What Became of the White Savage (6 page)

As the sun began to sink in the sky, she stood up and headed to the end of the valley. She went over to where some pale green cress grew in the damp soil, the same spot where he had searched in vain for water. She knelt down, and using her hands, dug out a tuber. Breaking off its stem, she put it to one side and continued to dig, moving towards the left. She soon unearthed a second bulb, and then a third.

He followed her over, wanting to be useful, to help with this harvest. He wanted to have something to do, find more to eat. But when he went to kneel down close to her, she signalled to him in no uncertain terms to stay back. When he didn’t move, she repeated the gesture, and barked an order in a shrill voice. So, she did talk, after all. Her words sounded like nothing he’d ever heard before, a sort of hissing noise punctuated with clicks. He didn’t insist further, took a few steps back, and stood there watching her collecting her harvest. He’d spent his life obeying orders: from his father, the curate, the schoolmaster, the ship’s bosun, the captain. What choice did he have but to do as this old woman commanded? How his shipmates would have laughed to see him meekly obeying her orders!

Why had she not spoken before? They had no means of understanding each other, but he would have given anything to have her answer his questions. She had said nothing, nothing until this rebuff. If he were in her position, surely he would have tried to find a way to communicate: a few simple words, a gesture, or even just a smile.

Did she not care about him at all? But why then had she saved his life?

She went on digging up tubers until she seemed satisfied that she had enough. Using a stick she picked up from the ground, she made a hole in each of the tubers, threaded them onto a length of vine and draped it over her shoulder. Still without saying anything, she went back over to the spot where she had left the lizard and threw the string of tubers down beside the carcass. He followed her, judging that it must soon be time to eat, now that there were some vegetables to go with the meat.

But she paid no more attention to her spoils. Faint with hunger, he had to wait another hour. At last, when evening began to draw in, she gathered some sticks to build a fire, and using two stones, lit the fire and arranged the tubers in the sand around it. Then she placed the whole lizard in the centre of the coals, added some dead wood, and let the fire burn until it went out.

It was dark by the time she took hold of the lizard. It had cooked in its own skin and she used a sharp rock to cut off the feet, slit open the belly and, with a few precise gestures, remove the white flesh. She held out a piece to him; he grabbed it with a trembling hand, trying not to see that it was a leg, and put it in his mouth. The meat was stringy and tasteless; it left a vague after-taste of ash. He ate his share hungrily, sucking on the bones and the cartilage. She gesticulated towards the coals, letting him know he could help himself. He took one of the charred tubers, trying not to scorch his fingers. He bit into it carefully to avoid burning his lips. It tasted almost like a lightly cooked turnip, bitter and sweet at the same time. He wished he had some salt to sprinkle on it, on the meat too. But at least this peculiar vegetable would fill his stomach. He took another and held out his hand for some more meat. She gave him another slice and let him take as many of the strange vegetables as he wanted. She ate too, in silence. Three times he asked for more meat, and three times, she served him. But when he reached for the leftovers of the lizard scattered around on the sand, she barked something at him again, to let him know that this was not allowed. He didn’t argue and waited for her to offer him the last scraps of meat on the backbone.

Then, without saying a word, she stretched out on the sand and went to sleep.

In the pitch black, cloudless sky, innumerable stars twinkled, the same stars that had kept him company during his night watches aboard ship, when the schooner was slicing through the water, sailing along on a light breeze. He used to enjoy those moments when there was nothing to do but murmur in low voices, gaze at the stars, summon up visions of the last port of call or perhaps anticipate the next. Perhaps now, at this very moment, some of his shipmates on the
Saint-Paul
were awake, savouring the gentle softness of the tropical night. Were they thinking of him? Would they come to find him?

These questions were too cruel and he put them out of his mind. Lying on his back, he summed up the situation. Things were not as bad as they had been the night before. He had drunk plenty of water. He’d eaten, not enough to fully satisfy him, but enough to quell the worst of his hunger pangs and leave him with a pleasant sensation of warmth in his belly. He was at a loss to understand the old woman’s behaviour, what she would accept and where she drew the line. But what did he care? He would survive, that was what mattered.

