Feast & Requiem By John Torgrimson The Funeral Feast amis stopped by our leaf hut at daybreak to invite me and Pat to his father’s funeral feast. He was on his way to his bush garden to pick sweet potatoes and yams for the celebration. The sun at dawn was muted, splayed across the horizon in a glow of amber, the nocturnal creatures still yelling and singing in the humid haze of the jungle. In an hour they would become silent with the rise of the sun, letting the parrots and cockatoos working the day shift take their turn at noise making. “When did old Festus die?” I asked sleepily. The water was still hot in the kettle and I handed a cup of instant coffee, with great gobs of sweet and condensed milk, to Jamis. It was not unusual for people to just up and die in the jungles of Guadalcanal— pneumonia, malaria, old age or a combination Photo by John Torgrimson of maladies just too overwhelming for most malnourished bodies to withstand. People were always saying, “Oh, it’s just the flu – hacking and coughing, bundled in jackets and blankets in the 90-degree heat, until one day they would just slip away. Or they would blame it on the Vele Man—a minute invisible voodoo sorcerer, with a tiny basket of black magic, who would cast spells on the innocent and not so innocent as they walked by. The Vele is fast and can circle the entire island in a second. He needs to see you before you see him in order to work his spells. After three days with a fever, people would say, “Mai karange, Vele hem e kasem mi bigtaem.” (My goodness, the Vele really got me.)
J
Lost Lake Folk Opera 69
