The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish Read Free

was time for Archie to go. He
was desperately sad to be leaving his island family. It felt like a sort of death.
But if he didn’t leave now he would never see his fiancée Beatrice again. He had
written to her at every opportunity. Letters had piled up waiting for a passing vessel.
And she had written back. He imagined her beautiful face concentrating as she crafted
each sentence, her glorious blonde locks flowing over her shoulders, her exquisite
hands delicately holding her pen. And with every loving letter he’d received from
her, his confidence had grown. In his last missive, sent by canoe and then native
runner to the nearby mission, he had proposed marriage. He felt certain of a positive
response. But just to be doubly sure he had enclosed his foreskin love-token with
the letter. And now, in just a few weeks, he would fall into her arms, and a new
life would begin.

    ‘Get yer arse aboard!’ the bosun screamed above the creak of the windlass. ‘The fuckin’
tide’s turned. If we don’t shift now we’ll be spending the night with the bloody
cannibals!’
    The island lads were warily clambering up the rope ladders slung over the side of
the SS Mokambo , somehow balancing Archie’s crates on their shoulders as they went.
At the rail, equally wary sailors took the crates aboard. The great war canoe had
already been winched out of the water. As Archie climbed a rope boarding ladder its
outrigger swung wildly, threatening to knock him back into the water. There was no
time to say goodbye. He barely had time to wave before he heard the shout ‘up anchor’,
and the tramp steamer began moving, leaving the cluster of outriggers and their forlorn
paddlers in its wake.
    By dusk Great Venus was a mere smear on the horizon, and West Venus Atoll, home of
the famous fetish, was close a-starboard. In the gloaming Archie could just about
make out the ceremonial path, lined with the ochred valves of giant clam shells,
leading in from the beach. There was not a light to be seen on the place: the Venus
Islanders would rather die than set foot there after dark.
    The last of the tropical twilight faded, and Archie went to his cabin. A small mirror
hung on one wall. What he saw in it shocked him: a brown man, muscular, trim and
tattooed, dressed in nothing but a skimpy loincloth. The trunk containing his clothes
had been placed beside his bunk. He opened it for the first time in years, took out
his suit, felt its fabric, and at once remembered his nickname—Beanpole Meek. That,
and his brothers’ habit of pointing out his ‘Bondi chest’ (far from Manly) had been
perpetual humiliations.
    Archie dropped his loincloth and struggled into his trousers. He tugged at them and
heard a ripping sound. His right thigh had burst through the seams. Next he struggled
into his shirt. It seemed to belong to a child. Surely a fellow couldn’t change that
much between nineteen and twenty-four? Perhaps the fabric had shrunk. In any case,
the captain’s wife might be able to help.
    ‘I can put gussets in them, but there’s not a lot of spare fabric, she said dubiously.
Her gaze drifted from Archie’s body to the suit and shirt lying in her lap.
    ‘Do you think you could try? I mean, I can’t arrive home looking like this.’
    ‘You’re not too hard on the eyes. But I suppose you’ll need clothes in the city.
Leave it with me. I’ll fix up something.’
    The captain invited his passenger to dine with him most evenings. Archie was surprised
at how difficult he found it to have a conversation. He just couldn’t find the words
he wanted—in English at least. The captain seemed taken with a young cricketer called
Bradman. Even though Archie followed cricket keenly, the name meant nothing to him.
And both the captain and his wife kept talking about ‘the crash’. He assumed they
were referring to some terrible rail tragedy, until it became clear that it was about
money. Lots of money.
    Ten days later, with Archie only dimly aware of