After his sermon Mautu moved over and stood beside Poto and her children, and they watched as the men, using ropes, lowered Barker into the earth. Then Sao started a hymn, which they all sang. And the sky, sun, trees, birds, hills, mountains, valleys and ravines became one with them and ‘the People’.

  On their way home Peleiupu held Poto’s hand, while Arona walked beside his father. ‘He must’ve been happy,’ Arona said. Mautu was surprised by his son’s remark. ‘He must’ve been, otherwise why choose such a death, at a time when you are most satisfied with your life?’

  ‘Yes, it was deliberate. But suicide is against God’s way, against our way,’ Mautu said, and then felt stupid.

  ‘I must learn the ways that allow such choice and freedom,’ Arona said.

  No, Mautu wanted to caution him, but didn’t. He envied his son and decided not to discourage him from following Barker into the ways of freedom. But what if it took him away from God and Christianity, into Darkness, the void, death in exile, and the terror of it all?

  Two days later, when the flotilla was well beyond the reef pointing north and their island had become a featureless grey outline in the haze behind them, To’alemu, Satoa’s tautai, who was on the Sa-o-le-Sauali’i Paepae, signalled them to stop.

  The fautasi and the canoes gathered around the alia. It was a warm morning, with the sun hidden behind clouds, the sea breathing lightly. The crew pulled down the alia’s sail. To’alemu and a crewman reached down and pulled Mautu out of the fautasi onto the alia’s deck. As Mautu stood under the mast, with the Bible open in his hands, the crew helped the other elders onto the alia, where they sat down and faced their pastor.

  Mautu started the hymn; the others joined in. The ocean around listened. So did the hushed sky. Twice during the previous two days Mautu had attended the fono of matai, at Sao’s faletele, and tried to save the alia. At their first meeting, he’d argued that though Barker had sinned against God by taking his own life, the alia was free of that. He thought he’d convinced the fono but, that night, friends had informed him that most of the matai favoured ‘burying’ the alia at sea, well away from Satoa, because it was cursed. There’d been no discussion of Barker’s suicide, the whys and wherefores of it: they simply condemned it as an unnatural and sinful act, against sane and civilised behaviour.

  Next morning at the fono, Mautu had again pleaded for the alia’s life: they’d spent months building it, learning to love it as the most magnificent craft they’d ever designed; what was the sense of destroying it now? Couldn’t Barker’s sinful act not be interpreted to have given birth to a great blessing, the alia? He spoke directly to Sao, who could sway the fono. The old man listened but said nothing. ‘It would also be a decent memorial to him,’ Mautu added, when the matai maintained their silence.

  Just as he was getting ready to leave, Sao said, ‘Thank you for your views. The papalagi did become one of us, and, unlike other foreigners, he didn’t try to change us and our way of life. He brought us many helpful inventions and skills. And he was my daughter’s husband, father of my grandchildren. We also know he was your dearest friend …’ As Sao spoke, Mautu realised — and he resented it — that Sao was killing (that was the word) the alia to get back at him for not having agreed to a Christian burial for Barker. Sometimes Sao’s justice was revenge, but always done with grace, the aristocratic way. ‘… We can’t risk people’s lives when they use such a craft, which has been cursed by the Almighty. Though we are willing to listen to any further views you may want to express, sir.’

  Mautu had thanked them and had gone to consult Poto. He was surprised by her reaction. ‘He loved that boat, so it is best that it be buried with him. If we keep it alive it will always remind me of him. I won’t be able to bear that,’ she had said.

  After the hymn, Mautu read from the Bible. His prayer, after the reading, was brief and they would remember it: ‘Dear God, please forgive us for the act we are about to commit. Accept into the depths of your forgiveness and love, the victim of our fears. Amen.’

  He didn’t look at any of them as he climbed back down into the fautasi and, sitting down at the helm, turned his back to the alia. ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered his crew.

  The other fautasi and canoes moved away, leaving only To’alemu and five other men with axes on board the alia.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ Mautu instructed his crew when they stopped rowing so they could see the sinking of the alia. ‘Row!’ They obeyed immediately, for they’d not seen such anger in their pastor before. ‘Faster!’ he called.