The ship would return. They were sailing to Java to save the sick men and get provisions. Then they would set sail again for the south. Two weeks at sea. He’d have to wait two weeks. Whatever the old woman gave him, he would eat: lizard, fish, shellfish, plants. And water, she would find him water.

He’d lose two weeks’ pay. The second mate would give him that unpleasant smile and scribble some figures to indicate how much the whole escapade had cost, while some of the crew looked on and smirked. Sheepishly, he’d make sure that his conduct was exemplary for the rest of the voyage: he’d be the most obedient, hard-working and dedicated hand on the ship.

When he awoke, he looked around; the old woman was no longer there. He supposed she was foraging for food somewhere in the forest. He ate a few of the cold turnips and set off towards the beach without waiting for her to come back.

No sign of a ship on the horizon. He’d been prepared for this and did not allow it to upset him. But he was stunned to see that his giant arrow on the sand had vanished, the sign he’d toiled so hard to construct from rocks and blocks of coral. Now they all lay scattered around the beach, his message obliterated. A ship out at sea, or a search party on foot would see nothing but scattered stones.

It could not have been the tide that had dismantled his handiwork: he’d been careful to make sure he built it above the high tide mark, beyond the range of even the biggest waves. Nor could it be the work of the old woman: she’d have had neither the time nor the strength to move such huge boulders. The biggest of them weighed as much as a loaded cask: with a strength born of desperation he’d summoned his last reserves of energy to inch them into place, breathing heavily, back muscles tensed, legs trembling with fatigue, his arms crushed by the weight.

There must be more people living on these shores. Here was proof that the old woman was not alone. He tried to make himself believe that he’d been aware of this all along. No human being lives in complete isolation. Even animals don’t live alone. This woman lived with her own people, others who spoke her language, shared the same customs. And among those people were men, strong and sturdy enough to be able to undo his work.

But where were they? They knew he was there, they’d sent the old woman to sound out his intentions. She was expendable, she no longer mattered to them, they could risk sacrificing her. They were watching him from afar. But if their intentions were friendly, why didn’t they show themselves? Why didn’t they all come and welcome him, all together, men and women, young and old? Why didn’t they invite him to their village and help him?

Why had they destroyed his arrow? The answer, alas, was only too apparent: they’d destroyed it to prevent other white men from understanding its message and coming to take him away.

Trying to fathom these mysteries only served to increase his anxiety. All he had to protect him from hostile savages was the knife in his belt. And it wouldn’t take many of them to overpower him and push him under water, knife or no knife. No, his only weapon would be his wits: he’d use his wits to get the better of them, although he couldn’t quite see how. But he knew his intelligence would protect him from naked savages, and he clung on to this notion.

For now, they’d spared him: they’d let him live. He would be vigilant from now on. Should he put the arrow back together again? It would mean two hours of backbreaking toil in the heat of the sun, only to give them the pleasure of taking it apart again as soon as his back was turned. One man against a whole tribe? He wouldn’t stand a chance. And if he did put it back together, it would be a sure way of telling them that he knew they were hiding nearby somewhere, watching him, that he knew they wanted to prevent him from writing his message on the beach. No, it would be better if they didn’t realise he was aware of their presence.

What did he know of these people, these Pacific savages? At sea he’d heard tales told on the ’tweendecks, but they were vague and inconsistent, often impossible to believe. If only he’d paid them more attention, asked questions of the older hands who’d seen a thing or two on their voyages across this vast ocean.

One thing they all agreed on was the difference between the Eastern and Western Pacific. The Eastern Pacific and Bougainville’s Tahitian Isles were the stuff of every sailor’s dreams: friendly natives, obliging women, food in abundance, plentiful supplies of fresh water, excellent anchorage. Countless men had jumped ship in these isles, crews had mutinied for the sake of the earthly delights they offered. No man could resist the dancing and singing of those bare-breasted girls, their skin the colour of honey.

