The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 17Stevenson, Robert Louis
History
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 17
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Islands of the Pacific -- Fiction; Samoan Islands -- History; Short stories
And I began to walk towards him, quite slow, and my hands down; only
there was trouble in my eye, if anybody took the pains to look.
"You're a low, obstropulous fellow, Sah," says he.
"You bet!" says I.
By that time he thought I was about as near as convenient, and lit out
so it would have done your heart good to see him travel. And that was
all I saw of that precious gang until what I am about to tell you.
It was one of my chief employments these days to go pot-hunting in the
woods, which I found (as Case had told me) very rich in game. I have
spoken of the cape which shut up the village and my station from the
east. A path went about the end of it, and led into the next bay. A
strong wind blew here daily, and as the line of the barrier reef stopped
at the end of the cape, a heavy surf ran on the shores of the bay. A
little cliffy hill cut the valley in two parts, and stood close on the
beach; and at high water the sea broke right on the face of it, so that
all passage was stopped. Woody mountains hemmed the place all round; the
barrier to the east was particularly steep and leafy, the lower parts of
it, along the sea, falling in sheer black cliffs streaked with cinnabar;
the upper part lumpy with the tops of the great trees. Some of the trees
were bright green, and some red, and the sand of the beach as black as
your shoes. Many birds hovered round the bay, some of them snow-white;
and the flying-fox (or vampire) flew there in broad daylight, gnashing
its teeth.
For a long while I came as far as this shooting, and went no farther.
There was no sign of any path beyond, and the cocoa-palms in the front
of the foot of the valley were the last this way. For the whole "eye" of
the island, as natives call the windward end, lay desert. From Falesa
round about to Papa-malulu, there was neither house, nor man, nor
planted fruit-tree; and the reef being mostly absent, and the shores
bluff, the sea beat direct among crags, and there was scarce a
landing-place.
I should tell you that after I began to go in the woods, although no one
offered to come near my store, I found people willing enough to pass the
time of day with me where nobody could see them; and as I had begun to
pick up native, and most of them had a word or two of English, I began
to hold little odds and ends of conversation, not to much purpose to be
sure, but they took off the worst of the feeling, for it's a miserable
thing to be made a leper of.
It chanced one day towards the end of the month, that I was sitting in
this bay in the edge of the bush, looking east, with a Kanaka. I had
given him a fill of tobacco, and we were making out to talk as best we
could; indeed, he had more English than most.
I asked him if there was no road going eastward.
"One time one road," said he. "Now he dead."
"Nobody he go there?" I asked.
"No good," said he. "Too much devil he stop there."
"Oho!" says I, "got-um plenty devil, that bush?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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