Baptism of Fire by Christine Harris Page B

whispered as loudly as she dared. ‘Joshua!’ No reply: she scampered back to her own room before the snappy visitor could hide. Exasperated, she wondered if there was any chance of sleep tonight?
    The village girls despatched crabs by piercing them behind a front claw, up and under the shell, with the spine of a coconut palm leaf. But Hannah didn’t have the stomach for that.
    The crab never saw its nemesis coming. One minute clacking about on a soft matted floor, the next, it was shrouded in a cotton covering and lifted into the air.
    Outside a half-moon shone down. Step by step, Hannah eased her way past the sad reminder of baby Rachel’s shortened life, then followed the bumps and dents of the pathway. At the first suitable shrub, she flicked out the coverlet. Remembering the episode of the broken plate on the night of her arrival, she hoped this sort of thing wouldn’t become a habit. With an indignant snap, the crab scuttled into the undergrowth.
    Hannah sighed and ran a hand through herdishevelled hair. The plait had come undone. Suddenly, her hand still entwined in her hair, she peered into the shadows.
    Snatching up the coverlet, she sprinted towards the front door, her white nightgown whipping her legs, only relaxing when she heard the snick of the doorcatch behind her. Her breath uneven, she pushed back the curtains, just a little, and peeked outside. Nothing moved. Was it the fancy of a tired mind or had she actually seen a figure beneath the trees, watching the house?

She felt as though bricks pressed her eyelids shut, and no force on earth could open them. Despite her exhausted stupor she became aware of a presence in her room. Whatever it was could stay there. After the bizarre creatures she had already removed from her bedroom, nothing was going to make her stir again till morning.
    Was that a cough? Discreet, muffled; but definitely a cough. Hannah sighed. Could she open her eyes at all? One lid responded, then the other. Her room was still half-dark. The raucous morning chorus of birds told her it was dawn. She blinked and focused. ‘Merelita!’
    â€˜I sorry. Not good wake you if you sleep. Bad thing.’
    Gradually it seeped through Hannah’s tired brain that Merelita didn’t make a habit of appearing in her room, especially uninvited. Propping herself up on one elbow, she brushed loose strands of red hair away from her face. ‘Whatare you doing here?’
    â€˜Sorry …’
    â€˜How did you get inside?’
    Merelita’s furtive peep at the window answered that question. The curtains were ruffled by a breeze.
    â€˜Fire,’ said Merelita. ‘You come quick.’
    Brought up in a country where the word ‘fire’ was treated with respect, Hannah instantly swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She grabbed her wrap from the chest of drawers, tied the belt with clumsy fingers and ran, barefooted, outside.
    It was true. The cookhouse at the rear had one wall engulfed in red flames, and smoke seeped from the back of the mission house.
    â€˜ Uncle Henry !’ Hannah raced back into the house. Her aunt and uncle were already struggling to sit up when she barged into their room, without knocking. ‘The house is on fire! Hurry!’
    In one swift movement, Uncle Henry was out of bed and through the door in his nightshirt, not bothering about modesty. ‘Wake Joshua and Deborah! Everyone— out of the house !’
    Joshua was already right behind him.
    Uncle Henry snapped, ‘Joshua, get all you can out of the cookhouse. That’s our only supplies for the next six months!’ He wrenched a low-hanging branch from the nearest shrub and began to belt the flames. ‘You girls, grab a branch.’
    Aunt Constance pushed Deborah into Merelita’s arms. ‘Take her over there where it’s safe … please.’
    Wide-eyed, Deborah clung to Merelita’s neck. Merelita patted the little girl’s back and