"IT"

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22388, 7 April 1936, Page 5

"IT"

BT KALPH STOCK

When they t chose Grieve to relieve Strickland at Keba, there were those who sympathised. Grieve was not the sort to look for sympathy, and told them so, but he was curious enough to want to know why they troubled, and their reasons were hardly exhaustive.

" Rotten hole!" grunted Bagnall, of the police, and miscued in off the red. " Heard things about Keba," said Nation, of the Lands Department. " Oh, nothing in particular; usual rumours. Have a drink?"

« 'Um—" Godsell, of the " Surveys," grinned his iisual slow grin. " Well, come back, that's all." At last Grieve had something to take hold of.

"You mean Bennett didn't?" he queried. Godsell nodded and grinned. " Oh, if that's all—" And Grieve told him what he thought of a man who balks at an appointment because his predecessors happened to die in harness.

Godsell grinned. Even when the Andi Malua had charged the prescribed number of mudbanks and landed him on a mosquitoinfested marsh called Niatu, Grieve was in no way impressed. He had suffered marshes —and mosquitoes—and to tell the truth, he was rather taken with the look of things. There was something to bo done here. Keba was inland; none of your " palm-fringed coral beaches " about Keba; and the road —so called—quaked rhythmically under them as they walked. One of the boys, with Grieve's tin trunk on his head, fell through, and there was no sign of his finding bottom before he grabbed a tree-root.

Half a day brought them to Keba and Grieve began—only began—to see what Bagnall and the others had meant; perhaps sixty miserable-looking grass huts, and perched on the only rising ground in sight, the " Resident's " bungalow, its iron roof glinting in the yellow glare. For the rest —mud, mud and straggling mangrove, as far as the eye could reach.

Strickland met Grieve on the verandah steps. His eyes were hollow and black-rimmed and his muscles twitched. Then Grieve noticed the whisky tantalus on a wicker table at the end of the verandah—and he thought he understood.

" Oh, so they've sent you," was Strickland's greeting, delivered in a fearsh, colourless voice. " Yes," Grieve replied briskly, " and I should think it's about time. Have vou packed?" " No, not yet." Strickland fell back into a wicker chair and nodded toward the tantalus. " Help yourself." While tho boys carried the trunks into the bungalow, Grieve stood at the verandah railing looking out over Keba, and thought his own particular thoughts. " They're running up a new hotel in Suva," he said presently. " By the look of things it'll be a real hotel when it's finished." "'Really?" said Strickland.

" And the cricket field's being enlarged. They'll have room for four more tennis courts in the corner. Tennis is coming on."

Strickland grunted and stirred in his chair. Grieve persisted.

" Are you going home this leave P" " 'M —ah —I don't know —yet." Strickland shot him a sidelong glance that might have conveyed anything. " I should," Grieve continued doggedly. " We're beginning to wake up, by the look of the illustrateds; electric trams on the Embankment—ha, ha!" The laugh, that Grieve felt to be idiotic, fell as flat as the mud about them. Strickland was frankly bored by the first white man he had seen for nearly a year. It was not flattering. This constituted the anteprandial amenities

After dinner they came out on to the verandah and talked business, to an accompaniment of the weirdest noises that had ever fallen on Grieve's ears. There were crabs —myriads of them—scuttling and crackling over the mud, and every now and then something fell with a slither and a plop out .under the moonlit mist that stood on the swamp like a solid grey wall. Strickland seemed to have come to life.

" They're willing enough," he was saying. " There's nothing of the mission about the Keba boys, but it's a fight. You know that road you came up—not bad, was it?—well, that took us three months —"

" Does this row go on every night?" Grieve interrupted suddenly.

Strickland looked around at him. " What row?" " Good lord, man! Do you mean to say you can't hear—that?" Something was making a noise like a suction pump at their very feet. The swamp seemed to bo licking its lips at them. " Oh, that?" Strickland cackled faintly. " That's the way it talks." He always referred to the mud as "it." " It has air-pockets or something, and lumps give way and slide down to the level. I've often watched it —it's rather fascinating. But that road; we must take it through to the north-east coast —" " We?" exclaimed Grieve, in spite of himself. " Whom do you mean by 'wo' ?" Again Strickland cackled. " Figure of speech," ho explained. " Of course, I mean you. I'm going onleave—of course." " I should hope so," commented Grieve. " It's a better landing than Niatu, and we —I mean, you —must get a decent outlet." " Outlet for what?" " Well, we've drained nearly a hundred acres, and planted maize and bananas. They seem to be doing all right." Grieve hoisted himself out of his chair and stood, cigar in. hand, looking out into the mist. " It beats me," he said, " why they want to come and live in a hole like this, when there's the rest of the group open to them." Strickland leaned forward almost eagerly. " Ah, that's the mistake most people would make. They didn't 'come and live here,' as you call it; they grow here —they're part of it—it's their country." " Well, I don't admire their taste in countries, that's all; especially when an innocent outsider has to come and live with them."

