Namesake

The Chairman of the Bethany Island Council meeting banged his gavel once and received immediate and utter silence. To emphasise this little triumph he did it again and then went for the hat trick after a few more seconds to see if he could frighten the stenographer into another typing error.
         “Chief Zingeling’s motion is carried!” he boomed dramatically. “Who requests the floor?”
         The four men in front of him jumped to their feet and all demanded an opportunity. They were Captain James von Reebok, Chief Shaker Zingeling, Lord Albert Kitchensink and an outlaw called Bruce. The Chairman’s gavel demanded silence once again and this was followed by the sound of a pen dropping, the stenographer having extremely shoddy nerves.
         “The Chair recognises Captain von Reebok,” said the Chairman and moved his chair back as far as the wall behind him allowed while Von Reebok approached the podium.
         Captain James von Reebok was almost feared on account of the foul odour that usually followed him like a lost mongrel dog. Widely renowned for smoking too much, drinking too much and generally indulging in any excess imaginable, Captain von Reebok did not understand the need for personal hygiene. He did, however understand the need to exert power over those that could exert power themselves.
         “I am disgusted,” started the Captain, “at the notion that our fair island’s name should be changed. When we arrived here ten years ago, after surviving great peril on the open water, we decided to name this place after my wife who had perished during the journey.”
         He took a purposeful stride towards the Chairmen to emphasise his next statement. The Chairmen tried to lean further back and the stenographer, who could not move away, started to sway as if about to pass out.
         “Her sacred memory lives on through this island,” Von Reebok continued, “and I will not see it desecrated!”
         He glared at the men seated in front of him. No one seemed eager to oppose this point of view, so he returned to his seat next to the open window. Silence prevailed as each of the other men took their first deep breaths since Von Reebok had taken the floor. The stenographer stopped swaying and some colour returned to his face.
         Bruce raised his hand. Usually regarded as the least sophisticated of these four representatives, Bruce was the leader of the criminal outcasts from the Main Land. The merchant vessel that came past Bethany Island every second Thursday had started dropping these ruffians off the previous year and their number had grown steadily ever since.
         “The Chair recognises Bruce.”
         “Why thank you Mister Stool,” said Bruce.
         An ignorant bystander might have expected the Chairman to be enraged by the criminal’s address, but this was not the case.
         “Bruce,” said the Chairman patiently, “I remind you of our agreement.”
         Bruce smiled, flashing all five teeth he had left, trying to appear amiable.
         “I’ll try my best, mate.” The Chairman didn’t reply and the outlaw continued. “I know us lot isn’t exactly the most popular cats around here. But I still want to empress upon you gentlemen that we are here to stay. In my case for at least twelve to fifteen years.” He chuckled at his own joke but soon discovered that nobody else appreciated prison humour. “Seriously now, as I said to the lads the others night: It’s not such a bad place to live, especially on account of the security situation.” He turned a little to face Von Reebok. “Because what self-respecting pirate would want to visit an island with such a sissy name.”
         Von Reebok jumped to his feet and shouted that Bruce was a spineless, rotten, son of a donkey mare, but his shouts were rivalled by Bruce and Chief Zingeling laughing.
         BANG. Silence. The Chairman’s gavel had spoken.
         “Well done, Bruce,” said the Chairman with a sneer. “As you can clearly see, you have upset the good Captain Von Reebok by insulting his beloved wife. You’ve also achieved your second warning. I implore you to try for the third. It would give me enormous pleasure to honour our agreement.”
         Bruce smiled less heartily this time and slowly walked back to his seat. The Chairman motioned towards Chief Zingeling, who got up and strode quickly to the podium. He arrogantly nodded to the stenographer and cleared his throat.
         “On behalf of my people, I would like to thank the Chairman and members of this assembly for the opportunity to…”
         “Chief Zingeling,” interrupted Lord Kitchensink, speaking for the first time, “get on with it.”
         The Chairman and his gavel seemed to share this sentiment so Zingeling didn’t press the matter of the interruption.
         “We want to name the island Pongo-Pongo, a name that has been embedded in our heritage for hundreds of years, maybe even thousands. And since we were here first…”
         “Donkey shit!” cried Von Reebok. “I saw you arriving in your little kayak as I was unloading my wife’s coffin. We all know you come from the neighbouring island of…”
         BANG. Silence.
