‘It tastes like mud.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Hannah was startled by Joshua’s voice.

‘Yaqona. It tastes like aniseed mud. Looks like it too, doesn’t it? And it makes your tongue and lips go numb.’

Flustered, she merely nodded. For a moment she had misunderstood him. Chastising herself, she paid closer attention to the scene before them. The yaqona ceremony was in progress. In this case, as Uncle Henry had ruled it unsuitable for his family’s consumption, the yaqona was for the villagers’ own enjoyment rather than for sharing with the guests.

Ratu Rabete dipped a coconut shell cup into the brownish-grey liquid in a massive wooden bowl with little legs. As the shell was passed around, each recipient quaffed the contents in one go. Then the watchers clapped their hands, calling ‘maca,’ which Joshua said meant ‘empty’. Enoke sat at the Chief’s right hand and glared, the twisted scar on his cheek standing out like a threat.

Although yaqona was unappetising in appearance, Hannah would have been tempted to try some if Uncle Henry had agreed; until Joshua told her how it was prepared. ‘It’s made from roots. They chew it until it’s soft. Then they spit the little balls out into the bowl, and cover it with water. Some people say that if you drink too much, your skin goes grey and scaly, and your eyes sink in.’

Joshua was an authority on yaqona, Hannah was amused to note. She suspected personal experience but refrained from comment. Let him have his secrets. She had hers.

Ratu Rabete was in fine form tonight. His hair had been teased and oiled until it stood out around his head like a glistening black shrub. He stood and delivered an impassioned speech, only portions of which the family bothered to interpret. ‘Mr Stanton was a good strong servant of his God … Mrs Stanton, a faithful wife, excellent cook …’ There was more, much more. Finally, ‘Welcome to the young lady from the land where animals jump …’ That brought a puzzled look from Uncle Henry. Hannah avoided his glance. She doubted he would be happy about his niece hopping around the church with her hands held up like paws—even if it was in the noble pursuit of the English language.

Hannah glanced up at the stars. Astonished, she recognised the Southern Cross. She hadn’t noticed it here before. Somehow she’d thought of those particular stars as being Australian. How odd to see them shining over this wild country, yet it was a comfort to see something that was familiar, a reminder of home.

She scanned the crowd for Merelita, but there was no sign of her. However, it soon became apparent there was one other person present that she had not expected, and one she did not welcome. A hot flush ran over her skin.

Kurt Oslo stood near Uncle Henry, hands nonchalantly buried in the pockets of his wide trousers, his face ruddy.

‘Hannah. I don’t believe you’ve met Mr Oslo.’ Uncle Henry sounded as though he didn’t want to introduce him, but good manners could not be pushed aside.

‘How do you do?’ she said, as though she had never clapped eyes on the man.

As he hesitated over his first public greeting to her, she knew he was tormenting her, dragging out the suspense. Would he mention her clandestine visit to the bêche-de-mer drying house? Hannah decided then and there that a life of crime would not suit her. It was bad for the nerves.

‘Miss Stanton …’ He inclined his head, then ambled across to the yaqona bowl and folded his body into a sitting position, his back to the Stanton family. Joshua and Hannah exchanged looks.

A shout announced the start of the dancing. Determined to enjoy the forthcoming spectacle, Hannah put Kurt Oslo out of her mind. In the jagged light cast by a large fire, several rows of women came forward: giggling, nudging. Green leaves were entwined around their arms, and garlands of flowers swung from their necks. Cross-legged on the ground behind them was a group of supporters, who began to chant and clap. Beni stood beside them.

Luata was in the back row. Giggling ceased as the dancers began to act out a story with gestures and steps. A strong smell of coconut filled the air as the oil on their bodies became heated from their exertions.

‘This one,’ said Joshua, ‘is about a baby’s first visit to its grandma.’ In unison, the women’s arms cradled an invisible child, rocking it from side to side. Then they appeared to be rolling something up. ‘The mother takes the gift of a mat to remind the grandmother of the visit.’

Feasting on the colour and rhythmic beat, she caught Ratu Rabete looking at her, and smiled. He smiled in return: broadly, openly, and with pride in her fascination with the meke.

The second dance was performed by men. Frenetic movements followed the chanting voices: hands, arms, legs, even neck muscles strained against their oiled skin, and eyes flicked left and right.

‘A man runs off to sea, stows away,’ Joshua explained. ‘The captain catches him. He escapes, climbs up the mast, looks around. But he is caught a second time, by a member of the crew.’ The line of dancers held their wrists together, their heads down. ‘The man is manacled and led to the brig.’

The last dance would not be easily forgotten. Shouting, their faces steely, the men made jabbing motions in the air with their spears. Closer and closer they stomped towards the mesmerised audience, row after row of warning feet beating the earth. As they neared, Hannah saw that the long spears had spiked fish spines attached to the ends.

If one of those went through flesh, it could not be pulled back out, because of the barbs. The spear would have to be pushed right through. Hannah’s stomach flipped as she imagined being impaled on such a weapon.