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to the cascade. Assuredly that is where the springs will erupt when the Lord decides to send his first flood before the rains come.’
    Timothy Anilafa looked thoughtful. For all his zeal, he knew how much present danger he was in at the hands of his disgruntled
wantoks
. In the interests of self-preservation, he was not averse to a face-saving compromise. The village men, suddenly aware of Kella’s intention, chorused their agreement, their mood lightening. Melanesians delighted in long, hairsplitting arguments to while away the empty hours. Only the solitary man in command of the stones could not conceal his disappointment as he continued to crouch over his carefully selected missiles, like a protective bird on a nest.
    ‘The waterfall is only a hundred yards away along the track, on common land,’ said Kella. ‘Take the ark there and carry on with your building in peace. No one will bother you again. You will become a big man in the eyes of everyone. The waterfall is a sacred place for the gods. Perhaps they will unite with the Christian Bigfella and join with him to bless your efforts for years to come.’
    It was a telling point. Nothing bore more weight in the Lau culture than an activity that obviously had secured the approval of the entire spirit world, pagan and Christian alike. Judiciously Timothy Anifala nodded.
    ‘There is wisdom in what you say,
aofia
,’ he conceded. ‘But how will I move my ark? It is large and heavy.’
    ‘We will all help you,’ said Kella, setting an example by walking forward rapidly to the mangled heap. The rest of the islanders, understanding his purpose, followed him willingly and encircled the ark. They bent and with a series of groans lifted the sagging timbers from the ground, and staggered along the path previously cut and trampled down through the undergrowth. Away from the gardens, the branches of the towering trees in the tropical coastal rainforest intertwined overhead, suddenly almost blocking out the light of the sun. It was like a journey into a fast-falling night. The calophyllum trees with their white bark and shiny leaves grew next to coconut palms and mangroves. Between the trees, the vines of the morning glory and the purple flowers of the bay bean curled above the tussocks of porcupine grass, making their progress difficult.
    The group of perspiring men staggered beneath the weight of the rudimentary ark as they neared the noise of the waterfall. Pieces of the vessel broke off and dropped to the ground unheeded, their descent muffled by the moss carpeting the track. Kella and the straining islanders left a trail of this debris behind them as they neared the cascade. Kella was big for a Solomon Islander at six feet in height, and had been strongenough to play professional rugby league in Australia for two seasons, but even he was feeling the weight of the shared burden by the time the party emerged again into the sunlight.
    They were on a treeless plateau by the side of the waterfall, halfway down its mighty descent. Water crashed to the river a hundred feet below, while spray hurtled spitefully across the level surface, soaking everyone. At Kella’s command, the villagers lowered what was left of the shattered and contorted structure of the ark to the ground and stood back. Some of them were grinning slyly. It was obvious that the new site was vastly inferior to the one that Timothy had originally selected on the village gardens. The sun beat down steadily on the flying spray, producing an eerie mist that drifted across the ground and swirled to the height of a man’s waist.
    Kella could see that the old man was coming to the same conclusion as the other villagers. Angrily he was beginning to react to being duped. With a sinking heart, the police sergeant realized that his problems were not yet over. In a spurt of rage, Timothy Anifala kicked out at the ark with his calloused bare foot. Now the villagers were laughing openly at him. Kella moved forward to stop