 
Night Watchers

Dedicated to

Goog and TJ

Published at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Miles Rothwell

Cover photo by Rich Niewiroski Jr.(Creative Commons license)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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The rocky outcrop looked bereft of life. At night land and sea were almost indistinguishable. Even the top of the Amok temple was lost in the dark. There was a storm in the distance, but with no thunder, just the distant split of lightning. The sea was restless. Powerful waves pounded thick black plugs of volcanic rock that stood resolute near the shore.

The island itself was unremarkable. Its location was not particularly important in the archipelago. There were no abundant natural resources. There was no strategic importance, as far as anyone could tell. It was not very large compared to the other islands in the vicinity. Its only feature was a long extinct volcano. The black volcanic rock was everywhere giving evidence of a once dramatic eruption, but there were no myths to confirm or deny this.

However the people who lived on the island did have a cultural mythology to draw upon. There was no sense of the existence of a supreme being. Life was lived in the moment and then you died.

Out to sea the sky was ablaze with stars shimmering through the sea spray mist as small hand crafted fishing boats made their way back from their nocturnal trawling. The boats struggled, as they lurched and bounced, under the weight of their bounty. It was the time of year when swordfish, barracuda and tuna were abundant in the passages between the outer islands.

The sound of halyards clinking could be heard as a fisherman kept vigil on his catch. The boat was full, past capacity, and they still had a way to go. He looked at his friend, who was guiding the helmsman into the inlet, trying avoiding the sea wall. There was one area of concern; a reef that plateaued only a few feet below the surface. To avoid it they would have to plough through a small gap between sharp plugs of volcanic rock. There was little wind so progress was slow.

Birds circled above as the boats neared the shore. The helmsman looked ahead and rubbed his tired arms. It had been a long night and he was settling into a post-trawling haze of doing a good night's work with the prospect of selling plenty of fish.

He stared at the water splashing against the side of the boat. It looked like the ocean was trying to prevent the boat from reaching the shore. His thoughts were drowned out by the constant rhythm of the deep dark beast. The sea spray washed his face as the squawking gulls stayed in sync with the bounce of the boat hitting the surface.

Although tired and trapped by the elements around him, he was content. He could see small clumps of lights on the shore. 'People waking up,' he thought.

High above the shoreline a compound of bungalows had been built to accommodate the influx of foreigners who flocked to the area to dive and swim amongst the many coral ledges.

Unseen, but there watching, was the massive structure that dominated the landscape. Even in the dark, the bamboo scaffolding stretched towards the sky. Each day seemed to bring with it some new addition that made it all the more startling and bewildering. None of the boat crew could shed any light on its purpose for it looked nothing like anything any of them had ever seen.

For the locals, anything foreign took on a personality of its' own. It was their way of dealing with the unknown. Fear and suspicion were soothed by giving the thing from outside a personality or a face, but not a name, for names were sacred, and could only be dispensed by an elder.

Whatever it was that 'Whitey' was building was soon forgotten as the moment they needed to be alert was fast approaching so they all half-stood, giving directions to avoid the underwater reef.

The tide was coming in so caution was the key. The helmsman re-positioned his hand on the tiller. He had just enough grip, not too hard, so his wrist and forearm were loose. He was experienced enough to remain calm and had trust in his guides so he started to concentrate on their hands. He watched his friend on the starboard side raise his left hand and with gentle flicks of his fingers direct them away from the rocks, while his friend on the port side used his right hand to do the same, so by watching the two signals at once he plotted a course safely through the gap.

All this was done in silence, as speaking was not considered very important as people were encouraged to keep their thoughts to themselves. This practice was seen as a sign of humility and respect.

The sound of the water lapping against the rocks emphasised the precarious position they were in. Even though they had passed this way many times before, they never underestimated the danger of navigating a full boat around the black plugs of volcanic rock.

Easing past the danger area, the boat was steered under the small mainsail as the onshore breeze picked up and started pushing them across the rise of waves behind the break and parallel to the shore.

They would head north for a little longer before turning into a sheltered inlet where they could run their boats ashore to transfer their catch into large plastic tubs for the local kitchen hands to carry up the slope to the main road where small vans would take the supply of fish to the restaurants along the shore.

Then after checking their nets and securing the boats it would be home to have breakfast before the children went to school and a few drinks of Draka before sleeping till mid-afternoon.

The night was almost over. It was time to return. To where they didn't know, they would never know. They weren't even aware of their own existence.

All that was known was the vigil was always constant. There was no sense or appreciation of good or bad. With little space to manoeuvre, their large bloated frames took a long time to move; their bald heads merging around each other.

One of the smallest was having trouble moving, so a bigger presence was required. It took a while to get the hang of positioning the form around with so little room to move.

With the onset of light they were being drawn into what can only be described as a cave but there was something wrong; this small one was not moving and if something wasn't done soon then the consequences would be everything that they were in existence to avoid. To say this was causing an indeterminable amount of anxiety would be an understatement.

There were no words, just a hint or a suggestion etched out of pure existence; the structure that kept the night from imploding. There was however, a sound; a vibration with no personality or texture. There was no free will, no demonstrable notion of intent, just a fluctuation of the very essence of stillness.

This noise, however it was perceived, was gaining momentum and rippling through the others, for there were others, who were struggling with the ambiguity that the delay was causing. It would be fair to say that nothing was or could have prepared them for such an occurrence. Anxiety fuelled by uncertainty equals chaos and that was exactly what was about to happen.

The others could resist no more. There were pressing matters at hand. The group must assemble shortly, and by normal standards there was a gap to fill. This was no time to be non-compliant.

The largest one bent down to see the small opening. Without a sound the smallest one looked up, his shiny bald head reflecting the dawn light. The absence of movement was causing frustration.

The possibility of continuing on regardless was immediately dismissed. The older ones who helped escort and mentor were converging to their positions.

Continuity was demanded and assuming the command would encapsulate the entirety of the cause, effects and consequences of their duty, there was a pre-supposition that the collective view would always illicit blind loyalty.

Nevertheless they kept checking to make sure all were ready. They thrust forward and to the collective horror large amounts of them were already converging along the edge. Light was almost upon them

They gathered at the entrance, chewing at the surrounding air. They rushed to meet the steady stream that took up positions along the side of the escarpment and waited for the Sun to rise.

Further into the night others waited patiently until the space they had been holding up started to fade into a bluish grey pre-dawn murk.

Along the edge of the light all seemed ready. They shuttled out of sight as knowledge of anything else was lost until they came back into view.

There was no sense of place or time. Their shapes merged with the others but with no reference to any of them. For all they knew there was nothing else. There were no thoughts, and time was irrelevant.

There was no precedent for a shape not moving and if there had been any perception of consequences they would have seen a small tear of darkness where there should have been light.

On the eastern shore not far from the marketplace, marquees were being erected for the ceremony later that day. People washed down the footpaths with rain water collected from the night before.

The small road side temples were attended to by young women dressed in hand made traditional cotton blouses and flowing skirts painstakingly sewed and dyed with a multitude of bright colours. Certain colours signified aspects of their heritage. Green and brown were worn by girls who had made the transition to womanhood, while the yellows, pinks and blues were for girls who still lived at home. Patterns and inscriptions along the hems showcased not only their craftsmanship but also detailed certain historical events etched in time.

Married women wore headwear that matched their flowing colourful robes. Sewing was considered an art form with the most skilled practitioners held in the highest esteem. It was common for young girls to learn the skill as a necessary task to repair clothes and ceremonial flags but for some it was considered their life's work, honing their skills to create a level of stitch making that was durable, pleasant to look at and if done correctly would create patterns of stitching that were so complicated that they were shown with pride.

Young women were treasured. Their place in village life was paramount for they held the future of the village in their bodies. Young boys when finished with school usually joined the men in the fields or gravitated to the towns along the coast in search of work.

Ceremonies involved the whole village, and it was the young women under the watchful eyes of the older women that kept the roadside temples free of rubbish and vagabonds.

They placed beautiful fragrant flowers on the upper most level of the temples, scrubbed off the bird droppings and made sure the offerings were replenished twice a day.

The temples were made of clay bricks, had no roof and were accessible from an entry always from the east. Inside there was enough room for two or three people or just enough room for an itinerant to curl up and sleep. They were enclosed by two walls with a gap facing west which allowed the Night Watchers to move freely within and out of the structure.

Long shards of incense were placed along the battlements of the temples and offerings of biscuits, oranges and salted peanuts were placed in bowls on the lower levels. In the middle were facial reliefs of past family members, who were eulogised and worshipped as they overlooked all that went on in the villages.

Children rode bicycles along the promenade; laughing and shouting as they passed the small huts purveying the local produce. Brightly coloured clothes, handicrafts and kites in all manner of shapes and sizes hung from the stall rooves. Giant goldfish, sea birds, owls and demonic looking faces, the local children's favourite, danced in the sea-breeze.

When the wind took hold of the kites the sky was filled with brightly coloured shapes and faces which attracted sea birds that kept vigil for tears in the sky.

Children pestered stall owners who sold ice cold drinks, lollies and candied fruit shipped in from exotic faraway places.

Other huts sold skewers of roasted meat and the local food staple, hot noodle broth.

Before the Sun was too high in the sky and its rays sought out the inhabitants of this jewel in the sea, people dressed in white flowing robes and traditional head gear converged on the beach holding tall poles with parasols attached.

Young women led the way, scattering petals and swaying incense holders. Elders were carried at the back on sedan chairs while the men herded together while the other women held onto the smaller children.

At the far end of the beach, music was played to keep the Night Watchers asleep. The ceremony would last over a week, with each stage representing a different section of the fable.

It was believed by all and sundry, for they had no reason not to believe it, that the legend of the Night Watchers was as old as time itself.

Children would first hear of them as a cautionary tale and then later on as a reminder to be mindful of being authentic in every aspect of their lives.

Night Watchers held the fabric of life together. Unseen and undetectable, they remained alert at night, propping up all things both organic and static. They kept everything from collapsing and only shrunk back into the background when light appeared allowing people to take over again.

Over time it had come to be understood that they were of varying sizes, circular, like a soft thick rubber balloon, but with no body as such, which allowed them to support everything so that no gaps could be realised between any object.

The Night Watchers remained vigilant and on the lookout for any disturbance that could create a tear in the sky. The tear in the sky was an euphemistic reference of being aware of everything. The word tear had two literal meanings, but it was the emotion behind the idea that really mattered.

A tear could be both a rip in the sky as well as an expression of the sky crying. Either way, a tear in the sky represented a cataclysm that went beyond life or death. Over the generations a tear in the sky had morphed into folklore and was now interwoven with the island's history, mythology and daily rituals.

Several sub-texts are needed to complete the picture. Dedication to the family was paramount. Hard work to sustain the village a necessity, for if you did not work you did not eat. The tale outlined a personal moral code of conduct that allowed for the continuation of the awareness of everything at once.

Disturbances or instances, where for whatever reason behaviour strayed from the code, were reported to village councillors. A disturbance was a warning that something in the normal day-to-day activity of the village had or was about to go wrong.

Disturbances could range from minor phases of self-doubt to far more serious incidents involving heinous crimes, drunkenness or any breakdown in the fabric of village life.

Councillors reported their findings to the local Magistrates, keeping them informed of any issues or breaches of village life. Serious disturbances were rare and usually dealt with swiftly.

Over time ceremonies had become less a binding duty and more a celebration where the whole village came together to express themselves through music and to enjoy eating and drinking.

A group of men had endured a difficult night. The heavy cloud cover meant they had crawled through thick mangroves and scaled craggy rock ledges for hours in pitch darkness.

They converged on a cliff and looked out to sea. The tide was turning, the ocean choppy in patches but not enough to abort their mission. As they made their way down to the ocean each was lost in their thoughts for this had been planned for a long time.

"Let's check the gear," the designated leader said.

"We have everything," someone replied.

"I know but check it again." With some reluctance the others in the crew started checking ropes, tools and the bundle of clothes.

The descent down the rocky path was easy going to begin with. Their pace was constant and measured. The men with the heaviest loads brought up the rear in case of any slippages by the path spotters up front. The packs were slightly uncomfortable but not yet burdensome. They knew a lot of the equipment would be left on the shore after the two inflatable dinghies were dispatched into the sea.

The first glimmer of Sun wasn't too far away. Their destination lay to the east. If all had gone according to plan their comrade would be waiting for them near the deserted huts that fishermen used to recount stories while waiting for the rain to pass.

Halfway down the path diverted around a large rock. A clump of straggly weeds grew from its base. One of the men at the front paused and motioned for the rescue party to halt. As he checked the sides of the rock he noticed one of the weeds and for a split second saw within it the passing of time. Was he the first to see it? How long would it remain there? Thoughts of his mortality surfaced like a buoy in the distant sea, surrounded by the chaotic whim of the elements. 'It's all so insignificant,' he thought.

There was no time to assimilate any of this as the entire crew approached the rock. At the rear, one man slipped and had to be saved from sliding down the escarpment. After a short conversation the rescue party decided to form two groups to go around the obstacle and meet up on the other side.

While they moved on their comrade was crouching on top of a washing machine in the prison laundry. After the orderly had checked the headcount and locked the doors, he had waited in the dark for almost an hour until the next check of the infirmary. He knew he had about two hours before anyone would come back to check and even then it would only be a cursory look through the glass door with a few scans of the torch.

The infirmary was the only place that was not secured to the same extent as the rows of long huts that surrounded the main compound.

A week ago he consumed a speck of his own faeces and was isolated by the medical staff after it was assumed he'd contracted dysentery. It was a small inconvenience in a much larger plan that he had been plotting for months.

Secret messages, hidden in letters via a complicated code, had been sent to keep the others informed. A single sentence would take weeks to be delivered as a page of innocuous drivel may contain one or two letters of a word that needed to be painstakingly rearranged to form the details of the escape plan.

He lay in bed all week showing all the signs of being so ill that he'd been considered a low security risk. All the time through the wretched cramps and violent vomiting he'd watch the orderlies with a resolute microscopic eye for detail.

He scrutinised their routines, the different types of medicines they dispensed and even the sound of each key as they opened the various cupboards and doors.

Every detail was committed to memory so that he would be prepared for any contingency. He had memorised which doors squeaked, which windows were larger, the placement of the washing machines even where and when the orderlies kept the dirty clothes piled up.

As he knelt on top of the machine, he still felt the occasional stomach cramp stretching across his abdomen. He waited to see if it would pass or if a dash to the latrine was necessary. After the pain subsided he re-focused his efforts on unscrewing the four rusted screws of the laundry window with a coin.

The first two screws offered little resistance, but the third had lost its slot. He squinted and moved his face closer to the small round screw head. Its flattened appearance made him think that someone may have tried this before. He left that screw alone and undid the fourth one.

The small window frame was now tilted on its side hanging by one soft rusted screw thread. The coin had nothing to slot into so he placed it in his pocket and tried to remove the screw by moving the whole window backward, forward and round in circles.

His arms ached from the little energy he had from days of nothing to eat. He had only just started sipping coconut water that morning with a few shreds of charcoal.

He had to stop as his thighs cramped from the hunched posture atop the washing machine. The thought of not being able to make it surfaced but he quickly re-energised by giving the window frame another jerk which snapped the screw in half.

Just as he was relishing the success of his first objective, he heard a door being opened. He could tell it was the door to the main medical hut and after a second of silence could hear steps along the corridor. He held his breath and looked at the open window. Freedom was inches away, but just as he was imagining himself at the sea's edge being greeted by his crew, the thought of trying to replace the window frame from the outside with a broken screw still firmly imbedded stalled his progress.

The footsteps stopped and another door was opened. It sounded like one of the smaller cupboard doors where some of the medical supplies were kept. He smiled at the vision of someone making an early morning visit to help themselves.

The pain in his calf muscles was excruciating. He had been in the same position for almost half an hour and still had to work out how to affix the window frame from the outside so as not to leave a sign of his escape.

He heard the cabinet door being shut followed by a few steps back to the main door. He kept still for another minute. He was reluctant to delay any further by going back into the dormitory to check that the coast was clear, so he gambled on resting the frame against the wall and squeezing through the aperture.

As he felt the grass under his feet, memories of life outside prison flooded back; the smell of flowers, the taste of properly cooked meat and fresh soap. For some reason the smell of jasmine scented soap caused an emotional upheaval which was a conduit for the release of four years of hard labour.

He wedged the window in as best he could. His obsessiveness wanted him to see what it looked like from inside the laundry, but gathering his emotions, he looked around to get his bearings.

His back ached from hunching over for so long and his acrid empty stomach growled and gurgled to such an extent that bile rose to the back of his throat which caused him to dry retch a few times.

He crouched as best he could, hard-pressed against the bare brick wall. The rough mortar scratched his arms as he felt his way along until he reached the wire fence. It was here that he had to summon all his reserves for this was the master stroke in his plan.

On many occasions he had been part of a detail of men sent to clear this corner of the compound from encroaching weeds. Often in the midday sun he had shielded his eyes as he looked up the fence with its' three rows of barbed wire at the top angled back towards the enclosure making it seemingly impossible to climb.

On the other side of the fence, the rocky hard ground sloped away into marshland crawling with snakes due to the abundance of rodents and birds which prospered on a steady diet of leeches, mosquitos and other small nasties. It was for these reasons that this area of the compound was rarely searched, maybe once a night if that.

His plan was based on the guard's complacency and their smug confidence that an escape consisting of a climb over a barbed wire fence and then surviving the wilderness on the other side was so remote that it acted as a big enough deterrent without causing them any undue alarm.

Many a night in his cell he had contemplated the risks and the small chance of survival, but after the last bashing he had received from the guards he knew he could not survive the remainder of his sentence.

As hard as he tried he could not remember the face of the man he had killed. He had known it once and for a while it had haunted him for all the usual reasons; did he have a family? Could he have avoided the fight that had erupted during a drunken night of debauchery and gambling?

What of his own wife and child? Where were they now? It was futile trying to find answers, as he knew he had broken one of the solemn laws. He would be an outcast forever. His land would have been divided up long ago and his name removed from all ceremonies but even after all that, freedom as an outcast was more appealing than life on the inside. He had to make sense of the rest of his life.

What stood before him now was the greatest struggle he had faced. He was about to leave behind the brutal bashings with bamboo, the scalding foot baths and the ritualistic acts of sodomy endured in front of the inner sanctum of guards with a boot placed on the back of his neck.

He grasped the fence and began to climb. He forced his toes and fingers into the small holes, and as he wrenched them out to slowly edge his way up, he groaned as his knuckles rubbed against the thin hard wire.

He swore at everyone he could think of; his ancestors, the guards, the cooks that had served all those dreadful meals of oily noodles and lastly, he swore at his own plight.

His bowels groaned. A thin line of watery diarrhoea dribbled down his leg as pain and resolve met to discuss their fluctuating fortunes.

Half way up the fence his next test arrived. He was in so much pain that he had to stop. For a moment he wondered if he had the will to continue, but the image of himself on the ground looking up at the fence, feeling defeated with no choice but to retrace his steps, was much worse to contemplate than the pain.

The consequences of being caught were too awful to imagine, so with what seemed his last gasp of air he looked up the fence and somehow continued.

He repeated to himself, over and over, "Just one more, just one more," until it became a mantra. One agonising clawed step after another found him within reach of the first barbed support. The skin on his fingers and toes was red raw.

Now he had to execute the worst part of the plan. He stared at the main reason for the area being less patrolled; the three rows of barbed wire.

He hoisted himself up by grabbing onto the first row. Then, extracting his hands from the barbs, he grabbed the second then the third row, so that he was holding on almost upside down looking back at the ground.

He lifted his feet to the lower rung of barbed wire and wrapped his arm over the highest rung. When he moved he tore small chunks of flesh from under his arms and feet which stung with sweat.

Saliva sprayed in all directions as he cursed and spluttered. His left knee was caught on the highest row as he lifted himself over. He felt his grip slipping so instead of repositioning his leg and starting again, he simply moved forward taking a large chunk of skin from his knee. He was now perched on top of the barbed wire facing the wilderness.

Looking back at what he had done gave him a surge of determination. He turned his body and searched for the holes in the fence with his toes. Now that the barbed wire supported his weight he was able to grip the barbs as he lowered his body onto the fence.

He was shocked to see nothing below him. In that ripe blackness before dawn nothing was distinguishable on the rocky slope below. A cool breeze coming from over the water seemed to search and find every scratch and tear in his skin.

The weight of his body seemed heavier as he lowered himself down the fence. The worst pain was in his back, which had now cramped causing spasms to shoot across his shoulders. He couldn't feel his hands or feet, and every now and again either his fingers or toes slipped out of the holes in the fence from the blood streaming down his body.

He hung for a minute, tears welled in his eyes. Punishment came from everywhere. He was exhausted and completely at the mercy of irrational thoughts and primal surges of death defying energy. If someone at the time had inserted the thought that the Sun would never rise again he would have believed it with every sinew and synapse of his being.

For all his sins he was now being brutally exposed. He saw a vision of Jesus being whipped with a barbed cat of nine tails and being hoisted onto the cross. He sought out solace in his own undoing with a shared fraternity of disciples, but of course there were none. This was a solo voyage of redemption, with no glitterati of wise men or dedicated followers to spread the word.

With severe cramping in his legs, it was only a matter of time before he lost his footing. His hands could not hold the weight with the burning pain in his shoulder. As he left the fence he felt calm, for a moment he savoured the feeling of going as far as he could, but this was quickly followed by the thought that he was now at the mercy of the environment around him.

His body hit a mound of dirt side on, which cracked a rib, dislocated a shoulder and fractured a small bone at the base of his thumb. The feeling of falling went on for longer than he had expected, so the abrupt halt came as a shock, but with no initial pain. He was now more concerned with the momentum his body was gaining as he began to slide. He reached around for something to grab onto but could only find moist craggy rock.

He felt his body turn as the sensation of falling had been replaced with sliding but with far more awareness and panic. He felt things rub against his face and chest. The slide down the incline didn't last as long as the fall and it simply petered out.

He opened his eyes and sought out the ground. It was wet, hard to the touch but flat. He didn't raise his head or move a muscle until the first mosquito bite entered his frame of reference. The small inconsequential event sparked a rapid and decisive shift though as he moved one limb after another to end up on all fours. Another bite followed by several more embarked upon another movement of gargantuan proportions. It was like the first homo sapien taking the journey from a four-legged to a two-legged world.

