Free The Cannibal Spirit by Harry Whitehead

the world’s progress, as they sees it. And for seeking out the witchcraft amongst them, for exposing it, for showing them the black heart of gossip and mal-intent.
    Well, what words I spoke were not those of reason. Or how I told it they wasn’t, anyhow, and how far the telling went. First, I says they are weak, letting the white men walk on them. Craven for not defending their ways.
    Then I goes on to tell them they are stupid for not knowing what I do for them, that when I buy up their artefacts I am handing money to them from the white men that wouldn’t never come elsewise. That those treasures go to the museums where they will be safe. I says the stories that go onto the pages I send Professor Boas are for future times, for future people to see what once we was.
    I says it angry, and many I know were turned away by my hot temper as much as by the upside-down reasoning. For it was worse. Much worse. I made threats as well. Dare to stand against me. Dare! And if you do, says I, then I will tear you up, like to the Cannibal Spirit. I will eat you, swallow you, take all of you, flesh and bone and soul, until there ain’t nothing left even for the burial.
    Oh, I was resting in midst of the flames that day, all the time placing more logs beneath my feet. Things that were bad already got made worse still by that speech. And then by what followed. Well, I’ll not think of it yet. All in good order. Yes. All in the right order.

GEORGE HUNT’S EYES PICKED THEIR WAY OVER THE ASSEMBLY . He looked some brimstone preacher delivering a sermon to the unenlightened on God’s awful vengeance. Though he spoke in Kwakwala, Harry could tell he spoke simply, with clarity, each word a blade. Yet underneath, there was such fury and, as well, such agony as to make him seem something other than human. Not more. Less perhaps: ancient, animal, demonic, the long staff he held, seemingly forgotten in one hand, adding to the menace, the serpent’s heads, teeth bared, leering at each end, almost alive as Hunt shivered in his passion. Indeed, his whole body shook, and one foot stamped incessantly on the platform, as if at the next moment he would launch himself at the people before him. The flames doused his face, his teeth, his body in scarlet. They burned like blood in his eyes. The jagged edges of his nails glittered.
    The rain hammering, Hunt’s voice exploding through it, the air as thick as molasses, the man’s presence imposing itself into all the space of the ceremonial house, until Harry gasped, fighting for his breath.
    No one spoke or moved when Hunt finally fell silent and, breathing hard himself, turned his back to them. After some time, they rose to their feet. Most began to walk away toward the beach. Still no one spoke. The old chieftains removed their masks. They kept a distance from Hunt, and none looked at him as he sat upon his son’s gravebox and rubbed a hand down his face.
    Harry wondered if he was really angry at him. If it was possible to be angry at something not properly human.
    Two men stepped up on the dais, carrying thick ropes, and George spoke with them, quietly now. They turned and clambered down once more. He looked up at the chieftains and spoke something to them. The old men were silent, standing in a circle, and Charley Seaweed was there as well. Owadi shook his head. George spoke again, intense now, his face darkening. At last Owadi spoke a few words more and, though his face showedhe was unhappy, he left the dais with the other chieftains and disappeared toward the beach.
    â€œCaddie.” A voice brought Harry back into the moment. It was Grace, the other women behind, whispering amongst themselves. “Do you come?”
    â€œWhat just occurred? I thought they hoisted up the body in the trees now and that was an end of it.”
    â€œTalk father. Come to the beach after. We going now on the boat.” Harry saw her tear-shot eyes. He made to place a hand on