The Signature of All Things

If you like, I will show you the coral gardens tomorrow, out by the reefs. There, you shall witness the Lord’s inventiveness most impressively evidenced. Here we are, then—Mr. Pike’s house! Now it shall be your house! Or, I should say, your fare ! In Tahitian, we call a house a fare. It is not too soon to begin learning a few words, you see.”
    Alma repeated the word in her head: fah-ray. She committed it tomemory. She was exhausted, but even so, Alma Whittaker would have to be far more exhausted than this not to prick up her ears at a new and unfamiliar language. In the dim glow of moonlight, just up a slight slope from the beach, she could see the tiny fare hidden under a fretwork of palms. It was not much bigger than the smallest garden shed at White Acre, but it was pleasant enough to look at. If anything, it resembled an English seaside cottage, but much shrunken in scale. A crazy zigzagged path of crushed seashells led from the beach to the door.
    “It is a queer path, I know, but the Tahitians made it,” said the Reverend Welles with a laugh. “They see nothing advantageous in making a straight path, for even the shortest distances! You will grow accustomed to such marvels as this! But it is good to be a bit off the beach. You are four yards above highest tide, you see.”
    Four yards. It did not seem like much.
    Alma and the Reverend Welles approached the cottage up the crooked path. Alma could see that the purpose of a door was answered by a simple screen of plaited palm fronds, which he pushed open easily. Clearly, there was no lock here—nor had there ever been one. Once inside, he lit the lamp. They stood together in the one small open room, beneath a simple thatched roof. Alma could just barely stand up without hitting her head on the lowest rafter. A lizard skittered across the wall. The floor was dried grass that rustled under Alma’s feet. There was a small rough wooden bench with no cushion, but at least it had a back and arms. There was a table with three chairs—one of which was broken and tipped over. It looked like a child’s table, in a poor nursery. Curtainless, glassless windows opened on all sides. The final bit of furniture was a small bed—barely bigger than the bench—with a thin pallet slung on top. The pallet appeared to be made from an old canvas sail, stuffed with something or other. The whole room, such as it was, seemed much more suitable to somebody of the Reverend Welles’s size than her own.
    “Mr. Pike lived as the natives live,” he said, “which is to say—he lived in one room only. But if you want partitions, I suppose we could make partitions for you.”
    Alma could not imagine where one would put a partition in this tiny place. How do you divide nothing into parts?
    “You may wish at some point to move back to Papeete, Sister Whittaker. Most do. There is more civilization to be found there in the capital, I suppose. More vice, as well, and more evil. But there you could find a Chinaman to do your laundry, and that sort of thing. There are all manner of Portuguese and Russians there—all those sorts who fall off whaling boats and never leave. Not that Portuguese and Russians constitute a civilization, but it is more variety of mankind than you will find in our small settlement out here, you see!”
    Alma nodded, but she knew she would not be leaving Matavai Bay. This had been Ambrose’s banishment; now it would be hers.
    “You will find a spot to cook in the back, by the garden,” the Reverend Welles went on. “Do not expect much of your garden, although Mr. Pike tried nobly to cultivate it. Everyone tries, but once the pigs and goats have finished their forays, there are not many pumpkins left for us! We can get you a goat, if you would like fresh milk. You can ask Sister Manu.”
    As though summoned by the sound of her name, Sister Manu appeared at the doorway. She must have been right on their heels. There was almost not enough room for her to enter, with Alma and the Reverend Welles already in the cottage. Alma wasn’t sure Sister Manu would even fit through the door, with that wide, flower-covered hat on her head. Somehow, though, they all squeezed in. Sister Manu opened a bundle of cloth and began to lay food out on the tiny table, using banana leaves as plates. It took all of Alma’s reserve not to dive into the meal immediately. Sister Manu handed Alma a length of bamboo with a stopper of cork.
    “Water for you to drink !” Sister Manu