A definite relief to be opening your pages again! I confess that when I posted you and my notes off to Songmark, with instructions to post them right back to me, I was quite concerned that I might not see you again. But events proved rather stranger, if less unpleasant, than even I had thought.
    For two days we heard nothing from the Hoele’toemis, and feared the worst in various ways – that they had either reported us, or at least were shunning us as deceivers and enemies of their country. But then, yesterday on our usual time and frequency, I heard a message with my callsign, after I had almost given up hope. Interestingly, though the first part was certainly Jirry, the second was in quite a different Morse “fist”, a rather more practiced hand as best as I could determine.  The second person asked for a meeting in the main North Bay village, in any public place – we agreed, having made it plain that we would (for once) let everyone know exactly where we would be going, and when to expect us back. (I have of course picked up SOME precautions from listening to Aunt Beatrice.)
    For a change, we dressed more formally in our Songmark shirts and slacks; I wore my green oiled silk suit on top – Helen wore her belted khaki jacket, the pair of us looking distinctly Practical. Still, my heart was definitely in my mouth as we entered the Topotabo Lounge, the publicly open café that is attached to the Topotabo Hotel, largest hotel on South Island. 
    Waiting for us there were Jirry and Marti, dressed rather more thoroughly than their usual jungle costume – and with them was a somewhat aged Native gentleman, wearing a richly embroidered fabric rather like a shawl. We were expecting something like a court-martial – and indeed, a similar investigation had taken place. For the last two days, the Elder told us, we had been checked over quite thoroughly, and had our references taken from not only our Academy tutors, but various other “interested parties”.  Which would be alarming enough, but for the news that we had passed with flying colours, subject to a few conditions.
    It was a strange scene, indeed – the pair of us with our Native friends and the Elder, whom I later learned was their grandfather, sitting in the wicker chairs of the café with the ceiling fans slowly turning overhead and the waves crashing on the beach just outside.  We were given a choice – as long as we were at Songmark, we could give our parole to keep silent to outsiders, and we would learn many things otherwise hidden except to the Natives.  Alternatively, we could refuse – in which case we would be effectively “sent to Coventry” as we say at Home, and be quite cut off.
    This was definitely not something to decide on the spot! Helen and I excused ourselves and went out onto the patio to talk it over. It is plain Discretion to not write home about some of our Adventures, but this is rather bigger. After all – we may be here for three years, but we are both staunchly loyal to our own Homelands – and should strange political events require the Royal Navy to descend on Spontoon next year or the year after, what should I do ? Should ever a force of the Royal Marines have to make a landing, I can scarcely keep silent while they learn about the hidden fortifications the hard way. Helen has the same problem, having had an Uncle lost in the Bolshevist revolution – she is quite aware that countries may change their politics rapidly and unexpectedly, and formerly firm alliances completely turn around. 
    We agreed amongst ourselves, and returned indoors to talk things over. Agreed – that from some points of view we become honorary Spontoonies – as long as our own homelands are friendly or neutral. This would of course mean that anyone else threatening the islands, would be our concern. That accepted, things became more cordial all round – I agreed to hand over my notebook, as one never knows who else might find it. And as for writing home – unless Father actually asks me directly, my conscience can stand not burdening him with more tiresome fortification plans, of which his study is already full.
    Helen did whisper her concern as to what we could tell Maria and Molly when they return – that might be quite a problem, especially seeing Maria’s political connections. One must cross one bridge at a time, though. Still, the elder called for coffee all round (I far prefer tea, but will drink coffee if I have to) and indicated to Marti and Jirry that we could be shown some of the History of the island that is not mentioned in the travel brochures.  I was quite surprised that the Islands have that much significant history, having been away from the Empire barely forty years – indeed, my Father is old enough to have served here as a young subaltern, having graduated from Sandhurst in the class of ’89. 
    Well! Things seemed to thaw quite considerably,  and I noticed Moeli arriving to escort her grandfather out.  It was quite a change to see her “dressed up”, as indeed I had only seen her in the most breezy of Native styles.  (Helen murmured that she hardly recognised her with her fur covered up.) We waved farewell to them, and retired to the beach with Marti and Jirry, to have a long talk. A very fine day, with some other folk sunning themselves on the beaches – more to make use of a few hour’s much-appreciated sunshine between the rain squalls, than to cool off.  There were quite a few fishing-boats landing their catches opposite the Church of the Sacred Heart, today being Friday and any churchgoers determined enough to practice their religion so far from Rome, being likely to be the more dedicated type. Of course, in these islands, the problem is hardly that of avoiding meat on Fridays but of obtaining it at all !