He checked his injuries. The worst was his shoulder. He straightened his arm but the pain shrank him to his knees. He half-stood and edged his way to a low lying branch. He guided his limp arm with his other hand and draped it over a branch. He stood up while holding on and jerked his body backwards, which had the desired effect of popping his shoulder back into its socket.

With pain and itchiness now sharing the stage, he ventured on in the slowly evaporating darkness. With the Sun rising behind him he hoped his rescue party was by now close to the inlet or hopefully at least making its way through the channel.

He walked onwards towards the mangroves. Small tingles were detected on his stinging feet and legs. It became so bad he stopped and propped himself on a mangrove trunk and lifted his foot to see it covered in a writhing mass of black. After trying to remove one or two leeches he gave up and slowly walked on. A swarm of mosquitos circled him in the shape of a frenzied halo.

He felt his feet sink into mud. The stinging salt water fluctuated in depth from ankle to knee. A snake took umbrage at his passage through the gnarled trunks and low lying branches. It had been lying in the crook of a mangrove as he passed. He had passed many others but due to the cold and darkness they had no energy or intent to strike, and the only reason this one did was that he had touched it with his shoulder and so it reacted purely out of instinct. He was lucky it was not venomous, as only the sea snakes in the area were, and if he had known that, it is questionable that he would have continued his wading with such enthusiasm.

He saw the outline of more mangroves, which meant light was starting to sweep down this side of the island, so he made his way towards the small inlet that he was sure was to the south.

Entering the inlet, his first reaction was to immerse himself in the ocean. It stung but was surprisingly warm. After a few minutes of washing the blood off, he crawled onto the beach and surveyed his wounds. Blood continued to seep down his body as he sat on the sand.

The light was getting brighter and he could make out the trees of the overhanging cliffs to both sides. The inlet he had entered was narrow. Waves continued to roll in.

His attention now turned to his rescue party. The plan had been for them to head towards the western side, hopefully not too far from the southern point where they would set off a series of flares to alert him where they were. He had bargained on getting to the shore at about this time, so although racked with bites, scratches and injuries he was surprisingly optimistic about his chances of being rescued. All he could do was wait and hope everything had gone according to plan.

As he sat, the occasional bird circled above in the increasing amount of blue sky. He had not noticed the encroaching water, but now he realised that he had moved up the beach several times to stop the water washing over his feet as it stung so much.

He looked behind him and saw that the inlet stopped abruptly in front of a solid wall of vertical rock that seemed to stretch up to the sky. After some careful reckoning he estimated the water would be lapping at the base of the rock sooner rather than later.

At first this revelation did not generate any real concern, but the thought bubbled under the surface of what was likely to happen if he was still in the inlet when the water reached the rocks. It finally dawned on him there was only one possible outcome.

He started to explore the possibility of scaling the walls that enclosed him. He scrambled up the northern face of the inlet but couldn't get very far because of the sheer vertical wall of craggy rock and even if he did reach it, there was no discernible escape route.

He surmised he would have used up valuable time coming back down then wade across the water and find a route from where he had come from, which had the added disincentive of being the way a search party would come if his escape had been detected.

Each procrastinating minute brought the tide further in. He surveyed the wall at the base of the inlet. He was looking for a spot where if the water went up high enough he could reach by treading water. As the speed of the waves entering the inlet was not overly fast, he calculated he might be able to jump up with the assistance of the rising tide to find a way to scale the wall, and one such spot seemed to beckon him. There was a gap between a shelf of rock no more than a few feet above head height.

He stood a few yards from the wall and watched each new wave send water across his feet. The water was not far away from reaching the base of the wall so he moved backwards with a slight reluctance as it narrowed his options. He took another long hard look at the northern face but dismissed it again. He knew he didn't have the energy to climb to the top, and there was nowhere to hang onto to wait for the tide to go out. He placed all his hope on the gap as a place to grab onto and, if lucky, go above and beyond the ledge as an escape route.

He stood facing the water like a man facing a firing squad hoping a last minute reprieve would appear from somewhere. The stinging in his feet was slowly being replaced by the stinging of sweat along his back, under his arms and from the multiple grazes across his chest.

He assumed the salt water would sting less so he sat down in the knee high water just as a sea snake slithered over a rock on the southern side of the inlet and into the water. It went on its merry way across the mouth of the inlet and around a rocky outcrop to another tangle of mangroves, but its buddy didn't. The second snake was guided further into the inlet by a slightly bigger wave before trying to head back to sea.

He became aware of its presence after a few splashes onto his face made him shudder and cough, which alerted the snake to another presence in the water which it didn't act kindly to.

They saw each other at about the same time, but it was the snake that gained the advantage and lunged at him from a few yards away. It was more of a threat than a proper strike. A few manic splashes quickly followed by a sudden surge towards the wall seemed to have put the snake into retreat for it didn't follow.

With his heart beat racing and his body covered in either sweat or sea water, the first signs of panic and hence irrational fight or flight behaviour kicked in with an almost unrelenting urge to scale a wall regardless of the consequences or the lack of energy required.

He made several attempts to reach the gap but the water was only waist deep and it was in no mood to assist with any kind of buoyancy.

So trapped between what had just occurred and the unknown of what other nasties might come out of the water he didn't want to wait for the water to get deeper. He needed the water for buoyancy but at the same time it could possibly seal his fate.

It dawned on him that there might be a critical mass moment when there was just enough buoyancy to assist him springing up to grasp the ledge but if he didn't take that opportunity the moment would pass if the water became too deep to tread water.

He would need to use the sand as a springboard, so an even more urgent attempt at the gap ensued. His fingers reached it once and almost took hold but it slipped before he could reach it with his other hand.

A wretched vomit of bile erupted. It completely took over his body. Pain erupted from the pit of his stomach to every extremity. He doubled over and took in a mouthful of sea water. By the time the pain subsided he was able to stand. He sought for the wall and pressed himself against it.

A flare exploded in the distance so he started walking towards it away from the wall. A severe cramp tore through his calf causing him to stop. He stretched his foot. The memory of the orderlies came back to haunt him. They had instructed him to point his toes with the onset of cramp. Another patient had secretly whispered to him that he had to bend his toes back to alleviate the pain. Another cramp ripped through his stomach.

He couldn't stand up but nor could he kneel as the water continued to push him back. After a few minutes he realised the water was not getting any deeper. It seemed to have stopped right at his belly button.

He sensed he had avoided a fatal demise. He could see the remnants of the flare over the southern outcrop. They were there and waiting. His choices were to climb over the wall or swim out into the ocean. He looked out to sea. He estimated the rocky outcrop descended into the sea about a hundred yards out. He was not a strong swimmer, in fact he had barely ventured into the ocean at all. He had no sense of what it took to hold his body weight up in water. His people had fished the surrounding waters for centuries, but never far off shore. Swimming in the water was largely confined to dog paddling around the rocks and coral ledges only a few yards from shore.

Climbing the rock wall seemed less precarious than taking his chances with the water and whatever swam in it. He edged along the wall and came across a sand bar which brought the water level down to his knees. A bit further on it dropped dramatically, eventually ending as a coral ledge approached. He looked under the surface with stinging eyes only to see the eternal depths of the dark blue ocean.

He turned to face the wall. He knew this was his final challenge. His escape would no doubt have been discovered by now. They would soon discover he had taken the impossible route and would send the dogs out in the way he had come. He took a grip on the wall and hurled himself up. He found a finger hold with one hand but only flat rock with the other. He fell back into the water and searched every inch of the rock face both back towards the back of the inlet and past the sand bar but it was impossible for him to climb.

He felt a burning sensation in the back of his thigh. At first he thought it was just another cramp but as the pain and heat spread to his buttocks he turned to see another snake retreating into the murky depths. He looked out at the ocean with derision, despising the ease in which it flowed in and out of the inlet.

Another flare went up in the same patch of sky. How long would they wait? If he could see the flare then who else could see it? He slouched against the back wall of the inlet. The water gently lapped at his stomach. He vomited once or twice, bodily fluids excreted under their own volition.

He was no longer a keeper of free will. His body became a vessel for the elements that were poisoning him, the abuses his skin had taken and the water around him. He was nothing and could no longer even keep an emotion or thought in check. His breathing was the only element that served notice that he was alive.

His hand rested in a pocket. He touched the edge of the small coin used to unscrew the laundry window. The last thing he felt was a warm shudder through his body and the last thing he saw was a blinding light tear through the sky.

The land below the extinct volcano was dry and scorched from the wind coming off the sea and the blazing Sun that swept over the peninsula. There was one road on the ocean side of the volcano with a number of villages scattered along the coast.

People flocked to swim in the small inlets that contained coral outcrops amongst the large black plugs of rock that jutted out from the ocean.

Divers came from afar to marvel at the turtles, sharks, tuna, swordfish and barracuda that savoured the hundreds of different kinds of fish that swam in vast schools around the protected rocky enclaves.

One such area contained two shipwrecks within a few hundred yards of each other. More than a century ago the two trading ships had set a course to avoid a storm. Unfortunately they had both turned too close to shore and ran aground.

Along the coast, bungalows offering cheap accommodation sprung up which created many jobs for the local villagers. One such enterprise had been created by a foreigner who had come from a land far away where people lived in big cities with tall buildings that stretched to the sky.

The locals thought him ugly and barbaric. He was tall, muscular and had appalling manners. After marrying a local girl he bought land where he built a house for his young family and a series of bungalows for divers to rent. With the success of his compound of bungalows he built a restaurant and transformed the surrounding fertile volcanic soil into tropical gardens.

Whitey, as he was known, bought two old fishing boats from the locals and converted them with outboard motors, glass bottoms and fishing equipment so they could be rented out for fishing trips.

As his children grew up he built them a small swimming pool, when they outgrew it, he built a larger one all with local labour. As word spread that work was available from this mad Whitey locals continued to flow down from the surrounding hills in search of work.

So much work was available that a small community soon thrived on the coast and markets, food stalls, supply shops and a petrol station were constructed.

With all his bad manners and abruptness, Whitey implemented many benefits for the workers, all with the desired outcome of keeping the workforce strong. He bought them motor scooters and deducted small amounts of money from their wages as soft loans, to pay them off. He worked rotating shifts of five days on and three days off, so when they weren't working on one of his many other projects they could band together and work on each other's huts and compounds.

One day this giant of a man walked out of his house high on a hilltop overlooking the ocean and looked at a paddock near the coast. It was built on undulating land which only the local cattle could occupy.

For years he wondered what he could do with the land. He sipped his coffee and waved at his children coming home from school. They ran past him, throwing their school bags along the shaded veranda before removing their white blouses and blue skirts and jumping into one of the salt water pools in their underwear.

"Hey don't leave your bags there, how many times have I..."

But it was too late, his words were drowned out by laughter, splashing and the sea breeze that wrapped around his sun-tanned frame.

Then it hit him. An idea so preposterous that it made him chuckle. He knew exactly what he was going to do with the land and went into the main bungalow and shut the door to his office behind him.

He worked day and night for weeks, only leaving his office to say goodbye to his children in the morning and good night to them at bedtime.

He ate his meals in his office and when his presence was needed somewhere else he carefully placed his drawings away and locked his office door. His wife worried that he had gone mad but when she confronted him he simply smiled, hugged her and told her not to worry.

With the many other projects he had going on coupled with the day-to-day maintenance of the compound, he had to delegate many tasks and some of his authority to leading hands on work sites and members of his staff who looked after the restaurant and bungalows.

This created confusion as the locals whom he employed weren't used to making decisions or thinking ahead about consequences and ramifications. Villagers looked only at what was happening at any one moment. Their tradition and heritage was all built upon the present. Thoughts of the future were discouraged as they were deemed unimportant.

As a consequence it was difficult for them to understand the necessity of booking transport at a particular time for guests who were booked on diving tours and arranging wake up calls for those booked on ferries to the other islands.

With confusion reigning supreme at the compound and his wife trying to fight 'bush fires' to sort out the chaos, he started contacting the various contractors and village elders to start compiling the biggest workforce the island has ever seen.

Trucks loaded with rocks came from everywhere as hundreds of men began building the biggest retaining wall imaginable. Men were sent for from other islands after every village along the coast had been emptied of labour.

An area outside the main compound was set up as a screening centre for sorting out who could do what. Homes were opened up for the washing of clothes and the preparation of meals.

For days on end men carted wheelbarrows full of soil to the land across the main road as an area as big as a football field was levelled and walled off from the compound.

Kids ran along the dirt road beside the trucks trying to hit the wheels with sticks. Old men sat in the shade at the front of the stalls smoking local tobacco mixed with cloves and with toothless smiles watched the commotion as dust and chickens flew out of the way.

Stalls sprung up everywhere selling rows of low grade petrol in glass bottles. Kids sampled lollies, canned drinks and biscuits for the first time. Men from surrounding villages drank at night, trying to coerce the local girls into drinking games.

All the time, Whitey supervised his gangs of men; some worked in the quarry up the road, others mixed mortar while an army of labourers created a series of rock walls fashioned out of the surrounding landscape.

He held many discussions with his interpreters, dissecting his plans that were drawn with a minute amount of detail. Pages and pages of plans were pinned to the inside of his office, hallway and even one of the girl's bedrooms, all linked in a logical progression that left no room for error.

His biggest problem was making sure the materials he bought were accounted for. Over the years he had learnt not to just hand over money and let contractors go away and buy the materials. The notion of individual ownership was foreign to villagers as everything was used to being shared. Whitey trusted his lieutenants to source what was needed, have it brought on site and then hand the cash over.

He could be ruthless, cantankerous and difficult to get along with but could also astound with unsolicited acts of kindness and generosity.

He took one of the girls from the restaurant in to the family home after she had been abused and thrown out of her father-in-law's house. After finding out all her money and her name had been taken away by her drunken gambling husband, he sent notice to the local Notaris to have the marriage annulled and her name brought back into circulation. It was the custom for a wife who was deemed to have fallen from grace for any number of entrenched male-centric reasons to have her name stricken from all references and never to be spoken again.

There was a public and very humiliating ceremony where the woman was taken to a hut by one of the elders and told to write her name on a piece of paper and hand it to her parents who were instructed to place it in a special orb filled with charcoal embershanging from a chain. When the smoke cleared the elder in charge buried the ashes in an area deemed no man's land. She was then either sent to work in the fields where she worked, slept and ate, or for more sinister crimes, banished all together from the village and never seen again.

Occasionally, when not reviewing his plans or checking on site, Whitey would drive a few miles up the road past the diving spots to drink with his buddies at a bar where they watched sport all afternoon while drinking imported beer.

As waitresses served them fresh noodles and barbecued pork, they would talk about the old days and the girls in town who they lavished their delights on for a fraction of the cost of buying their wives a new pair of shoes.

Once or twice a year, Whitey and his business associates would embark on journeys to cities far away from the chaos and dust they had immersed themselves in. There they would drink, eat and fraternise with women named 'Pearl' and 'Jade' until even they felt the call of the island.

Lamenting the difficulties of dealing with the locals, the unfettered bureaucracy and the corruption, even in their darkest moments they relished the freedom their money provided to sail through island life unaffected by searching for food, scrambling for work and raising families with no council support. The framework of the village protected most and only those hell bent on straying from the codes and ceremonies were punished.

Drinking was the main cause of disputes and unrest, both for the locals and foreigners. There was a cheap local beer and a peculiar homemade spirit called Draka. Recipes varied from village to village and there was a generic brand made on one of the bigger islands but it was heavily taxed by the Council and with the cost of transportation it made it largely prohibitive for the locals. It was very bland to the taste and more suited to firing up the kerosene lamps at night than drinking. It was distilled from grain and certain botanical specimens found around the locality so a batch from the mountains with its different botanical species would taste very different from the more artisan blends from along the coast which had less plant life but more abundant fields of rice and barley.

Brewed in large vats, it was at one time the favoured form of bartering before cash was introduced. Money was often seen by the locals as an unnecessary middle man in the provision of goods.

"Why would you sell or buy something with paper, when you can just swap the goods you want?" was a common refrain heard amongst the elders. A sentiment lost on the young who saw the opportunities to save and buy more luxurious items such as televisions and motor bikes.

As the weeks went by, the walls became taller and the terrain was filled in. People travelled from all around the island to gaze at the imposing structure. No one, not even the project managers, had an inkling as to its purpose.

Only one man with a vision far beyond anything anyone had ever seen knew what it was, so if he suffered a fatal calamity the structure would stand unfinished and unknown.

Many times when he was drinking, his managers would ply him with Draka after many beers and try to trick him into revealing what the project was, but no matter how drunk he got, Whitey never let on to anyone. The managers resorted to walking the corridors around his office marvelling at the designs all linked, but as a puzzle, for there was no one final architectural plan showing the completed structure, just hundreds and hundreds of seemingly unconnected drawings with no final resolution.

One night, he stopped working and looked up at a picture of his family on the wall. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked at the smiling faces of his daughters and the blank naive stare of his son.

Staring at the picture, he fell in love with his wife all over again; his gentle loving partner who had taken him in to her village life. She who had created a wonderful family home within the structure he had built, and had given birth to his wonderful children.

He felt the passing of time and shrunk in posture at the amount of energy he had spent working away at his drawings. He realised he would never get that time back.

He looked at his plans. They were scattered everywhere, on the walls, on his desk, stuck to sides of filing cabinets. His entire office had become a shrine to this project, but at what cost he asked himself. He saw the folly of his determination to build and build even when there was no point, for he had everything he wanted, everything he could possibly need, and as he contemplated this, it became blindingly obvious as to what the problem was.

It was the sense of wanting that drove him on. To him it felt like shovelling dirt into the ocean; a never ending delusion of impossibility.

There was not enough dirt in the world to fill the ocean and there was nothing big enough to fill the hole inside him. Not the love of his wife, nor their children. No matter how much he drank or how many things he built, he could never be satisfied.

One night, he walked out of the house with a bucket full of beers. He sat on the edge of one of the pools looking out over the cliff face at the ocean below. He looked at the waves under the light from the stars. The beauty was terrifying, all encompassing and overwhelming. A flicker in the corner of his eye diverted his attention. A shadow in the fabric of existence passes through him. He started to weep and clasped his head in his hands. The pain at first was unbearable, but as he gulped another drink and let out a sigh which turned into a sort of growl, the moment passed, and he looked around. Nothing had changed and he was still breathing.

The next day, after the children have gone to school, he called his wife into his office and sat her down to explain his plan. He spoke carefully but firmly. Several times she started to interrupt but he held up his hand and explained he must finish.

After he had explained his plan, she sat still for a moment unable to comprehend what she had heard. After a while she smiled and stood up. She blessed her ancestors and walked over to hug him.

Whitey asked his wife to contact everyone connected to the project. She was to communicate that all work would cease and for everyone to go back to their village. She was to reassure the villagers not to worry about the cost of materials as everything from the main project would be diverted to them on a need-by-need basis and that a meeting would be held the following week outside the compound where all would be explained.

Word quickly spread that Whitey had gone mad and was giving away all his money. People flocked to each other's houses to discuss what would happen to their lives, their jobs and life as they knew it.

When the week was up, people assembled at dawn outside the compound entrance. By lunchtime hundreds of people were camped along the main road and the neighbouring parcel of land used by the villagers to graze their herds.

The compound staff distributed water and fruit and organised swimming for the children, while cliques of men sat around playing cards and sharing homemade Draka.

People noticed the Land Rover coming down the main road. Whitey waved to them as he slowly approached. Children ran next to the car, while women pointed and stared.

Whitey stopped at the entrance to the compound, climbed out of the car and stood on the running board. He handed a megaphone to 'Buka', the resident groundsman, boat captain and his friend of many years. Whitey spoke passionately to the crowd with Buka translating.

"Thank you all for coming. I will make this as short as I can. Something happened to me the other night. I'm not sure what it was or how to explain it but it made me realise how unhappy I am and how foolish I've been. But now I have seen how it should be. I will stop building. I will stop the endless construction. I will stop charging people money to stay at the bungalows. All of you will get some money, enough to pay your debts. Then we will systematically organise the renovation, or where necessary, the construction of homes and areas for children to play. I will give money to the local Council so that they can upgrade the school and the hospital. When all that is complete, we will have no use for money. We will survive by helping each other. We will all work the fields, share the food and work together when someone needs help. This is the way it should have always been."

After Buka finished translating, Whitey took his family into the family compound, nodding at people and waving at some who had come from far away. After the gates were closed the local villagers were unsure what to do next. Reactions varied as people discussed and commented on what had happened.

As the crowd dispersed, one old man stood still, patting his cow. He looked at the sky and smiled. He took up the rope and pulled it bringing the cow with him.

"You know old girl, sometimes a disturbance is a good thing."

Three people carrying musical instruments walked along the promenade to where a large marquee was being erected on the beach outside the Belak Hotel.

The Belak was solely built for the growing influx of foreigners. With its three swimming pools, bungalows and main restaurant which extended onto the beach on a wooden decking, it was the central night time hub for foreigners to enjoy seafood barbecues, live music and traditional dancing. It kept the whiteys amused and the constant opening of their bursting wallets kept the whole carnival alive.

The musicians were to play at the beginning and end of the ceremony, but they were not ordinary musicians, they were the finest in the archipelago, and had travelled for days to reach the ceremony in time.

The boat they had travelled on overnight could still be seen making its way out of the harbour near the break wall, before it disappeared to the south.

Music had always been an integral part of village life. From the moment someone was born, to after they had died, music was played - not just as entertainment - but with a considered reverence.

Children were taught music from an early age and were encouraged to learn and experiment with as many instruments as possible, and there was a wide variety to choose from.

There were many different types of percussion instruments alone; from large drums to little finger bells, as well as an array of traditional string instruments.

Ceremonies could go on for days, and as such required people to spend long spells out in the open on beaches and parks but also in temples and huts, so to keep their attention, music was often used as an interval or an accompaniment to prayers and incantations. Music was an expression of the earth, sea and sky and was viewed as a magical glorious experience.

Singing was considered less important than the music and was seen as a background note - sometimes even frowned upon as a distraction - and had to be used sparingly.

It took many years of dedicated practice and discipline to master the vast repertoire of ceremonial music and folk songs that had lasted through the centuries.

The musicians arrived at the marquee and began to set up and tune their instruments. Different tunings were applied for most outdoor events and this was to be a special one. Beginning at dawn the next day, they would have to be up very early to get dressed in their ceremonial yellow and white robes and head gear, have a light breakfast and reconvene on the beach under the marquee.

Tomorrow would mark the official end of the rainy season, even though the weather had been sunny and pleasant for some weeks. People were looking forward to getting back to the fields to start planting again for the summer harvest.

