‘But who’s going to drive?’ she asked. Arona shrugged his shoulders. Inwardly, she cursed him: now that he needed her, he was quite willing to let her be the older sister who had to make all the decisions.

  She untied the horse, got onto the seat, grabbed the reins and held them tightly for a tense while, in an attempt to control her fear of the horse and cart. In her mind she rehearsed every action she’d seen Barker carry out while driving the cart.

  Straightening up, she tugged on the reins, the horse’s head rose; she pulled on the right-hand rein, the horse started towards the street; she slapped the reins down on the horse’s back and it broke into a steady walking pace. Her sweat turned cold, cooling her. As they went through Apia she imagined everyone was watching her and admiring her ability to drive. She started enjoying it when they reached the turn-off, and they turned and headed up towards Vaiuta. The mountains were blue and streaked with the light of the setting sun.

  Mr Stenson and Mrs Pivot rushed out of the house when Peleiupu stopped in front of the veranda.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Mr Stenson.

  ‘Mr Barker is drunk, that is all,’ Arona said, sternly.

  ‘I had to drive all the way,’ Peleiupu said.

  ‘Clever girl,’ said Mr Stenson. ‘Mrs Pivot, you’d better help Arona.’

  ‘Barker’s not worth helping, ‘she insisted. ‘Drunk all the time he comes to stay here!’ She helped Barker onto Arona’s shoulders.

  That evening, after bathing in their first hot baths, which Mrs Pivot prepared, Peleiupu and Arona joined Mr Stenson for a sumptuous dinner of roast pork, vegetables, thick gravy and, most welcome of all, baked taro and palusami.

  After saying grace Mr Stenson said, ‘Eat, eat. You must be starving after all that walking and having to take care of that overgrown child!’

  ‘May we eat with our fingers?’ Peleiupu asked, and, for the first time, found she could look directly at him and not feel frightened.

  ‘By all means!’ he laughed.

  Then he sat back and enjoyed observing his guests enjoying their meal. Every time he thought they were going to stop, he heaped more food onto their plates.

  Afterwards he took them into the sitting room, and for a long time showed them his library. Whenever they showed interest in a particular book, he talked about the book. Science. Philosophy. Biography. History. Travel. Fantasy. Fiction. Drama. Peleiupu was almost overpowered with the yearning to read them all, and all at once. Arona grew bored, and with boredom came sleepiness.

  ‘And those?’ Peleiupu pointed at the glass-cased bookcase behind Stenson’s desk. So far he had avoided those.

  ‘Just my own books,’ he said. ‘Would you like to read some of them?’ She nodded. Strange that he was embarrassed showing him what he’d written, she thought.

  He opened the glass doors of the bookcase, sorted through the books, picked out six of them and, turning shyly to her, said, ‘These three are for you, and these are for Arona.’ She looked around for Arona: he was sitting in an armchair, nodding off to sleep. She moved to wake him but Stenson told her not to.

  She watched Stenson go to his desk and write in the title pages of the six books. In the lamplight’s glow he seemed more spirit than flesh, a golden presence.

  ‘Next time you visit me, you must tell me what you think of them,’ he said, handing her the books, which she cradled against her body.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said.

  ‘You and Arona must go to bed now,’ he murmured, looking away from her. ‘You have to leave early tomorrow.’ Slowly, as though carrying a heavy load, he walked to the window and gazed out at the darkness.

  Peleiupu shook Arona and he followed her to the door. ‘Thank you!’ she called, this time in English.

  He was motionless; his body seemed to be drinking in the darkness. ‘Come back and visit me again soon!’ he called.

  She followed Arona down the passage and then into the night, which was alive with the cries of cicadas, clutching to her chest his precious gift. Above her the stars — an endless field of them — were like tears that had solidified into sapphires.

  Three days later, while they were with their parents at the church fono at Salua, she worked up enough courage to open her three books and read what Stenson had written on the title pages.

  His handwriting was meticulous, as unique as her father’s. In the first novel, entitled, The Earl of Bellingtroy, he had written:

  For my friend Peleiupu, Beloved-in-Words, for her kindness in bringing to the heart of an exile the radiant joy of youth, the gift of God.