    I promised not to draw any more survey maps of the “Waterworks Project” – there are plenty of other things to draw around here, without vexing the locals.  Looking at Jirry helping his brother pull some friends’ fishing boats ashore,  a picture could be drawn outwardly like those of the “Noble Savage” – and yet he has excellent taste in German Expressionist films and a fine ear for the theremin.  Savage-looking indeed, but with more sophistication than many of the locals back home in Barsetshire – quite a reflection of his homeland!
    (Later). Returning to the Spontari Guest house,  it seems that news travels fast around here.  Mrs. Tanoaho seemed to know exactly what we had been doing, as she noted that we had best make use of our remaining three days before having to return to Songmark – and that she could waive some of the rules as regarding Costume for us. It is a little unnerving, thinking how much we seem to be watched – but then, we have done a lot of watching ourselves, and I suppose have attracted attention that the likes of “Soppy” might not get in the whole three years. 
    Still, as Helen pointed out, having permission to practice our Costume and to start learning more fine local Traditions, there is no more time to waste! The radio aerial went straight out of the window as I connected up the batteries – Soppy really should learn not to stand around under the eaves like that. 

January 11th,  (and more back-dating.)

   It has been quite a time, these last three days – tomorrow we pack up our travelling bags,  heading back to classrooms and hangars.  Just an hour after my last entry on the 8th, when we went downstairs for supper, we found Mrs. Tanoaho deep in conversation with Saimmi and another similarly attired lady in a more elaborate costume. 
    Well! It seems that Saimmi must have some influence indeed, even as a trainee priestess. We were invited over to stay for the weekend in their longhouse, and Mrs. Tanoaho agreed to let us go. Before she could change her mind, we dashed upstairs and broke our quick-change costume record,  appearing in two minutes flat as aspiring daughters of the Islands. Evening was well advanced as we entered the jungle,  heading down the narrow trail towards Haio village. We were introduced to Ropitapi, evidently Saimmi’s superior, though the two of them seem quite friendly (wholly unlike the authentic medieval servility shown by wise junior curates back Home in the presence of a Bishop, especially our local Bishop “Brimstone and Thermite” Jefferstone.)
    The two priestesses seemed to have a quite uncanny ability to see in the dark, and managed wholly without lanterns even through the densest part of the jungle, where Helen and I would have been quite at a loss.  It was with some relief that we saw lights gleaming through the trees, and stepped out to see the familiar shape of the clan longhouse across its garden-patch clearing.  Indeed, the whole clan seemed to be there – the two sisters and five Brothers, their parents, and easily a dozen others who seemed to be relatives and neighbours. 
    Had the wind been in the right direction, I feel sure we could have homed in on the place from half-way across the island, as there seemed to be a major feast in celebration. The cooking technique was interesting – whole fish wrapped in large wet leaves, entombed in a clay case and baked under a mound of glowing coals. Not quite the cuisine advertised in hotel brochures, but excellent – it appears this is one more “secret” that the locals are keeping for themselves. 
    While the meal finished cooking, we were introduced to Mrs. and Mr. Hoele’toemi, a grave and serious couple at first sight.  But they soon unwound somewhat as their daughters served the food (Jonni and his brothers had been out all day catching it) and we relaxed around the fire-pit.
    Definitely, we are going to need some intensive courses in  the Native language – although we have been picking up quite a few words over the term,  it is a long way from being able to chat freely. Although few tourists probably care, it was a little troubling to us knowing that many of the folk were having to translate everything for us. Saimmi’s superior seems to speak hardly any English, though I am assured she speaks Chinook “jargon” and half a dozen Polynesian tongues. Though there are Spontoonies from many “Traditions”, this family and most of South Island seems to be of South Sea Islands style, in their various customs. (Which does not mean most of their ancestors hail from Tahiti, given that the Hoele’toemis had quite a different name a century ago in Barsetshire!)
