She had to accept his excuse, though she sensed he didn’t want to go at all, ever. ‘We’ll wait, then,’ she countered him. She had time to persuade him.

  ‘Everything is but changes,’ Peleiupu said, more to herself than to the others. That was Lefatu talking, Lalaga thought. Puzzles, riddles, beyond her comprehension. ‘This is probably the last time we’ll be together as we’ve always been. We are starting to go our own ways.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’ll be many more meetings like this,’ Lalaga declared. ‘We’re aiga, and the love between us is unbreakable.’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused Ruta and Naomi. Arona and Peleiupu glanced at each other.

  Lalaga wanted to hold them all in her arms.

  Goodbyes

  ‘For about three months I kept my fears to myself, hoping the Disease would treat me kindly and go away,’ Barker had said. ‘But I got so scared I had to tell someone. And I did — in a moment of terror, I told Arona.’ It was a Sunday afternoon; Barker had sent Arona to fetch Peleiupu. ‘He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. He told me two days ago he’d told you.’ Barker had stopped planing the board on his work bench and glanced at her. ‘Have you told anyone?’ Peleiupu shook her head. ‘Good,’ he said. His plane slid across the board; a long shaving curled out of it and fluttered to the floor. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m as fit as a fiddle!’ She looked at him. ‘Yes, I was wrong about having the Disease.’ Peleiupu had thought the shavings, strewn across the floor, looked like white sea eels someone had dried and curled and twisted. ‘See?’ He stood up and pointed at his bare torso. ‘Not a sign of it!’ She picked up a shaving and wound and unwound it around her fingers. ‘I’m healthier now than I’ve ever been. In building the alia, I seemed to have rebuilt myself.’ She broke the shaving into pieces and let the pieces drift to the floor. ‘Are you sure you never told anyone?’ he asked. She shook her head again, and hoped Arona hadn’t told him about their parents knowing. ‘Good,’ Barker had repeated.

  Through the large back windows of the shed, Peleiupu had noticed that everything was ablaze with noon sun, and she thought of snow on mountains in the books she’d read, of the Eskimos and polar bears Barker had told them about years before. Her hands tingled with the burning feel of snow, the way Barker had described it. Tingled, burned, to the bone. He wasn’t going to die; God had released her from her burden of trying to save him. The miraculous burning was radiating out from her hands to all her limits. Beautiful!

  ‘Is there anything else?’ she had asked. He was gazing out at the alia which was moored to a pole in the water a short distance from the beach. It turned slowly around the pole until its stern was pointing at them.

  ‘She’s a beauty, eh?’ he had said. Yes, she sighed inside, a beauty: it could take them to England and those wonderful places Barker had built into their lives and possibilities.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We launch her in two days’ time: a new beginning for me.’

  That was how she described, to Mautu, her final meeting with Barker. They were returning from the beach after seeing off Lefatu and Ruta and their party, and she was compelled to tell him. As she did so, she couldn’t unclog her memory of Ruta sitting at the tulula’s stern, gazing back and waving, then the tulula was around Totoume Peninsula. Lalaga and Naomi hurried on ahead as a light drizzle started sweeping across the trees. Mautu said nothing. Her story seemed caught in the white net of rain, and was to be the basis of all the future versions of that meeting she was to tell her children and their children and their children’s children; and with each telling came the questions: Had their Disease chosen Barker? Had he lied about getting it, and then lied about not having It? And what did that have to do with his suicide?

  Once inside their main fale Mautu tossed her a towel. She dried herself. She heard him open the metal trunk in which he kept his valuables. She waited, picturing him lifting out the small ornate box, which was wrapped in calico.

  He came back through the curtain, sat down on the mat and untied the calico. She sat down opposite him. ‘Remember this?’ he asked. The box glistened. The mandarins and students carved across the lid seemed to be dancing a slow dirge, in unison. ‘He wrote that only I was to read this, remember?’ he murmured. She got up. ‘No, stay, this may explain why he decided to end his life, and end it the way — the way it ended.’ She sat down again. ‘His death caused you to be ill,’ he said. ‘Knowing why he died that way may help you.’ His hands hesitated over the lid. He glanced at her. She refused to help him decide. ‘Yes, I’m not going to obey his wish that I see this alone.’ When she maintained her silence he added, ‘The will is to come to you anyway, after I die, that was his wish.’

