The next morning the mood was tense. As they once again headed for the boat Pukunati made sure he was last to leave the hut and as he did so, and when he was certain that Alvez was not watching, he quickly scratched the words, ‘help how?’ in the dry earth.
Over the course of the day the atmosphere gradually lightened as Alvez and Pukunati began to plan their imminent departure and even to joke about what dire predicament might next befall them:
‘Cannibals,’ proclaimed Pukunati assuredly.
‘Why is it always cannibals with you?’ shot back Alvez, ‘not every remote tribe we encounter wants to eat you you know.’
‘But it is a possibility,’ stated Pukunati sagely.
‘Yes, it is. Wherever we end up next you might be the centrepiece of a great tribal feast,’ replied Alvez bluntly.
‘You really think it’s a possibility?’ said the boy with seemingly genuine alarm.
‘Possible, but unlikely,’ observed Alvez, ‘if anybody is going to be the centrepiece of a feast it is much more likely to be me; more meat and seasoned for longer on the bone.’
‘That’s all right then, I feel much better now,’ confirmed Pukunati.
‘Right,’ declared Alvez as the sun began to set, ‘I think that is it for today.’ As they made their way back to the hut Pukunati hurried ahead on the pretence of building a fire for food. Heart beating faster in anticipation, as he entered the hut the boy’s heart skipped a beat when he discovered that a reply to his message had been scratched on the floor: a simple picture of a two-masted boat under the moon and stars. Mind racing, Pukunati quickly rubbed the image away with his foot and set about building the fire.
‘Any more messages?’ enquired Alvez amiably as he entered the tent.
‘No, nothing,’ lied the boy…. there was only one two-masted boat in the village to his knowledge.
That evening, when he was sure that Alvez slept, Pukunati carefully extricated himself from his bedding and tip-toed his way across the hut. He stopped briefly at the doorway to check that Alvez still slumbered and, reassured by the continued resonant snoring, he slipped quietly outside. It was a clear moonlit night and, given the clandestine nature of his assignation, the boy quickly made his way into the cover of the jungle and took a circuitous route through the dense foliage toward The Pig rather than risk being seen walking across the wide expanse of sand.
Once adjacent to the boat, but still hidden away, Pukunati cautiously watched and waited. As he did so he was suddenly struck by how sad and defeated The Pig looked, standing beached and useless on the sand. She had always been with them throughout their adventures, a third but unspoken member of the crew, solid and reliable, but now she stood alone. She will be with us again and very soon he told himself, feeling his spirits raise slightly. He took a last look around; as far as he could see there was nobody on the boat, certainly nobody in plain view and there didn’t seem to be anybody else around taking an interest in the scene that was about to play out. Without further ado he quickly crossed the short stretch of beach to The Pig and threw himself down on the soft sand. Again, he waited but there was nothing to suggest that anybody was aware of his presence and nothing appeared out of the ordinary or untoward: other than he was having a secretive meeting with an unknown stranger in the middle of the night and he didn’t know why - so nothing strange there at all really.
Slowly Pukunati made his way up the short rope ladder that dangled over the side of the boat and cautiously peered over the edge of the hull. As he suspected the deck was empty: either he was here first, his mysterious messenger was not coming or, as he was now beginning to suspect, somebody was having fun at his expense. Once on board deck the boy crouched down and waited. In the quiet of night, he was surprised how much noise The Pig made, creaking and groaning for no apparent reason, sounds that, for the most part, were lost at sea. It is like she is a living, breathing thing he thought, restless when confined for too long in one place and complaining loudly about her lot…. much like her captain he reflected. At the bow of the boat a tarpaulin flapped in the breeze as an unsecured corner lifted then fell. Crawling he made his way to the sheet and picked up a piece of timber to weight it down.
‘Are you alone?’ a woman’s voice hissed from somewhere under the heavy cloth.
‘Yes, yes,’ Pukunati whispered in alarm, taken aback that somebody had in fact been on the boat all this time without him realising, and chastising himself that he should have searched the boat when he first boarded - under other circumstances not to do so might prove a fatal mistake.
‘Please, help us,’ pleaded the woman.
‘How? How can we help you?’ replied the boy hesitantly.
‘Soon…. soon they will come,’ choked the woman, her voice strangled by emotion.
‘Who, who will come?’ asked Pukunati.
‘The Barbarians,’ came the scared reply.
‘The Barbarians? Who are they? Why do they come?’ asked the boy.
‘They are heathens: wild, uncaring, ferocious people from the seas. They come to take our…. to take our children,’ the woman sobbed.
‘To take your children,’ Pukunati asked incredulously, appalled, struggling to believe that he could possibly have heard correctly.
The woman simply sobbed louder in response.
‘Please, we must be quiet,’ Pukunati pleaded, suddenly remembering where they were and what they were doing. ‘Why,’ he continued in a tentative whisper, fearful to ask the question and even more afraid of the answer, ‘why do they take your children?’
‘To make them slaves,’ the woman said quietly.
‘But, but,’ stammered Pukunati aghast.
‘They have come before,’ said the woman bitterly, ‘and now that we have more children they are coming again. You must help us.’
‘You must fight them, do not let them take the children,’ urged the boy.
‘We cannot fight them,’ the woman replied sadly, ‘we are a village of old people and children. We have no warriors. Please, you must help us,’ she pleaded.
‘I don’t know what we can do,’ Pukunati replied hopelessly, ‘we are only two.’
The woman began to cry softly, ‘this time they will take my children.’
‘I will speak to my captain,’ said Pukunati, though in truth he knew that would most likely be a futile discussion. ‘I must go now or I will be missed,’ he concluded, although, in truth, he did not want to hear any more and felt out of his depth at what he had heard.
‘Save our children,’ implored the woman desperately, ‘save our children.’