her head, brow raised, eyes cool. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just do it, Whitney. For Chrissake.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said with a regal sniff. “But I won’t look helpless.” When she turned back, her expression changed to a pleasant smile. “We’re very sorry to have intruded on your village,” she began in French. “But we’re traveling to Tamatave, and my companion—” She gestured toward Doug and shrugged. “He’s lost his way. We’re very low on food and water.”
“Tamatave is a very long way to the east. You go on foot?”
“Unfortunately.”
The man studied Doug and Whitney again, cooly, deliberately. Hospitality was part of the Malagasy heritage, their culture. Still, it was extended discriminately He saw nerves in the eyes of the strangers, but no ill will. After a moment, he bowed. “We are pleased to receive guests. You may share our food and water. I am Louis Rabemananjara.”
“How do you do?” She extended her hand, and this time, he accepted the gesture. “I’m Whitney MacAllister and this is Douglas Lord.”
Louis turned to the waiting crowd and announced they would have guests in the village. “My daughter, Marie.” At his words a small, coffee-skinned young woman with black eyes stepped forward. Whitney eyed her intricate braided hairstyle and wondered if her own stylist could match it.
“She will see to you. When you have rested, you will share our food.” With this, Louis stepped back into the crowd.
After a quick survey of Whitney’s periwinkle shirt and slim pants, Marie lowered her eyes. Her father would never permit her to wear anything so revealing. “You are welcome. If you will come with me, I will show you where you can wash.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
They moved in Marie’s wake through the crowd. One of the children pointed at Whitney’s hair and spilled out with an excited babble before being shushed by his mother. A word from Louis sent them back to work before Marie had reached a small, one-story house. The roof was thatched and pitched steeply to spread shade. The house was built of wood and some of the boards were bowed and curled. The windows sparkled. Outside the door was a square woven mat bleached nearly white. When Marie opened the door, she stepped back to allow her guests to enter.
Everything inside was neat as a pin, every surface polished. The furniture was rough and plain, but bright cushions were plumped in every chair. Yellow daisylike flowers stood in a clay pot by a window where wooden slats held back the intense light and heat.
“There is water and soap.” She led them farther inside where the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. From a small alcove, Marie produced deep wooden bowls, pitchers of water, and cakes of brown soap. “We will have our midday meal soon, with you as our guests. Food will be plentiful.” She smiled for the first time. “We have been preparing for fadamihana.”
Before Whitney could thank Marie, Doug took her arm. He hadn’t followed the French, but the one phrase had rung a bell. “Tell her we, too, honor their ancestors.”
“What?”
“Just tell her.”
Humoring him, Whitney did so and was rewarded with a beaming smile. “You are welcome to what we have,” she said before she left them alone.
“What was that about?”
“She said something about fadamihana.”
“Yes, they’re preparing for it, whatever it is.”
“Feast of the dead.”
She stopped examining a bowl to turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s an old custom. Part of Malagasy religion is ancestor worship. When somebody dies, they’re always brought back to their ancestral tombs. Every few years they disentomb the dead and hold a party for them.”
“Disentomb them?” Immediate revulsion took over. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s part of their religion, a gesture of respect.”
“I hope no one respects me that way,” she began, but her curiosity got the better of her. She frowned as Doug poured water into the bowl. “What’s the purpose?”
“When the bodies are brought up, they’re given a place of honor at the celebration. They get fresh linen, palm wine, and all the latest gossip.” He dipped both hands in the bowl of water and splashed it over his face. “It’s their way of honoring the past, I guess. Of showing respect for the people they descended from. Ancestor worship’s the root of Malagasy religion. There’s music and dancing. A good time’s had by all, living or otherwise.”
So the dead weren’t mourned, Whitney mused. They were entertained. A celebration of death, or perhaps more accurately of the bond between life and death. Suddenly she felt she