    A fine meal indeed, with the fish baked with yams and sweet potatos, and a blessed absence of poi. The breadfruit cakes which followed were excellent, as was the palm wine that was passed around quite soberly. Nothing at all like the films, where the Natives seem to spend all their social gatherings swilling firewater like a Dragoon on leave, before heading out to headhunt Missionaries.  And indeed, a few folk pulled out bamboo flutes and odd-sounding guitars – not quite as polished as a radio band, but far more atmospheric.  An interesting observation that Jirry made today – that although most of the profits on Spontoon are made from the tourists, they are prepared to face the day when the tourist boats fail to appear on the horizon.  The Hoele’toemis can keep themselves in fish and breadfruit, even if Casino Island was reduced to a ghost town.
    The party lasted until the moon was high overhead and the air felt quite chilly away from the fire. Mrs. Hoele’toemi took us aside, and showed us the sleeping arrangements – perfectly respectably, Helen and I are sharing a small hut with Moeli, Saimmi and two other girls.  It seems to be their tradition that families share a longhouse – but when grown-up, the young members of the clan head out into separate Women’s huts and Mens’ huts, till they marry and build a hut themselves. After a stressful day and rather a quantity of palm wine, I fear we scarcely exchanged greetings with our fellow residents before we were fast asleep.

    The next day, the 10th, we were awakened early, with what sounded like half the islands’ chickens greeting the dawn from the top of the hut. Without glass windows, everything outside is decidedly on the loud side!  Moeli bustled around, feeding chickens and shaking out bedding – by the sun I guessed it to be around seven, though of course a wristwatch hardly seemed to fit in with native dress, so I had left mine behind. 
    Certainly, the family are hard workers – half an hour later we were all assembled in the main longhouse, which doubles as a communal meeting house. With only sleeping-mats rather than rigid beds, it is the work of a minute to switch roles of the building. Breakfast was a substantial dish of rice, fish and shellfish, the portions certainly calculated to keep one working hard till luncheon.  Having finished, the family headed out to their various jobs, leaving Helen and I with Moeli for the morning, after which we are told there would be a boat trip to see various things that might interest us.
    When we were alone, Moeli jokingly asked if we needed waterproofing again – I think she was quite taken aback when we both agreed, to the full treatment. It proved as before, a quite pleasant experience, feeling one’s fur being transformed in such a way, and knowing this time exactly what was taking place.  Of course, we insisted that she explain the various fur patterns this time, and chose suitable ones ourselves. (Apparently this is a Polynesian custom, not suprisingly considering they tend to show rather more fur than say the Icelandic folk who have centres on Main Island.)
    While quite “Dishabille” waiting for the oil to cure, I did comment that I wished there were Native treatments that could improve not only my fur, but my figure under it. Dressing in such costumes certainly exposes most of one’s charms, but also one’s shortcomings, with no real possibility of decieving the viewer.  Of course, this may be a good thing at times – with all one’s imperfections on display, anyone in Native costume feels encouraged to look at their best.  I doubt I have seen any gentlemen with pot bellies since I arrived here – and by extension, this might really be why Missy K always wore “Euro” clothing, with more potential to hide inside.
    Moeli seemed highly amused, her personality being not her only conspicuously bouncy attribute – and if anything, more so than when we first met at the V-Gerat concert.  She agreed, mentioning that she was improving her figure in a time-tested way, that I could certainly use. Though she refused to elaborate on what it was, only hinting that while she could not provide it, Jirry certainly could. Most infuriating! Helen seemed to think it was extremely funny, for some reason. (Memo to myself – must ask Jirry about this. As after all this exercise I need to take out most of my “Euro” clothing next term anyway, that will be an ideal time to try whatever it is.)
    Once our fur was “cured” and dry to the touch, we helped around the house and garden patch until luncheon, when Jirry, Jonni and their sister Saimmi returned, Marti being unavoidably called away.  Saimmi complemented us on our fur styling, presenting us with a tortoiseshell comb apiece, which is worn in the head-fur when not in use.  Indeed, our fur is getting quite dark, and lustrous as a seal. With such an appearance, it quite goes against one’s natural modesty, encouraging one to display it to the best advantage. 
