Jacob

Jacob had to walk away during the ceremony, surprised by what he felt.

He participated in so many ceremonies growing up—gatherings with dances and songs and stories and prayers—for marriages, for harvests, for funerals, and to mark sacred days. But it has been a long time since he attended one. In the city there are few opportunities to gather for this kind of ritual purpose. Even drinking kava has become simply recreational for him, separated from the listening that his father and the other men of his home do at the end of the day. When did Jacob stop listening?

And so, while his father spoke in the nasara, Jacob strained to hear those long-ignored voices—those of his brother and mother, his grandmothers and grandfathers. He wanted his father to be right, that those who had passed would gather here for this, that this exchange would please them. More than that, Jacob realized, he wanted to please them. He wished his mother were here to tell him what to do, to help him find a way to stay.

He tried to find her voice in the harmony of voices but couldn’t, so he left the circle of the ceremony, and in the relative quiet of the bush he listened once more. He waited and hoped, but still he didn’t hear her. It was only after he returned with Rebecca to the nasara and, from his place in the circle of his people, watched as Michelle handed some papers to his father. When his father passed them to him, he thought he heard whispering. He strained to catch their words, even as Rebecca tried to explain what the exchange she was offering meant. It wasn’t just his mother’s voice he was hearing, there were his forefathers’ too. And he finally understood: they had always been there; he was the one who had left.

Now that the ceremony is finished and the celebration is underway, Jacob seeks out his father. He wants to tell him that while he couldn’t make out everything the voices said, it was the first time he has heard his ancestors speak to him in a long time. He doesn’t want to lose that.

When he finds his father around the side of the bungalow, Robson is with him. They appear to be arguing, and Jacob’s first thought is to walk away unnoticed, but the memory of the voices urges him forward to be part of their discussions, the future. The two men fall silent as he joins them.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“This doesn’t concern you, right now,” Robson says, smiling and clapping Jacob on the shoulder. “Go and eat, enjoy yourself!” Laughter and chatter drift from the nasara, as does the smell of the roasted pig mixed with the smell of the sea.

“If it concerns my father then it must concern me.”

David glances at him briefly, and Jacob is sure his father is going to dismiss him, but instead David turns back to Robson. “My son is right. This concerns us all. It shouldn’t be just you and me discussing this, hiding from everyone, as if it is a secret. We should discuss it as a community.”

“Bah, they won’t know what to do with this kind of money,” Robson says, folding his arms over his chest. “What do you two suggest, that we split it up? Give everyone their share? They will spend it and then it will be gone. And on what, phone cards and kava?”

The inheritance. They’re arguing over the money that the Stewarts gave them during the ceremony. Already, word about the amount of it has made its way through the community. If the rumours are correct, it is a good sum.

“What do you suggest?” David asks Robson.

“We should invest it. I know some people in Vila that could—”

“You would take the money, then?”

“And invest it.”

“Like the road?”

“Bah, you don’t understand. You’ve never understood, you always think backwards. If you let me handle it, we can make money with this money.”

“What if we started a business?” Jacob interrupts. And suddenly he can see it in his head—visitors, tourists staring out at the sea, eating Rebecca’s cooking. They would spend their money and learn about this place, about the blue cave and the Hot Water beach. He imagines a line of tiny bungalows backed by the jungle, perched over the sea.

He explains his idea to the men.

“So you would use the money and keep the profits then,” Robson scoffs. “What about the rest of us?”

“No,” Jacob said, thinking his way through it as he speaks. “No, the bungalows will belong to all of us. Everyone will build them together and manage them. We can run tours. People can work at the front desk.” He is getting excited now. “We could have a bar where people can drink and watch the sunset.” He gestures towards the sea, the spread of colours that in a moment will turn to night.

His father picks up the thread. “And we could share the profits among everyone and invest it in the community. We could set aside money for other emergencies, to buy a new water tank.” He is smiling at his son. “It’s a good idea, yes. But we should discuss it with everyone else. Our idea and Robson’s too. And we should ask if there are other ideas. Everyone has to agree.”

Robson looks as if he is about to say something but holds his tongue. Then his smile breaks through, so many white teeth, bright despite the encroaching evening. “We will all have our say. Yes, yes, of course.” He puts his arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “Come with me. We’ll eat some of that pig together and talk more about your idea, yes?”

Jacob peers at him, remembering what his father said about Robson always looking out for himself. He slips out of the man’s grip.

“Sorry, uncle. Give me a minute. I want to talk to my father.”

“Let’s all go,” Robson says, his eyes narrowing. “There is so much for us to talk about.”

“We’ll catch up,” Jacob insists. “Save us some!” He forces a laugh.

Robson glances back at Jacob and David as he walks away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Jacob says to his father when they are alone. “I’m sorry I said no good would come from the ceremony. Even without their money, you did what our ancestors would have done—held the kastom in your way. That should be reason enough for me to listen.”

“It sounds as though you did.”

“What about him?” Jacob gestures after Robson.

“He’s a good man, just short-sighted. He would never mean to hurt you. But thank you for what you said. And it is a good idea. Everyone will think so when you tell them.”

Jacob pictures himself standing in front of his people in the nasara, trying to articulate the vision that has only just come to him—the bungalows, all of them working together to build something new on this place that has felt cursed for so long. His palms begin to sweat.

“I’ll help you,” his father says, as if he can read Jacob’s mind. “We will come up with the argument together. You don’t have to deliver it, but it is yours to make. I think you should.”

His father drapes his arm around Jacob’s shoulders, steering him back towards the sound of laughter and guitars. “Now come on, it seems that we have much to celebrate.”