  Truly yours, L. R. Stenson.

  The second novel, The Island of Treasures, had in it:

  Peleiupu, may your gift of seeing lead you to see only what is good and godly.

  And in The Tide at Falelima:

  There is little at the end of our journey. Perhaps just the courage to face the Night and our Maker. Just a brief glimpse of the fierce light in Peleiupu’s eyes.

  She sat on the rocks in front of the fale by the sea and let the tired waves wash through her grief, until evening wound around her like a warm cloak.

  Ten days later they returned to Satoa and she waited. A month passed, then another and another.

  ‘My father has just returned from Apia and he would like to see you,’ Tavita, Barker’s oldest son, said to Peleiupu and Arona, who were in the kitchen fale cleaning up after their aiga’s morning meal.

  Without looking at Arona or slowing down, as they hurried to Barker’s house, Peleiupu said, ‘He’s dead. Mr Stenson is dead.’ No sorrow or regret: just like Stenson’s description of his daughter’s death. Stenson would have been proud of her.

  As they entered, Poto motioned to Peleiupu to sit in the chair beside her. She held Peleiupu’s arm. ‘He left this letter for you,’ Barker said, holding the large white envelope out to Peleiupu. She placed it in her lap and continued, with Arona, to gaze at Barker, who was avoiding their scrutiny as he sat in his chair. ‘Oh, and in his will he left you all his books. That is, all the books you may want from his library.’ He paused. ‘Good, eh?’ They refused to look away. He fidgeted; he sweated. Poto continued caressing her arm. ‘Next time I go to Apia I’ll bring back the books you choose. Is that all right?’ Peleiupu nodded once. ‘That’s all,’ he said, half standing up and then flopping back into his chair. They made no move to leave.

  ‘Paka, that is not all,’ Poto reminded him.

  ‘Yes, and, ah, Mrs Pivot is well provided for. Yes, ah, he left her the house and everything in it. And ten acres — lucky woman. She doesn’t really deserve his generosity. The rest of his property he’s left to relatives.’ Barker stopped again and, for the first time, looked beseechingly at them. ‘What are you waiting for, eh?’ No reply. ‘He’s dead! That’s all! You know he came to Samoa to die! What else do you want me to tell you, eh?’ He was in flames, he couldn’t hide. ‘Damn you, what do you want from me? You want to see me cry? Well, I won’t. He’s dead. Finished. Buried. Maggot-meat! Now go.’ They got up.

  Poto put an arm around Peleiupu’s shoulders. ‘The children are in pain,’ she said.

  ‘No, sit down. Who told you to leave?’ Barker demanded. They sat down again. ‘Bloody hell, you’re only children. Why should I treat you like equals? Eh, why? And why he ever bloody well discovered a deep affection for you during one short visit I’ll never fathom. Why do you think? Answer me!’

  ‘Because we speak fluent English,’ Peleiupu replied.

  ‘God, the bloody cheek!’ he exclaimed. ‘The bloody brazen cheek!’ He slapped at his knees and laughed. Poto started laughing too. ‘The wonderful cheek!’ he cried. ‘No wonder he liked you. You weren’t scared of him one iota, were you? And you saw right into his skeleton, didn’t you? When he got to know you, he saw the meaning very quickly: he was just a sick, dying European in exile; a poor benighted consumptive who believed in nothing.’ With quick hands he wiped the tears from his face. ‘And to think that I took you to show you off to him!’ He paused. ‘Without knowing it, you made him see so very clearly, starkly, the futility of it all.’ Quiet now, composed, he gazed at them for a long while. Poto smoothed down Peleiupu’s hair. ‘You knew he was dying then?’ he asked. Peleiupu looked at the floor. ‘Was he a good man?’ She nodded. ‘Even if he didn’t believe in God?’ She nodded. ‘Because that isn’t important?’ She nodded. He sighed as if a great guilt were lifting from him.