  He turned the key in the small brass lock. A barely audible click. The lid went up and over. He didn’t hesitate, his hands dipping into the box and around the sheaf of papers. Up and out. Around the papers was a red ribbon. He untied the knot and pulled away the ribbon. He glanced at her, then back to the first page. Then at her again. It was nothing to do with her, she thought.

  Mautu started reading to himself. She waited. He turned over the first page. She watched, and was embarrassed watching herself watching him reading that private testament, which might contain answers to the puzzle of Barker’s death. When she sensed he was absorbed in Barker’s confession, she crept out of the fale.

  She looked back at him from the paepae. Suffering had sucked in his bulk, leaving him to that vulnerable gauntness she had recognised in Barker on her second visit to him during a childhood that was now like a useless skin she’d shed. Around Mautu was that same luminosity that exposed in minute detail every scar, wrinkle, evidence of age. She hurried away from it. She didn’t want to know what was in Barker’s last testament: Lefatu had explained that her illness had been a forgetting, a dreamless sleep, and Peleiupu feared that Barker’s confession might return her to that drowning.

  Mautu would mention nothing about it to her, ever, as if he had not inherited Barker’s testament, or read it.

  Momentarily, she didn’t realise that the shadows that had spilled across her table from behind were those of two people. ‘I need help with these,’ Arona said, placing a page of sums in front of her. ‘I have to teach them tomorrow.’ She looked up. Tavita grinned at her.

  Since Barker’s death Arona and Tavita were inseparable, and the young people referred to them affectionately as Crusoe (Arona) and Friday (Tavita), deliberately reversing the roles of the main characters in an exciting story Lalaga had told them (and which Peleiupu knew as Robinson Crusoe, a boy’s adventure tale that she detested.)

  She took out a slate and started explaining the problems. Their shadows kept nodding. ‘Sit down,’ she said. Tavita’s very papalagi hand was suddenly pointing at what she was writing on the slate. Golden hair covered his arm.

  ‘I can’t ever work that out,’ he said past her left ear, which started burning inexplicably. She edged away from him.

  ‘No one’s as bright as Pele!’ Arona joked. She imagined they were laughing at her and wished they’d leave.

  ‘I don’t know how to do these ones,’ she lied. ‘Get Lalaga to show you.’

  Their scrutinising presence lingered after they’d left and she couldn’t stop the burning inside, and her memory detailing how tall, blond and cat-eyed Tavita was, and wished he’d stop being Arona’s best friend and not come to sleep at their home and stop looking at her (though he pretended he wasn’t) — boys shouldn’t do that to the sisters of their friends.

  In November Arona, Tavita and a group of friends gathered coconuts from the plantations, husked them, scooped out the copra and spread it out daily to dry in the sun. (The money from the copra was to pay for Peleiupu’s uniforms, bedding and fees at Vaiuta School.) The youths worked outside the kitchen fale. Peleiupu kept out of their view, with her books and helping Lalaga.

  When the copra was dry, Mautu and the youths loaded the sacks onto a fautasi and took the copra to Apia. Arona captained the fautasi and surprised Mautu with his navigational skills. They brought back material for Peleiupu’s uniforms, and food and presents for the aiga of the youths who’d helped.

  In the evenings Peleiupu and everyone else who slept in the main fale had to listen to Arona and his friends talking about Apia and its wonders. Arona was their key narrator: he turned every feature, discovery and incident into a rich tale. For instance, ice-cream was a miracle of sweetness — ‘long and smooth and exquisitely cold on the tongue’, he said. And papalagi were ‘sunless creatures, spotted brown like dying frangipani flowers, who wore false teeth and could therefore chew only baby food’. Peleiupu was surprised that Arona was so talkative. Tavita was Arona’s main chorus: he reaffirmed the wondrous truths of Arona’s tales with melodious yesses, and ‘that’s true, yes, true, the real truth’. Their exaggerations were obvious to her but she was a captive and attentive listener, trying to figure out who Arona’s storytelling style reminded her of. For a week she couldn’t, then, on Saturday night, when Arona’s tale broke into English, she recognised Barker even in his gestures. So much of Barker. ‘Someday we have to sail beyond Apia, to the world,’ Arona ended that night. Immediately Peleiupu feared for his safety, for his declaration was Barker’s fearless commitment to exploring the Seven Seas. ‘Yes,’ echoed Tavita, and she feared for his safety too.