It was one of the biggest festivals of the year. School would resume again, businesses would reopen amongst a congenial atmosphere of things getting back to normal. People would start coming back to the coast from their villages in the hills eager to reacquaint with friends after the claustrophobic atmosphere of family life during the rainy season.

The beach was coming alive again with the change of seasons; food stalls were being set up, flags fluttered and ceremonial ornaments were being hung along wires running from tree to tree along the promenade.

Temples were dressed in all manner of banners and flags, flowing cotton material and a constant assortment of offerings to the ancestors.

Masks were displayed everywhere, signifying the faces of those that hid behind the world and supported the space between everything at night. The masks had wide eyes signifying the vigilance of the Night Watchers who were always on the lookout for a tear in the sky, for that was when madness crept onto the landscape and whispered in the end of days; a belief so entrenched in the psyche of the inhabitants that it was beyond comprehension not to fully observe the rituals that prevent the eyes seeing such calamities.

Due to the amount of instruments needed for the ceremony, Han, who was the percussionist in the group, had to make several trips back to the jetty to collect the various drums and bells.

The percussion instruments were considered the most important element of the music, for they underscored the melodies and grounded the performers and listeners alike into the rhythms of the earth and the elements.

The folk songs were paramount to the overall certainty of life. They continued the desire for people to live in harmony with what was considered a brutal and sometimes uncaring landscape.

Nothing was left to chance, and no possible avenue for misunderstanding could be explored when it came to the Night Watchers role in the scheme of things.

Unlike Rume and Han, the female singer, who was the youngest of the trio, had not attended this festival before. She looked on blankly at all the activity around her. As she surveyed the stretch of beach, she appeared disconnected, even uninterested in the pre-festival atmosphere.

Rume had taken a lot of persuasion to take her on. When he first saw her he had to be reassured he wasn't dreaming or being visited by a demon. Her appearance always caused a reaction and although startled at first, as he was not from a village, perhaps his acceptance of her came a little bit easier than most.

Rume had grown up in an environment far removed from hers. His family had worked in a town on the other side of the island. His father had been a school teacher and his mother had worked in a money exchange office.

Rume had spent his life learning traditional folk songs with their intricate melodies. He viewed his skill as devotion and even though he considered the singer to be less important - there purely for embellishment - good singers were rare and he hadn't had a lot to choose from. It had been a struggle over the years for him to keep a trio together so he was concerned that if left unchecked her voice had the potential to distract from the music.

The young girl's expertise was enhanced due to her extraordinary memory. Rume was astounded to learn that after hearing the melody once or twice the girl could sing a new song almost perfectly.

As the trio started to practice, the staff at the Belak hotel were draping white linen table cloths on the hand carved tables. They chatted amongst themselves while listening to the music coming from the marquee.

Shutters were raised along the beach as stalls were opened for business. Carvings, printed material and toys were displayed with meticulous detail. Incense from the temples wafted into the air mixing with the clove cigarettes and the warm sea breeze.

The girl's voice drifted in and around the people walking along the promenade. The music merged with the surroundings and blended in with the gentle time of the day, but it was only one element among many. It was simply another piece of the landscape no more important than any other and no less important than any other.

All was in place: the Sun, the ocean, the salt air, the smell of food, the chatter, the birds even a few stray dogs that roamed the water's edge contributed to the essence.

As the morning progressed, more people dressed in ceremonial white and yellow, descended onto the promenade and beach decorating temples, over hanging branches, stalls, restaurants and seating areas with flags, masks and long colourful ribbons which danced in the air and wrapped themselves around children who held onto them as the warm sea breeze flowed through them.

Rume's singer was timid and kept to herself. She was born in a remote village, to the south of the island, with strict traditional values and not much contact with the rest of the island.

When she had been shown to the village elders soon after birth they decided she was a demon sent by the Night Watchers to remind them of the precariousness of life.

Her mother pleaded for mercy but was shunned by all and sundry. Any calamity, natural or otherwise was blamed on the demon girl who by her second birthday had not seen much of the world beyond the makeshift hut her mother was forced to live in.

As time went by, the situation became untenable, and with little support from her husband who spent the nights gambling and drinking, the mother was given an ultimatum. The demon girl must leave the village.

Mother and daughter were summoned to a meeting of the elders where their names were written on separate pieces of paper and then ceremonially burned.

They were forced into the wilderness where they set up residence in an abandoned shelter which had been used by the villagers to rest during the day when harvesting the terraced rows of rice.

Her husband occasionally checked on them, bringing food and clothes. During one such visit the mother pleaded with him to do something, but she knew that her husband was dutifully bound to the decree of the village elders.

After a year of living like refugees not far from their ancestral home, a realisation occurred to her. She had survived with little help, tilling a small plot of land for carrots and rice, and earning some money by repairing the workers' clothes.

Word reached her that her husband had been involved in a fight. Details were sketchy, but there had been a fatality and he had been taken to town to be interviewed by the Notaris. For weeks she went to the edge of the village to see if any more news had reached anyone but over time she stopped going.

Mother and daughter spent many hours together at the river. She found a secluded spot where she could wash their clothes, bathe her daughter and watch her play unencumbered as a child should. She loved watching the river and felt refreshed and insightful just staring at the flowing water.

Whenever she returned to the hut and looked out at the village not far away all she saw was stagnation; people set in their ways, living through other people's rules.

She realised if she had survived this far and nothing was going to change, then she had to move on. She would hold her baby daughter and cry themselves to sleep, not over any sense of injustice but for the sheer pain of knowing that it all made no sense.

"We are all going to die," she would say, "So who cares about ancestors and rituals, and dressing up in funny clothes."

She knew then that stagnation was poison, and like the flowing river, movement was the key to survival. So one morning before dawn she packed her belongings, strapped her child to her back and walked down the path away from the village without any feeling what-so-ever. She was as blank as the sky.

At the last hill, she turned back and could just make out the village. How small and insignificant it looked. Her anguish was transforming into bitterness.

The two women were forced from their village, then their island and eventually over the ocean to many other islands where they received the same sort of reaction whenever the child was seen.

With no education and little experience of the world except for what her mother could give her, the girl lived an entirely internal world.

Along the journey, her mother would hum songs that she herself had known as a child, and so after days and weeks went by, the girl started to mimic her mother.

In time the girl heard her own melodies, nonsensical or otherwise until her mind was filled with the sounds of the outside world filtering in to her own internal landscape.

At night when they rested, the silence around them opened up her internal musical world that soared out of control. The child was held by her mother and sung to, over and over, night after night.

Her mother found work repairing clothes or washing bottles at garbage dumps to survive. When she found a job that didn't permit her daughter to be with her, she declined, preferring to go without food over leaving the child with strangers, such was her commitment to her daughter's safety, for she worried that she would be taunted or worse seized upon to be exploited and ridiculed.

She was offered money to sell the child but she never considered it for a moment. Her nightly prayer to Amok reaffirmed her commitment to live in abject poverty as long as they were together.

Singing became the daughter's only release, and with little education, spoke only a mixture of her local dialect and a conglomeration of phrases picked up over the years.

Her teenage years were spent following her mother in and around the laneways of the towns that housed all the locals who had fled the villages for the promise of a better life or from escaping a worse one.

Her singing took the interest of other musicians who sang and drunk well into the night, where her unusual appearance was at least tolerated without too much derision.

When people saw her piercing sky blue eyes, white hair and pale skin they stood back and stared. Occasionally some would venture forward to get a better look at her eyes or to touch her hair.

Banished from mainstream life, her only reality consisted of the melodies she heard in her mind and the limited opportunities she had in expressing herself.

It wasn't until they ventured amongst the poorer areas of small towns did she go mostly unnoticed. The back lane drinking huts became her sanctuary, most of which consisted of a row of stools under a metal roof with the owner selling shots of Draka.

Occasionally, a few musicians looking for a meal for the night would stop outside these drinking huts to play a few songs and hope for enough change too buy a bowl of broth to share. There they would look at the unsightly child and make jokes or look away in disgust, but if they happened to hear her hum or sing they would always stop their drinking and stare transfixed at the 'monster' with the angelic voice.

One such drinking hut, hidden deep in the back streets with only enough room for a few people to stand, became the closest thing they had known as a regular place for them to work and sleep.

They washed glasses and cleaned up the mess left by drinkers eating and gambling away the night. Most nights they slept in the doorway behind the hut or occasionally were invited into abandoned houses usually filled with dozens of people in each room.

The people of the laneways were musicians, gamblers, whores and drug dealers who they would follow from one derelict building to the next. On quite a few occasions mother and daughter awoke to find their clothes had been interfered with and what little money they had stolen.

One night after an all day shift washing glasses, they crawled into a shelter which had dozens of people lying on cardboard boxes, and fell asleep, only to be woken by the sound of heavy breathing and the smell of stale Draka.

The girl felt someone grappling with her clothes in the dark and then felt her arms and legs being pinned down, her tunic was lifted over her stomach, and her face was covered with dirty oily hands. She felt her legs being separated, and when she struggled a hand slapped her face, stinging her eyes and ears.

While being pinned down she felt something odd between her legs then a searing pain and more heavy breathing. Her stomach felt sick and the pain between her legs felt strange.

When the ordeal was over there was blood on her tunic and she had a pain in her lower abdomen. She was frightened because it had been dark and she had no way of knowing what had happened to her for there was no reference point in her mind.

After a few minutes, she could hear sobbing. Amongst the cardboard and sleeping bodies she felt a hand on her. At first she recoiled but as the hand patted her arm, a warm feeling of comfort and familiarity arrived followed by the soft humming of her mother. They held each other and fell asleep.

They continued to work the bars in the lanes and were tolerated because upon seeing her, people stopped to stare and when she started to sing they placed money onto the cloth in front of her.

One day a man came over to the drinking hut where the girl was washing glasses and spoke to the owner. After speaking for a while the man gave the owner a bag.

That night she was taken to a place on the beach outside one of the bigger hotels where foreigners went to watch small boxes hanging from the ceiling.

On stage a man was playing one of the traditional stringed instruments. They stood and watched. After a few songs the man playing thanked the audience and went behind the curtain.

The girl was led around the back of the marquee where she was told to sit. The man who had taken her went inside the cordoned off area. She could hear voices and occasionally the curtain was held open and eyes looked her up and down followed by more chattering. After each time the curtain was parted the conversation became more animated. After what seemed an eternity she was told to come inside.

She was spoken to in a language she had heard but was not familiar with. The man who had been playing on stage smoked incessantly as he shook his head while pointing at the girl.

She never felt embarrassed or frightened as she was largely disconnected from the events of the outside world. Whether she was washing glasses, sleeping in doorways or being spoken to, she heard melodies and sung them, so it wasn't unusual when she started humming and chattering in the presence of the two men.

"You owe me this favour." The intensity in which he spoke left the man in no doubt that ultimately he had no choice. "The money you will get from people just wanting to see her will pay off your debt, regardless of whether she can sing or not."

The man who had brought her lived for the excitement of money, whilst the musician only felt its sting. The musician felt trapped even though he knew she was completely unsuitable for singing background harmonies.

He could not stop staring at her and deep down he knew her appearance was going to cause problems with his ceremonial work but he was convinced to take her on for a trial period to work the hotels where foreigners stayed with the lure of making money.

"So what's her name?"

"I have no idea. Does it matter?"

After the deal was sealed, the girl was taken back to say goodbye to her mother. The owner of the Draka hut said it would only be for a few days maybe a week and then she would return.

The next morning the mother prayed to Amok and went back to work washing glasses while her daughter was taken to a hut where she was washed, had her hair cut and dressed in floral cotton material.

She was fed by an old woman who kept muttering under her breath and slamming utensils around in the kitchen. With no appreciation of the language being spoken to her, the girl just went wherever people signalled her to go.

Rume made her sit in a room for days on end to learn the songs in his repertoire. He wasn't happy as he tried over and over to make her sing in the style he was accustomed to. He went out of the room only to buy Draka and cigarettes. Nan was more forgiving as he could appreciate her struggle but was more intrigued by the girl's lack of attachment to anything around her.

The first night of performing with her as the singer was a traumatic experience for Rume. He feared how the audience would react. The time passed slowly before they were due to perform.

When the moment came just before they were to go on, Rume almost walked away but Nan, standing behind the curtain before being introduced, grabbed his friend by the shoulders and held him firmly.

They walked to their position in silence as the entire audience under the marquee on the beach and the patrons dining in the nearby restaurant watched the apparition.

When the music started, Rume signalled for her to be silent but when he signalled for her to begin the most beautiful ethereal voice worked its way around the air and touched each person.

Women were in tears and men felt the anguish of humility wash over them as the sound of an angel breathing filled their ears. At the end of each song people applauded and cheered.

The locals stood stunned as what they were hearing sounded so different it was hard for them to accept that singing could be so predominant. They found it embarrassing that the music was relegated to the background.

Rume was in shock. So much so that his normally perfect meticulous technique deserted him. He could not concentrate while the crowd was cheering and the sound of her voice continued to go against the grain of everything he had been taught and had developed over many years.

At the end of the performance Rume stood backstage perplexed. People wanted to know where he had found the ugly creature with such a magical voice. Foreigners wanted to know her name and where she had come from, but Rume could only shrug his shoulders which they took as being coy and unwilling to divulge any information regarding her.

They played for a few more nights at the same place before moving on to other towns along the coast. After a few weeks they were asked to perform at a ceremony on an island many nights travel away. The three of them boarded a boat one afternoon and didn't return until the next summer harvest.

Between songs and while Nan adjusted his collection of cymbals, Rumesat on a stool to the side of the small stage, under a billowing white cotton shade cloth, looking at the foreigners eating their strange food.

"Have you ever noticed how unhappy they look?" Rume said.

The report came to Tete Karmin just like any other. This one was from a small village in a sparsely populated area near the coast. Reports of disturbances from the more remote regions could take days to surface.

Reports were signed for and collected by the clerk on duty and then sorted and prioritised according to the colour of the file they arrived in. Red was low priority, blue medium and green high.

For special confidential matters, a white tape with an adhesive backing was stretched around the file so that only the relevant Councillor could open it with a special thin blade.

Tete Karmin was late due to an accident on the bridge that spanned the river that flowed into the sea. It was the only road that accessed the town from the north. He arrived hot and far from agreeable due to the extent of the delay and the crowded bus.

He was looking forward to an easy start to the day and his favourite breakfast of noodles and fried egg followed by a steaming pot of coffee. He was salivating over the thought of thick noodles with runny egg all through them and the gritty bitter taste of the local brew which only local people could endure when he was met by Eda, his clerk, with a bundle of files.

"Good Morning Sepu," Eda used the less formal male greeting as was his right being a senior clerk with years of experience.

"I hope you had a good morning. Lots of people on the roads, no? Are you taking breakfast this day?"

Tete Karmin took the files and walked into his office. He was about to place them to the side of his desk when he noticed the white tape.

His hunger sharpened his focus. He knew instinctively that he couldn't delay opening the file to reveal the date which he would have to record in his journal as per the directive that white files needed to be viewed and recorded within a certain time of being received.

"I will send for noodles and coffee." Eda left abruptly.

Tete Karmin felt the rough edges of the cheap stiff paper with his calloused fingers. He had always taken his work seriously, too seriously at times. It had taken priority over everything including family and friends, but over the years that dedication had slowly eased. It wasn't that he was tired of the work, or that he was entering some pre-retirement nostalgic winding down. It was more intangible. A restlessness, at times, a foreboding of something about to happen plagued him.

Pushing such thoughts aside he opened the file, and wrote the time under the date, removed the tag and unpeeled the adhesive backing and placed it in the journal.

He was about to sit down when he stopped and looked across his small office which consisted of his desk, a filing cabinet, a cupboard and a reclining chair which looked like it had seen better days.

Tete Karmin walked around his desk, still holding the file and moved towards his old chair in the corner. He sat down and placed the file on the side table and opened a fresh packet of clove cigarettes.

Tete Karmin knew this was no ordinary case. Files with white tape were rare. He held his breath then let out a small gust of air before opening. He put all thoughts of food aside and opened the report.

Region: Ketukan

Locality: Pushda

Attending Notaris: Gunda Naropi

Deceased: Aryi Mangi age 8, Sevei Mangi age 6, Sopus Mangi age 3. He stopped reading. He pictured the Notaris, who he knew well enough. Gunda would have phoned ahead to the local Magistrate forewarning him of the report.

He pictured the weather beaten face of Badu Meringa as he thanked Gunda for the warning. A face that never seemed to smile. Tete Karmin saw the 'old man' sitting back in his large wicker chair, weighing up the options, but really there was only ever going to be one Councillor that this report was going to.

Reports usually contained eyewitness accounts and interviews accompanied with a handwritten account of the incident by the attending Notaris. Normally this would total anywhere between five to ten pages. This report had two pages and what he couldn't understand was why Badu had not called him. He looked again at the date, there had been time. They had spoken only a couple of weeks ago.

Tete Karmin admonished the inevitability of it all, and scowled at the title page before reading on. Then a distant image sailed over the horizon, catching the breeze and entering his small dark humid office.

An image of a small boy playing with an old tyre. His own son, who had grown so quickly and had moved away so long ago, now with his own family.

He chastised himself for being distracted and read on. The victims were found in a compound behind a school. There were many toys found in the vicinity all with traces of blood. The neighbouring area was searched and people were spoken to but no one had seen or heard anything. Tete Karmin thought this most unusual as the reported time of the incident was around the time of the day when people returned from working in the fields.

Tete Karmin read with interest that an old movie camera was found but with no film in it. He wrote on the pad next to him, 'Film - possible record of what happened. Film removed?'

He hated every moment that drew him into the case. He was so close to giving it all up, for he was nearing that point in life when men were encouraged to recede from worldly concerns and spend time with the elders back in the village to concentrate on the teaching of ceremonies to the next generation.

Tete Karmin was caught between two ideas of the same world; the world of work and personal ambition and the world of morality and the 'right' way. He was edging closer to the world of ceremony and duty. Maintaining the vigil for the tear in the sky beckoned, but was he ready to answer that call? Tete Karmin was at a crossroads for which there was only one destination but many paths to get there.

Badu had sent him this as a test, he was sure of that, one last case to take care of before he left them. A test of what though? His resolve? His concern? His aptitude? Surely he had proved all those things over and over again.

Then it hit him, how smart that old 'baboon' was. This was not an external test. This was the ultimate test; an internal test, a test that only he could evaluate.

He knew then he must plough on, and resolve this case and only then would he have done his duty and be ready for less worldly concerns.

The next step was to visit the site of the incident so he asked Eda to arrange for a driver to take him to the crime scene. Finding a driver was usually easy. A few were kept on a retainer and when not busy would join the other drivers that congregated along the street in front of the shops and hotels.

They held up maps to the whiteys who strolled past going to breakfast. There was an uneasy bond between them. They remained in groups out of boredom but were secretly envious when one of them took a job, for that meant food on the table that night.

Eda looked up and down the street but saw no one, then he remembered today's ceremony. Eda spoke to one of the stall owners.

"Where are all the drivers?"

"They're probably still at the beach, or coming back from ceremonies in their villages."

"Of course, it went far into the night. They could still be asleep."

"They'll start drifting back in a couple of hours."

Eda knew that 'a couple of hours' could be anytime, perhaps all day. There was no direct translation of time in his language. His language was a dialect from the mountains where seasons, rain and food were of paramount importance. There were words for days, weeks and months, but the notion of time was a constant flow. It didn't matter to his people when something happened. It was more important that it did.

When the diving tours began and the foreigners started arriving, it meant new words had to be invented for being at a place at a certain time, which took a lot of getting used to.

Eda had witnessed many foreigners arguing with drivers, tailors and restaurant staff. With his scant knowledge of their languages he had often tried to placate ugly situations. It took him a long time to understand that these big brutish people who wrapped small glass dials on their wrists were somehow controlled by the small black lines inside. It was hard to comprehend at first but they seemed obsessed with when things were going to happen.

Eda tried to make them understand that his people could not see into the future, so could not answer directly when the car or the meal would be ready.

Word quickly spread around the island that these foreigners who came in droves and wanted to live underwater could see into the future which made the locals fearful and subjugate themselves.

Stories sprung up that they were here to take over their island, but over time as the locals watched them come and go they realised they weren't taking over but were visiting to eat, drink and dive into the ocean.

They were a mystery but they brought with them piles of their local currency and left it everywhere; on beds, on tables and handed it around like there was no tomorrow.

The locals wondered where they got so much of their currency, for they didn't use it that much. The villagers were more likely to give a pig to some young men to help build a compound wall and when they did need to use it, they went to the elders who looked after their money for emergencies.

Eda had noticed his brother had changed from being an enthusiastic, helpful man to an indolent, lazy, good-for-nothing after he started working in one of the bars. He became friends with a couple of foreigners who gave him a lot of money to wash their motor bikes and clean their houses.

So now that he had lots of money he did nothing on the days he wasn't working in the bar and spent a lot of time drinking and when there was work to be done back at the village he was nowhere to be seen.

Eda walked back into the office and told Tete Karmin a car was on its way which gave him some time to sort out his files, have a meal and prepare for the trip.

Naya opened the gate to the compound he lived in. He took a step out and lit a cigarette. He could see traffic already flowing, not that it ever stopped, along the by-pass at the end of the road.

He looked down the laneway. He watched a man driving a large cylindrical roller going over and over the same patch of dirt, in an attempt to level the ground.

Chickens called out to each other while people washed the paths near their homes. He knew if the traffic wasn't too bad he could drive to the ceremony and be back before lunch.

His wife was up, having made him breakfast while he washed, but his son was still asleep. He would see him again tonight, and if there was time, he would take him to the beach to fly kites. He walked back into the compound. He stood at the entrance to the garage and looked at his van. He checked the tyres and walked around his pride and joy. The van was his family's life blood. Driving was all he knew. It was synonymous with himself. His identity was interwoven with what he did to earn a living.

There was a time after the accident that he felt lost. Driving trucks for the Council had been all he had known since he was fifteen. He had lied about his age to get a job and had taken on the worst jobs the Council had to offer, like sitting on top of a fully laden truck holding the rubble down with his bare hands while the truck sped down the bumpy, twisting mountain roads. He had shown great courage and relentless determination to do anything he was told to get money.

Over many years he had worked up and down the island, going wherever the work was. He had not complained when others were given the more lucrative jobs, instead he bided his time and waited. Finally a driving position became available but it involved driving at night picking up garbage from the hotels and diving resorts. He jumped at it. He worked alone and was, in his mind, his own boss. He worked hard and never complained.