But the Western Pacific offered no such delights. Only barbaric tribes of warring black-skinned savages, armed with sticks and assegais, fighting every inch to defend their chickens, their vegetables and their unsightly women. They were known to attack suddenly and with great savagery. European sailors had been ambushed. And in all the tales, there would inevitably be a great
kaï-kaï
at the end. The cabin boys would always ask: “What’s a
kaï-kaï
?” And the old hands would answer: “ It’s like a great big cauldron, where they cook up the enemies they’ve killed in battle.”

He knew nothing about this part of Australia. But given its geographical position and the old woman’s skin colour it was probably just like the Western Pacific. And then there was the mystery of the disappearance of La Pérouse and his ships: Sydney was their last port of call before they vanished soon after setting sail. It all added to the threat of hidden menace.

He felt a nagging fear, greater than the fear of dying, crueller than the prospect of being killed. Much worse than the vision of his own body abandoned in the dust for animals to prey on was the terrifying thought of savages feasting on his flesh.

He had no choice but to go back and look for the old woman. With a heavy heart, he walked back along the valley floor. Finding no sign of her in the thicket where they’d slept, he carried on to the bottom of the gorge to the spot where she’d dug up the bulbs. No one. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her since the evening before.

Had she abandoned him? Why would she do that? It was too cruel. Why save his life, give him water and food, only to leave him alone again? Abandon him to certain death in this forest of whose secrets he knew nothing? If she and her tribe wanted him dead, why hadn’t they killed him? Or left him to die of starvation or thirst?

It was futile to think about all this. He had to find her again; feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help him to get out of this black hole. One after another, great waves of despair welled up in him, followed by periods of frantic activity. He climbed up the cliff face, out of the gorge and ended up on the plateau again, in the meagre shade of the twisted trees with their grey trunks and metallic leaves. Silence. No footprints on the flat, sandy coral ground. He tried to haul himself up into one of the sturdier trees to get a better view, but succeeded only in ripping his breeches.

Wandering aimlessly amongst all these trees was a sure way of getting lost. Orienting himself by the position of the sun, he walked parallel to what he reckoned to be the coastline. After about one hour, he turned sharp right, and keeping the sun at his back, walked until he reached the northern tip of the bay and the small rocky hill he’d climbed on the second day. Still no sign of the old woman.

They were probably watching him all the time. They’d seen how he managed to get his bearings. They’d been observing him ever since he’d built his giant arrow. He’d drawn attention to himself with all that hard work that day. Perhaps he should have chosen to stay hidden in the bushes, under cover. Should he just have waited it out?

But if they hadn’t been aware of his presence on the beach, they would never have sent the old crone to him with the gourd full of water. No, it hadn’t been a mistake, all that effort struggling to move the boulders on the beach. The thought suddenly occurred to him that it made no difference. What did it matter if they’d seen him making his sign? They must have seen the schooner at full sail out in the bay. They’d watched as it dropped anchor. They’d seen the dinghy being launched, the crew’s vain efforts to find water on the beach.

The savages had known they were there all along; they’d been watching everything. From the first sighting of the white sails coming over the horizon and the great wooden vessel entering the bay, they’d been aware of these men with their strangely pale skin, their clothes, their shouts. They’d gone to ground and watched the strangers’ every move. They’d seen the nine seamen land and split up. They’d watched them searching for something, meeting up again, eight men returning to the ship. They’d looked on as the crew hoisted the jib and fore stay-sails, and seen the great ship moving off out of the bay, getting ever smaller and disappearing over the horizon. With one white man wandering deep in the forest, emerging after the ship had left. One lone white man, walking up and down on the beach, going back to the valley, making himself a shelter, spending his days keeping watch over the bay; the vessel not returning; the white man getting weaker with every passing day.

They’d watched him, and left him to suffer. They’d waited until he’d lost all his strength, sending the old woman to him when he could no longer be considered a threat. What a fool he’d been to think she wanted to help him.