Gods Of the Monsoon - Barrie Scott (grave mercy .txt) 📗

The sea shuddered as five thousand tons of iron and steel was made fast to the wooden pier, steam and cinders heaving into the weighty tropic night. The ship’s derrick swung smartly into position; the hold was unbattened, tarpaulins rolled back and a team of Lascars scrambled down vertical ladders sure-footed and lithe, shouting to each other above the deep drop into the cargo deck.
Within minutes a large crate settled on the narrow jetty with a creak and a jolt and in a rare moment of levity Reverend Edgar Wilkins scrambled up on it to stand arms flung to the sky issuing cries of praise.
Pausing in their preparations to make way the seamen watched him with quiet philosophical appraisal: that of the traveller accustomed to constant change: the spectacle of the oceans, being tossed like a tin can in Atlantic squalls: making port in snow, desert or jungle cove. All of this was frequently less of a puzzle to them than the behaviour encountered ashore in station and settlement throughout the empire.
They peered upwards following the priest’s gaze to the heavens all aware that despite their transporting the item halfway around the world to India, braving all discomfort they were not to be acknowledged in this outpouring of gratitude.
Gentle tones of the Malay language invaded the moment’s silence across the shadows of the iron deck, expressing wonder. It was echoed by chuckles. How would they know that despite their barbarity they had been channels for the will of God, the god who to them had no face?
By then Reverend Wilkins, hands clasped, was on his knees before the crate, his shoulders rounded in penitence over his doubts that this cargo would arrive and his being humbled by the almighty hand blessing this mysterious country with this, the way of His word. Psalm and sounds of devotion would now shed light amongst these, his people through this tool of the Lord
Thudding into life, steam thrusting, whistles signalling and a sharp hoot from the ship’s horn, the great paddles shook the jetty as the vessel, festooned with black dust, grease and strange devices pushed from the shore and cut again out into the open night sea.
In the shadow of coconut palms, creeper and bush the team of coolies had hung back from the wharf and the awesome presence of this belching machine. Clouds of insects rampaged in the dust clouds above their oil lamps. They were willing enough workers but past lessons had told them that timing was essential to avoid the rebuke of the holy man. This was the greater of the skills required to continue this venture into the church of the sahib. When displeased he would explain their folly at some length, jaws clenching, perspiring and rarely aware how much was understood of his outbursts. The rice they were given, along with a few paisa coins, was not great rice although it was plentiful and despite this strange waiting and watching, a little carrying, some building work it was many times easier a way to avoid their families’ hunger than following a buffalo and plough through the malarial mud of the paddy field in the baking sun. So they would kneel when it was time to kneel, clasp their hands in a namaste greeting, mumble as much as they could manage of the curious incantations and the Lord man was mollified.
Now he beckoned them, urging them to him with both hands. His smile had widened, his eyes shone. It was an entirely new demeanour to understand. From the safety of the palms they advanced, huddled, as one in the hesitancy of their progress. They peered at the reverend for some clue to his next reaction. Should they too kneel before the box?
The Reverend nodded, his smile tightening minutely, hands now swept patiently towards the cargo. Bravely the unwilling leader of the workers took the plunge, down on his knees, the others followed in a flash. Hands together, eyes wide, fervent grins attempted.
The reverend dropped his hands, stood stiffly a moment, raised his eyes to the sky and muttered. All eyes of his small flock followed his every move.
“Come and get the box.” He smiled through closed teeth. He was sounding tolerant.
They knew the tone and lurching up scrambled towards the crate. Their hands were ready but not a man among them was willing to touch it without further reassurance that this was not forbidden.
In truth they could have swept the reverend into the sea in an instant, tell the world he fell, the dilemma would be over, the contents of the crate theirs along with the rice store. But they were not those types of men. It was not just the fear of the troops with their guns and gaols. It would not be right. He wished them no harm despite his curious ways that after all were a great entertainment to the village.
His smile rekindled with effort he made a lifting motion. Clearly he would have patiently to use his will as antidote to their indolence. With a surge of faith he began a stream of instructions and the men stooped to the task. Fingers were jammed under and shoulders braced against the load and the order to lift given.
The crate jerked, raised to ankle height and a dozen pairs of feet staggered and strained; a dozen voices groaned and gasped for air. The whole arrangement began to totter and with a shout and a step backwards they all dropped it. The jetty shook, the timbers let out a precarious groan and Edgar yelped. The men edged a few paces away and made ready to sprint towards the land.