The accident changed everything but not necessarily in the way he might have expected. He was incapacitated for weeks while the burns healed and the broken bones knitted.

He couldn't drive for months as it was too painful to sit and use his arms. Eventually he was contacted by the Council and was offered a part-time job supervising the drivers that the Council placed on retainers. The job involved ensuring the vans were kept clean and roadworthy. It involved some paperwork and reporting which meant a couple of hours in the office which was completely out of his comfort zone, but he endured it and was well respected for his unflinching attitude in ensuring the vans were well maintained but deep down he needed to be out on the road, in particular travelling up and down the coast.

Tete Karmin ensured he was placed on a retainer which upset many of the other drivers who were passed over for the position. Naya's street-wise sense and his ability to hide his hatred of foreigners enabled him to make a good living by local standards. He quickly realised the foreigners had plenty of money and were eager to see the local attractions quickly without too much waiting. He devised a 'trail' which included the Amok temple, the Sudni markets and the diving resorts to the north which were all comfortably reachable in a day.

He was eligible for a disability payment due to the accident and with the money saw an opportunity to buy an old disused carry van which he had painstakingly restored with all the family's savings and a loan from the village. Whatever extra he earned from tips he handed over to the communal fund that the village elders looked after.

Sitting in the van, he kissed his finger before touching the picture of his daughter which hung from the rear vision mirror. He closed his eyes and prayed that his ancestors were looking after her and hoped she wasn't causing too much trouble.

As he pulled into the flow of traffic he thought of his boy. He wondered if he would be upset when he woke to find his father gone for the day. Normally he would be up helping to check the car, but they had arrived home late from the ceremony last night.

Naya scratched his arm, the scarred flesh still went red at times and he had run out of the papaya poultice and reminded himself to pick up some more on the way back.

The traffic going into town was heavy but was flowing. He wondered how far he would get before it slowed down, hopefully past the elephant park and if he was lucky to his favourite resting place at Sadand where he could stop to have a watermelon juice while looking at the waves that crashed right up against the restaurant and bungalow walls.

Already he counted many yellow trucks full to the brim with black dirt heading up the bypass. Young men on top wore scarves around their heads to limit the amount of dust they breathed in.

They would have started work as early as possible because of the oppressive heat in the middle of the day. Many young ones tried to work through and laughed at the older guys who headed for the shade as the Sun got higher in the sky, only for them to skulk back under cover as the heat, sweat and flies tore into their protective clothing.

The bitumen work was the worst but it paid better. The heat coming off the road as the hot bitumen was poured and swept over the dirt was unbearable for more than fifteen minute shifts, so armies of crews waited till it was their turn, so as people drove by it looked like only a few were working.

The roads in and out of the towns were constantly being maintained as the Council only allowed enough money for a thin layer of bitumen to be poured at a time so it wasn't long before the roads needed repairing again, so the whole enterprise was caught in its own cycle of ineptitude, but it kept people occupied and the local economy afloat.

Apart from the potholes and ridges between the old road and the new works, the other danger was the Polisi who scanned the road for drivers like himself. He knew his chances of making it all the way without being stopped at least once were low. It would be even more unlikely if he returned with a passenger, as they were constantly on the lookout for easy bribe money.

Naya slowed down to let a procession of people wander across the road. They headed towards the beach holding large thatched umbrellas with regalia and finery. Children ran around the grownups and were admonished for making too much noise and not staying in line.

Naya waited patiently and looked at the other cars parked behind him. 'Here we are again,' he thought. 'Doing the same thing as yesterday. What if everybody just stopped and nothing happened?'

Before he could answer his own question the procession had passed and they were all on their way again.

He wasn't far away from his favourite rest stop with its restaurants on the beach and fishing villages. There had been a crop of guest houses built recently as more and more people had started visiting to admire the gorgeous views of the Atollers; huge volcanic plugs sticking straight out of the water with hordes of fish, turtles and coral reefs to visit. On one of the plugs was a small patch of pristine white sand which allowed a dozen or so people at a time to walk along the water's edge.

He drove down the narrow lane and stopped in the car park. There were a few motor bikes parked there already. Not the normal local scooters or 'mosquitos', as they were known, that the locals rode. These were larger more powerful imported models with shiny exhausts and leather seats.

Before getting out of the car he checked his money. He didn't have much, maybe enough for a juice or a soup. As he shut the car door he noticed the breeze coming off the water.

The restaurant had an outside covered dining area which created some shelter and a vantage point to watch the waves crashing onto the beach below.

To his right and stretching out a few hundred yards was a sea wall with a path that led to a set of steps used for getting on and off larger vessels. The local fishing boats could run up the shore or anchor just off the shore. There was a small shelter at the end of the pier with a person reclining on a straw mat.

'Lazy good for nothing', he thought. A young girl greeted him and motioned for him to sit. She handed him a menu with a laminated insert showing all sorts of noodle dishes, curries and salads. What he really wanted was a cold beer and some skewered meat resting on a clay pot filled with charcoal embers; a local speciality. He couldn't read the descriptions but could tell by the pictures what the dishes were.

He settled on a watermelon juice and looked around to see a group of men sitting inside the main eating area. He gathered from their leather jackets they owned the bikes in the car park.

He lit a cigarette and thought about what jobs, if any, he might get today. He couldn't stay here long as he knew the other drivers would start arriving in town soon.

He looked out to sea and saw a ferry. The waves continued to roll in with a monotonous regularity. He pondered his family and the never-ending tension of finding money.

He wanted to be on that ferry, to travel somewhere with no money concerns, to see something different, to be alone, to escape. He wondered what people did on ferries and where they were going and what they did when they got there.

When driving foreigners around the island he often looked at them, trying to gauge from their faces what they did. He knew the basics of conversation in three or four languages. He marvelled at their thick wallets bursting at the seams with local currency and the apparent nonchalance when reeling off note after note when paying him. Sometimes the tips were more than he normally made in a week.

His drink arrived. He showed her the note and offered to pay but she declined, saying she had to write the bill first, something he knew already and was happy that the first phase of his plan had been implemented. She was young and probably a good target for one of his favourite 'stings' of showing a larger note then paying with a smaller note.

As he drank his juice, the party of motor bike riders stood up and prepared to leave. One of the men, a large bearded character held a handful of notes and looked around for the young girl. Seizing the opportunity, Naya left the table and walked quickly towards the men.

The look in the foreigner's eye reassured Naya that his plan would work for he knew the tall bearded man would be happy to see a native to hand over the money and join his fellow 'bandidos' on the road.

Naya clasped his hands together and bowed. He silently cursed the ugly smelly invader and wished painful deaths for him, his family and proceeding generations.

Naya said sorry in a number of languages but none registered, so he motioned to take the money to the counter and return but the foreigner would have none of it and simply waved him away.

Naya took a few steps back still bowing and quickly turned to count the money and look at the bill, for although his language skills were poor he knew numbers, as they were his lifeblood.

His eyes lit up when he saw the size of the tip, just as the girl turned around the bamboo screen which covered the entrance to the kitchen and looked at the motorcycles going up the side lane.

She looked at Naya with a clean slate, a blank wondrous childlike repose devoid of any of life's misgivings. He explained quickly what had happened in his gravel voice, and handed over exactly enough money to cover the bill and turned away.

With more than enough money to cover his expenses for the day, he returned to his table satisfied with a good morning's work. He considered having a beer but thought better of it, so after paying his bill he gave the young girl a warm smile while considering the delights that beckoned under her cotton blouse and long skirt. He admired her thin brown feet, imagining his tongue curling between her toes.

Naya passed the motor cycle riders refuelling up the road. He wound down his window took a long guttural snort and spat out the window cursing all infidels, their money and their arrogance.

He drove through town, looking at the shops, bungalows and temples along the road. Mosquitos passed him on both sides. Trucks similar to the ones he used to drive held up his progress as they buckled under the weight of the ubiquitous black soil. The dust of which found its way inside his van, his clothes and his hair.

At a pause in the traffic, a bitumen truck with its army of 'spreaders' were levelling the hot tar. Young men were shovelling a large deposit of black dirt onto a couple of trucks. It was warm and humid as usual.

He looked at his watch and ascertained they wouldn't be able to work for much longer. The workers were dressed from head to foot in black cotton to protect them from the dust, but it meant suffering in the direct sunlight. 'How backward they were,' he thought as he drove on.

Driving was his life yet Naya despised it. He hated transporting wealthy whiteys around. He hated the sore back he endured from the accident and the itchiness of his burn scars. He hated people noticing his scars and asking questions as it only reminded him of the fire and the loss his family endured and would never get over.

His only solace came with the visits to the Amok temple. He loved her dearly and spent hours on the road daydreaming about their 'wedding' and long hot nights of passion.

He passed the local landmarks; the fire wood shop on one of the corners going up the volcano, the café and petrol shop up on the ridge and then the descent down the side of the volcano with its sheer drop away from the road displaying the endless terraced fields, huts, and bright flags to deter the crows.

At a narrow pass he slowed as the local Polisi were checking that drivers had their blue pass displayed on their dashboards but only those with foreign passengers. As he was alone they let him pass with a blank nod and a dismissive wave of the hand. He smiled and muttered utterances that if heard would have him locked away for a week.

The rest of the drive into town was uneventful, just the usual squadron of mosquitos dodging and weaving through the traffic. Most with just one rider but others with two or three but in some instances whole families clinging onto the two-wheeled hybrid motor bikes. Little children stood up front with tiny hands clasping the handlebars with a steady stream of trucks going past in the other direction.

Naya turned off the bypass and onto the main street, slowing down as the traffic and people crossing the road intensified. At this time of the year many smaller ceremonies were often held involving small processions, mostly from the same village walking down the street dressed in traditional clothes.

Locals understood the significance of ceremonies, remaining patient when the main streets became clogged with traffic, as they knew how important it was to uphold their heritage.

Naya slowed down to the point of almost stopping. He thought of pulling off the road into a car park in front of a few shops but as he wasn't far from where he normally parked his car, he continued on.

The footpaths were full with tourists walking along after breakfast. Shops were open and locals held out signs showcasing the contents of their hut or shop.

Eventually he could see the sign for the 'Luna Café' which was the meeting point for the group of drivers he belonged to. Every day they parked their cars along the street, took out their cigarettes and politely asked the walking parade if they needed transport to the Amok temple or the Sudni markets.

They washed their vans in the street, took naps in the back, ate their lunch sitting on the wall outside the Café, flirted with the waitresses and all too often sat together but alone in their thoughts.

Naya was the first to arrive, so he had prime position, right outside the entrance to the Café. He loved the Luna. It had the best omelettes, the strongest coffee and the prettiest girls. The entrance was covered by a huge mango tree which offered a cool respite from the midday Sun. Inside was dark. Ceiling fans kept the air circulating and the dark wooden stools at the bar offered a nice view of the street.

The Luna was at the upmarket end of the main street. A large restaurant for foreigners had opened up directly across it and next door was an expensive clothes shop that sold beautiful white linen dresses for the whitey's wives that strolled up and down all day on the way from their hotels to the beach, just a short walk away.

The top of the Belak Hotel could be seen from inside the Café. One of the girls came out to replenish the small temple to the side of the entrance. She nodded and bowed her head, careful not to make eye contact with Naya, as he was an older man and because he was one of those roguish drivers who were to be avoided at all costs.

Naya greeted her while undressing her with his eyes. Her small waist and tiny feet sliding in her sandals made him forget why he was there.

He looked up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone so he approached the side entrance to talk to one of the cooks.

"Quiet day so far?" he asked as he stepped onto the back step. One of the young cooks looked up from mixing a large bowl of coconut pancake mix.

"So far so good. No one is around yet." He went back to his batter.

"How about a coffee?" Naya smiled.

The young cook frowned but said, "Help yourself, but be quick, the boss will be here soon."

Naya bowed and took a cup from the drying rack and poured himself a coffee.He went back to his stool under the awning and watched the girls setting up for breakfast.

From his seat Naya could see Eda looking up and down the road. After a few glances their eyes met. Eda waved him over so Naya took a large gulp of the hot black liquid and set off across the road.

"I'm glad I found you. My boss has to go to Belajat. Are you free today?" Eda said.

"Belajat, you say. The roads are thick with trucks and people returning from their villages."

"I know, that's why we must be quick. Can you do it? It's official business," Eda pleaded, as he started walking with his hand on Naya's elbow.

"I think it might be okay. You know it's such a long way, there might be no passenger to come back. I would have to add some extra for the trip back in case I don't find anyone."

"Yes, that will be fine, now let's hurry or my boss will not be happy."

"Must be serious, if it's so urgent. A big case?"

"It came in a white file." Eda made his pronouncement with the assumption in his tone that Naya should know the implications of a white file, but of course he didn't.

"Now where's your van?"

"Just here." Naya found Eda irritating. Naya thought the young man acted above his station just because he had an office job with a Councillor. Everyone knew who Tete Karmin was, but there was no reason to be so bossy and overbearing.

"Have you enough petrol? Can you stay overnight just in case he needs you to drive him somewhere in the morning?"

Naya just nodded. He didn't care about Eda or the Councillor for that matter. He just wanted to know how much he was getting.

"Now about the money?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, we'll see. Wait here while I talk to him."

Naya waited outside. Another driver pulled up. Naya smiled as he leant against the side of his van. The other driver nodded in acknowledgement. Naya lit a cigarette and basked in his good fortune.

After a few minutes Eda returned with the usual brown envelope. He told Naya what was required and went on and on about what he had to do, which Naya completely ignored while staring at the envelope. Eventually Eda handed it over. Naya opened it and started counting the notes. A feeling of warmth and satisfaction followed. He pocketed the envelope and smiled at the other driver.

Eda called Naya in to help carry the luggage. Naya grumbled as he slowly made his way into the office. It was dark inside. There were a few people sitting at desks working away. It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust. Naya felt apprehensive. His heart beat a little faster. He became disoriented and dizzy. He was taken aback at the strength of his feelings.

Eda came out of the office and said, "In here! Hurry!"

At that moment Naya felt a surge of hatred towards the clerk. He saw the flow of anger from a distance as if watching a large wave from on top of a headland. It didn't feel like him, but it was pure and unrelenting. If left alone Naya was sure he would strangle him and jump on his corpse while shouting to the sky with joy. Naya was uncertain as to what to do. He stood still, his chest pounding.

Tete Karmin came out of the office carrying a satchel. Eda was behind him carrying a larger bag which Naya was supposed to carry.

Naya snapped out of his trance and rushed towards Eda and snatched the bag out of his hand.

Eda stood back in shock. Such public displays of impoliteness were rare so he was unprepared for it. Tete Karmin had a lot on his mind so he didn't seem to notice.

Naya opened the back of the van and placed the bag inside. He opened the side door to allow his distinguished passenger to climb in.

Eda still getting over the incident stood back from the kerb waiting for some sort of apology or resolution but Naya simply started the van, checked the traffic and drove away.

Inside the car Tete Karmin handed over a piece of paper with the address. It was almost one hundred miles away and due to the amount of traffic and the narrow winding roads through the mountains it would take most of the day.

Naya nodded and drove on in silence. He wondered what had happened back in the office, but in the end dismissed it as just being annoyed with that idiotic clerk.

From childhood everyone was taught that a disturbance was a 'crack' in the scheme of things; a sign that life was out of balance. People believed disturbances were their responsibility and if left unattended would cause suffering which could momentarily give them a glimpse of a Night Watcher.

Night Watchers crammed in around everything at night to make sure life is balanced, but not only did they support all empty space but they were constantly on the lookout for a tear in the sky.

All young people were told of this story and their duty to be mindful of their role in life. No one had ever seen the light from a tear in the sky, but diligence and reverence to the cause was everything.

Councillors were there to search out and advise on reports of disturbances. Direct contact with anyone on the Council was rare. Councillors only ventured out into the villages when something drastic had occurred that the local Notaris couldn't oversee or had the authority to make a decision on.

Naya, therefore, was aware of the importance of this job. All thoughts of Eda were forgotten as he concentrated as best he could. What was worrying him was the last part of the journey. He had only been to that part of the island once or twice before and as he looked again at the directions on the piece of paper he started to feel anxious that he might get lost.

Naya negotiated his way through the traffic going out of town. They passed fields of corn and chilli plants. Tall flags to distract the birds were scattered amongst the fields.

The ocean could be seen in the distance; its deep blue shimmering glaze looked inviting with the occasional white top of foamy water.

Houses built from clay bricks in various stages of deterioration adorned the roadside as newer ones made from grey concrete blocks were under construction.

As Naya drove in silence, Tete Karmin went over and over the scant details of the incident. As they both settled into their own internal worlds, the external world went on regardless.

Black dirt was shovelled onto trucks; people on motorbikes stopped on the side of the road to buy petrol from hastily put together tin sheds and when the traffic slowed down children dressed in rags walked between the cars and motorbikes to sell out of date newspapers, cigarettes and fruit.

Naya's thoughts were many and varied: he and his son working in the shed at home fixing the motor bike, eating at his favourite restaurant, the money in his pocket and how he was going to find the place they were going to.

Naya began driving in a restrained manner to impress his highly-esteemed passenger, but as time went on, the pressure of looking out for mosquitos and dangerous trucks driving on the wrong side of the road caused his normal driving posture and temperament to rise to the surface.

Naya tried resisting overtaking but after he was stuck behind a couple of trucks, he swerved out of his lane and onto the oncoming traffic, barely getting back in time before a van loaded with rubbish, headlights flashing, hurtled by.

Tete Karmin remained calm until Naya almost pushed another vehicle onto the opposite shoulder of the road. If that wasn't terrifying enough for Tete Karmin, the road itself was built with the usual quality so that large potholes emerged from nowhere and the sides of the bitumen dropped away sharply.

Naya stopped at a one lane bridge. There was a long queue of vehicles coming the other way, so they had to wait in line for them to pass.

Tete Karmin looked out the window. Amongst all the activity he saw an old woman sitting on an abandoned tyre. Her face was weather beaten and her clothes nothing more than rags. People passed her by without concern. Tete Karmin wondered what she was doing. Nothing in her expression or the way she sat indicated any purpose or intent.

The traffic was starting to move again and Naya was eager to make up for lost time but Tete Karmin said,

"Wait. Pull over there." Naya looked at where he was pointing but couldn't get his brain to command his hands to steer off the road, so Tete Karmin pointed again to a spot under a tree away from everyone.

Naya was angry for it meant all the time he had saved by his fast driving would be lost. Other vehicles beeped their horns which infuriated him further but Tete Karmin was adamant.

Tete Karmin looked out the window and waved the woman forward. His long wispy greying hair blew in the breeze. At first she did not move as she was some distance back and could not tell that the man in the van had stopped for her.

Tete Karmin got out of the van and walked towards her. When he was close she became afraid.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the temple," she mumbled, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. She hadn't seen her daughter for so long so it was the only way she could satisfy her maternal wish to help her child and to make her feel like she was still a mother. She saw it as her duty to seek what had caused this affliction that had made them both outcasts. The thought that they were somehow involved in some sort of disturbance followed and haunted her. She often awoke at night in a sweat believing she had fallen through a tear in the sky, and now those thoughts were creeping into the daylight landscape. For what else could it be?

Other drivers beeped at Naya for stopping in such a dangerous position but he waved them on as if they weren't important as he waited impatiently for this odd Councillor.

'What could he be doing?' Naya wondered. 'What does he want with that beggar?'

To his surprise and concern Naya saw Tete Karmin help the woman to her feet and half drag her to the car. Naya had a bad feeling about this.

"She's going to the temple so we can drop her off along the way."

Inside the car the startled woman sat in rigid silence.

"Where are you from?" he asked. There was no reply.

"It's okay, you aren't in trouble. I just thought a nice chat would be good. Looks like a big storm is coming, you would have been drenched."

The woman muttered something.

"Pardon, I didn't quite catch that."

"Thank you," she repeated.

"It's our pleasure and thank you Naya for stopping so bravely." Tete Karmin smiled, for he knew Naya was in a hurry.

Naya thought the sooner he got them there the sooner he would get paid and would be onto the next job. Tete Karmin had seen many drivers like him; always on edge, always on the lookout for an angle. He had not smelled alcohol on his breath and had not seen any trace of the tonic many drivers drank to keep awake but he had taken considerable time looking at the scars on his arms and neck.

Tete Karmin looked out the window at the oncoming storm. The clouds seemed to fill the sky with a very small space between the land and the bottom of the clouds.

He turned to the woman again. "What is your name?"

She looked up with eyes that hid a thousand nightmares. She was strong, he could tell, but she had endured, not lived. Her eyes were sombre, tired and exhausted but there was a rigidity in her posture that could not hide her spirit and determination.

"I have no name. Not anymore."

Tete Karmin thought he had misunderstood, so he asked her again, this time slower and more deliberate. The woman looked confused, too tired and hungry to know of anything else.

"I have lost my name. I will ask Amok for her blessing then I will die."

Tete Karmin knew from her appearance and tone that life had been difficult. Sitting in the van, watching the rice fields, cattle and flags blowing in the wind he knew how difficult it must have been for her to survive this long.

Tete Karmin knew that without a name she had been shunned from her village, which was the hub of life. Without a village, food and shelter would be a daily struggle. With no support, life on the road was precarious for a lone woman. Even in the small settlements, where life was far from sacred, women especially were at the mercy of whatever circumstances they found themselves in.

Naya kept looking nervously into his rear vision mirror at the woman. At first sight he had uttered a curse to many a fallen comrade.

He thought the Councillor mad to have picked her up as she was a beggar, homeless and wretched but more than that he knew there was nothing to be gained from her. Naya wondered what Tete Karmin was going to do with her and should he ask for more money.

Tete Karmin's only thought was to get her to the temple and hope that whatever was going to happen to her became someone else's matter, for he had seen too many lives like this to save them all.

At first, all Tete Karmin had seen was a woman on the side of the road with nothing left to give while people walked by but what had gained his attention was that she was sitting on the ground, which in itself was unusual.

When he approached her there was no sign of begging and it soon became apparent that she had simply stopped out of exhaustion. He knew from her condition that she wouldn't last long.

There were only two paths available to her. Either the world would accept her or not. He was quite clear about this for he knew with the flow of life there was a chance that the latter might prevail.

The temple was not far away and Tete Karmin could see she was tired so he turned to face the front. As they neared the temple, the road became wider and was in better condition.

The Amok temple was situated on a small island a few hundred yards out from the beach and accessible only twice a day when the tide was at its lowest.