         “Captain,” said the Chairman trying to suppress a smile, “you know that we all agreed not to mention the unfortunate name of the Chief’s birthplace again. His people find it very offensive and we must honour that.” He turned to Zingeling. “Please continue, Chief, but stick to the facts. Your tribe’s history isn’t as vague as you wish it to be.”
         “Fine,” said Zingeling, “we still want Pongo-Pongo. It sounds more tribal and it will increase tourism and total revenue. That will enable us to optimise infrastructure and develop a sustainable economy.”
         Zingeling paused for a moment to assess his audience. The Chairman stared at him with unadulterated awe, Von Reebok was morosely muttering to himself and Bruce was visibly struggling with the Chief’s vocabulary. The only one that noticed Lord Kitchensink winking at Zingeling was the stenographer.
         The Chief faced the Chairman.
         “Who’s being vague now?” he said and returned to his seat.
         The stenographer cracked one knuckle, then another.
         “I hate to admit it but Zingeling is correct,” said Lord Kitchensink, breaking the silence. “It could be financially beneficial.”
         “I’m not in the least surprised to hear that kind of talk from the likes of you, Lord Kitchensink. Everything you own is dependant on tourism,” said Von Reebok.
         “Agriculture would also receive its cut, Captain, we still need to feed these people,” retorted Kitchensink.
         Von Reebok frowned, considering the proposal. He thought about his entire fortune invested in agriculture and thought about the recent droughts. He thought about his new wife’s extremely expensive habits.
         “Al right, I can live with the motivation of the name changing, but I still don’t like this Ping-Pong business. We don’t want to appear shallow or anything so we best decide on a name with substance. What does Pongo-Pongo mean anyway?”
         “Beetroot juice,” said Zingeling with a sheepish grin.
         “My point exactly,” barked Von Reebok, as if in the military. “We need a more attractive name for the tourists but it had better have a decent meaning.”
         “I got an idea!” shouted an excited Bruce, who had been following the conversation with some difficulty. “Name it after the next person who gets it.”
         “Gets what?” asked the Chairman.
         “Don’t be daft your Highness, the next one who dies. Then you’ve got a name, a made-up heroic story to give it substance,” he smiled at Von Reebok, ”and you will also have the body to proof it all.”
         Everyone contemplated Bruce’s plan.
         “The motion before us is to name the island after the next person who dies,” said the Chairman, moving the others to action.
         “The next well-known person,” said Lord Kitchensink.
         “I second that,” said Captain Von Reebok.
         “Amended as such,” said the Chairman. “Those in favour say ay.”
         “Ay!” yelled the foursome.
         BANG.
         “The motion is carried!”
         Bruce looked extremely pleased with himself and with what had just happened. So did everyone else. They had united to achieve a common goal. Politics at its best had triumphed again.
         “Well Bruce, it would appear as if your kind actually has something to offer our little community,” said Von Reebok.
         “Good work, Bruce,” said Lord Kitchensink.
         Zingeling patted him on the back. Everyone, except the stenographer, was very excited. Congratulations were being passed around, smiles were abundant and an ignorant bystander might actually have thought that these men were friends.
         “We should celebrate,” said the Chairman.
         “Yes, celebrate the prospect of a new name,” said Lord Kitchensink with a smile.
         “A better name,” said Von Reebok.
         “A much better name,” giggled Zingeling.
         “Better than any of the other silly little islands,” laughed the Chairman.
         “Especially the Chief’s home island!” snorted Bruce, who was near rapture with excitement. “I mean who wants to live on Dog Rock.”
         “Oh, Bruce you old scoundrel,” laughed the Chairman, “that’s strike three.” His face darkened and everyone stopped laughing. “Zingeling.” The Chief’s name had been spoken as a command and the only sound that followed it was a short cry from the outlaw and the stenographer finishing the last sentence.
         Tap, tap, tap.
         The men stood back from Bruce who was kneeling down on one knee, holding his bleeding chest. Zingeling wiped his ceremonial spear.
         “Oh,” said Bruce. He looked at each man’s compassionless face. “Oh bloody hell, mate,” he said to Zingeling, “was that really necessary?”
         “We warned you about being disruptive, outlaw,” said the Chairman gravely, “that was the agreement.”
         Bruce face showed as much confusion as it did pain.
         “Fair enough. But when we arranged it, his bloody traditional weapon was a flipping stick.” As he said this a little blood erupted from his mouth and nostrils. He fell to the side and rolled over on his back.
