‘What?’
‘That face,’ she said, meaning the enormous mask that hung over the entryway of the ceremonial house we could see from the water. ‘It’s crude. Not like what I’ve seen elsewhere.’
‘We need art, Bankson,’ Fen bellowed poshly from his seat in front of me. ‘We need art and theatre and the ballet, if it’s not too much bother.’
‘Do you want to stop here?’ Nell asked him.
‘No.’
We were now four hours away from Nengai, and the sun was dropping fast, the way it does near the equator. We hadn’t even got out of the boat yet. I knew of one more tribe, the Wokup, before my familiarity with the river in this direction ran out. The Wokup had a beach, tall houses, and good art.
When we reached them, I gunned the boat directly at the center of the beach, determined that I would not stop for any reservation they could cook up. Though I was concentrating on the shore beyond her, I felt Nell imitating the stubborn clench in my face. But I thought she’d been a fusspot about the other tribes and could find no humor in it.
No one came down to greet us at the sound of the boat. Then I heard a call, not a drum, and there were flickers of quick movement, a child’s shriek, then nothing.
I had met a few Wokup. They were not ignorant of whites—no one on this part of the river was by now. Most tribes had a story of someone being put in jail or lured away by recruiters—blackbirders, they were called then—to the mines. I pulled the canoe up onto the shore and we sat in it, waiting, not wanting to cause more distress. A second call went up and a minute later three men came down to greet us. I could not see their backs, but the raised scars on their arms were longer, more like strands of hair or rays of the sun, than the crocodile hide designs of the Kiona. Save a few armbands, they were naked and took their positions in the sand. They knew, even if they had never seen it themselves, that whites had powers—steel blades, rifles, pistols, dynamite—that they did not possess. They knew this power could come on suddenly, with no warning. But we are not afraid, they said with their spread legs, arched backs, and hard gazes.
The one in the middle recognized me from trading at Timbunke and spoke to me in Kiona fragments. From what I could piece together, their village was expecting a raid from a swamp tribe. Swamp tribes were low in the pecking order of the Sepik, weak and impoverished, but they were unpredictable. I explained that my friends were interested in living with them and understanding their ways, that they had many gifts—but he waved me off before I could finish. It was a bad time, he said many times. There was the raid, and there was something else I couldn’t understand. A bad time. We were welcome to spend the night—he could not guarantee us a safe trip home in the dark if their enemies were en route—but we would have to leave in the morning.
‘I don’t know how much of this is true,’ I said to Nell and Fen after I translated everything the chief had said. ‘He could be waiting for some incentives.’
‘Tell him we can supply him with ten years’ worth of salt and matches for the whole tribe,’ Fen said.
‘We can’t lie.’
‘We still have loads of the stuff in Port Moresby.’
To verify this with Nell would insult him, yet it seemed impossible that after a year and a half they would still have that much to offer.
‘We are not light travelers,’ she said.
I began to communicate this to the chief but he raised his hand before I could finish, insulted. He explained that they lacked nothing and needed nothing from us, but for our safety and the safety of his people, he would let us stay the night.
We followed the three Wokup up to the village center. A boy was sent up the ladder of a house and within minutes a mother and five children climbed down. Without looking at us they made their way to a house three doors away. The children let out small yelps once they were inside. The adults hushed them angrily.
The chief indicated that we were to go up. Fen went first with our bag, then reached down to help me with the engine. It was a small house. I suspected that it must be the second or third wife of the chief, whose house next door was much larger. We watched him climb up his ladder and disappear.
We were in near darkness. All the openings were covered with bark cloth dyed black. The village was silent. We could nearly hear the sweat coming out of our pores.
‘Crikey. They could have bloody well offered us some food,’ Fen said.
Nell hushed him.
He fished around in his duffel. I thought he was going to produce some extra tins he’d stashed away, but he pulled out a revolver.
I felt my blood rushing, stinging.
‘Put it away, Fen,’ Nell said. ‘We won’t need it.’
‘They seem serious. Did you see all those spears?’