People queued for hours until there was enough exposed rock for them to pass over, taking with them baskets of fruit, parasols, incense and their shoes. Once across they had to make their way up a steep rocky path.

Amok was primarily the guardian of children, but had other divinations, including the mother or earth spirit. The other derivatives of her essence depended on what area of the island you came from.

Amok was asked to protect children, ensure crops were bountiful and that the land, moon and sun remained happy with each other. It was a requirement; a duty in fact, for adults to make at least one pilgrimage to the temple. Parents often went soon after the first child was born in hope that Amok would bless the family and protect the newborn from the world.

The storm was still out to sea. People were converging on the sacred site so Naya was forced to slow down as he navigated his way behind buses, other vans and hordes of people dressed in a variety of costumes.

To the side of the road vast plots of water drenched rice fields, carrots, rows of chillies and mango trees could be seen almost to the horizon. The mountains were behind them and the land had flattened out as they approached the ocean. Naya parked the van and turned off the engine.

"Wait here!" Tete Karmin said.

Naya was horrified that he would be left alone with the beggar. What if one of the other drivers saw him? What if she soiled his van? The smell was already encroaching through the van since they had stopped but Tete Karmin was gone, headed for the temple gates.

Tete Karmin knew what he was looking for so as he pushed through the crowd with gentle bows of his head and the occasional sorry. He searched the various stalls and souvenir trolleys that lined the entrance to the temple. At last he saw a stand selling slices of watermelon, so he bought as much as he could carry.

Walking back towards the van, he felt an odd blend of remorse and compassion. He had always seen himself as a fair man, bound to duty but there had been little room for empathy as his position dictated he remained aloof and detached but now he saw himself as quite a ridiculous figure, wading through the crowd, just another person.

He looked around. People were everywhere. The heat was oppressive and the combined chatter and excitement was overbearing. He was just part of the crowd, another one of them, nothing special yet he sensed he was doing a great thing, helping this unfortunate wretch. It was foreign to him and he questioned his intent.

When he reached the van, Naya was standing outside smoking and for an instant he panicked as he could not see the woman and feared she had escaped or something worse.

He looked at the bags which were filling with red juice and motioned for Naya to open the van, which he did abruptly, which startled the woman.

Tete Karmin handed Naya a bag which he took rather sheepishly. The woman had fallen asleep so she was disorientated and due to her physical condition it took a while to get her to sit up.

He had to open the bag for her and manage the first few sips. The first attempts dribbled down the sides of her mouth. After a few more she focused on the food being offered and started to gulp, so he held the bag away and whispered in her ear to slow down.

Only when her breathing had slowed and after she started eating the watermelon pieces did he let her hold the bag. Tete Karmin watched with satisfaction as she slowly ate each piece with such reverence and consideration, in between bowing her head in his direction and saying, "Thank you, bless you," repeatedly.

Tete Karmin sat in the doorway of the van eating. He looked at the crowd going in and out of the temple. Sitting silently focusing on the simple act of eating made him aware of the flow of life.

Tete Karmin knew he couldn't affect any of the lives he saw. No matter how hard anyone tried to be mindful of consequences, people would always flock to temples such as these for help for some sort of external blessing.

There was so much movement going in and out of the temple. The stalls were full of hawkers and canvassers including men with monkeys on their shoulders performing tricks in front of school children who sucked on straws in plastic bags filled with green, pink and yellow liquids. Monks walked in procession offering blessings while receiving food.

When she had finished, Tete Karmin asked, "Would you like more?" The woman nodded and looked embarrassed.

"Wait here," Tete Karmin said as he walked into the crowd again with Naya following.

"How long are we going to stay here?" the driver asked.

"I don't know." Tete Karmin stared the driver down.

"Don't worry you will be well paid. Stay with her, she is vulnerable on her own." Tete Karmin reached out and placed a hand on Naya's shoulder.

"She needs our help."

Naya felt annoyed. He wanted the money, but he was not good at waiting. His natural state was to be on the go and the longer he stayed the more he was worried about being spotted by another driver.

Tete Karmin came back with grilled cobs of corn, strips of cooked pork and water. While waiting for the corn to be cooked, Tete Karmin had thought about Naya's question.

How long should he stay? What was he to do with her now? Once fed could he just leave her at the temple?

She was desperate to go to the temple but was in no condition to appear in public. Nearby there was a large public bathing area in an outside pool fed by a mountain spring but she would need clothes, so his plan was to take her so she could wash and then buy her clothes from one of the stalls.

After eating, Tete Karmin motioned for her to get out of the car, which she did, tentatively, while looking around nervously at the crowd and instinctively holding onto the van.

Tete Karmin tried to support her while people walking through the car park stared. Tete Karmin could see this was not going to be easy.

The woman hoped that visiting Amok would fill the gap left by her daughter's disappearance. The only way to reconcile what had happened to her and her daughter was that she had been responsible for some sort of disturbance.

This was not the ideal way of seeing things. The tear in the sky did not reveal its whereabouts until after a disturbance had been detected so it wasn't easy to predict what would occur.

She knew all too well what it was like to suffer great loss but there it was. The scheme of things was irrefutable and who was she, or anyone for that matter, to go against the flow. It was like waking from a dream and trying to remember faces and conversations from the behind the curtain of consciousness. All she could do was absorb all that flowed through her and hope for better times ahead.

The danger to all of this was, if all the thoughts that were not focused on the moment roamed free, then when enough of this energy collected in one spot it could give rise to a small ripple in the continuum that when joined with other ripples could create a disturbance that eventually could lead to a tear in the sky.

It was unusual but there had been incidents and from a casual observer, with enough sense to see over vast distances, a slight trend could have been detected if anyone had been looking in that direction.

The essence of Amok was pure and undiluted. She had no will of her own. She pervaded the slithers between thoughts. She stretched across vast distances but was so close she was unavoidable. Her strength was coiled up within the weakness of her trace. She was undetectable but without her all would perish. Amok was the most special Night Watcher; more a trace element, of what was possible.

Attached to this rare magnificence was the need to fill the vacuum when a disturbance created some tragic loss. Disturbances could be avoided but such was their nature that no explanation could be given; it had to be felt and observed internally and could only be communicated anecdotally.

Stories seeped through the maze between the worlds but their sources remained unknown so that stories developed amongst villages with long ancestral lineages each one interpreting observations of the world with their own flavour and colouring, so that a paddy field worker from the highlands would have little or no knowledge of the sea monsters and serpents that filled the gaps in the oceans. Fishermen's stories would rarely filter up the volcano slopes to immerse with the fiery remnants of warlords fighting with molten lava and the residue flowing down to form valleys and gorges.

All was separate in appearance but all was connected in essence and this is where Amok and the rarest of glimpses dwelt.

"Angels and time intermingle as the sweet sorrow of tomorrow is extinguished."

She heard the singing as she changed her clothes. The monks were nearby singing songs and reciting chants in between taking offerings and blessings from those who entered the temple.

She felt strange in her new clothes. It had taken some time for her to feel confident enough to walk out of the covered area where women changed with their children.

The water had been a frightening experience. It was cold, much colder than she had expected. Underneath the surface she had shut her eyes tightly for fear of what she might see.

The clothes that Tete Karmin had chosen fitted perfectly and smelt like jasmine. He had thought of everything even giving her a backpack with another change of clothes.

After he could do no more, he pressed a bundle of notes in her hand which at first she refused but as her hand was swallowed up by his she could not hand it back.

Tete Karmin watched her join the throng entering the temple. He craned his neck to catch a last glimpse but she was gone. He looked at Naya and realised that his respite from the mundane was over. They walked back to the van in silence.

Back on the road, Tete Karmin looked at the countryside. The volcano in the distance stood as a testament to all that was constant. It had stood for many centuries, had seen so much torment and joy yet it stood unaffected after enduring all that the elements could summon.

How unaffected had he been? He felt the difference between simply enduring life and wringing everything he could out of experience.

The image of her being swallowed up by the crowd haunted him. What could he have done better? He felt ashamed at the pain and suffering she had endured and his feeble attempts at helping. He understood her lack of appreciation, the blank look in her eyes as she accepted the clothes and the embarrassment at accepting the money.

Naya swore at a mosquito who darted in and out of the traffic and Tete Karmin was brought back to the uncaring reality that moments pass and are proceeded by the next moment.

As Naya drove off the main road and down a lane between vacant fields with just a few cows browsing amongst the scattered stumps of trees and dry brown earth, he saw in the distance many tall towers of bamboo scaffolding.

Further down the lane, Naya had to veer onto the dirt to avoid several large trucks full of rock, soil and people steaming along.

As he turned into the car park small children were riding bikes, playing with ducks and bouncing balls on the side of the road. One or two came up to the driver's window but he honked the horn to scare them away.

After parking the car, Naya helped Tete Karmin with his bags. He locked the van and followed Tete Karmin who seemed to know where he was going.

They walked towards a large wooden gate. Upon knocking, it was opened by a small, muscular man who had the face of someone used to working outdoors.

He spoke in a dialect similar to Naya's so between grunts and snorts they seized each other up while sharing a joke about foreigners and their peculiar smell and language.

Tete Karmin asked Naya to find out what was the bewildering structure at the back of the bungalows but the groundsman just shook his head. As he considered it rude to talk too much, he left it at that as there were other drivers arriving with passengers.

Tete Karmin and Naya walked along a path decorated with intricate stone inlays depicting rural and ocean scenes that led them between white bungalows with people sitting on couches reading, drying clothes and checking diving gear.

They walked through a garden with tropical plants in full bloom and strategically placed volcanic rocks and statues. The landscaped gardens and lawns were in stark contrast to the surrounding land of dry brush and exposed dirt.

The ocean beckoned with a few moored boats slapping their hulls on the water. Below them was an infinity pool, potted plants and wild tropical vegetation cascading down the sides of a rock wall. A gazebo offered some shade as did various huge billowing shade cloths.

Down a steep slope and to the right was a large bungalow with no walls. Brick pillars supported a large dome shaped thatch roof. People were eating and music played as young waitresses walked from the kitchen carrying trays of seafood and drinks.

The staff were changing the linen in the bungalows. Naya peered in a window to see two young girls changing the towels and washing the floors. When they saw him they covered their mouths and giggled.

There were foreigners below in the pool ordering drinks from the cantina. Out to sea he could see fishing boats with sails rippling in the breeze. Next door small children jumped of the temple wall into the ocean, their naked brown bodies glistening in the sun.

Pathways weaved in and around the bungalows. The gardens were immaculately maintained. Black rocks were placed to augment the sparseness. Jasmine flowers and frangipani trees were everywhere and a large bougainvillea vine crept along the wall near the pool. Naya frowned at the opulence and the indignity of fat foreigners parading around with their sagging flesh.

Tete Karmin was greeted by a tall man wearing no shirt and sweating profusely.

"Excuse me for my appearance, but we've been repairing the roof of one of the bungalows. Someone here will show you your bungalow and if there's anything you need please ask one of the staff. I don't get involved in the day-to-day running of things round here, my wife does all that."

The tall whitey shook his hand and walked out of the restaurant area and back up the slope. Naya stood nervously to the side and wondered what to do next.

Tete Karmin went to pick up his bags but was cornered by one of the staff who picked them up and walked up the slope. Naya stood still, happy to relinquish his duties, as he felt he had done more than enough and was due his money. Sensing his predicament, Tete Karmin reached for his wallet and pulled out a bundle of notes.

"This should cover everything," he said. Naya resisted the urge to count it there and then, as even he saw that as a discourtesy.

Tete Karmin walked to the balcony's edge and looked out at the ocean. He could just barely make out the outline of a mountain in the distance. Waves crashed around the volcanic rocks below. Some small children were playing naked in the inlet where a long rope was anchored in the foreshore. Tete Karmin followed the rope all the way out to the glass bottom boat moored next to a bright blue buoy.

His eyesight followed the coast down as far as the horizon to where the small huts of the village near the Amok temple could be seen.

He turned to the pool area where a group of children were playing in the shallow end with their plastic goggles and snorkels.

Tete Karmin had already forgotten about Naya who was waiting in the top car park with the other drivers in hope of a passenger back to town.

After a few cigarettes, his next passenger arrived. Naya immediately took the bags from the man and loaded the van. He was handed a note with an address. It was the Amok temple. The stranger looked at him with a blank stare. Naya nodded back and said, "Okay."

They drove away in silence with the foreigner sitting in the back. Naya adjusted the cabin's air conditioning for he knew foreigners found it hot.

At the top of the volcano, near the pass, he was stopped by the Polisi. As usual he was asked to get out of the vehicle and show his license.

He was told to hand over a considerable bribe to keep going, almost half of what he had gotten from Tete Karmin. He saw the officer was young. He guessed not too long out of training. Other cars and vans were being stopped and inspected.

By the time he got back to his van he could see his passenger was getting very agitated and in his ugly sounding voice started pointing to his watch. In his most humbling posture he said, "Bad men, too much money I pay."

His passenger uttered a word which he hadn't heard before.

The passenger held out a few notes and asked, "How much?"

Naya laughed and rocked his head back saying, "Oh, up to you."

The passenger was puzzled. "Surely there is a set price for paying them. How much did you give them?" Naya smiled again and looked away, "Up to you."

Bewildered, the man handed over a lump of notes. Naya ended up with twice the amount he had given the Polisi. They continued their journey without stopping at his favourite restaurant.

In the temple car park, Naya saw the raging torrent of life flow past. His inability to halt proceedings to catch his breath and make some sort of sense of it all was causing a well of frustration to bubble to the surface. Everyone else seemed happy and had money, whereas he lived from scam to scam, always on the lookout for an easy target.

He scratched his arm as the passenger assembled his belongings. The foreigner faced him and pointed at his arm. He leant over and asked, "What happened?"

To which Naya answered, "Big fire."

The foreigner took off his sunglasses and inspected his arm which made Naya feel self-conscious. He covered it with his other hand, but the foreigner shook his head and motioned to leave his arm in clear view.

"Doktor," he said, pointing to his chest. The Doktor looked at the arm. Whatever had happened had done so quickly and intensely. The flesh had been seared to the bone, in one section from the wrist to the elbow. There had been no grafting of the skin. This had healed on its own, slowly and painful and where the skin had stretched to cover the gaping wound was still visible.

As the foreigner continued to look at his arm, Naya thought of his daughter and cursed Amok for her indolence. After some time, the passenger simply picked up his bags and walked into the crowd.

Naya made sure his money was tightly rolled up in his jeans pocket and took the necklace and picture of his daughter off the rear vision mirror.

He walked up the heavily worn stone steps past the monkeys that ran around the entrance with their tiny ugly sinewy hands held out for scraps.

A group of fat young whiteys stood at the entrance taking photos in front of the statues that protected Amok from the other lecherous deities. He scowled as he passed them knowing the statues were actually demons that had been squeezed through the tear in the sky to return to the living as punishment for trying to ravage Amok and her maidens.

Foreigners thought the statues were proud heroic protectors whereas in the mythology the punished demons were placed on show to remind all that the tear in the sky could be a two way path.

One of the shrieking girls thrust a camera in front of him, squawking in some painful disgraceful voice. He hated their non-observance of only speaking when necessary. Their constant yelling and talking was completely at odds with the sacraments of silence and humility.

As they continued to laugh and scream, he bowed and smiled, uttering the most degrading profanities in his native village tongue. Oblivious to what Naya was doing, they cavorted and hugged each other as he deliberately took out of focus pictures of their torsos and feet, with the occasional head missing for good measure.

A few of the girls had bought bananas from a stall to feed the monkeys and as he took pictures the girls bent down offering pieces of the fruit to the little rascals.

Naya stopped taking pictures and motioned for the girls to tease the monkeys, giving them the impression it would be fun to watch, knowing all too well how the cranky the little creatures could get.

It didn't take long for one of the monkeys to reach up and try to grab a banana and when the girls continued to tease them, Naya motioned for them to hold the fruit above their heads while he continued to take pictures which the girls thought hilarious, unaware of the older monkeys sitting above them in the trees.

One such older monkey, twice the size of the puny specimens that clung to the statue walls, launched himself onto the head of one of the girls, scratching her scalp and face, while grabbing the banana and fleeing up the path. Yelling and screaming, the other girls surrounded their companion while a few locals looked on with disapproval at the unwelcomed public display of hysteria.

As he had anticipated, a crowd soon converged, which allowed Naya to slink away unnoticed with the camera. Further along the path he was joined by a group of priests entering the temple. Their slow procession was accompanied by bells, cymbals and the toll of a droning single drum which brought his thoughts into focus.

He joined the back of the procession only halting to remove his sandals and to gather up some incense sticks. Inside the outer chamber he lit the incense and kneeled in front of one of Amok's sisters.

It was respectful to pray in front of her sisters before entering the inner chamber to present yourself to Amok. After a few minutes in front of each sister, he moved quietly and slowly with the crowd further inside the temple.

Seeing her blissful smile always brought tears to his eyes. She was so beautiful and would have been a gorgeous bride, he thought. 'How wasteful her bodily treasures were.'

He knelt to the side as the chamber was full. He could see the outline of her curved stomach. Her short thick thighs were wrapped in silk and lace. Her half exposed chest represented her nurturing quality.

"The world could feed from her breast," was one of the chants the crowd murmured.

In silence, each prostrate figure watched his mind and tried to bring his breathing under control. Naya's thoughts floated around his children, the foreigner he had picked up and the return trip without being caught by the Polisi and occasionally he thought of Amok's naked figure and what mischief he could bestow on her.

The incense smoke billowed into the wooden rafters, the occasional spray of sunlight smiled from above and the dull ache of his legs reminded him of the drive ahead so after a respectful amount of time he bowed one last time and headed out of the temple.

Outside he shielded his eyes from the sun and retrieved the camera and his sandals. At the back of the temple he approached one of the market stall owners to haggle the sale of the camera. It was a new one so after taking into account the wholesale discount he pocketed enough money to have made the fracas worthwhile.

It was with a sense of glee that he wondered if the girls that he had stolen it from would discover it again as they sifted through the crowded market.

Back in the car, he touched the trinket of Amok and kissed the picture of his daughter hanging from the rear vision mirror.

Tral took his time preparing the day's lesson. He washed his face in the same bowl he had used every morning for as long as he could remember.

He'd been up before the sun rose, feeding the chickens and sweeping the dirt around the hut. He looked at the embers from the night before and used them to start a fire in the kitchen hearth.

He placed a large metal container over the fire and filled it with water. The girls would be up soon and would place vegetables in it to make a broth that would simmer all day for whoever needed it.

He was looking forward to his main duty today, he always looked forward to it, for he was about to tell the youngest in the village of his favourite part of their heritage, the story of the birds.

After making sure the fire was well on its way, he secured the roosters under their woven baskets and left the door open. He looked up to see the side of the volcano that stood over the village. The volcano was a constant presence in their lives. Many trails had been cleared up its slope to collect firewood and channels dug to guide rain down into the fields that surrounded the compound.

He called out to his neighbour as he was walking down the shared path. He wished him good luck and hoped to see him that night for some Draka.

His neighbour touched his cloth cap and readjusted his digging pole which had a small bunch of bananas and a couple of green papayas attached to it.

Tral checked the herbs growing at the back of the communal wash area and reminded himself to pick some of the flowers and give them some water later on before it got too hot.

His family were in different stages of waking up. A couple of his grandchildren ran out of their hut to greet him. He hoisted them up in each arm, laughed and squeezed them, for even at his age his wiry frame held energy and strength from decades of working in the fields.

If it had been a school day they would be getting ready for the hour long walk up the road but today was one of the days the children stayed home.

The morning would be spent doing chores and when it started to get too hot the children would congregate in the communal hut to hear stories of their ancestry. It was here that the village children learnt about the past and the rituals that were kept alive by the elders.

The old man scooted the younger ones away and went to his eldest son's hut to see if he was up yet. He knocked on the door and waited for a sign that someone was awake. Hearing none, he walked along the path that intersected the huts. Geese, ducks and chickens roamed around with the occasional dog resting in the shade.

He saw his youngest son at the end of the lane talking to a man he didn't know. They seemed to be gesticulating and he could hear his son's voice arguing about something.

He started to walk closer but when his son saw him he quickly waved the man away and walked back along the path towards him.

"Who was that?" Tral asked.

"No one, you wouldn't know him." The old man watched his son walk away. He looked down the path but the man had disappeared. Thinking no more of it, he went back towards the compound looking for anyone who might want a hand doing something but he was getting hot so he decided to head for the cool spring water that ran at this time down the slope across the fields and into the sea.

After a few hundred yards and after eating a couple of low-hanging bananas he reached the creek and stopped on a rock in the shade. He listened to the sound of the water with such intent that it started up a melody in his head. With birds squawking in the distance and the buzz of insects nearby, pretty soon he had a delightful tune going round his head entirely made from the sounds around him.

As he watched the water flow around rocks and lap onto the muddy edge he made no distinction between what he saw, what he heard and what he smelled. It all combined to form a view of the world.

Tral was content to just sit and observe whatever happened around him. He wasn't concerned with what his family were doing, how much money he had or what job needed his attention in the village. He was entirely consumed by the moment and when each moment passed, another came along and soon enough there was no barrier between each moment until there were no moments at all.

This went on until he saw something reflecting light in the water. He strained his eyes to get a better look but the water was flowing too fast. He started wading through the shallows until he was standing over it. It looked like a child's toy. He reached through the water and found it to be small, hard and cold.

When he brought it to his eyes he saw it was a small blue van. Tral was disgusted that a toy was left in the water to rust and pollute his creek. He tried to remember if he had seen any of the children playing with such a toy, then he realised there was something very odd about it. First it was the colour; a deep sky blue. It was different to the toys he normally saw, and then it dawned on him. It was the newness of it, shiny and scratch-free.

The toy reminded Tral of the vans he sometimes saw in town that carried foreigners up and down the coast to the diving centres. He held the toy trying to figure out what to do with it. The longer he stared at it the more it puzzled him. He carried it back still wondering how one of the children could have acquired such an expensive toy.

Men were walking to the fields, carrying implements and food. Their worn sandals slapped on the wet ground. He nodded and smiled at those who passed him. Back at the compound he checked the roosters again to make sure they had water and feed.

The communal hut had been built when he was a young boy. It was central to village life and was used every day for ceremonies, meetings, teaching children and as a temporary shelter for anyone having their hut repaired.

Over time, additions and repairs were carried out, so now the complex contained a separate toilet, washing areas, a large kitchen and storage compartments for ceremonial robes and the various components needed to keep the temple offerings fully stocked.