  The sharp relentless thudding of the axes biting into the hulls of the alia echoedacross the water, and each blow cut into Mautu’s head. Kluttt! Klutt! Klutt! ‘Faster, I told you to go faster!’ He called, standing up.

  He couldn’t look back. But the Ship of the White Phantom drowned slowly in his head, the sea bubbling up into its body through the gashes in its hulls. With his hands he tried blocking the holes, pushing the flood back out, but the pressure thrust his hands back and the sea shot up into his face, choking him.

  He would remember that drowning every time he thought of Barker, and drown a little bit more with each remembering.

  At first, during what the Satoans came to call her illness, Peleiupu would sleep for long periods, wake and, sleeping sheet wrapped tightly around her as if she were frightened her body was disintegrating, sit and gaze out through the palm trees at the bay. Someone was always with her when she was awake because Lalaga feared her wandering off into the sea or bush or — and she dreaded this most of all — into an irretrievable inner darkness where aitu would imprison her forever. Though Peleiupu didn’t seem to hear anything they said to her, they talked to her as if nothing were wrong.

  At the morning and evening lotu most of the aiga prayed for her recovery; her students did so fervently because they were suffering Lalaga’s harsh discipline and Mautu’s sad indifference, and they wanted Peleiupu to save them from both.

  One by one the taulasea of Satoa, except Filivai whom Lalaga avoided, tried to heal her. They all failed, and recommended taulasea from nearby villages. Lalaga got those but refused to get Lefatu, Mautu’s sister, who, like Filivai, was a healer of ma’i aitu. They failed too.

  By then Peleiupu was sleeping normal hours and, during the day, participating in their everyday life but as a mute observer. The taulasea agreed that it was as if her agaga were outside her body observing what her body was doing. Did her agaga want to return to the body? one taulasea asked.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ Lalaga demanded of Mautu one afternoon as they watched Peleiupu plaiting a mat.

  ‘We have to accept how she is now.’

  ‘You accept it; I won’t! You haven’t been much help.’ He got up to leave. ‘That’s your usual way now, eh? You walk away from our problems. You escape into those useless books. But I won’t give up on my daughter!’ He didn’t leave; he went to his desk and fiddled with his papers. ‘Your sorrow won’t bring Barker and Pele back,’ she continued. Since the drowning of the alia he’d withdrawn from his aiga and village affairs. True, he took Peleiupu’s classes, he preached and hosted the elders’ to’ona’i on Sundays, and conducted weddings and funerals, but there was no spark, spirit, commitment or joy. Gone was the rich daring that Barker had drawn out of him — the fertile, free-floating imagination, the firing of souls to believe in their limitless possibilities. To save him, Sao admitted he’d erred in destroying the alia, and asked for his forgiveness, but Mautu said it had been for the best.

  ‘Perhaps I should resign as pastor,’ he said to Lalaga. ‘There’s no depth of belief in me any more.’

  ‘I’ve had enough — enough of your self-pity,’ she said. ‘If you’ve lost your belief, say so, admit it to God. I’ve got Pele, our aiga and everything else to look after.’She paused. ‘Mautu, do whatever you like.’ She turned away.

  She heard him getting up and hurrying out of the fale. A short while later she looked around and saw him marching across the malae. She went and sat beside Peleiupu, who glanced at her and then continued staring out into the bay as her fingers plaited the mat, faultlessly.

  Two hours later Lalaga left Ruta with Peleiupu and, with Naomi, started their classes. As Lalaga was writing on the blackboard Mautu returned, acknowledged her with a curt nod, and hurried to his classroom.

  Once she glanced over at the main fale, and saw a woman, her back towards her, sitting with Ruta and Peleiupu. She thought nothing of it because Peleiupu often had visitors. It was only after the students had gone home and she sat down to rest that she looked again. She recognised the woman and sprang up.

  ‘Wait,’ Mautu asked, as he entered her classroom. ‘Leave them alone.’

  ‘No!’ she protested. ‘She’s not …’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘She’s not Christian; her cures are not of God!’