  During the next few days she helped Lalaga sew her uniforms. At lotu and mealtimes she caught Arona looking apprehensively at their parents, and sensed that he was close to a decision. She was missing him already but she wasn’t going to stop him. And she longed for Ruta and Lefatu to confide in.

  As soon as she opened her eyes that morning she caught the wary, listening stillness of a creature crouched, watching. She couldn’t see Arona anywhere. At their morning meal she avoided the space where Arona usually sat. She kept observing her parents, wanting to shield them from what was coming. After the meal she retreated to her space behind the bookcases. She trembled as she waited. Cautious footsteps across the pebble floor, like the sound of brittle bone crunching underfoot. She shut her book, bowed her head.

  Pele?’ he whispered. ‘Pele?’ She kept still. He sat down behind her. ‘Pele,’ he said, ‘I’ve decided to go away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to find out.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Everything. I must learn about those other places and peoples.’

  ‘But what if the world isn’t what Barker filled our lives with?’

  He waited. She heard the silence humming. ‘Barker wouldn’t lie. No. And I’ll be back.’

  ‘Don’t go! It may be dangerous out there.’

  ‘If I stay I’ll always regret not having gone, not having had the courage to go. Besides, many palagi have come to our country, I’ll be one of the few Samoans ever to go out there. If you were male, wouldn’t you want to try?’

  He had her. So she whispered, ‘I suppose so. But what about our parents?’

  ‘If I ask them, they’ll refuse. Besides, I don’t have the courage to ask them.’ He stopped. ‘I want you to tell them — after I’ve left. Would you, Pele?’

  ‘Is Tavita going with you?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t know. I can’t ask him — there’s only him to look after his mother and brothers and sisters.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared of going alone? You know so little about what’s out there.’

  ‘I’m scared all right, but I have to find out. Remember, Barker was scared too when he ran away from home as a boy, but he mastered his fear and enjoyed those wonderful places. Our God will protect me.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mautu and Lalaga,’ she managed to say.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said. She heard him getting up. She forced herself not to look around at him. ‘Bye, Pele. Look after our parents.’ His footsteps took him away quickly.

  At lotu that evening Lalaga asked after Arona. Someone said he was at Tavita’s.

  Next morning before school, Lalaga asked again. Probably still at Tavita’s, Naomi replied, but when Tavita arrived and told them Arona hadn’t been with him, Lalaga rushed to Mautu, who sent out students to look for him in the village. Peleiupu retreated to her class and started teaching.

  During the morning she watched searchers returning, only to be sent out again with more searchers. Mautu joined them eventually. Soon all Satoa would be involved in the search: she had to stop that.

  ‘Arona was playing cards at Mitimiti’s home last night,’ Lalaga told her when she entered the main fale that afternoon. ‘He’s never done this before!’ Then she remembered and added, ‘Except his absence at Fagaloto, but it was Lefatu who’d kept him back.’ Peleiupu put her books and slates away in the bookcases. Lalaga rambled on, talking more to herself than to Peleiupu.

  ‘Arona has gone,’ she heard her voice say, clearly. Lalaga glanced over at her. Peleiupu sat down. ‘Arona has gone,’ she heard herself repeating.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Apia.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me yesterday.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us then?’ Lalaga’s anger was not her concern.

  ‘He didn’t want me to.’

  ‘Who’s he gone with?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘He didn’t say!’ Lalaga’s wrath was now aimed at her. ‘You didn’t ask him? You didn’t try to stop him? Why’s he gone to Apia?’

  ‘I wanted to stop him but it was his choice, his life.’