Today he would be taking centre stage. Tral prepared himself by collecting some fresh water for a quick wash in the laundry behind the hall. He placed on his orange robe. He was the only one entitled to wear it and went into the main hall and waited.

There were no doors, windows or walls. The roof curved downwards and then slightly upwards so the rain was directed away. The wooden floor was raised on supports that let plenty of air in underneath. This forced hot air upwards and along the ceiling creating a natural ventilation system.

The design of the hut had evolved naturally over generations, in much the same way as all the other skills had been acquired, such as what herbs to eat, when to plant vegetables and how to direct the rain flowing down the volcano into the compound's well.

Children began to arrive. They went up to the old man and bowed in front of him while he patted their heads. This was an ancient greeting which re-enforced that they were good children.

Thoughts were not considered bad or good, in fact they weren't considered anything. Their cause and effect were treated with disdain and indifference. Feelings were considered far more worthy of attention. Encouraging children to ignore thoughts and embrace feelings was not seen as a safeguard to protect them from bad feelings but as a reminder to explore all feelings and to discover what they meant to each individual.

The old man counted his class for the day and decided he would wait awhile. The children sat happily; talking occasionally but generally smiling and playing with each other's hair or holding hands. There was no need for the old man to demand silence or administrate any discipline, for these children had seen enough summers to understand the way of things. When a few late stragglers joined the class and took their place he began.

Tral spoke in the traditional dialect of the area which contained many words that could not be translated into any other language because the root of the word and the meaning were inherent to the area so that anyone else would have either no geographical or social reference in understanding what was being said.

Tral began with a traditional prayer that thanked their ancestors for all that they had done to create the village and wished them well in their journey past the tear in the sky.

Tral emphasised that when one of them passed on from this life that the tear in the sky was not a destination but an experience, a constant awakening, an unfolding.

When the ceremonial duties had been performed he loosened his robe and adjusted his position on the grass mat in front of them.

"Traditionally, birds are the seers of all things. They command the best view of life and are the early warning signs, so it is known that when a tear in the sky occurs, they will be the first to see it, so they are important and must be cared for and protected. The birds come and go as they want. The wind carries them over the sea to find food and then to come back to nurture their young. This has always been but maybe not forever. We have seen a change with the birds. Now it looks like other birds may have found our paradise. Different types of birds are arriving looking for the same things, food and shelter, just like you look for your family every day when you come home. Now some people don't want these other birds to come here, while others say they have noticed less and less of our birds coming back, while others say it's because of the foreigners and their rubbish and their diving centres. Others disagree and say something has happened over the water on other islands that are keeping our birds there, while others say other birds have been driven off other islands. All these discussions are taking place.

The question is what do we make of all this nonsense and noise, how do we treat the other birds. Some are obsessed with getting rid of them, while others don't believe there's a problem, just part of the natural flow of things. The Council has been taking measures, to basically destroy them.

Some birds with too much in-breeding are unstable, ugly and sometimes aggressive. They disappear for the winter into holes in the high rocky peaks. In spring they become a menace as they search for food in plague proportions.

The discussions are hindering our link to the tear in the sky as the Night Watchers can't fill all the gaps with such random and unproductive noise.

Imagine if you were a bird swooping in the air looking for fish and trying to find your way back with all this incessant chatter, no wonder some don't come back."

The children laughed at his joke and he let their laughter naturally subside.

"So what do we do?" He left the question open, for there was no answer, like everything else it would eventually unfold.

"The birds see everything at once and have a sense of their place in the world."

One of the children asked what the tear in the sky looked like. The old man smiled for in their language the word 'tear' represented both a ripping motion and the swelling of fluid in the eyes, for it is known that when it occurs it is like the sky crying as it has been penetrated and needs the Night Watchers to fill the gap as quickly as possible.

"When the sky is sad, we will all know about it. Don't worry it is always fixed." The child looked confused as the distinction was lost for the moment.

The old man patted the child on the head and brought out the blue van from the folds of cloth and placed it on the ground and watched every pair of eyes. He was looking for the one set of eyes that looked downwards but only found eyes full of amazement. Fingers started pointing and questions were asked. He knew none of these children had seen the toy before.

The clouds were wispy and floating, almost still. The sun was beyond its peak in the sky. The hills were dark and the volcano had a dusty tinge above the green of the forest. The ocean below was calm, deep blue and motioning like a heartbeat. Fishing craft were specks in the distance.

Swirls of undercurrent arrived and left with no warning or explanation, so adjustments had to be made carefully, instinctively. Birds circled in small arcs, looking for dark changes in the water and inconsistent splashes.

A constant vigil was held to remain not too far from land in case of an emergency or the onset of tiredness. There was a constant tension between using up too much energy when going higher in the sky balanced by the ease of having more updraft to glide.

The view was comprehensive; almost the complete horizon. Keeping a bearing was easy with all the reference points in constant view. Hunger was ever present, and no matter how many fish were caught and brought back, the energy required to keep in the air was all consuming.

The need for fuel was constant. In between dives for fish there were long lapses where nothing occurred but an endless surveillance of the ocean for land and fish.

The wind was the closest element. It provided support, warned of a drop in pressure and chattered away in close proximity like a travelling companion. All this could go on for hours, day upon day, week after week.

There was no conscious thought, not even an awareness. Flight simply was for its own sake until a blinding light poured through a tear in the sky and all was blurred and nothing existed.

Tete Karmin sat at one of the wooden benches looking out over the ocean. Children were playing in the pool with a duck and her ducklings. He took a sip of his beer as the girls in the restaurant took orders from the lunch time crowd.

Tete Karmin was tired and not looking forward to the task ahead. There would be many people to find and talk to. He did not know the area and would be heavily reliant on the local drivers to get him around.

"Excuse me Sir." Tete Karmin turned to see one of the young waitresses holding a piece of paper. On it was written; meet at the front gate in thirty minutes. It was signed A. Preddes.

"Thank you," Tete Karmin said as the girl smiled and backed away. Then she turned around and said, "Another drink?"

"Yes please."

After Naya had left, Tete Karmin had gone to his bungalow to unpack and freshen up. After sorting out his belongings and placing his notes and case file on the desk, he showered and changed clothes. Standing at the entrance to his bungalow he looked out along the crystal still water. The sun was high in the sky and a gentle breeze flowed through the tree tops. To his left he could see a vacant field with a few caramel coloured cows grazing at grass growing from the base of rocks. Further along he saw a large wall made out of an assortment of local rocks. Just visible over the wall were three roofs with terracotta tiles. In the distance, were the bamboo towers he had enquired about upon arriving. As his glasses were for reading they were of no assistance in making out what the structure was.

There was a peacefulness that invaded him as stood there taking in the view. For a few moments he forgot why he was there. The problems of his office slipped away down the rocky slopes. The ocean invited him to pause and breathe again. The rhythm of the rural setting suited him while a gnawing feeling of unrest curled up to sleep. He was brought back from his contemplative state by a loud noise. A truck had emptied its load of rock to the side of his bungalow. He watched as the rubble slid and rolled down a gully.

Still holding the piece of paper, Tete Karmin looked at the people in the restaurant and around the pool area. He counted at least five different languages being spoken, none of which made any sense to him.

He wondered where they had all come from, and what their homelands looked like. Were they that different from his island? Did they want and have the same things that he had?

He looked at the clock on the wall. He still had time so he went to the bar and asked if there were many drivers available.

The boy behind the bar nodded and pointed towards a notice board at the back of the seating area. Upon it were addresses and phone numbers of people offering everything from massages, diving lessons and transport. He made a mental note to ring one of them in the morning.

After finishing his beer, he slowly walked up the sloping pathway towards the bungalows admiring and savouring the manicured lawns, the beautiful flowers and the strategically placed black volcanic rocks which adorned the terraced gardens that acted as guides as the pathway circulated around them.

At the car park, he waited. People on motor cycles went up and down the dusty road. The volcano could be seen poking through a layer of cloud.

At the end of the road he could see a few stalls set up selling water, petrol and light refreshments. People were congregating under the shade of tall trees lining the lane.

Tete Karmin wondered if anyone of them knew the children that had died, and if any of them were involved. In such idyllic surroundings, he wondered how such horrendous acts of violence could happen.

His musings were disturbed by the sound of a gate being opened further up the lane. The groundsman was securing the two wooden gates and waited for a large four wheel drive vehicle to exit the compound and enter the lane.

Tete Karmin surmised there wasn't going to be much room for anything else on the dirt track. As he watched the vehicle slowly drive down the slope, another small vehicle came the other way. It was obvious something was to give.

The four wheel drive bounced and slid down the loose gravel and continued towards him. The other vehicle slowed and moved aside, surrendering its position.

As the larger vehicle drew closer, Tete Karmin pondered the acceptance that something larger would always win out, or was it because it was foreign?

These thoughts crept undercover as the vehicle stopped outside the entrance to the bungalows. The tall bald man who had greeted him earlier got out of the car, only this time he wasn't sweating and wasn't dressed like a local. He had a bright well-ironed shirt, tailored shorts and boating loafers.

"Hi. I'm Austen," he said.

"Thanks for meeting me," Tete Karmin replied.

"Shall we go for a drive?"

Tete Karmin climbed into the spacious air conditioned cabin.

"I thought we would go for a bit of a drive and stop off for a few drinks. I'm meeting some friends later, maybe you could join us for dinner?"

Tete Karmin thought for a moment before deciding. He really wanted to relax by the pool and enjoy a quite dinner before working on interviewing people tomorrow.

"Will it take long?" he asked.

"To get there you mean? Not really, maybe half an hour. I can get someone to drive you back whenever you want."

Tete Karmin felt reassured so settled back to enjoy the ride. He watched the occasional car go by but the traffic consisted mostly of young people riding motor bikes.

"Bloody mosquitos!" his host remarked.

Tete Karmin didn't react as he was used too much heavier traffic.

"Rotten business that eh?" he said.

"Excuse me?" Tete Karmin asked.

"The reason you are here!"

Tete Karmin considered his reply before answering. "It came as a shock to me that such brutal crimes could occur in such idyllic surrounds." Tete Karmin swept his hand in front of him to indicate the countryside they were travelling through.

"Don't let these people fool you with their ceremonies and beguiling smiles and supplication. Especially the women! They pray to their ancestors one minute and then turn on you if they smell money."

Tete Karmin thought hard about what he had said, trying to assimilate it to his own experience.

At first he assumed it was just another whitey view, but the intent in his voice made him question his own beliefs based on years of experience. He made a mental note to re-visit his comments at a later date, and for the time being concentrated on this bear of a man who was barrelling down the road with scant regard for other vehicles.

"People make the mistake that they want us here, they don't. The money we bring is an added bonus, but it's not what they want."

Tete Karmin leant forward waiting for more information, but none was forthcoming.

Kiane operated a restaurant situated in the hills between the coast and the volcano. It was a well-known destination for whiteys, and they came from many islands across the sea.

Many shops and businesses had sprung up in the wake of the money brought into the area. Souvenir shops, native art and craft stalls and the biggest open air market on the island prospered. There were bars and cafes all along the main road that wound its way up across and down the mountain. There was also a large emporium nearby selling furniture, trinkets and local art pieces which were purchased from the local craftsmen and then sold at exorbitant prices to unsuspecting tourists.

There were clusters of bungalows being developed along the ridges of the mountains surrounding the town. Property developers paid large amounts of money to ensure their projects were approved quickly and that contractors were secured for long periods of time without interruption.

This had the consequence of many villages in the surrounding area falling behind in their own maintenance work and with so many men away, more responsibility to keep the daily functioning of the villages fell to the women.

Kiane had many Council officials in her pocket so developments to her businesses could be passed through the normally complicated and bureaucratic machinations quickly and with a minimum of fuss.

The main attraction for whiteys at Kiane's place was the 'Sports Bar' with its semi-clad girls serving drinks who themselves drank on the job and were sometimes drunker than the patrons.

Many a night the patrons served themselves drinks while the girls slouched on the couches. The staff were locals who had to work ridiculous long hours and sometimes six or seven days in a row. Many had to leave their sick children at home while they worked.

"Here we are," Austen announced. Tete Karmin had been enjoying the drive so he was almost disappointed in having to stop.

The car was parked on the side of the road, but due to its size took up half the lane so other vehicles had to slow down to go round it causing the oncoming traffic to halt, but none of this seemed to bother Austen.

Tete Karmin followed his slow ambling gate up the front steps and around the veranda until they reached a large glass door. Inside they was greeted by a chorus of men all sitting on stools next to waist high round tables.

Television screens seemed to be everywhere, hung from the ceiling and on walls displaying all manners of different sports from around the world.

Tete Karmin was overwhelmed. He couldn't comprehend what all the different coloured uniforms meant and what they were doing with brown, white, large and small balls.

"Austen, you old fart, where the hell have you been?" one similar-sounding man said as he patted him on the back. To Tete Karmin's surprise his host ignored most of them and headed for a wooden door to the side of one of the bars, so he followed.

Inside the ante-chamber, were large chesterfield lounges with a few men dressed in shorts and shirts watching a large screen that dominated the room.

The men in the smaller room hardly acknowledged them, although Tete Karmin's presence did engage one or two inquisitive stares.

He was asked to sit and a girl came up with menus to take their order.

"What would you like? The first one is on the house."

Tete Karmin was more hungry than thirsty. "Just some water please."

"Thanks for driving me here. It was very kind of you. It's a lovely part of the island; I haven't spent much time up here."

"It's still got some of its original charm, but for how long, isn't easy to say." Austen took a long hard look at Tete Karmin. He hadn't had a lot to do with Councillors. He wanted to get him on his own turf to sort him out and see what kind of a man he was.

"Take a look around you," he continued. "Tell me what you see?"

Tete Karmin sat back and slowly took in the view of the room.

"I see a prosperous business with a lot of staff and wealthy foreign patrons." Austen laughed and leant over to pat his knee.

"Exactly. People come here to experience the exotic, but with enough familiar creature comforts to cocoon them from the reality of paradise. But the question is, how long is this sustainable? You would know of the 'fairy tales' they believe in here. Night Watchers,Amok and the like. It keeps them in line, gives them purpose and leaves the rest to us, ha ha."

Tete Karmin couldn't help feeling he was being tested. He watched his host carefully. Every now and then he caught Austen looking at him from the corner of his eye, as if he was summing him up, fishing for his stance.

Tete Karmn had interviewed and watched so many people over the years that he knew the triggers and the signs. Make them feel comfortable, applaud their intelligence and humour them.

"The fairy tales, as you call them, have another function." Tete Karmin smiled as the water was served.

"Oh really, pray do tell."

Tete Karmin rested his glass slowly on the table. "It gives them authenticity." He let his words sink in and by the look on Austen's face had the desired effect.

"You see, the people on this island are like the wrecks that bring the tourists here. They sit on the bottom supporting the whole enterprise while the foreigners swim and frolic above, but the wrecks will be here long after the last foreigner has gone." Tete Karmin sensed a shift in mood. Austen looked deep into his eyes.

"Tell me, you're not completely 'local' are you?"

"I see you've uncovered my secret. Not exactly. My parents were born here, but I was orphaned at an early age and sent away to live with my grandparents. They travelled a lot, so I was exposed to, how you say, other cultures."

"So what do you want to know?" Austen asked.

"I want to find out what happened to those children," Tete Karmin answered.

"Yes, a terrible tragedy. Incidents like that are rare but they do happen. Village life is complicated. Things happen that we don't necessarily understand." Austen spoke with a resolute confidence.

"But surely, a crime such as this cuts across any regional peculiarities. They were butchered and the parents need to know what happen so they can bury them according to their customs, and to get some sort of reason why it happened. They can't go to their own graves with it unresolved. It would be a never-ending torture," Tete Karmin spoke with intense passion.

"Of course. So how can I help?"

"You are well known in the area. I believe you have great respect and people will listen to you. I want to talk to everyone who knew the family and who was in the area at the time. I need a place where all these people can come to where I can record what they say."

"The village has a communal hall. I could ask Tral if you could use it. It would keep about fifty people out of the sun all day. When did you want to start?"

"Tomorrow if possible?"

"First thing in the morning, I'll send word to Tral. The staff can help you find a driver."

"Thank you. That will be a great help. There's also the problem of getting to everyone in a short space of time. How do I contact so many people?" Tete Karmin asked.

"I'll send messages out with my drivers and some of the staff who live in the vicinity."

"Any help would be greatly appreciated."

"Good. Are we done then? Can we eat now?" Austen laughed as he summoned a waitress.

As they ate, Tete Karmin watched Austen hold centre court. Men came to their table as if to pay their respects. They bought him drinks and women flirted with him. The waitresses were bought drinks and soon some of them were slipping over and cavorting with the patrons.

Tete Karmin was mindful of getting back in a reasonable time so he could get an early start, but the longer he stayed the more fascinated he was with watching the interaction.

"So Austen, you have to meet my girlfriend. She would love your wife, she's beautiful as well." Tete Karmin listened as one of the men continued his drunken rant. He'd been introduced to him as the owner of the large emporium that sold traditional furniture. Tete Karmin was intrigued that everyone he met was introduced by what they did.

"I met her on Komali Island the other week. We were playing golf and she was working the bar and there was this connection that I couldn't resist. Each day after work, we go for a swim then have dinner. I'm organising for her to come over permanently. I have to tee it up with the parents first, it's going to cost more than a couple of pigs." With that the man started laughing.

Tete Karmin looked at the young woman in question who was looking down at her drink. She was dressed in the finest clothes, wore make up and nodded a lot but she had a look of distant mistrust, similar to the waitresses who put up with unsolicited attention as they counted the hours to the end of their shifts.

Other men walked around the hotel drinking, ordering food and watching sport on television. At one point Tete Karmin walked to the bar to order more drinks. As Austen was pre-occupied with some business he took the opportunity to sit up on one of the high bar stools to watch the proceedings. He noticed how comfortable the bar stools were. They were wide enough to recline in with thick large padded seats. He was admiring them when the owner of the emporium walked by with a handful of drinks.

"Good chairs aren't they?" he said.

Looking up quite startled, Tete Karmin replied, "Why yes, I was just admiring how comfortable and solid they are."

"Buy one then. I can ship them anywhere."

Tete Karmin was too stunned to say anything. He felt embarrassed that his comments had been taken as an interest in purchasing a chair, when he had only been admiring the quality of the workmanship. It then dawned on him.

As he watched the man walk back to his table laden with drinks, swearing and shouting to his friends while his 'girl' sat in silence like a glittering prize on show, it became crystal clear, that the scene in front of him epitomised the relationship between these foreigners and the local way of life.

Tete Karmin had seen enough. He sought out his friend who was deep in conversation. He acknowledged his host with a wave of his hand and went out the front.

The sun was low in the sky and the sea breeze reminded him of the passing of moments. He stood looking out to the ocean, and with the volcano behind him presiding over the cars, hotel and bungalows, the activity he had just left behind seemed fleeting and inconsequential, which made him smile.

The next day Tete Karmin set out for the area in which the murders had occurred. He had found a driver the night before. Something about the way his host had ambushed him had made him want to plot his course of action on his own terms.

About an hour away from the coast the driver pulled into a laneway. They got out together and walked up a narrow path through what was basically jungle on both sides.

A few minutes into the walk a clearing opened up. Tete Karmin looked up to see the sun filtering through the thick foliage. Birds darted above them chirping away while the occasional monkey sat and twitched.

Up ahead a wall made of the same generic grey concrete blocks seen everywhere went along the path and then spilt into a maze of walls. As he walked the perimeter rows of clothes lines could be seen and the occasional dark face peered through a crack in a wooden door. Some dogs barked and a few chickens could be heard pecking and clucking.

As they went on more and more voices could be heard. He assumed his presence had been detected and word was travelling from hut to hut at the same speed as he was walking so by the time he reached the main gate there were already a couple of people to greet him.

He thanked the driver and made arrangements to be picked up later that night.

Tete Karmin was shown a small compound with three huts. In the middle was a courtyard. Tete Karmin was left alone and was told Tral would meet him soon.

Tete Karmin looked around. The compound had been deserted for some time. The area had been cleaned and isolated from the other huts. There was no clue or indication as to what had occurred there.

He walked around the small courtyard and peeked inside one of the huts. He sat on one of the verandas with his feet dangling over the edge. He leant back and placed his hands on the cold slippery polished tiles.

There was a solemn edge to the scene in front of him, but there was something else; an emptiness. A feeling of innocence lost, and with the inevitability of the passing of moments, Tete Karmin felt the pain and anguish of the parents. What surprised him though, was the distance he felt from it. He knew what had occurred had shaken the core of this village, but it hadn't destroyed it. He could hear people walking by, conversations continued, dogs barked. He looked to the sky. The sun had risen this day and would do so again.

He heard the gate open and saw an old man walk in. Tral greeted him and took him to the communal hall where he was offered water, food and an area to rest if needed.

Tete Karmin felt more relaxed in the village atmosphere. The people he was introduced to went to great lengths to ensure he was comfortable and wanted for nothing.

There was a complicated greeting protocol that everyone went through, and instead of finding it tiresome and a chore, Tete Karmin relished the avalanche of bowing, hugging and clasping of hands.

Tral helped him to set up a table and chair where he could interview the people who had been sent for.

A plate of papaya, banana and lime was placed beside him just as the first people started to arrive. Soon there was a queue of about thirty people with many more watching from the sides of the hall.

In a few hours he had filled his journal with notes detailing the names of people, where they lived and what they had seen in the days preceding the day in question.

Tral checked in a few times to see that all was going well. At a break for lunch the old monk sat down to talk after waving away a few inquisitive children.

"I hope our simple ways are not too displeasing."

Tete Karmin smiled. "Not at all, your generosity and hospitality is overwhelming. It has been far too long since I have ventured into the countryside. I now know what I have been missing."

Tete Karmin adhered to the traditional protocols of greeting elders with a series of platitudes. It was consistent with the village mind set of holding back your own wishes to ensure they felt more important.

"I almost forgot. I have something to show you. Now where did I leave it?" Tral pretended to be disorganised and slightly foolish. It was part of the protocol not to be seen as being too clever, especially in front of a man with such an important position.

Tete Karmin watched the old monk retrieve a shiny toy car from a bureau from the back of the hall near a small stage used for ceremonies.

"I found this in the creek."

"How puzzling?"

"I am sure it is not from here. You can see it's almost brand new, and not the sort of toy that you would normally find in any of the local stalls, and I would imagine it is far too expensive for any of the local children to afford."

