Part One

Posted on Thursday, 12 July 2007

On a beautiful, lush island hiding out in the Pacific, there is a forest. A forest of which you nor I have likely seen. This paradise of greenery, dotted with the vibrant specks of jungle flowers and tropic birds and bugs, is home to a people. Their village, hidden from the casual eye, wound in between the palmy-like trees, climbing up a mountain side. From the top dwelling, you can see the sunset creeping against the ocean's crest, waving over the horizon like an expanding fire, or watch the moon rise to cast the sparkles upon the dark sea, appearing to reflect dancing stars.

The island's occupants live in what we, of the strict, civilized world, would call extremely primitive style. Their women cook without electricity. The girls weave grasses to make their hut walls and make their own cloth using the silky threads of a strong feathery plant. Their men hunt and fish for all their meat, each man owning his own canoe, or else partners with his neighbor. Their children learn lessons from the elders and gather the provisions that their parents require for all things. They are ignorant of the world of telegraphs, ovens and trolley cars, never having traveled more than three islands away. They have no need. What they can not produce on their island is bartered for with the neighboring isles.

In this quiet atmosphere, where the wind carries the words of the ancient and sings the people to sleep, a shout is heard, loud and shrill. A boat is approaching from far off in the west. The boat is not small and light like the ones they are accustomed to, it has masts that look to be the size of their tallest trees, sails that look like the wings of a million seagulls and little dots of men wearing strange clothing. One of the fastest, most limber boys of the village, sends his alert around. Strangers are coming! Children collect from their various tasks to hide inside their bamboo-framed doors. The pots of noontime meals are left to simmer unattended while the women rush inside. Only the men are free to move around, quietly, meeting in the thickest trees, to ponder what this means and why the strangers have come. They listen carefully for the whistles of those appointed to perch upon the lookout.

Three whistles pierce the air, saying "Unsure! Unsure!" What can this mean? Without a word, just by passing looks and gestures, they take up their weapons and prepare to defend against anyone who might harm their families. They wait in breathless worry.

The lookout boys whoop suddenly, breaking the silence with a start. It is a joyous cry, not one of battle. They rush down to spread the news. One on the strange ship is a friend, for he issued the sign of crossed arms and bowed head, followed by a beat on his chest. This was always their way of formal greeting and it was known only to their tribe and the one of the neighboring island. It was not possible for a stranger to adopt their ways. Or so they thought.

When the release was announced, the whole village flocked down to the white sanded shore to welcome the friend and the strangers. Little children with dark, alluring brown eyes looked up in awe at the greatness of the ship. They had never seen such a large vessel! And the men aboard, what absurd clothing they wore. How confining, the clothes that encased their chests like a shells and the things on their feet which surely must hurt! They spoke oddly, a sound that tingled and cut in the natives' ears. And their milky skin contrasted with the islanders' rich brown skin. They were intriguing. Even the elders look curiously at their visitors, raising and pointing with canes, mumbling to one another.

After he descended the gangplank, the man who was one of them cried out with a mighty voice in their tongue, "Greetings, my friends! It is good to be home!" He was grey-haired and tall, well-muscled and had the usual wrap of cloth around his waist. Everyone stood in silence for a few moments until a women began to cry aloud, "Lannah?! Lannah?!" She raced across the sand, her black hair twisting across her shoulders and wrinkled face, her arms stretched outward toward him. A murmur bounced across the crowd, filling the air with gasps of surprise. Then many joined the reunited mother and son.

Lannah had left their small island twenty years earlier, after being reprimanded for disobeying the elders. He set out for an adventure and swore never to return. It appeared that he had changed his mind. After much affection and welcome, he introduced those with him, Captain George Harrison, his brother Stanley, and his crew. They were from a strange place called America. They could only speak a few words in the islander's language.

Several elders gathered around Lannah to ask questions. After receiving forgiveness for his rashness as a youth, he answered their inquiries. The strangers would not harm them and had good gifts for the people to prove their friendship. They brought out of the vessel things which made the natives eyes widened and sparkle. Out of sturdy boxes came brilliant cloth in the colors of the flowers, tools for every sort of task, and foods with strange textures and enticing smells.

One child reached greedily for a piece of something, which was actually a cracker, before his mother fearfully slapped his hand. Lannah caught the scene from the side of his eye and strolled over to demonstrate that the food was safe. He took a cracker and munched on it, smiling and nodding. With a still hesitant, yet permissive nod from his mother, the child took one and chewed it slowly. He like the taste, but after a second stuck out his tongue in surprise. "It melted into much!" he exclaimed. Lannah laughed and assured him it was alright. After this first test, the others were not afraid of the gifts anymore.

