Beyond Sunrise

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Chapter One The trade winds blowing off the Coral Sea were warm and sweet, evocative reminders of faraway places that whistled through the rigging of the ketches and sloops riding at anchor in the sun-spangled Rabaul Harbor, and flapped the heavy skirt of Miss India McKnight's sensible serge traveling outfit. "Very sorry, mum," said the middle-aged Hindu trader who stood before her, his short legs splayed wide against the weathered dock's unpredictable pitch, "but help you I cannot." India McKnight, spinster, Scotswoman, and travel writer of some renown, was accustomed to meetingand overcomingresistance. When the trading captain made as if to go around her, India simply shifted her weight until she was once more in his path. Since the man was short and slight, and India stood five feet ten in her stockings, the maneuver brought him to a stand again. "I was told your ketch is for hire," she said, softening the overt belligerence of her blocking tactics with a smile. The Hindu's head rocked back and forth on his shoulders in a motion that looked like no, but actually meant yes. "It is. But you don't want to go to Takaku. Not to the southern bay." "On the contrary," said India, her voice calm and even, "I assure you that I most definitely do." "It's dangerous. Very dangerous." The Hindu's eyes bulged out as he leaned forward and dropped his voice in the manner of one imparting a terrible secret. "Cannibals, you know. A man from the London Missionary Society went there last year. The Takakus listened to him read his Bible, and they let him pray over them, and then they had him for dinner. As the main course." "I am not a missionary, and I am not asking you to accompany me on my expedition up the slopes of Mount Futapu. All you need do is anchor in the bay, convey me ashore in your dinghy, and wait some four or five hours until I return." "The channel through the reefs at the southern tip of the island is dangerous." The Hindu squinted off across the brilliant azure water of the harbor. In the misty distance, far beyond Rabaul's golden shoreline and wav- ing coconut palms, the jagged outline of the island of Takaku, with its towering volcanic cones and dark secrets, was just visible. "Very dangerous," he said again. "Rocky and narrow." India tightened her grip on her large traveling reticule in a way that drew the trader's attention. "I'll pay you double your normal fee." He licked his salt-cracked lips. "You want to go to Takaku? I take you to the northern end of the island, to the French port of La Rochelle. It's pretty. Very pretty. And no cannibals." An enthusiastic smile beamed, then dimmed. "Lots of French, though." India shook her head. "It is the Faces of Futapu I wish to study, and they are far easier to approach from the southern bay than by an overland expedition from La Rochelle." The Hindu stared at her, his full-cheeked, flat-nosed face becoming thoughtful. "Now I remember why I thought I had heard of you. You're that crazy Englishwoman writing a book about the Polynesians. There are no Polynesians on Takaku. Only black men. Headhunters." He paused. "Hungry headhunters." "I am Scots, not English." India's tone was rapidly becoming less calm, less controlled. Near the end of the dock, a British naval captain standing with two other officers had turned his head and was studying her intently. "I know there ar