In their temples were statues before which people would bow and say the sacred things. The men who built the temples and carved the statues would pray at each stage of the task, work in the prescribed coarse temple robes and eat only the sacred foods during that time so the statues alone were imbued with all the holiness a person needed. The crate was surely of this kind and if it were to fall in the sea because of them then the retribution from priest and his god alike may not be worth the gamble. The equation was presenting itself where the rump of a buffalo began to swing towards being the safer option.
Edgar turned and strode seawards to the end of the jetty and stood facing the moonlit horizon. For several minutes he stood still clenching and unclenching his hands, at times raising them waist high in a gesture placed evenly between despair and debate. Out of renewed curiosity the workmen stopped in their flight. They were far enough away to talk quietly together speculating on this latest display.
“They are weird sometimes man.”
“You think the fish can hear him?”
The harmonium in the crate, to Edgar, represented progress not merely in his mission, to recreate, here in the jungle, his mother church so that the spirit of the gospel could be broadcast with enhanced strength. With his congregation around him the peripatetic Bishops would witness him fulfilling his purpose; his rank within the church would be greatly enhanced, his small salary would increase and finally he could take to him the wife he craved. Olivia: his betrothed. Only once had they touched and then only the briefest clutch of hands but in his memory the warmth, the gentleness of those fingers was like nothing he had known. Despite his prayers and sometimes delirium this memory gave him little peace in the hot insect nights.
A deep breath and a brief prayer and he was ready. Language was no small impediment in his dealings. The Mission had schooled him in basic Hindi; he had grounding in Konkanese, a smattering of Karnatakan, enough that he could instruct the men in building the outdoor chapel with a roof to protect against the monsoon and a shelter for the harmonium. Explaining the word of God though was a different challenge. When they made mistakes about when to kneel, when to sit, when to stand, his strength would prevail and so to calm their alarm over his wrath he would explain the concept of the shepherd and his flock and that sheep were apt to wander. Regrettably no one here had seen or heard of a sheep and the best he could do was describe a small woolly buffalo. Brows would knit in sincere endeavour to relate to this newly endowed identity. The pantheon of Hindu deities with aspects of the animal world: the elephant headed Ganesh, Hanuman the monkey god, was, as they saw it, their greatest hope in understanding the sheep analogy.
Refreshed, calmed, he returned and ordered a handcart be brought to the task. Most could see that to lift the load safely on to cart was not possible on the narrow jetty but to appease the priest this was acted out amidst wailing and gnashing.
They were though a proud and a resourceful community. They endured against both flood and drought in the ways of their ancestors and it was the local priest in orange robe, beard and beads who quietly, out of sight onshore, sent for the master fisherman of the village, his crew and his carpenter to bring the wooden rollers used to launch the wooden fishing boats with the treetrunk outriggers into the inshore surf. Edgar was at first suspicious of these newcomers. They were ragged, had not attended his church and though they accepted his remonstrations without protest they showed no nervousness, no reverence merely laughed kindly and ensured he was out of their way, courteously but with firmness that the young priest was somehow able to ignore. The rollers were lengths of smooth stout log and with several of them placed across the jetty, the nose of the box placed on the first, slid forward, the rolling motion commenced. As it passed over the logs one would be left behind, a shout and a throw and it would find its way to be laid at the bows of this landbound vessel, repeated several times with leverage, ingenuity and patience this rolling road and the fishermen delivered a successful result and despite moments when the load threatened to destabilise and end up after all as a fresh reef for the local marine life, the box was ashore.
Again the Reverend offered thanks to the almighty. The fisherman looked on not without comprehension that similarly it was their gods protected them against the rough seas when the catch was greatest, but quietly felt a rupee or two or a bag of rice would not have gone amiss.
With the benefit of solid ground and away from the narrow constraints of the jetty the crate was upended by a growing band of joyful helpers and hefted onto a bullock cart to commence a triumphant ride to its resting place. Edgar mounted the cart with his cargo and such was his triumph that he was this time able to forgo judgement on the manifestation of celebration in the village that accompanied him towards his personal Jerusalem, ignore the pagan nature of drum and handbell, the native dance with outthrust feet, angled elbow and knee redolent of the idolatrous statuary festooning temple and shrine across this land. Indeed such was his jubilation that whether he was aware of it or not his shoulders lilted and head moved side to side along with the rhythm.
What seemed the entire village joined in the triumphal arrival on the compacted clay floor before his altar. It