    Half an hour’s walk brought us back to North Bay, and a water taxi trip. Quite the longest one so far, all the way past Casino Island and across to Meeting Island, only our second landing there.  An odd destination for such a manifestly healthy crew as ourselves – Saimmi led us towards the main hospital complex of the island. Strictly speaking, the main hospital is on Casino Island for everyday injuries and emergencies – but this is a long-term sanitarium. Many older infirm tourists spend the winter here, as the warm climate and sea air is better than their homelands. (I recall Molly mentioning that Florida was a similar destination, and that business associates of her Father are often packed off down there to recover from “high-speed lead poisoning”, which seems an odd thing for a worker in the retail wines and spirits trade to suffer from.)
    The hospital grounds are really quite extensive, sitting on the top of the hill. What was not at all obvious until we arrived, was that the top of the hill is a crater, ringed with trees that from below appear to be simply a wooded, flat-topped hill. There is a formidable fence around it, with warning signs proclaiming “Isolation Hospital” that gives no clue as to what is really there. A large and burly attendant stopped us as we entered a long corridor heading from the main wing into the hillside – but a few words from Saimmi in their native language, were enough for him to wave us right through. 
    The corridor appeared to go slightly underground for twenty yards – and then came out in another building, hidden inside the crater! Presumably, this is visible only from the air, as the trees ringed it round entirely. It was a large square building, opening onto a courtyard fifty paces across, filled with pleasant gardens.  Working in the gardens and relaxing were several dozen people, some in various Native dress, and some in what looked like slightly old-fashioned European styles. None of them were young, and some were quite old – but all of them alike were cripples of some sort. Several of those walking had artificial limbs, and one or two being led appeared to be blind. 
    Jirry whispered that we were to wait in the garden, while he went to collect the person we were here to meet. It was slightly unnerving – I found myself speculating whether the “Spontoonies” were indeed so dependent on presenting a healthy and beautiful picture for the cameras, that they packed away anyone who would unnerve the tourists? Helen whispered that these must be the occupants of the low barge that we saw arriving to be met by ambulances at New Year – and I think she is probably right.
    In a few minutes, he reappeared with his sister and an old lady – or at least she appeared to be exceedingly frail, judging by the careful way he guided her footsteps. To judge by her fur pattern, I guessed that they were related – and indeed, he introduced her as his Aunt Millini – which I supposed was the Spontoonian evolution of Milly. She nodded, her eyes very keen and sharp as she looked us up and down. I was thinking that she was not as old as I had first thought, retaining what had once been a rather delicate beauty – until she turned her other side to face us. 
    I fear I must have gasped aloud, for she was a quite startling sight. All along her left side the fur was gone, the skin twisted in great ugly knots and folds of scar tissue that I had seen the like of on some of Father’s labourers employed after the Great War, who had been hit by dastardly Hun “Flammenwerfer” (Except for Sgt. Mallins, who had been carrying his own perfectly decent one when a stray tracer round had hit the fuel tank.) She smiled, raising an eyebrow (and indeed, she had only one to raise) being possibly quite used to the reaction.
    We sat down on a shaded seat in the gardens, while attendants brought us tea and such – not that I had much of an appetite. She asked us quite a lot about ourselves, looking at us with a gaze rather reminiscent of Father’s butler McCardle, who in his Regimental Sergeant-Major days was said to be able to spot whether a soldier wearing a greatcoat had ironed his shirt three layers inside. Quite an unnerving experience – she had a way of asking perfectly conversational questions, then throwing in a truly suprising or intimate one, before one had a chance to ready the answer. Though it appears that she is at times a teacher, I believe she would have made a formidable Detective !
    After perhaps twenty gruelling minutes, she relaxed a little, still keeping us under close scrutiny. I did venture to ask what this place was, as with its seclusion from the outside world and its relative luxury, it was no ordinary sanitarium – and with the wide mix of ages spanning from perhaps the mid-thirties, to the mid-eighties, it seemed unlikely  to be a military veterans’ hospital (Spontoon simply has not been an Entity with its own military that long). She paused for nearly a minute, then turned her burned side towards us, her eye almost the only undamaged feature, bright and quite unnerving.
 “That,” she told us, “Is what you wanted to know about. About the Gunboat Wars.”

© 2002 Simon Barber