  ‘… I loved him,’ he admitted, finally. ‘We Englishmen avoid using that word. We are raised to consider it womanish, weak, something sick, especially in relationships between men. But I did love him. Who would have ever dreamt that I, an uncouth buffoon, would, in the wilderness, find a real friend? A true, loving friend who was utterly honest about our condition and our end. I was fortunate to meet your father and Stenson. So tragically fortunate. Why tragically? Because they opened my heart to who and what I really am and what I am on this planet and in the universe. To the beautiful futility of it all. And to love — yes, and especially that!’ He stopped weeping. Poto threw him a cloth, with which he wiped his face. ‘Someday, Pele and Arona, you will grow to understand what I’m trying to say. Someday. But today, Stenson is dead and we are here. That is all. I must, as a true Britisher, continue to live the best way I know how. According to the flag. According to the standards of a true English gentleman!’

  Barker then described how Stenson had died. For the rest of her life Peleiupu would cherish every detail of it as a vital story in the mythology of her life.

  The night before his death, Stenson had invited Basil Huggett, the British Commissioner of Lands, to dine with him and Barker. A cheerful meal, with the fine claret wine that Stenson loved, delicious food, and invigorating conversation that brought the world beyond the reef and all its richness into his house again. As usual he went to bed early, rose at six o’clock and wrote until lunchtime when he ate soup (as usual) with Barker, and told Barker with pride that his new novel, Weir at Lammington, was going well. Afterwards, while Barker supervised the workers who were cleaning out the stables, Stenson lay on the veranda, reading.

  At about five o’clock Mrs Pivot called Barker to the house. Nothing was wrong, thought Barker as he walked in and found a frightened Mrs Pivot chafing Stenson’s hands while he was slumped in his chair, unconscious and breathing heavily. Barker touched Stenson’s forehead: it was fiercely cold and slippery with sweat.

  ‘He’s dying!’ she cried.

  Barker rushed back to the stables, saddled the swiftest horse and galloped down for the doctor.

  The doctor could do nothing when they reached Vaiuta.

  Barker arranged Stenson’s funeral and burial and was surprised to find that he was loved by so many people. The matai, who were his friends, arrived in ceremonial groups with ie toga and sat around his body and coffin that night. Church choirs from nearby villages sang all night in his house.

  When Reverend Ashley of the Anglican Church arrived, Barker explained that Stenson had wanted a simple service: a prayer that Stenson had written was to be read at his graveside. That was all. Reluctantly, Reverend Ashley accepted.

  In discussions with the matai, Barker informed them that Stenson had wanted to be buried under the splendid stand of ironwood trees by the river. Quickly they cleared the spot and dug the grave.

  As Stenson had wished, they buried him at three o’clock in the afternoon.

  After Mrs Pivot’s grief had eased a little, she described to Barker how Stenson had collapsed. After fetching a bottle of wine from the cellar, Stenson had helped her make mayonnaise. With a steady hand he dripped the oil into the mixture, drop by drop.

  ‘What’s that? What a pain!’ he had cried suddenly, clasping his hands to his head. ‘Do I look strange?’ he asked her. He collapsed to his knees, body shaking painfully. Clasping him around the waist, she half lifted, half dragged him into the sitting room.

  Within minutes he was unconscious.

  ‘Stenson died at ten minutes past eight that evening, at the age of forty-four,’ Barker ended his story. ‘Eleven years younger than me. Because he had been ill with tuberculosis for a long time, everyone had expected him to die of that. But his cerebral haemorrhage came swiftly and suddenly.’

  Peleiupu looked up at Poto. ‘God will make everything right again,’ Poto whispered.

  On their way home, Peleiupu read Stenson’s letter and then gave it to Arona. That night when everyone else was asleep she read it aloud to her parents, with a fierce pride.

  The next morning she remembered Stenson had bequeathed his library to her, so she told her father that on his next visit with Barker to Apia they should bring back as many books as their fautasi could carry.

  The week before Christmas, while Satoa was harvesting its richest mango crop ever — everyone got fed up with eating mangoes and much of the fruit fell and rotted, the stench of decay gripping the village — Mautu and Barker, to the astonishment and awe of every Satoan, brought home the biggest library of books in Savai’i and, some said, in the whole country. A grand total of 3999 books.