Strickland's eyes blazed, but the other's back was turned. " You might as well say you don't admire the tast« of the Laplanders—or —or —the Dutch; they're fighting the sea; why d-don't they emigrate to California 'f They fought lava —we're fighting mud " —Strickland relapsed into his chair —" and —it's rather fascinating." Grieve shrugged his shoulders. " Well, I hope I shall find it so." " 1 hope so, too," said Strickland. " That hundred acres could be made into a thousand if it was worked properly." " You mean I don't know how to work it properly?"

A SHORT STORY

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"Of course not; you don't know Keba—yet. I'll show you to-morrow." " And lose a day of your leave?" Strickland looked up at Grieve with a hint of defiance. " Yes," lie said, " and lose a day of my leave." " We tried piles here," said Strickland, as they stood on the Niatu Road tho next morning, watching fifty mudbesmeared islanders working a homemade dredge. " But it was no use; they sank out of sight. Then 1 planted palms, hoping they would hold things back a bit, but one after another they toppled in—l could hear them at night."

Ho moved further along the road, with a quick, nervous stride that Grieve found hard to keep pace with. " Here's tho beginning of the drained land," Strickland rambled on. " You see what I mean; tho whole thing can bo extended north-east. There's a rise —it isn't much, but it's a rise—and if that ditch—" Grieve listened intently. There was no doubt about it, the man was working wonders. But to Grieve the chief miracle was the enthusiasm he seemed to have instilled into the " labour." Enthusiasm in a South Sea nigger! " What do you do with yourself in your spare time?" Grieve asked, when they had returned to the verandah. Strickland turned with his blank stare. " Spare time?" ho said. " There isn't any—that is, if you want to keep that hundred acres, let alone increase it. 'lt's' always silting, and you have to watch it pretty closely. 'lt' just comes billowing along when you least expect it. I make plans and calculations in the evening—it's rather fascinating." He smiled reminiscently and clasped his lean hands behind his head. " I used to take tho evenings off. I remember trying to teach tho head ganger to play the flute, but his lips were too thick or something. Then 1 had an idea of making a tennis court. 'lt' makes a good court, but in the dry season you could fall down the cracks. No, 'it' takes all one's time to fight properly." " 1 think I've got tho hang of it now," Grieve told him. " Why don't you go and pack and get out of here?" Strickland looked positively startled. " Ah, of course," ho said, and, going into his bedroom, drew out a battered tin trunk.

It remained against the wall, open, and with three shirts in it, for two days. At the end of that time, Grieve began to lose patience. The work was going steadily, but Strickland was perpetually hovering about making suggestions, and sometimes even giving orders. This was a trifle too much for Grieve.

" Look hero," he said, turning on him suddenly. " You're on leave. I'm working this thing now. Why don't you get out?"

A moment later he was sorry he had said it. Strickland gaped at him like a whipped schoolboy, then turned and walked slowly to the bungalow with bent shoulders.

That night the battered tin trunk held three more shirts, a dinner-jacket and a pair of muddy boots, But the next morning, early, Grieve came upon him unawares. Ho was standing motionless on the extreme edge of the drained land, looking north-east. The sun was rising, and dyed the swamp a slimy red. Strickland's lips were moving and Grieve caught a faint sucking sound, echoed, it seemed, by the mud. He stole back to the bungalow, with a fixed determination that Strickland should go—if it meant force. But there was no need. About one o'clock the next morning Grieve woke with a start. The usual crackling noises were going on about the bungalow, and he buried his head in the single sheet and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. Then lie remembered that Strickland snored abominably, and there was no snore —only the cracklings and suckings. He lifted the mosquito-net and slid to the floor. Out in the moonlight the same grey wall of mist stood on the marshes, and something slithered and plopped. He crossed the passage and peered into Strickland's room; then went over to the bed. It had not been slept in. Still in his pyjamas, Grieve descended the verandah steps and looked about him. He and Strickland were the only beings in Keba who wore boots, and Strickland was slightly splay-footed Grieve followed up the fresh track that led from the compound gate with the greatest of ease, and on tho drained land it was clearer still. He followed it through the soft earth of the banana patch to the far end, and there, at the edge of the swamp, it vanished. He shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no answer—except the cracklings and suckings. " It " was smacking its lips.