  ‘But you’ve tried everything else.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she countered. He wheeled and hurried to the fale where he sat opposite Peleiupu and Filivai, the taulasea, who was massaging Peleiupu’s forehead with oiled ti leaves.

  ‘Shit!’ Lalaga caught herself exclaiming for the first time since her childhood. ‘Shit!’ But didn’t feel guilty about it. She sat at her desk, refusing to go to the fale.

  She refused to talk to Mautu until they were in bed that night. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she demanded.

  ‘It isn’t for you. You’re not the one who’s sick. It’s for my daughter, and I’ll do anything to make her well again.’

  ‘Even sell your soul to Satan?’ She had him.

  ‘Yes!’ was his undeniable heresy. ‘Yes, if it’d heal Pele.’

  ‘You’re talking like — yes, like Barker,’ she accused. He didn’t answer. ‘His paganism is in you now!’

  ‘Your trouble is you’ve been conditioned by our papalagi missionaries to condemn our pre-Christian past, our religion and cures; to dismiss them as superstition, as works of the Devil. I was once like you …’

  ‘But Barker saved you.’

  ‘Yes. He helped show me we should be proud of who and what we were and are. I still admire the missionaries but much of what they preach and teach is arrogant, narrow; not Christian ways but English ways and prejudices. They’ve made many of us ashamed of being Samoan.’

  ‘I’m not as clever as you and I’ve never had the luxury or time to question what I was brought up to believe …’

  ‘This morning you accused me of withdrawing from our problems and leaving them to you. You were correct. Now I’m trying to help.’ He stopped. ‘Do you want me to help?’ he added.

  ‘Yes!’ she snapped, caught again.

  ‘Then don’t stop Filivai from trying to cure our daughter.’

  Helped by her granddaughter, Filivai came every afternoon, except Sunday. Lalaga was never there, but Ruta helped Filivai. First Filivai massaged Peleiupu’s body and got her to drink a thick green concoction, and then, while Peleiupu lay gazing up into the dome of the fale, Filivai played cards with Ruta and talked to Peleiupu, who didn’t seem to hear her.

  One evening Ruta told Lalaga that Peleiupu was starting to respond to Filivai’s treatment. How? By crying softly, and Filivai would hold her and hush her to sleep. ‘Don’t tell your father yet,’ Lalaga said.

  Next day Filivai brought a bundle of young ifi leaves. After the usual treatment she opened the bundle. ‘Here, smell these.’ She raised the leaves to Peleiupu’s face. ‘They’re from your tree, the ifi.’ Peleiupu buried her face in them, raised her head and smiled at Filivai. ‘Here, you help me oil them.’ Peleiupu helped Filivai oil each leaf, then sew them into two ula. ‘Beautiful!’ Filivai congratulated her. When she put one around Peleiupu’s neck, Peleiupu chortled like a child, held it up and rubbed the leaves into her face until her face glistened with the coconut oil from the leaves. ‘Here, put on this one.’ Filivai said to Ruta.

  As Ruta leaned forward, Peleiupu lowered the ula around her neck, hugged her, withdrew and chortled some more. ‘Good, you’re getting better. You see, it was good you told me about your tree and its spirit, a long time ago. I never forgot, Pele.’

  ‘I was wrong,’ Lalaga apologised to Mautu as they lay in their net that night. ‘Pele looked so happy tonight. She’s even sleeping with her ula on.’ When he touched her breast she moved up against him.

  They made love for the first time in many weeks, and enjoyed it.

  Filivai arrived unexpectedly during their morning meal. Naomi put a foodmat in front of her. Mautu thanked her for the improvement in Peleiupu. Filivai talked all through the meal, but not about Peleiupu.

  After she’d washed her hands and dried her mouth using a basin of water and teatowel Naomi brought her, she thanked them for the meal and then said, almost offhandedly, ‘I’m still afraid for her. I’ve done all that I can for her.’

  ‘But you’re our last hope,’ Lalaga was quick to say. The old woman looked at her. ‘We’ve tried every other taulasea.’

  Filivai looked at Mautu. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Lalaga replied.

  ‘Mautu knows,’ Filivai said. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mautu admitted. ‘There is my sister.’