  ‘Children have no choice but to obey their parents. Didn’t you stop to think about us? What if he dies of an accident on his way to Apia? He is only sixteen!’ Lalaga was glaring at her but she didn’t look away. ‘Didn’t you consider that?’ Lalaga demanded. Peleiupu refused to answer, so Lalaga called Naomi and sent her to fetch Mautu. ‘Wait till your father comes!’

  While they waited, Peleiupu watched herself watching her mother, who was muttering to herself.

  ‘See what your daughter has done!’ Lalaga was at Mautu as soon as he came in. ‘Arona told her yesterday he was going to Apia, and she didn’t tell us — deliberately!’

  He sat down beside Peleiupu. ‘Is that true?’ he asked. Peleiupu nodded. ‘How did he go?’

  ‘She doesn’t know!’ Lalaga snapped. ‘For all she cares, her brother could have drowned by now!’

  ‘Arona is going to Apia first, then he’s going overseas,’ Peleiupu told Mautu. She watched him, and ignored the weeping sound of Lalaga’s grief when it erupted; she watched him and loved him more as he struggled to believe and then accept. ‘He said he has to find out what the world is like.’

  ‘On his own, alone? My son, my poor son, aue!’ Lalaga’s cries beat at the edges of Peleiupu’s attention.

  ‘He didn’t have the courage to tell you and Lalaga,’ she added. Mautu nodded.

  ‘You must find him and bring him back before it’s too late!’ Lalaga demanded. ‘Go with some men to Apia and bring my son back!’

  Peleiupu would never forget what her father did then: he bowed his head, hiding his face from her, and, clasping his hands in his lap, withdrew into a silence as durable as Barker’s stillness on the mast. ‘I ask for your forgiveness for not telling you earlier,’ she whispered to him.

  ‘Why do our children hurt us? Why?’ Lalaga continued. ‘We should never have allowed Barker into our lives. He filled Arona’s head with foolish dreams!’

  ‘That is enough!’ Mautu whispered, without looking up.

  ‘He’s going to die out there!’ she cried.

  Peleiupu left quietly.

  Late that afternoon Mautu, Tavita and a crew sailed for Apia. When Peleiupu told Naomi about their brother, she wept.

  They waited for almost a week. Peleiupu stayed away from Lalaga, who maintained a sorrowful vigil in the fale with some of the elders. With Naomi she took the classes. None of the students mentioned Arona to them. At night when she heard Lalaga’s muffled weeping she stopped herself from going over and consoling her.

  Mautu emerged out of the cool night breeze just as one of the elders was finishing the prayer of their evening lotu. He sat down beside Lalaga, who kept her eyes shut as if she hadn’t seen him enter. Peleiupu identified the weight of sorrow in him, an anchor that could not be pulled up.

  The elders greeted him. He replied formally. The young people left to bring the meal. Peleiupu held Naomi back.

  ‘And how was your trip?’ an elder began.

  ‘It went well. People were helpful,’ he replied. They waited. ‘We found out that he signed on a British ship bound for New Zealand, then England. I even talked to the company manager. He was very helpful. He promised he’d get in touch with their company in New Zealand, and get them to put the boy on their next ship back …’

  ‘How long will that be?’ Lalaga interjected. The elders ignored her rudeness.

  ‘… I told him Arona was only a boy …’

  ‘How long is he going to be away?’ Lalaga insisted.

  ‘About six months,’ Mautu said, without looking at her. ‘And the manager, a palagi, told me he was impressed with Arona’s education, especially his English. I told him Arona had been taught English by a high Englishman …’ Lalaga scrambled to her feet and rushed through the curtains into the bookcases. The elders pretended nothing unusual had happened.

  Peleiupu and Naomi pretended they were leaving to help prepare the meal, but once out of the fale they circled back to see Lalaga. They sat with Lalaga between them, in the darkness, and held her arms as she wept almost soundlessly into her cupped hands. ‘Arona’ll be back soon,’ Naomi whispered to her. ‘He’ll be back in six months.’

  ‘He’s broken my promise to God that he’ll be a pastor,’ Lalaga declared. ‘He doesn’t love his mother.’

  ‘He does,’ Naomi insisted.