Tete Karmin held the car in front of him carefully looking at it for any sign that it may be relevant. "May I keep this for a while? I will return it. You never know someone may recognise it."

"Most certainly," Tral answered.

At the end of the day, Tete Karmin sat at the desk in the hall. The children who had been watching him interview people had gone home for their evening meal. Tral was in the back room tidying up. He looked out over the compound as people retreated to their huts. The occasional dog barked and chickens were being herded into their pens.

A welcomed quietness settled over the compound with just the occasional motor bike in the distance. He rubbed his eyes and placed his glasses on top of the journal.

The sun was starting to edge its way under the awning. A dusty pink hue was beginning to bleed through the sky. How simple village life seemed. He thought of the hotel where he had been taken the day before. Would they be there again? Having the same conversations, while they flirted with the waitresses, who kept one eye on their glasses and the other out for a potential husband. How the two worlds had absorbed each other, and maybe that's how things are, maybe there is no ideal way. Was the romance of village life an illusion? Did the foreigners really represent evil and depravity? Aren't we all just the same in different clothes and different languages?

What did the two worlds want from each other? Tete Karmin remembered the young girl sitting at the table, all dressed up. Where did she fit in? It seemed they were all caught between two worlds. Wanting the peace, tradition and stability of village life, but yearning for the money, freedom and fun that the foreigners promised. Were the two mutually exclusive? Or were they part of the same pattern of life just broadcast on different frequencies?

Tete Karmin looked at his own situation. He knew deep down he wasn't a career bureaucrat. He had fallen into his life without wanting it. He wanted something else, but what?

Tete Karmin looked at his journal. Nothing had been revealed. He was no further advanced. He looked at the little blue van on the desk. It stood out; a foreign object at odds with the surroundings.

A feeling started to emerge as he pondered over things foreign in idyllic surrounds. He called out to Tral.

"Can you take me to where you found the toy?"

Tral re-entered the hall, wiping his hands. He peered down and across the top of his glasses. Looking slightly puzzled, he took his time in answering.

"The little van you mean? Most certainly. Would you like to go now? We can make it before the sun sets."

"Yes please."

The two men gathered their belongings and walked out of the compound. Tete Karmin felt comfortable in the presence of the old monk. He saw a gentle proud man who had not lost the pleasure and joy in life.

"You seem happy, dare I say at peace with yourself," Tete Karmin said.

"I have no choice, it is all around. How could I not be happy with where I am, for what is the choice I have? There is no choice between happiness and sadness, they are folly. There is only what is." Tral looked at Tete Karmin to see if he understood.

They continued along the path in silence until they came to a clearing on the side of a ridge.

"Look around you. The ocean, the sky, people going to and from the fields. This is what should be. Anything else is to be tolerated but not venerated. In the end time captures everything, and we will all disappear, so what is this is no different to what is that."

Tral spoke as if to himself but out aloud. He was not concerned if his companion understood or not, for he knew his words could not describe the feelings he felt when he looked at the sun or the stars.

"Do you know what will happen when the sun decides not to come up again?" Tral walked on leaving Tete Karmin unable to answer.

A short distance away they came across a creek. Tral looked for his favourite place to cross. Upon entering the water Tete Karmin was surprised to feel how cool it was, but more than that, the water passing over his feet seemed to have a certain texture not experienced before.

As if picking up on this, Tral said, "The water will look after you, and if you are silent and watchful will teach you many valuable things."

On the other side, Tral looked up and down the bank and then zeroing in on a particular knoll of grassy weeds motioned for them to descend.

Tete Karmin noticed how nimble and agile the old monk was, he was certain of the terrain and obviously knew the area backwards, but there was a certain fleetness of mind and body that seemed in harmony that Tete Karmin found reassuring.

"Here!" Tral said with a degree of surety. He reached down to touch the water. "I found it right here."

Tete Karmin stepped forward and peered into the clear running water. He then looked up and down the bank.

"Can I have the toy?" Tral handed over the blue van.

"Thank you," Tete Karmin said, gently lowering the toy into the water. Tral peered forward and looked confused.

"It doesn't float," Tete Karmin said. "It wasn't brought here by the water."

Tral smiled. "Whoever had it, dropped it here," Tral said, happy he had contributed to the investigation.

"Yes, but why did they leave it?" Tete Karmin walked up the bank and along the ridge. He stopped as the bank continued as far as the eye could see.

"It wasn't dirty or rusted when you found it. I mean, you didn't clean it at all?"

"No." Tral looked even more confused.

"Then it wasn't here long before you found it."

Tete Karmin looked in the direction the creek was flowing from. "What's behind that over there?" He pointed to a clump of trees sticking out from the bank.

"Just more fields," Tral answered.

Tete Karmin retraced their steps along the bank of the creek but instead of going up the ridge waded through the water around the trees and onto dry land again.

When Tral joined him, Tete Karmin let out a sigh. There was nothing else but fields just as Tral had described.

"There's something about this that is bothering me."

Tete Karmin held up the van. It shone in the sunlight. It was the same colour as the sky. He looked at it from all sides. The van was well made. It had rubber tyres, tiny passenger doors and a sliding door along the side with a handle.

He pinched the sliding door handle between two finger nails. There was something inside. He shook the van but he couldn't dislodge it. He looked around for something to prise it from the van.

Tral peered inside the small van. The two men looked at each other. They were in shock as to what they saw.

"It looks like a tooth."

"Yes, but a very small one, a child's tooth."

Tete Karmin held the van close to his eyes.The tooth was shiny, almost glossy. He racked his brain, trying to remember if there was any mention of one of the victims missing a tooth.

Tral felt sad at the waste of a young life. "This is not good."

Tete Karmin was still deep in thought, and didn't pick up upon Tral's concern. Tral knew that when a disturbance manifested the consequences could be irretrievable, but he was reluctant to share this.

Finding a small sharp stick, Tete Karmin, after a few attempts, managed to free the tooth from the van.

"Someone wanted us to find this," Tete Karmin said.

It was too unfathomable for Tral to contemplate. His world was straight forward. He had little experience of clues, sub-texts or mysteries.

Tete Karmin looked around. His instincts told him to investigate further. He walked away from the creek towards some trees. The landscape changed the further he walked. Low lying tangled branches and tree stumps gave way to more dense jungle.

It was getting darker and Tete Karmin knew the fading light was going to make it increasingly more difficult to search the area.

Tral, to his credit was still following. His progress was slower as he contended with detangling his robes and his sandals slipping on the moist undergrowth.

Just as Tete Karmin was about to give up, he noticed a small structure, half buried in the jungle. He approached it carefully. Tral recognised the half exposed clay bricks first.

"An old Maka. I haven't seen one of those for such a long time," he said.

Tete Karmin looked at him as Tral approached. He started clearing some of the tangled weeds away. "Be careful, snakes often live in these abandoned gates."

"Gates?" Tete Karmin asked.

"That's what we used to call them."

"Gates to what?"

Tral took his time in answering. "It's hard to explain. You have to remember they were made at a time when things were different, when the old stories meant something."

Tete Karmin was well trained in being patient. "Go on," he said quietly.

Tral sat down on the side of the wall which was only waist high. "Long ago the elders, I guess like me, used to dig a hole, a tunnel if you like, for the Night Watchers to move through. Over time, they made them into shrines. Sometimes they dug until they found water and then the well would become a sacred site."

Tete Karmin sat on his haunches and peered into the dark. He looked overhead, it was almost dark. "We should head back."

They retraced their steps, both deep in thought but at different ends of the spectrum. Tral was fully immersed in the world that was to be shortly supported by the ancient keepers of the night whereas Tete Karmin was deductively processing all the information he had read and observed. He was making lots of mental notes hoping he wouldn't forget any important details. When he had exhausted all the avenues of reasoning, and knew there was no point in continuing, he turned to Tral as they approached the village compound and said,

"Thank you."

Tral bowed his head and acknowledged the appreciation that Tete Karmin was bestowing, but what Tral couldn't know was the depth of his gratitude for it went past simply being indebted to the old monk for his assistance and willingness to patiently answer his questions and walk all the way to the creek through the jungle. It was for being given an insight into another world, to experience the layers of belief and heritage that supported the strength of village life.

Years of being educated and working in larger towns consumed by materialism and getting ahead in the world had distanced himself from the essence of life and being aware of the passing of moments.

Back in his bungalow, after a light meal, Tete Karmin wrote long into the night. He knew he had to go back to the 'gates' that Tral had described and investigate the well.

The air inside the temple was cool. The pace of people walking slowed as they took incense sticks out of the holders just inside the entrance. Monks wandered in and around the crowd, smiling, gently touching each other on the forearm.

The clothes felt clean and soft. As she walked there was a slight ruffling sound. Her new sandals were stiff and made her conscious of slipping over.

Her mission was to find a space near the statue so she could pray and silently talk to Amok. Holding her incense she waited behind some people who had congregated to the side of the statue. Inch by inch she made her way towards the front, never too eager, always letting someone else go first. She took her time for she was in no rush.

Eventually her time had come and she was where she needed to be. She knelt down, still not having looked up. With the incense now burnt halfway down she planted her sticks in the softly raked sand in front of her. She bowed till her forehead was on the ground. She offered herself to the passing of moments in complete supplication. She had been worn down physically but her reaction had been the more she suffered the more her resolve continued to grow, so that her intent had outlasted her desire. Her mind was like the wind, her emotional resolve like bamboo.

Staring at the ground she could not offer up anymore of herself. She looked up slowly, first seeing the ancient carved wooden seat, then the hem of the flowing robes. A few toes sticking out from the beautifully carved stone robe, then the outline of her legs and torso. With every passing moment her emotional resolve buckled as a gorgeous shroud of bliss enveloped her.

A naked breast stood proud and then her neck. She closed her eyes and asked permission to see the beauty that was so famous.

A restless feeling came from somewhere unknown. Its origin confused her as it was not part of the plan.

A simple stare greeted her. The eyes of Amok were blank, for what she saw was a statue. There was no connection, no harmonious chorus of redemption.

She sat in silence until she was aware of movement and some disgruntled conversation beside her. She turned around to see a group of foreigners frowning and pointing at her. They were anxious to take photos and in their minds the old woman was taking too long to move.

She gathered up her robes and stood up taking another look at the statue. She felt frustrated at not being able to cry. At the door was a collection box. She placed the money that Tete Karmin had given her into the small slot. Not all of it would fit at once so she had to make two attempts. As the notes passed from her hand she prayed and hoped others less fortunate than her would benefit.

With no hope of ever seeing her daughter again and with no resolution gained from visiting Amok, it was clear in her mind that there was no point in living for another day.

She walked out of the temple and into the heat and bustle of the marketplace. What she saw was the passing of moments but with too many people too busy to notice.

Long after the last person had left the temple, she sat alone looking into a pool of deep water. It was dark, too dark to see her reflection. There was a blissful serenity to the silence. The absence of people gave her space to breathe. The air was warm. The water trickled out of the spring and filled the many pools that made up the public bathing area.

Staring into the pool reminded her of that day she decided to leave the village with her daughter. The movement of water reminded her that life moves along.

There was a stillness in her mind that saw the inevitability of it all. The frustration she felt before inside the temple and the lack of any feeling of atonement had somewhat dissolved.

What she now saw was a choice between defeat and nothingness, for if there was nothing to be gained from anything then none of it was her fault.

If Amok was simply a statue with no relevance, and the oceans still pounded the shore and the birds still came back each night to nest then she was absolved of any responsibility to join in with the rituals and traditions set out by her ancestors.

The more she stared into the water, the more her resolve tightened. She saw the statue in her mind. The blank stare seemed childish, morose and of a distant age. How backward and futile it all seemed, living in the past.

Then it struck her, she still had no identity. She smiled and decided right then and there that she would pick herself a name; a name that laughed at the stupidity of it all. A name that represented the folly of belief and servitude handed down by the unseen and the unknown.

If there was nothing to be gained then she had nothing more to lose.

But what name to choose? It was a hard decision for there were so many to choose from. She trawled through the names of the people from her village, her ancestors, people she had met and the events that had occurred that day.

The face of Amok came back to her. There it was. Amok represented the past and all that was dead and stagnant. It was all headed in the wrong direction, so she turned it around with determination and irreverence, and Koma smiled for the first time in as long as she could remember.

Tete Karmin awoke with a dream still cascading within. The details were fading but the feeling still resonated. He watched the sun through the open door. The sound of the ocean filled the room.

He'd heard the kitchen staff arrive while it was still dark. They parked their motor cycles near the laundry at the rear of the car park and walked down the path to open up the kitchen. Their small childlike voices could be heard chattering and giggling. How innocent and unaffected they seemed.

He wanted to doze some more but he also wanted to see the early morning light dance across the ocean as the fishing boats re-entered the inlet.

He struggled to rise and sat at the end of the bed. The scaffolding was coming down and an army of workers was transporting tools, equipment and soil away from the compound to be distributed amongst the neighbouring villages.

He splashed water on his face and resisted the urge to shave. As he walked out of his bungalow the feeling from his dream remained.It was a longing, something he had carried with him from childhood.

If only he could have his time over again. Time was the enemy.

Sitting at the pool's edge looking at the ocean, the groundsman walked past and opened a hatch to turn on the pump. They hardly acknowledged each other, for what was the point? They could hardly understand each other, and if they could, what could be said?

Something Tral had said still puzzled him as he ate his breakfast.

"Darkness will always prevail. You can turn a light on but you can't turn the darkness off."

As he pondered the ramifications of the old monk's words, Austen greeted him from the bar.

"How did you sleep?"

"Well enough. The ocean is loud. It seems a lot closer at night."

"Yes I have the same trouble. I have all the doors and windows shut which drives my wife nuts. She needs everything open at night. I tell her she was raised by gypsies," he laughed gruffly at his own joke without the slightest inkling of self-awareness.

"You made it home okay?" Austen's question was intended to dig for more information.

"Yes, I needed an early start."

"Have you found what you are looking for?"

"No. It's still a mystery. Nobody saw or heard anything that they are willing to say."

"And they may never."

Tete Karmin knew this could be true, for the moment had passed. The children had been dead for over a month and what had been gained? The sun had surfaced again and again. The moon had begun a new cycle and would continue to do so until darkness prevailed forever.

"Did you speak to the parents?" Austen asked.

"Briefly, the mother was still inconsolable but the father told me that after they cremated their children they were trying to continue, day to day, with the routine of remaining alive.

"So what now?" Austen asked.

"Before I return and file my report there's one more thing I want to see again." He paused as if catching himself. He didn't want to give too much away.

"Indeed," Austen replied, before walking up the sloping footpath to attend to more pressing matters.

After breakfast Tete Karmin packed his belongings and waited for the driver to take him back to Tral's compound.

He found the old monk sitting alone in his office reading. He knocked quietly on the door a couple of times before he was noticed.

"Well hello my friend, how good to see you." The old man's eyes were bright and glassy.

"I've come back to look at the well again. I was hoping you could show me the way, if it's not too much trouble," Tete Karmin spoke respectfully and warmly as he had much respect and admiration for Tral.

"Why of course, I would be honoured. I was planning on a walk soon. Do you think we might find something?"

"I'm not sure."

Tral was excited and reacted swiftly. He changed out of his robe into shorts and a long sleeve shirt. He swapped his sandals for a pair of old walking shoes. On the way out he grabbed his field hat and walking staff.

"Let's go," he said.

They took the same path as before and walked quite a way before either of them spoke.

"You think there is something at the gate?"

"I don't know, it's my last loose end. The children were found amongst scattered toys. It seems a stretch but how would a brand new toy, and such a distinctive one, end up in the water, not far from their home, that no one can remember seeing."

"It is a mystery, and most likely not connected," Tral said matter-of-factly.

"And I hope it is, as that would remove the unresolved connection."

"I see," Tral said.

As they approached the flowing water, Tete Karmin stopped to drink out of the water bottle Tral had given him. It was getting warmer and the quickly flowing water looked inviting.

Tral headed towards the gate to the well. Tete Karmin followed with a slight sense of excitement. He was anxious to find anything, something that might wrap this incident up.

Tral cleared away some of the weeds that had grown over the gate.

The two men looked at the same gate but with different perceptions of what they were looking at.

For Tete Karmin it was a portal into possibility, another lead in this baffling case to follow. For Tral it was a reminder of a time when life was simpler. A time when day and night were viewed as part of the same. When the stories of the past mingled freely and unashamedly with the present.

Tral knelt to open the two small gates. One moved back freely, the other needed some convincing. The smell that arose was of dank water. As Tral tried to manoeuvre the gate, mosquitos set about finding a new home.

Tete Karmin peered in but could see nothing. He didn't know what he was looking for but the need to find an answer was growing stronger all the time.

Tral sensed his concern and tried to explain in more detail what it was they were looking at.

"It once was thought that the Night Watchers needed somewhere to pass through, so people dug holes often near water, running water, to appease them. Often when they dug too deep they came across water underground."

"Which is not surprising if they dug near running water," Tete Karmin interrupted.

"I hadn't thought of that," Tral answered.

"This one is dug into a slope, probably at a time when the water was deeper. This was probably part of the creek a long time ago. The gates they made, as you can see, have small slots in them so even when closed the Night Watchers can pass through."

Tete Karmin leant closer to have a good look at the gates. "They're really quite beautiful, so intricate. A lot of effort and skill has gone into the detail."

Tral was moved at his friend's attentiveness. "Yes it's a shame that the skills of my ancestors are hidden so."

Tete Karmin looked around. Finding a large pebble he said. "Is it okay if I drop this in? I want to know how deep it is and if there might be something down there."

Tral nodded, so Tete Karmin placed the pebble respectfully over the hole and let it go. Within a second they heard it hit a small amount of water and a tiny splash came up.

They both looked at each other and began to laugh. Tete Karmin laughed so hard at his earnestness that he rolled over. Tral had tears in his eyes and slapped the ground.

Tete Karmin closed his eyes and enjoyed the release, even though at the back of his mind he knew he was venting his frustration. When the laughing subsided, the two men sat next to each other and composed themselves.

"So what now?" Tete Karmin asked.

Tral offered him some water. "You go back and file your report. There is nothing here for you," the old monk said.

Tete Karmin knew he was right. "But what about this, all of this?"

"What of it?"

"The injustice. Someone has gotten away with something terrible, something they should not be able to."

"That is true. However they too will die one day, and even perhaps suffer along the way, but it is something no one can avoid. Suffering takes many forms, and it is only our feelings we attach to it that make one form of suffering worse than the other."

Tral could sense his words were not penetrating into Tete Karmin's view of things, but he wasn't concerned about it. He had spoken the truth and that was that.

Tral was beyond worldly concerns and saw everything in its entirety. The past, the present and the future were all indistinguishable to him. They were the same and the only thing that connected them all was the passing of moments.

I watch them all. The wretched and the indolent, with all their posturing and pretending. Confusing us all with their impossible self-importance. I detest the smug self-assuredness and how my reflection shines brightest of all. Disdain for others is nothing compared to self-loathing. Partial indoctrination is collapsing the mental fortitude of the severed and the wilted. Weakness is only a problem if identified.

No one has ever known me. I wonder how I've gotten away with this for so long. I'm an imposter. I watch them come and go, carrying folders, holding conversations, worrying about this report, who said what to whom, while all the time stars are slowly turning into supernovas. I imagine them with no skin. Bloodied muscle attached to sinew and bone.

Detached but involved is the key. That way they can't hurt you, can't interrupt the thoughts that need velocity and space to manoeuvre. My loathing has become my anchor, dredged by fear and uncertainty.

Today could be the end, as I look across at the others, arranged in pitiful rows.

Euphoria is a distressed state of anxiety, only in reverse, a reflection of a beginning, an escape from entropy, a self-delusional sense of moving forward, when in reality the energy around and within us is cyclic, like the flow of blood from the heart to the extremities, the cycle of the moon and the planet around the sun and so forth. Gravity is just the curve of what seems cosmically straight.

We fool ourselves that we progress only to find we come back to where we started, and with any luck with a little less knowledge before. To understand what is happening we have to peel each layer away of what we have accumulated until the search becomes just a vibrating memory.

It's quite shameful and embarrassing to realise that all the seeking is really to cover that need for warmth and release, both emotionally and physically.

We've built buildings and roads and all sorts of inconceivable monuments to our industry, but what for? To hide behind? To obscure the fact that we still don't know why the sun comes up every morning? Are we any further along from the cave dwellers looking up from their antelope soup in the primordial dawn?

They're all the same, fretting over their personal stamina while another species dies over the horizon. How pitiful they look twitching and adjusting their shirt collars, trying to get her attention to listen to their drivel or to fetch another beer.

And of course there is 'Captain' who without contradiction announces at every opportunity, 'Good God man! Are you mad?' To which I answer, 'Why yes sir stark raving bonkers' to which he answers, 'Don't worry old boy, being accountable is for the mad and the indolent.'

And when they do answer it's always with a sliver of malice as if they know nothing, just a few curt glances and protected giggles.

"Yes Sir! Of course Sir," he says in the most precious voice.

Those stinking reports that I read. How incapable they are of revealing the pain and anguish described on their pages, and the replies and recommendations I conjure, well the words have to come from somewhere, someone has to write them and I've been trying to get fired for years. I test their stupidity by writing worse and worse, trying to rest them from their mediocrity. I've included some of the worse verbosity and obscure references lifted unashamedly from the Oxford Literary Companion, and the more she comes out of her burrow with the same thin beady lips pursing and preening, the more elaborate and unnecessary my prose becomes. It's all so scurrilous and reptilian, and plainly obvious.

Entropy matters as it showcases the ultimate response to God posturing, as it stands, all matter will transform from order to chaos, which results in God bowing out of the equation, while all the worshippers cling to their inconsequentiality, while truth marches on to its inevitable demise.

I trust in nothing, as anything by its definition of being present succumbs to its potential for disappointment. How wonderful if everyone on the island stopped at the same time and stood still to look at the sky.

Surrender now is the catchcry of the Night Watchers. Simple but effective has been used to describe their antics and for such an important if not elementary function, understating their position in the scheme of things adds to their mystery.

Tete Karmin looks up from his empty glass at the bar. He doesn't look up as she places another one next to his meal.

"Just place it there."

From his volumes of notes he has a theory that the disturbances he has been notified about are somehow linked, but navigating through the bureaucratic maze has been treacherous.

Certain bureaux within the Council operate as different business models and do not communicate with each other.

He wonders what will happen. Nobody is that interested in his theory, and as he is closing in on retirement, he is plagued by what is the right thing to do.

