The Calling

It was the time of in-between. The strong south-easterlies of the dry season had faded and daily the island people watched big thunderheads grow over the glassy sea to the north-west. Soon, heavy rains would break and it would be a little cooler.

Matthias woke with the day, the way he always did. He turned on his back and surveyed the wooden poles and palm thatch above him. Better get up, he thought. He did so and walked between the huts, past the little cargo-cult shrine with its brightly painted model aeroplane dangling on a string, and down to the narrow, palm-fringed, beach.

It was very humid; perhaps the rains would soon come. He stood alone in the shallows and poured water over his grateful body in the first light. Ocean swells boomed on the reef but in the lagoon it was calm. Then the sun shafted through the tree-topped black mountains to the east. There would be no wind. It was as good a day as any for the Calling.

People were stirring in the village. Thin wisps of smoke…