  ‘Yes, there is his sister,’ Filivai said to Lalaga. ‘If anyone can cure Pele, she can.’

  ‘But how do you know? You’ve not met her,’ Lalaga objected.

  ‘I’ve not met her, true, but she is the most gifted of us all. Ask those in your congregation who’ve been healed by her.’ She stopped, laughed. ‘Oh, I forgot: you being their pastor, they wouldn’t dare reveal to you that they still consult the so-called forces of Darkness and Satan. Once upon a time, I was too scared to tell you too. But your congregation tell me about your sister’s mana. And you know, Mautu, eh?’ Mautu nodded. ‘I’m glad you consulted me first. At least your sister will see — and know — I have the gift, modest though it may be.’ She stopped. ‘Now I must carry this old body home before the sun gets too hot.’ Ruta helped her to her feet. ‘Mautu knows of course that she may ask a price for her healing.’ Lalaga glanced at Mautu. He indicated nothing. ‘You have another beautiful daughter here,’ Filivai said of Ruta.

  The tulula had a crew of six rowers, and carried Mautu, Lalaga, Peleiupu and Ruta, their luggage and some foodstuffs for Mautu’s aiga. It would take about two hours to reach Fagaloto, Mautu’s village. Lalaga held an umbrella above Peleiupu and tried not to think of what lay ahead. Ruta hummed now and then, dragged her arm alongside the tulula in the water, told Peleiupu about how she was looking forward to seeing their Aunt Lefatu, who, she claimed, was the wisest person in the world, and how she wanted Lefatu to teach them to read dreams.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Lalaga said. ‘Dreams are dreams, not prophecies. Lefatu is a wise person but she’s had no education. She can’t even read and write.’ When she realised Ruta wasn’t listening she was hurt but didn’t show it.

  When the tulula touched the sand the crew and Mautu helped them ashore, unloaded and then pulled the tulula up into the shade of the palm trees and covered it with mats. Lalaga sensed that Mautu wanted her to take the girls and go on ahead; she wasn’t having any of that — no, let Mautu meet his own arrogant, sinister sister first and tell her why they hadn’t been to visit her for three years and why they’d consulted every other taulasea and not her. She fussed with Peleiupu’s clothes.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Mautu said finally. He marched past her up the narrow track.

  They reached the clearing of the compound. Relatives rushed out of the fale to greet them. Mautu had never exorcised Lefatu and that other side of his aiga from himself, Lalaga observed. No, in fact Barker had encouraged him to respect and love them. She moved among their relatives, embracing and kissing them. She glimpsed Lefatu in the main fale, pounding some mixture in a small wooden pestle. She lingered with the others.

  ‘Come to the faletele,’ Tuifolau, Mautu’s cousin, invited them.

  ‘Lalaga, you go ahead with Tuifolau,’ Mautu tried to get out of it.

  ‘We’ll wait for you,’ she said. Mautu and the crew took their things to the fale where they were to sleep.

  ‘Lefatu’s been expecting you,’ Tuifolau told her. ‘She’s been having bad dreams about sickness in your children. Other taulasea have been to tell her about Pele, so she’s been waiting.’

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Mautu whispered. He headed for Lefatu. Lalaga steered Peleiupu with her arm. The elders and Ruta followed them.

  Lefatu did not greet them or even look up from her work. Mautu and the others sat down at the posts opposite her. Tuifolau sat a few paces to her right. She maintained her silence. She was younger than Mautu, and a spinster, as was the tradition for any woman who became their taulaaitu and taulasea, but she looked older than her brother: her long hair was almost totally grey and glistened with coconut oil. She dripped more oil into the mixture.

  ‘Mautu and Lalaga have come,’ Tuifolau said to her.

  ‘I’m not blind,’ she said quietly, as she continued pounding the mixture. ‘Why didn’t you bring the girl earlier?’ She looked across at Peleiupu. ‘Come!’ she coaxed her. She stretched out her arms. Peleiupu gazed into her face. ‘Don’t be afraid, Pele. Come. Bring her to me,’ Lefatu instructed Lalaga, who hesitated. ‘Bring the girl!’ An order.