"Where did it all go wrong?" he finally asks himself. "It took me long enough to get there. It wasn't supposed to end up like this. I went to a good school. I had the opportunities."

Life was screaming by him. He was surrounded by idiots with no sense of anything outside their petty likes and grievances. Work trudged on, money was the controlling factor, where was the pursuit of silence and reflection? Where was the time to enjoy a walk along a beach, to savour a papaya, to embark on a journey through the rainforest to visit the Amok temple?

Where had it all gone? Is what he kept coming back to.

He looked at the Mangi file. There were so many loose ends so many paths to travel down, and did he have the energy for it, and what disturbed him the most, did he really care?

Of course he cared; three young children are dead, and to the casual observer, killed in a gruesome heartless manner, but by whom and why?

But does it matter, they are dead, nothing will bring them back.

So for the parents? Their suffering?

What of it, so it's about the parents?

They need to know why.

Why do they need to know?

So someone can be held accountable, to be punished.

And that will help?

Yes.

But it will only help them, the dead are gone, and by implication are not relevant, it's only the memories held by the living that keep them in our minds.

We all die, isn't that the real issue? The grieving for lost children is only the surface, the shallow end of the beach. Further out into the ocean lies the deep uncertainty of our own demise. Isn't that what it's really about? We know we will die, but we never speak of it, it's never mentioned. We venerate our ancestors, those long gone and out of reach with ceremonies and rituals, but it's a ritual, a duty or task.

The kids don't care, they play on the beach while the adults kneel and pray all the time thinking, don't let it be me next, I've got too much to do, I want so much more, but in the end we know deep down that we can't have anything really, because one day it will mean nothing when we're gone.

But how to lift the heavy heart, how to resolve the deep underlying pain of mortality while trying to live, raise children and survive, how to enjoy our time? Why should an awareness of your own death spoil the time available?

When a tree collapses or falls foul of some disease, it slowly withers, yet on the outer branches the fruit still prevails. Are we not just beings in a state of decay but with our outer reaches still alive and vibrant?

Tete Karmin had a vision of himself buried in dust and ashes but holding in his fingertips a bright jasmine flower.

Would the Night Watchers help him escape? If only he could traverse into their world, see what they see, help them fill the gaps between people, the world and the sky. He wondered what happened when they died, or did they die, where did they go? What of the tear in the sky, could anyone float up pass through it and go beyond.

Tete Karmin, wondered why anyone would think going somewhere else when you died was better than living.

Koma hears the first rooster. It is still dark. She sits up, enjoying the quiet. Those moments before dawn were hers. Nobody else was present. Nothing else mattered. Even the absence of her daughter was tolerated. It was a settled time but it had taken considerable hardship to get here.

After leaving the temple Koma had wandered around town. During the day she had foraged in rubbish bins and at night she slept on the beach. Eventually she found a disused boat shed at the end of the beach where she set up residence. Often she fought with the dogs on the beach for scraps of food.One day Koma walked past a group of women laying towels on long wooden benches and opening up large umbrellas. She paused to watch them. The women waited for foreigners to walk out of the hotels and went up to them offering massages.Koma was fascinated by the daily ritual. Each morning after fending for a meal she would sit under a tree not far away, observing them. The women seemed happy. Children played nearby with plastic hoops and bottles. One day one of the women handed one of the girls a plate of papaya and a fresh bottle of water and sent her over to where Koma was sitting.

Realising her presence had been detected, Koma tried to get up and move on but her old rickety frame wouldn't move fast enough before the girl reached her.Overcome with emotion, Koma thanked the girl and walked towards her hut. The food was hard to swallow at first as her throat was so dry. She took a sip of water, closed her eyes and leant back against a tree. She could still see the outline of the sun behind her eyelids. The ocean rumbled, creating a sonic backbeat to her thoughts.

The water and fruit in her stomach made her feel a bit nauseous. Her head tilted forward and began to rest on her shoulder. After a few moments she was aware of noise around her. She was caught between the waking and dreaming worlds. Her tiredness allowed her to let go. Thoughts came and went, sometimes with a feeling or emotion, and some with nothing.

Koma heard her own breathing, felt her chest expand and contract. In her sight was total blackness. She kept expecting something to change, a light perhaps, something else that would answer the longing. Instead she heard a child's voice,"Is she dead?"

Koma opened her eyes to see a grubby brown face. The child shrieked and ran behind a large woman who Koma assumed was her mother. The child peered around a large leg wrapped in cotton fabric.

Koma smiled. The child, still not sure with the stranger, clung even harder. The woman crouched next to her and asked,

"What happened to you? Why do you live on the beach?"

Koma could not answer as she looked across the ocean. She wanted to be far away, to live a different life on another island. She started to cry. She wondered how it had got to be like this.

The woman called for some of the others to come and help. They walked her into the shade amongst the foreigners lying face down with their pink sagging flesh exposed for all the world to see oblivious to what was happening.

The women gave her more water and took her behind one of the stalls so she could wash. Koma was given new clothes and brought back to the beach. Feeling nourished and rested, Koma thanked the women and stood to leave.

"Where are you going?" one of the women ask.

"I can't stay here," Koma said, staring at the dirt. The women look at each other.

"What's your name?" another woman asks.

With some pride and pleasure, Koma answers. The sound of her name comes from deep within her. She can't hold back a smile.

"My name is Tini," the large woman says, "What can you do?"

Koma thinks long and hard but can't remember anything but scavenging.

"Can you sweep?" Tini asks.

"You mean with a broom?"

"Of course."

"I think so."

Tini calls out to one of the younger girls. "Bring the broom."

Koma is handed a bamboo pole with matted grass tied together with string.

"Come with me," she barks.

Koma follows, intrigued at her new-found notoriety as people watch the two women walk between the benches.

"See here, keep the leaves out of the sand and bring any empty bottles to the sack over there."

Koma started her work with a swiftness that defied her age.

The other women giggled as the old woman walked around with her broom, as the task was considered a young woman's job, the lowest of the low.

Koma greets their smiles with a rueful gleam. After an hour, another young girl comes to her with a bowl full of bananas, mango and pineapple.

"Food," she was told. "Then rest time."

As she ate, Koma watched the foreigners disappear from the beach, wrapped in striped towels which designate which hotel they are from.

"They'll be back in an hour or so, "Tini tells Koma. "Rest up."

The younger girls relieved of sweeping and collecting the bottles left by the guests, playfully strip the benches of the towels and replace them with fresh ones.

Koma smiled as she watched them working together under their mother's gaze. A wistful flicker of happiness tinged with melancholy as a fleeting memory of her daughter briefly surfaces.

One of the girls placed a towel in a bag of rubbish near the bottles. Koma frowned with inquisitiveness. She stood up and walked towards the bag. She retrieved the towel and inspected it. Apart from a few stains and loose strands, the towel was perfectly okay.

"Can I keep this?" Koma asked.

One of the women laughed, "You can have a better one."

Koma inspected it again. "There's nothing wrong with this one."

The other women laughed together, "Only good enough for a dog to sleep on."

Koma frowned. "Have you any needle and thread?"

One of the girls was sent to one of the huts along the beach and soon returned with the needle and thread.

The women, including the girls, gather around Koma who, with a few deft touches, cross stitched the wounds in the towel. In a minute or two the towel looks complete, with the most intricate stitch work any of them have ever seen.

Tini held the towel up to the sunlight and then looked at Koma.

"Where did you learn this?"

"From my mother."

"I thought you said you couldn't do anything."

"No I didn't."

"Come with me."

Koma follows Tini along the path between the beach and the hotels. Further up between two restaurants, they turned down a path with shops on either side. At the very back, under an awning, in the dark was an empty shop.

"You can stay here. I will bring material for you to sew, okay?"

Koma looked around. It was cool inside, and even had a fan on a stand at the back of the shop. Her urge to forage on the beach lingered for a moment.

Tini took Koma's hesitation as displeasure, so offered some money as well.

"No! Just food is okay," Koma insists.

Taken aback, Tini thought the old woman a fool but accepted the deal and walked away.

The next morning Koma was woken by footsteps in the shop. Tini dumped a pile of clothes to mend on the floor and turned to walk away.

Koma stared at her. At the doorway Tini turned and said,

"Tell me why no money?"

Koma shrugged her shoulders and replied, "Because it's not important."

Tini smiled, shook her head and walked into the sunlight.

For weeks Koma sat in the cool shop mending and sewing. Locals came to visit. At first they stood outside and stared wondering who this unusual person was.

Koma asked Tini to buy some lollies each day which she saved up and kept in a large jar she found out the back. Children came to see the old woman who gave away lollies. The children sat in the dark shop out of the sun watching her sew and listening to her singing.

Over time additions were made to the shop. A small mattress was placed in the corner. One day Tini placed a sign at the front of the shops, and soon foreigners were brought by the massage women on the beach to have shirts and dresses made out of the local cotton with all the money going to the women and their families.

One afternoon the women came to visit Koma. They stood outside the shop looking at each other without knowing what to do. Koma played a game, pretending to ignore them, but she knew exactly why they had come and continued to sew.

Eventually Tini came inside and sat on the cool tiled floor, a sign of them being equal. Koma greeted her with a nod and a cheeky smile.

"We have all this money, it's yours."

Koma raised her hand, "It can't be mine."

Tini looked around at the other women still standing at the doorway.

"We have enough to buy food and send our children to school with new uniforms, and we give some to our husbands, but not all." The women smile and prod each other.

"That's very wise," Koma says.

"But there's still enough for you."

Koma smiles, "Thank you. But I don't need it. I have everything here that I need."

"But you earned it, it's yours."

Koma's smile disappears. "I told you. It's not mine."

Tini is visibly upset. Her bulky frame slouches. "I don't understand."

Koma smooths out her clothes before answering, "When the people on the beach give you money, is it still theirs?When you buy a cold drink with a single note, is that note still yours? What happens when money changes hands? Is it still yours?"

Koma lets her words settle amongst the group.

"Look, I am happy, you are good people, I don't mean to be rude, but you can't own anything!"

Over the next few days people start appearing with furniture, clothes, and a mat. Men appear during the afternoon to paint the shop and fix the awning out the front.

The glass window is cleaned and a boy appears every day to sweep the floor. A new bed arrives and an extension is added out the back. A new toilet is installed with a wash stand.

In a month Koma resides over the cleanest newest shop in the market. People line up to witness her perfect sewing. She does everything by hand and works from sunlight to dark, then she takes her evening meal and sleeps.

Weeks turn into months. One day a young man arrives with a strange box. He bows and leaves his sandals outside. Koma nods back and tries not to be interested in the appliance. He plugs it in and fiddles with a round dial.

All of a sudden a high pitched noise emanates from the small brown box which frightens Koma.

"Sorry," he says as he adjusts the volume.

"What is that?" she asks.

"A radio," he replies.

Feeling none the wiser, Koma gets up and walks towards the box.

"There are two settings." The boy shows her how to operate it and spends some time finding a station that she likes. When a traditional folk song is found she smiles and says, "leave it there."

Once a week, Koma closes the shop for a couple of hours and walks to the beach to be with the massage women. She sits to the side and watches them cajole people to have a massage. Local women walk up and down the promenade hawking all sorts of wares and services.

Koma walks over to Tini. "Tell them to stop."

Tini looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"Tell them to stop bothering the tourists. Wait and see."

Tini does as she asks. The women look at each other confused and upset that they will lose business, but Koma just says, "Just wait, clean the benches and surrounds, then sit and play with the children, don't bother anybody, and they will come to you. Save your energy for the massage."

At first the benches are emptied, but over time foreigners notice this nice little area with women and children quietly sitting, and one or two come over to enquire.

Koma gets up and bows very slowly. In a quiet whisper she greets them and shows them a bench. The children are quiet, either reading or sleeping. The ocean can be heard, the breeze rustles the leaves above. The setting is tranquil and peaceful.

Over the next few days the same people come back, and after a week there is a queue of people waiting for massages. Tini looks over at Koma and smiles.

One day after packing up, the massage women walk back along the beach carrying the massage equipment. They stop to see the most beautiful marquee made of white cotton billowing in the warm night air.

Many foreigners are dining on the beach, seafood is being grilled, wine is placed in buckets of ice and lanterns of all colours hang from the trees. The ocean is in the background, people are laughing.

As they walk past they hear music and the most wondrous singing. A voice from the sky, piercing, haunting but melodic, singing traditional songs but not in a way heard before.

Tini walks to the sewing shop to pick up some shirts for one of her customers, and as she walks in, she is still humming.

Koma is out the back watering the orchid given to her to celebrate being in the shop for a year. She hears Tini say hello and walks to the back door.

The sound of Tini's humming goes unnoticed, until a note invades the courtyard, hovers around her and then settles like a butterfly on a flower.

More notes arrive all with their own perfume, colours are unfolded and curl around her, Koma feels weak, almost nauseous.

She staggers to the doorway. Another line of the melody greets her. The sun opens up, the sky falls down and envelopes her. She is lifted up to the heavens, sews together a tear in the sky and then is softly carried back to the courtyard.

"Tini," she tries to say, but her voice is dry and the words don't come out. Tini says goodbye and walks out of the shop. Koma tries to walk but can't. She is overcome with panic. Time ceases and she is transported back to the hut in the field with her daughter.

"Wait, what is that song?" she yells.

Tini turns, not understanding what she means.

"That song you are singing, where did you hear it?" Koma pleads.

Tini smiles. "I heard it walking here. They were playing it at the beach."

"Who was?" Koma demands. The whites of her eyes stretched to the limit. Tini is a little annoyed. "Have you lost your mind?"

Koma grabs her. "Take me, show me where?"

"Okay, okay! Let go, you're hurting me."

Koma runs around the shop putting things away. She wipes her face and pushes Tini out the door. "Help me with the shutter." The two women close up the shop and hurry along the path.

Some of the other shop owners look out of their doorways with a quizzical look as it is rare to see Koma out in the open. The two offer up a comical sight as the small frail looking Koma is hurrying and pushing the large cumbersome frame of Tini.

All sorts of thoughts go through her head. Koma feels her foolishness for acting so impulsively, but it's out of her control.

As they approach the beach, Koma starts to compose herself for what she may discover. She doesn't know what to expect and can't predict her reaction. She is overcome with fear but doesn't know why.

"Where? Where did you hear it?"

Tini walks slightly ahead, now mildly amused with the whole commotion. As they approach the Belak hotel, Tini slows down.

"Up here," she says.

Koma hangs onto her arm, half peering around her bulk. The sight of so many well dressed foreigners makes her feel self-conscious. She hides and avoids eye contact. The promenade is full of people.

The lights are on and the tables and chairs on the beach are full of diners. The smell of fresh seafood grilling on charcoal embers is everywhere. Koma has not seen anything like it. The night has been turned to day. Coloured lights in lanterns in the shape of fish, butterflies and flowers are everywhere. There is chatter, waiters walking around with trays full of drinks.

"Let's go this way." Trying to avoid as much of the crowd as possible, Koma steers Tini onto the sand and around the seated area. "Now where did you hear the music?"

Tini points to the giant marquee. Its white cotton sails billowing in the breeze. Koma stretches her neck but can't see anything.

"They must have stopped," Tini says.

"Who?" asks Koma.

"The musicians."

"Did you see them? What did they look like?" Koma pleads again.

"No I didn't, I was walking that way." Tini points back from where they have come from.

"What is this all about anyway?"

"It may be nothing, I don't know."

The two women wait. Hunger gnaws at Tini's concentration. The smell of food and the thought of her family waiting at home is stretching her patience to its limit. Just when she thinks she can't take any more, she sees movement behind the curtain at the back of the marquee.

"Wait. Someone is coming," Tini says.

Koma's grip on Tini's arm gets tighter. She can't see so she tries to drag Tini along the side of the restaurant, but there is nowhere else to go. There's not enough room.

"You go ahead, I'll wait here," Tini urges her along. Caught between safety and the unknown Koma tries to step forward but she can't.

"Go on," Tini urges again. Eventually the old woman slowly edges her way through the crowd trying to stay as close to the beach and open space as she can.

Halfway towards the stage area she hears an instrument being tuned. It's one of the more traditional string instruments she used to hear as a child. She stops close to the stage and watches a young man sit down on a grass mat. He starts playing. Koma looks back but Tini has been swallowed by the crowd. A few people look at her side ways, but she is ignored.

The music starts up again which drowns out a little of the incessant chatter and the sound of waiters clattering glasses and bottles. The music is wonderful to her ears but it's not what she was expecting.

She looks around at the foreigners who carry on eating, drinking and talking while the music is being played. Koma feels ashamed for the musician who is intently playing a ceremonial folk song with much skill and concentration.

Koma hides behind a tree which has a rope tied to it holding a collection of lanterns gently swaying in the breeze. She is carried away to another time and place with little relevance to the beach scene.

After a few more songs, there is movement and two people join the young man on stage. At the sight of the young woman, the crowd stop and applaud.

Koma takes a huge breath and holds it till she almost passes out. Tears well in her eyes. She hunches forward and lets out a sob. She can't believe her eyes.

The music starts up again. The voice that surrounds her is ethereal and magical. Standing at the front of the stage the girl starts singing; the lights highlight her ice blue eyes. Her snow white hair is tied in a long pony tail. Her pure white skin is almost lost in the white robes.

Koma cries with so much intensity that a few diners frown in her direction. One of the waiters seeing the old woman in distress walks towards her. At the sight of the attention, Koma flees across the sand into the night.

Tete Karmin hands in his report. Badu accepts it with little regard. The file is placed with many others in a tray on the clerk's desk. There was no resolution, no fanfare, just another file locked away in an old filing cabinet.

The next day Badu Meringa hosts the farewell party. The office staff congregate, rather sheepishly, in the restaurant of the Belak Hotel. They are not used to socialising with each other especially in such auspicious surrounds.

During dinner, Badu approaches Tete Karmin. Drink in hand the old man interrupts a conversation Tete Karmin is having with Eda. "Don't feel bad, there was nothing more you could do," Badu says. His non-chalance irks Tete Karmin. Even though he is days away from retiring, Tete Karmin can't shed the layers of ingrained bureaucracy that have evolved over him. He looks at his soon-to-be former boss with so many conflicting emotions.

"Just another report huh? Those little lives deserved better." Tete Karmin shakes his head. He looks drunk, tired and disconnected from events.

'Is this what happens?' he asks himself. 'It doesn't add up. There should have been a different result, but there it is.'

There are speeches, short restrained bursts of applause and polite smiles as Tete Karmin accepts a gift. He opens a box to reveal a clock which is housed in a glass dome on a brass stand. His own speech is prefunctory, matter-of-fact and devoid of emotion. He goes through the motions to the very end.

Tete Karmin spends the rest of his farewell party worrying that he didn't do enough. He followed the right protocols went by the book, but the thought that keeps haunting him is while he was in the area he had the opportunity to visit families in their homes, go into the remote areas and investigate further.

Didn't he owe it to those little precious faces? Instead he sat in a huge hall like an emperor waiting for his subjects to come to him. Looking back it was obvious that what they said, in that environment, with everyone watching, probably only scratched the surface.

They are shy people who don't like talking, what was he thinking? There was no way anyone would have revealed anything more than the basics in that setting. He admonishes himself and feels disgust at the passing of moments; that time he can't get back. It is gone, lost forever!

Long into the night, Tete Karmin is sitting at the bar drinking. People come to him to congratulate him and say goodbye. He can hardly look them in the eye.

Later on, he walks along the beach, smoking the cigar given to him by Badu. The band starts up and he can just hear the music as he nears the ocean. He starts to laugh. The thought of himself smoking a cigar seems ridiculous. He throws it into the ocean.

"That was disgusting," he says, still laughing. He takes off his sandals and lets the water roll over his feet. He wanted to be at peace with himself at this moment.

"It's never the way I want it," he says to the night sky. "And maybe that's just the way it should be."

He contemplates leaving the festivities behind and wanders along the shore towards one of the wave break walls jutting out from the beach. He walks along the path and stands under the shelter at the end of the wall. As he looks out at the ocean, he notices a figure at the base of the wall sitting on a rock. He is curious as the figure is sitting up but completely motionless.

He is conscious of not disturbing the person, so he tries to be as quiet as he can. He starts to walk away but ends up startling the individual. Tete Karmin stops and stares. The figure is small, hunched over and seems to be shivering.

He holds his hand up with a tentative wave motion in an attempt to convey his unintrusive intention. There is something familiar about her posture. The figure gets up slowly, throwing a shawl over their head and walks away along the shore line.

Tete Karmin stands still, watching the person fade into the dark. His attention is drawn back to the ocean by the sound of the waves gently hitting the break wall. The ocean always calms him, bringing him back to a relaxed place where he can be himself.

Eventually he sighs, realising he should head back. He smiles at the ocean and turns towards the promenade. The music reaches him out of the dark replacing the ocean and breeze.

Near the restaurant but still on the sand, he pauses near a bonsai tree which has been placed on a tall stand made of clay with decorative carvings down its side.

He watches the musicians and especially the girl singing. He is intrigued by the look of her. Her voice walks right through him and continues out the other side. Her piercing look goes past the audience. She is looking way past them all. Motionless she sings with the freedom of flight and with the intensity of thunder.

Tete Karmin enjoys the music and decides to have a night cap before retiring. As he gestures towards a waiter, he sees a small shape standing next to a tree on the beach only yards away from the stage. It is the old woman he left at the temple. She is staring intently, transfixed, by the singer. She is still wearing the shawl and now he recognises her.

Koma is unable to move. The sight of her daughter is beyond overwhelming. There is a word in her language that describes this feeling, but she can't remember it. Tears roll down her cheeks.

The music ripples away leaving only her voice. Koma's lips move but no sound is audible. She swallows trying to gather up strength to speak, for a word is being born.

Koma groans as she drags out of her internal emotional gaping wound the name of her daughter. It is delivered to the world with so much anguish and joy that her own sense of self melts away.

Koma and the girl are indistinguishable from anything else. Their essence now merged with the fabric of existence, moving like oil through water searching with no intent for the path of least resistance to fill the tear in the sky.

All that is known is the sound and the inertia of their movement, at one moment they were close, but the natural and unfolding yield and pull separates them as other essences move around them.

Time does not exist nor does space. They are not separate but they are not the same, there is only a gap, and an emerging force to fill it, as the essence of Sema continues...

~~~~

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave a review from where it was purchased.

Miles

Other Titles

A Fleeting Glimpse

Genius Remote

Jazz

Embouchure

Gotte Spake Musica

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