  Barker and every Satoan elder who knew something about carpentry helped Mautu construct twelve double-shelved bookcases. While this was happening, every Satoan found an excuse to visit Mautu’s home and inspect the work and, if lucky, be allowed to help Peleiupu and Lalaga wipe the dust off the books.

  Only Barker and Poto were absent the night Mautu, Lalaga and Peleiupu stacked the books, one by one, into the bookshelves. The Satoans witnessed the public storing of all the thoughts and ideas and wisdom in the world, in their pastor’s house in their humble village. They would treasure that memory for the rest of their lives, and tell those they met that the treasure of wisdom had been a gift to the beautiful Peleiupu from the most famous writer in Barker’s country, England.

  About a month after what came to be known as ‘The Storing of Wisdom’, the mango trees in Satoa were bare of fruit.

  Rain in the Box

  It was a light, persistent rain, which first swirled in from the sea in pursuit of a flock of matu’u, and stopped to wash the children who rushed out of their homes and splashed and laughed and danced in its silver coolness. When the children lost interest, it stayed over Satoa and extended up to the top of the inland range, making everything smell of fresh seaweed and coral. As mould mushroomed in the fale — in the damp places, in the rubbish heaps, and even under the Satoans’ toenails — the rain acquired, over a month of persistence, the inescapable odour of decay.

  During its life, most Satoans forgot what sunlight was like. The grey blanket of cloud blocked out the sun and affected their sense of colour: the world became a swimming, shadowy place of greys, dark blues, dull wet greens and browns, with flashing shades of running water. A dank dampness and fermenting mould everywhere. In the humid heat seeds germinated and grew lushly. Some people believed that their hair was lengthening at a phenomenal rate.

  The rain wasn’t heavy enough to disrupt the usual pattern of life: the children went to school, the men tended their plantations and fished, the women did their usual chores. However, the rain’s incessant, relentless drone, its hypnotic, throbbing rhythm, surreptitiously became the heartbeat of Satoa. The beat muffled other sounds. People talked less, listened more, and withdrew more often into their thoughts and dreams.

  During its first week of occupation, the rain washed the dust and dirt off everything, gathered it on the ground in rivulets and eager, snaking streams and drove it with other rubbish down the slopes into the pool and the river and the sea. It was a cleansing of the whole village as though in preparation for an important visitor or event.

  In the time of the rain, Mautu and Barker didn’t visit each other. Rumour had it that Barker was confining himself to the back room of his store where, in the light of candles, he was writing a manuscript that grew fatter with every rainy day. It was as if he had been seized by a demon that was not going to free him until he had finished writing down whatever terrible confession it wanted him to make. With every unwashed day his flying-fox smell germinated and fermented and expanded, like a drowned corpse, in the room. Even Poto and their children couldn’t bear the stench, not that they dared disturb him. And, as his confession fattened, Barker himself thinned, became gaunt and hollow-eyed.

  Without explanation, just before church service on Sunday morning, the rain stopped and left the air to the usual acrid smoke of umu, and a booming silence.

  Barker, so Poto would later describe, shuffled out of his room, his dirt-caked clothes around him like a ragged second skin, his stench weaving out into the bright light, and stood on the store veranda, manuscript under his right arm. As he surveyed the village, he laughed softly. Then for a long, long time he gazed up into the deep sky, as if he were searching for an end to infinity. ‘He’s old, old!’ Poto would tell others. ‘His month-long fight with that demon has left him very old, empty of his usual fury.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful!’ Peleiupu said when her father handed her the small wooden box.

  ‘Yes. It was sent by Barker,’ he said. Afternoon classes were over and they were alone in their fale.

  Carved into the wooden lid were Chinese mandarins holding umbrellas and standing before a gathering of students. ‘Is it very old?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Barker must have got it from China on one of his trips.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ The small bronze lock was open.

  ‘Papers that Barker has written. It is not to be opened and read until after he has … until after he has passed away.’ On Mautu’s desk was a letter. He picked it up. ‘And when the box is opened I am the only one allowed to read what is in it.’ He gave her the letter. ‘And after I die, the box and its valuable contents are to be yours. No one else is to read it.’

  ‘Not even Lalaga?’ she asked.

  ‘Not even your mother.’

  ‘And after me?’