The head elder, Tellalongho, asked why the white men had come. Lannah explained that they wanted to set up a trade on the island between their people and the other whites across the ocean. Tellalongho looked surprised and unsure. The elders would meet tomorrow and decide what to answer on this subject. There was feasting all night to welcome the strangers. Still a little unsure, Tellalongho ordered their young men to sleep near to the beach to guard the village just as a precaution. In the morning the elders met.

After many hours of debate and reasoning, they came to a decision. The newcomers could stay as long as they accepted and followed the village laws. If they could reside peaceably, they could set up this trade.

And that is how the Harrison Trade Company began on Wanekipu Island.

But one point of very interesting note is that in the hold of the ship, the white men kept strange animals. They were bigger than deer. They made strange, woeful noises through their mouths. The men claimed that they gave milk too, like coconuts.

The white men had brought them cows.

Over many decades, the traders had kept friendly with the natives. However, both parties gave each other their own space. Neither demanded their neighbors; customs to change. Each provided what interested the other. In a few years, the women of the island were no longer weaving their own cloth, but were using the beautiful printed fabric that the white men gave them in return for their homemade handicrafts and medicines. The men had adopted the tools and learned to farm better with them.

To own many cows became the biggest fashion. A man was considered extremely wealthy if he had four or five cows. They were a prized possession, these whales on land. There was ample room for them to graze on the island, on the east side where the grass was thick and plentiful. The animals grew fat, and gave an abundance of milk. There were several bulls that had come from the original bull and the men that owned them were given great honor around the village. They were the first to be seated after the elders at all the feasts, the first ones to received the beginning of the harvest, etc. How the people loved their cows!

Before the cows had been introduced to Wanekipu, there was a ritual performed before any marriage could take place. The young man who wished to become the groom would present gifts to the father of the bride-to-be. They would barter for a few hours, depending on what the girl was worth. If the father was not pleased with the gift, he did not have to give away his daughter. She would remain with her parents until a good offer was made.

As time went on, it become customary to use cows as the gifts, since no man owned anything more grand than his cattle. The women of the village began to pride themselves in being worth a certain number of cows. Often you could hear them comparing notes, boasting "I was a three-cow wife, you see." Only to see another snicker softly and retort, "My husband paid five for me!" This caused a little contention, but for the most part everyone was satisfied with the process.

On the ocean's near edge, a girl's footprints traced the foam that where it crept up upon the shore of the little island. The footprints were larger than those of the other island girls. The owner of the prints walked along in solitude, smiling at the sun and humming a tune she had made herself. Her hair, which usually hung knotted and thick in her face, had been pulled back and tied back with a piece of seaweed. Her eyes were searching the coast for a stick or bone that she could use to hold it all in place. The married women were the only ones considered mature enough to wear their hair up, while the girls must always wear it long and down. She was alone though and thought it would be fun to feel the wind and sun on her neck.

Her name was Fanniah and she was an orphan. It was a tragic story that no one would tell her. With both parents gone, Fanniah went to live with her aunt and uncle. She was such a small child, excepting her feet, that she could not handle the heavy workload her guardians expected of her. She lacked the grace and confidence of her cousins. With their witty tongues and fine features, they would be the best catches in the village.

Fanniah was shy. She was ridiculed and prodded constantly by the other island children because she would become clumsy around them. When she was nervous she stuttered. When she was scolded she cried pitifully. Her aunt and uncle began to call her worthless. They would not have kept her had she not been able to cook and feed the cows. She had a gentle heart. Feeding the cows was her favorite chore because she would sit for an hour and talk to them.

Without the care and love from her relatives that a growing girl thrives upon, she became thinner still and looked unkempt all the time. Most of the other children shunned her because she was too quiet and withdrawn to make a good playfellow. Many of her days were spent performing the menial chores that her aunt thought up. In her moments of leisure, she stole away to the beach or to the deep forest to talk to the birds and keep the animals company. Aside from these abnormal companions, she had one other friend. There was a boy name Edunba, who was her cousin in some way, related through a marriage. He lived on the other side of the village. He was a young man of wisdom and reverence. He was mature, solemn and thoughtful. He always felt responsible for Fanniah because she was so little and delicate. He knew her capabilities, he gave her little bits of brotherly love that she cherished and kept hidden in her heart. No one knew how to open her heart more than Edunba.

Now, as the waves started to come high with the tide, she sang full out a tune which no ear had heard before. She had wandered near the rocky cliffs that met the sea. Walking on a strip of sand just a few feet wide, she smiled as the sound of her voiced bounced and played upon the cliff walls. She sang louder and more passionately, letting the sound move upward in a surge almost as strong as the ocean. The strength of it surprised her and she stopped because it did not seem right to be so loud. A pebble rolled over the edge of the cliff, fell past her head and landed with a splash in the water.