Free Baptism of Fire by Christine Harris Page B

the church. They couldn’t work out what had happened because a crowd was forming and it blocked their view.
    â€˜What is it?’ asked Hannah.
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    Hannah and Joshua wriggled through the expanding group. A man lay on the ground, convulsing. His body shook and quivered and he cried out, but the crowd didn’t seem worried. They merely stood watching, waiting. Hannah feared the man would die before her eyes.
    â€˜It’s the Priest,’ Joshua explained.
    The shaking figure on the ground looked like no priest she had ever seen. He wore a wraparound skirt; there were chest ornaments of bone slung around his neck and another bone through one earlobe. Black paint darkened his already swarthy skin. His bouffant hair picked up twigs and grass as he jerked from side to side.
    Hannah was horrified. ‘Is he ill?’
    â€˜No. He’s prophesying.’
    â€˜But he hasn’t said anything.’
    The boy nodded wisely. ‘He will.’ Sometimes he seemed a hundred years old, instead of eleven.
    Soon a stream of words poured from the Priest. He spat out sentences in staccato bursts, groaning and twisting in the intervals. Whether he was faking or not, his message had to be worth listening to if he was going to all this trouble.
    â€˜What’s he saying, Joshua?’
    â€˜He says he feels the blow of clubs on his head … many canoes … blood … spears …’
    Hannah sensed the atmosphere change. At first, the villagers had gathered half-heartedly, carelessly inattentive, almost in amusement. Now, their eyes focused on the Priest and their ears strained to catch his words.
    â€˜Go on, Joshua. He’s saying more.’
    â€˜If you keep talking all the time I can’t hear.’
    Pressing her fingers against her lips, she nodded.
    Joshua continued: ‘The Priest says he sees … colours of red and orange … shouting … fire.’
    There was that word again: fire. Everyone seemed to be using it today.
    If the Priest was acting, he was doing a superb job. Gradually his convulsions slowed, but hehadn’t quite finished. A prophetic postscript came forth. He spoke a word which certainly caught Joshua’s attention, and that of the listening crowd. They stared unblinkingly at the two cousins.
    Hannah looked to Joshua for an explanation.
    â€˜I didn’t catch all of it. It wasn’t my fault.’ His face showed a trace of sulkiness. ‘The Priest mumbled.’
    â€˜No one’s blaming you. You did your best.’ She tried to soothe his pride for fear he would withhold the last and, possibly, most intriguing gobbet of information. ‘Did you understand any of it?’
    â€˜He said lotu .’ Even as Joshua repeated it, the crowd stirred with interest. ‘That means to become Christian.’
    What connection did the island’s Christians have with spears and fire?

Hannah was tall, but as the men drifted into class, she felt Lilliputian. She was already on edge, uncertain about what was expected of her, or of the students. If a group of brawny six-foot warriors—or in this case supposedly ex -warriors—could be referred to as students. They arrived singly, in pairs, chattering, silent, some hand in hand.
    She smiled. ‘ Ni sã bula .’
    â€˜Good morning,’ they replied. Then progress stalled. Lessons as she had known them back home were impossible, and it would be ludicrous to simply repeat words for an hour and a half like a deranged parrot. These were not children, but grown men. Lost for words, Hannah stared at her first class. The class stared back.
    Joshua came to the rescue. ‘They like stories.’
    Good. Hannah liked stories too. She just wished she could think of some. A man at the front, seated cross-legged like a child, gave her atoothy grin. Hannah could just imagine how Red Riding Hood felt as she looked at the impostor in the old lady’s clothing and