingrova, this papalagi who is there in your palavana hath one eye that is the colour of the day and one the hue of the night.”
Ingrova at this wisely nodded, as though to say that he too had noticed this strange thing. Then Oom Pa continued: “To have such eyes must mean that he is favoured by the gods of his own race, and so ’twere well that he should receive our friendship. And maybe, after all, ’tis the white man’s god who tattoos the skies!”
Ingrova sighed deeply as he thought of the exquisite skull that might have adorned the walls of his palavana. Then he said: “’Tis well, Oom Pa, for the youth is to my liking.” And as they both stooped and re-entered the palavana doorway the young apprentice little dreamed how inscrutable Fate had given him one eye blue and the other brown so that he might not be killed that day by a Solomon Island chief. Fondest affection seemed to beam forth from Ingrova’s eyes as he looked at the apprentice. “Nice old heathen,” thought Hillary, as the big warrior sighed in deep thought and then placed his hands with regret among the rare bronze curls of the apprentice’s skull that might have been his. But to give them their due, both Oom Pa and Ingrova were relieved that things were running smoothly. Together they took Hillary outside that he might inspect the wonders of the village. As he crossed the tiny raras (village greens) the dusky maids placed their hands where their hearts beat and sighed over the beauty of his eyes and the wondrous whiteness of his face.
“Damn it all! I could take an interest in all this if I only knew where Gabrielle was,” thought Hillary, as he looked on the strange scene of native life around him. Notwithstanding his sorrows, he could not help thinking how akin primitive life was to civilised life. “One blows his nose on a palm leaf and the other on a silk handkerchief,” he murmured to himself. “Bless me, though it is a heathen village in the Solomon Isles, its dusky, tattooed inhabitants seem imbued with the same ideas and aspirations as my own people.”
It was true enough: some of the tiny streets under the trees were clean and had large, well-built huts that were covered artistically with flowers of tropical vines. Other huts were small and very slovenly. Some of the maids had flowers in their hair and shining traduca shells hanging on their arms. Others wore tappa gowns, a few some remnant of European clothing, such as cast-off skirts, blouses, bodices and stockings. One or two wore only those undergarments that are frilled at the knees and succeeded in showing off their terra-cotta limbs in a most conspicuous fashion. Some had made real doors to their palavanas, whilst others still had doors that were made of old sacking. One played a cheap German fiddle while the kiddies on the rara danced with glee. In front of the native temple stood a monstrous idol, its big glass eyes apparently agog with laughter. And on a stump, facing it, stood the embryo parliamentary genius, Hank-koo, waving his skinny arms, beseeching the high chiefs to pass a law that would compel all the other chiefs to make their hut doors so that they opened inwards. “Why not have doors that open inwards when ’tis as well as opening towards?” he yelled, as he wiped his brow with a palm leaf. It was then that another fierce-looking being jumped on to a stump. He too swore by Quat (first god of heathen land) that for a door to open outwards was indeed beautiful. “Can not a dying man’s soul take flight with ease to shadow-land instead of being compelled to pull the door back ere departing hence?” And so the chiefs were always busy remaking doors that opened inwards or outwards, as they continually changed their minds over the virtues of such great things.
“Comer, papalagi!” said Ingrova, as he beckoned Hillary to return towards his palatial palavana. “All is wonderful that I have seen, O great Ingrova,” said Hillary, as he stood once more outside the chief’s homestead.