Here is Brodie, an expatriate trader in New Guinea, whose understanding of the sorceries and rituals he now lives with is moving close to respect and wonderment. He watches his visiting daughter, a twelve-year-old, being captivated by this culture of theatre. The place was packed. Tiptoe, over the matt-black heads of the crowd, he could see the performers. He edged closer, but so rapt was everyone that none of them looked around. The figure who held their attention was not from anywhere Brodie could place, and indeed, more than anywhere else, he might have come from the grave. His eyesockets were painted with sulphur, enlarged to include much of the temples and the cheekbones, so bright a yellow that the eyes behind seemed empty. His skull was shaved and rubbed with ashes, and whatever hank remained of the hair was evidently the support for the plumes which pealed upward like golden-throated trumptes and for the crimson lances which entered the head, one on either side, which spoke of the fierce manner of his death. When daughter Meg falls suddenly ill, Brodie fears she will be relying more on a matrix of magic rather than the sterile planes and inoculant infusions he would better trust. This novella was first published in the Antipodes Journal, Austin, Texas.
