John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

The Trial Begins

The meeting house where the trial was to be held was once home to a long-ago English missionary's church. Time had healed most of the bad memories associated with it. Most, but not all and any stranger was always received with a bit of wariness because of it. It seems around the turn of the century a small group of white, uninvited religious zealots arrived with the intention of civilizing the heathens and improving their lives. In short order, they banned the drinking of Kava, referring to it as 'the devils brew' and had the children convinced their nakedness was bad, dressing them in traditional English whites, pants, and ties. 

They were made to attend church services where they would learn the error of their ways and how much better off they would be once the social graces of English culture and religion had been fully absorbed. They even had them take part in a daily high tea. Nothing says 'civilized' like an afternoon tea and cucumber finger sandwiches. 

The villagers endured this poppycock for an entire six months before reciprocating with a Kava infused tea of their own and then sending the intoxicated group off to the interior. They never did reappear, and the children were quickly relieved of their uniforms and returned to their unholy nakedness. The village recycled the clothing into many useful things, one of which was the huge American flag that gets dragged out every February 15th in celebration of Tanna USA Day.

The old church was put to good use as well. It was now used for anything that required large numbers of the community to assemble, such as weddings or official council meetings. There were rows of hard, wooden benches that the newly converted would sit on while being subjected to the daily fire and brimstone sermons. Those benches, adorned with native carvings and paintings were now filled with the curious, not sure what they were going to see, but the arrival of a Magistrate was a rare event indeed and few wanted to miss it. It was almost a party-like atmosphere except for the few, ridiculously tall men peppered throughout the hall that sat stoically, staring straight ahead.

"You people should have a basketball team- Look at the size of them...what tribe are they from?"

 The Magistrate's question went unanswered. There was a nervousness in the air as the native volunteers set about the tasks of readying the venue. The Magistrate, a balding, pasty white porker of a man and his nerdy, bespectacled bookworm clerk were in the back room behind a raised stage, separated from the noisy crowd only by a thin, tattered, makeshift curtain. There were a number of religious artifacts, remnants of that misguided mission that were strewn about and piled, ironically, in leftover wooden ammo boxes. A small table with a galvanized metal wash basin sat in the center of the stuffy backroom.

"Crimony! It's so bloody hot. How do you people stand it?" the Magistrate said to no one in particular as he began donning his black robe. "So, who is this miserable old sot anyway?"

"The villagers say he's John Frum, your honor," The magistrate turned and looked at his clerk over the top of his thin rimmed glasses.

"Yes," the clerk affirmed, "that John Frum." The Magistrate cynically smiled.

"And what is he being accused of?"  A voice rang out from the doorway.

"He has willfully misled my people for years claiming to be the returning messiah, John Frum!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" an indignant Magistrate inquired.

"Fletcher Howard your honor and my people wish-"

"My people? My people!? Good God man! Have you looked in a mirror? You're a couple of shades off from these savages. And why is this so suddenly important? So bloody important as to pull me away from the Cricket World Cup to come to this God-forsaken jungle?"

Fletcher Howard shot a look at some of the villagers and almost as if on cue they took up his argument. One extremely tall villager stepped forward and in broken English spoke to the Magistrate.

"He bad. He bad for people. He promise to...."

The Magistrate had already lost interest and was now peering out from the curtain towards the unruly, boisterous crowd. There sat the accused, surrounded by his accusers who were busy taunting, poking, and prodding him. He abruptly shushed the villager and spoke to his clerk while observing the escalating tension in the now packed house.

"Surely doesn't look very Messiah-like to me. Has he hurt anyone? Physically? I mean, is he dangerous?"

"No, your honor."

"Is he of the Crown?" 

He was clearly worried by what he saw brewing amongst the ever-swelling crowd.

"No, your honor, he's American. We think."

"American!? American??"He began washing his hands in the basin, continuing to look at his clerk in disbelief.

"American. This is clearly not our affair!" He looked about to see who would bring him a towel. There was no one. "These savages want his hide... far be it from us to meddle in local affairs. Yet here we are...Alright," he said in exasperation, "let's get on with it."

The clerk went out first arranging the seat behind the crude desk where he draped a banner across its front. It was impressive- A golden threaded Coat of Arms against a dark blue satin background, the Seal of the Queen on one side and a British flag on the other. Three distinct raps of his gavel and the trial was under way.

John, Em, and the professor had just arrived, ditching the bike before the last half mile so as to not draw attention to themselves. The crowd had grown so large there were about a hundred onlookers assembled just outside the open doors and the trio slipped into their midst making their way through the sea of sweaty bodies towards the front. From there they could see the Magistrate taking his seat on the stage.

"Your attention please! Order! Order in the court!... The honorable Lord Viceroy, Queen's Magistrate presiding. On this day of our Lord..."

"Yes! Yes!" interrupted the Magistrate, "that's enough...that's fine." he said waving his hand. "Moving on..."

"Please be seated." The clerk announced- even though no one had risen. 

"The people's representative will now present their case," the clerk announced in a loud voice. Fletcher Howard rose, standing next to the cloaked defendant, clearing his throat to address the court.

"Your honor, some 26 years ago this man led a group of so-called scientists who came to this pristine jungle with the intent of corrupting a pure and otherwise untainted society for monetary gain at the expense of-"

Suddenly the accused rose, interrupting the proceedings. He was dressed in sackcloth, a large hood obscuring his identity yet spoke in a commanding voice.

"It is you who has handed over the keys of hell to these evil, hybrid half-humans. It is you who is the whited sepulcher, holding nothing but death and destruction as a future for these good people, the tribes of Tanna! You, Mr. Howard and your ilk, are a stench in the very nostrils of God!"

An enraged Fletcher Howard suddenly slapped the prisoner with such force as to cause the hood that had concealed his identity to fall away. It revealed a defiant, red faced Aiden, and the crowd began to move towards him. John was shocked and confused. He doubted that it would've truly turned out to be his father but never in a million years did he expect to see Aiden.

"He's been set up!" shouted John. 

Professor Wharton, now frantic, looked at John and exclaimed,

"No. We've been!"