         “That’s tourism for you,” remarked Lord Kitchensink.
         Bruce convulsed and let out a short moan. Then he died.
         “Well that’s that,” said the Chairman, leaning back in his chair. “Never thought I would live on Bruce Island though.”
         “Do we really need to go that far? A criminal’s name doesn’t really have the substance we had in mind,” said Kitchensink.
         “That’s not the point!” said the Chairman angrily. “You should have excluded his stupid name before you decided to go through with the proposal.”
         “Don’t be silly, Chair,” argued Zingeling, “How were we supposed to know that he would die next?”
         “You’re the one that killed him!” screamed the Chairman, very agitated at the other’s lack of respect for the process. “This is not open for debate. You all voted in favour!”
         The stenographer was pounding the stenograph’s keys, trying to keep up.
Tap, tap, tap.
         “Who cares about the bloody vote!” shouted Kitchensink.
         BANG. The Chairman’s gavel demanded silence, but without result.
         “We’re not naming the place Bruce Island,” said Von Reebok.
         BANG.
         The Captain ignored the gavel’s summons.
         “It sounds moronic!”
         Tap, tap, tap.
         BANG.
         “Just like the current name!” Zingeling contributed.
         BANG. Silence, for a moment.
         “How dare you!” screamed Von Reebok, grabbing Zingeling by his ceremonial headdress.
         “Her sacred memory…”
         Tap, tap, tap.
         “Let go of me, you imbecile!”
         Tap, tap, tap.
         “Get a grip, Von Reebok. You never even loved her!” cried Kitchensink, making things worse.
         Tap, tap... Click.
         BANG. BANG. The Chairman had tried to restore order once again, but still to no avail. He leaned back in his chair and closed his weary eyes, trying to shut out the ruckus. Somewhere in the chaos something seemed amiss. He had witnessed dozens of outbreaks from each one of these men, but there had always been an extra dimension to the sound of the argument. He tried to recollect the missing sound.
         That’s it! The stenographer’s little machine had stopped. He opened his eyes but could hardly believe them.
         “Wait!” the Chairman screamed hysterically. “Wait! WAIT!” His voice drowned amidst the sound of what had now turned into a full-fledged brawl.
         BANG. BANG. BANG. Finally silence. The silence of a grave. The smell of gunpowder. The Chairman stared at his dead colleagues, too petrified to utter more than hurried, shallow breathing.
         The stenographer was standing over the fallen men, staring at Von Reebok. The Chairman managed a gasp for breath.
         The stenographer spoke, his young voice trembling.
         “Ten years ago, on the voyage from the Main Land, Captain Von Reebok went badly off course and our food started running low. So this louse locked his wife and himself in their chamber and left the men unwatched. Some could not bear the hunger and thirst, so they jumped ship. The rest of us…”
         Sorrow took hold of him and the tears started running.
         “The rest of us fought like animals for the food he had left us. My brother was killed and once ot twice it got so bad that I had to...”
         Tears welled up in his eyes and he shook his head to get rid of the memory.
         “After a while we weren’t enough men to operate the ship. We left the sails up and prayed that the wind would deliver us.
         "One night I was lying on the deck, completely parched and knotted with hunger. I was delirious and guilt-ridden. A figure appeared above me and I felt drops of water on my broken lips. It came more and more steadily and then there was a piece of fruit placed softly in my mouth. I was sure I was dreaming about a woman, for there was scent when she came close.
         "The next day came and went with me still lying there. When night fell I was sure I wouldn’t see the next morning, but again the dream-woman came and fed me. She stayed and comforted me as I wept for the dead and dying.”
         The young man approached the Chairman’s desk, wiping his eyes with the back of the hand that held the pistol.
         “On the third night that I lay there, I was wishing desperately to see her again. And she did come and she nursed me again. And when I asked her why she was doing this, she said it was because I was worth saving. Me, worth saving, a foul murderer. The next morning the ship beached itself on the island we had set out for.”
         The stenographer looked squarely at the Chairman, the sorrow on his tear stained face had been replaced by determination.
         “Only four of us survived that journey. The Captain survived because he had taken enough food for himself. Two other men survived with me because his wife gave her rations to us when we were on the brink of death. She sacrificed herself for men she didn’t know and couldn’t have cared for, except through pure humanity.”
         He took the assembly’s record from the stenograph, struck a match and set fire to it.
         Another shot rang out.