Child of the Dawn (23 page)

"That should not discourage you," Matopahu tried. "You will have the last word."

Putu-nui sighed mournfully. "No, in the end it is the gods who always decide."

At this, Matopahu stiffened, and glanced toward Eye-to-heaven. He had hoped that the local priests might confide in their fellow, but they had not. "The signs. I have heard nothing."
 

Putu-nui raised his fly-flap and idly flicked at the air. At last he shrugged. "Ah, my good friend. Now you will understand my sadness. The priests are done with their night walking, and now I have their report. Here is the grim news—the gods will not stand with us. I dare not risk my warriors and canoes to help you."
 

'The diviners are wrong," Matopahu replied angrily. "The gods favor me. The outcome of the archery contest can leave no doubt."

"My strong young friend, I understand what a hard blow this is, after your magnificent triumph, but there is nothing I can do about it. If I refuse the advice of the priests, the people will turn against me. You would not have me thrown down, would you? Let us be reasonable. Take my gifts. Depart in peace. Wait for a more auspicious time."
 

Matopahu felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. For a moment he relived the end of the wrestling match with Feather. He was sprawled on his back again, blinking at the sky while the crowd cheered his defeat. He tried to speak but couldn't. He was relieved when Eye-to-heaven answered for him.
 

"You have treated us well, Putu-nui. We will ask nothing more."

 

For a time, Matopahu wandered forest trails, unaware of where he was going. The hills that he had scorned became his home again. He ate wild plants, tasting nothing. He drank from chilly streams, throwing himself down and guzzling like an animal.
 

When darkness came, he slept where he fell. The sounds of the night meant nothing to him. Ghosts? Wild boars? What could they do to him that was worse than what he had suffered?
 

One afternoon he came down to the sea at a familiar cove. He stood in the shallows feeling the waves lapping at his knees. His fury was almost spent. He walked farther out, dove, swam until he felt exhausted. Then he drifted back, caring only dimly if he managed to regain the shore.
 

"Matopahu, it is enough," said Eye-to-heaven, who was waiting for him on the pebbled beach. The priest had been somewhere nearby all along, the
ari'i
suspected. The
ari'i
wiped salt water from his eyes and staggered ashore. "Come with me to see the
tahu'a
, Imo," the priest insisted. "Better that than wandering the hills again. I am tired of chasing after you."
 

Looking at the pained expression on his friend's face, Matopahu began to feel foolish. "I am ready," he said, turning toward the path. "But you will not find me good company."
 

Imo lived in a small thatched hut not far from the larger dwelling of his brother's family. When Matopahu arrived, he saw a pile of gifts—cloth, necklaces, feathered garments, laid out on a mat. They looked familiar. He realized, suddenly, that these were his presents from Putu-nui.
 

Nearby, two men were erecting another house like Imo's. "For storing your riches," Eye-to-heaven explained, "until you can take these things home."
 

Matopahu gazed at his friend. Not only had Eye-to-heaven patiently trailed after him while he roamed the woods, but the priest had arranged to safeguard the valuable gifts he had abandoned. Had Eye-to-heaven not taken charge, they would have disappeared.
 

The two house-builders turned to stare at Matopahu.

"Yes, I am the one Feather threw," he told them angrily. "Look at me all you want."

"You're the champion archer," said the darker of the two men. "And now you have the riches of a chief." He turned to the brightly painted cloth and the glittering shells.
 

They will not bring me what I want
, Matopahu thought. Then he picked up two of the best rolls of
tapa
and laid them before the workmen. "Take these. I give them to you."
 

The men's mouths fell open at his generosity. "It's too much," said one.

Matopahu tossed his head and walked away.

"Do not be bitter, my friend," said Imo, offering Matopahu what appeared to be his best seat—a battered four-legged stool with the usual bowed seat. He and Eye-to-heaven had acknowledged Matopahu's superior birth by sitting cross-legged on pandanus-leaf mats. The
ari'i
pushed the stool aside and joined them on the mats.
 

"You are not defeated yet," Imo continued in a patient tone.

"What more can I do?" Matopahu asked despondently. "Even Putu-nui has found an excuse to turn me away."

"His priests found true omens," Imo said. "And I can tell you why. You have your strength back, but a cloud still lingers over you. Have you forgotten your brother's corpse?"
 

"You bring that up again!" Matopahu said in an exasperated voice. "You know that I need an army to recover the body. So long as Land-crab rules, my dead brother will stay where no one can find him.
Aue
! I am trapped. No chief will help me, because I am tied to my brother's corpse. And without help, I cannot get free!"
 

"That is a dilemma," admitted Eye-to-heaven. "And now that you are restored to health, we will have a while to solve it."

 

 

 

TWELVE

 

"So you are still with us, cousin," Maukiri called gaily one morning when Tepua was returning from her bath.

Chagrined, Tepua paused on the trail. It was true that lately she had been neglecting Maukiri. But her cousin seemed to need no looking after. The good food of Tahiti had filled her out, and every other aspect of the Arioi life seemed to satisfy her. Tepua replied, "I am happy to see you so cheerful, cousin."
 

A month had passed since the return to Tahiti. The chief of another district, one a bit closer to home, had invited the troupe to settle in for an extended stay—so long as their performances steered clear of politics.
 

"But what about you, Tepua? Are you still thinking about your archery champion? There are so many men here who would gladly help you forget him."
 

"I have seen them—"

"Yes. But I know you, cousin. You did nothing but look!"

"Matopahu will return to Tahiti," she said firmly.

"By then you'll be shriveled up like a crone." Maukiri stepped closer and felt Tepua's arm. "You do not eat enough, because you are unhappy. If Matopahu comes, he'll want to see you at your best. He will not complain if another man has been keeping you warm for him."
 

Tepua smiled and embraced her cousin, not wanting to argue. How could she explain that she had no interest in other men?

 

That night, Tepua once again felt sleepless as she lay on her mat in an Arioi house. Unaccountably her breasts tingled, as if Matopahu were caressing them. She noticed a feeling of fullness, and her nipples seemed unbearably sensitive. She had to turn on her side to keep the
tapa
cover from touching them.
 

She tried to blame Maukiri's words for her discomfort. She did not want to think about the absent
ari'i
now. She did not want to think about men at all.
 

As often happened of late, Tepua's thoughts drifted toward Matavai Bay and the experiences she had shared with Purea. Her interest had been piqued, yet she felt unsatisfied. She wished she could find a connection between this chiefess and the people of her own time. It might even turn out that she and Purea were distant kin!
 

As for foreign sailors, Tepua had already encountered a few of her own. Others were out there somewhere in the vast ocean. Though they were not demons, she understood how careless and deadly these foreigners could be. Someday they would make their impact on Tahiti.
 

Tepua sighed and turned over. Suddenly she did feel weary, though it was not the usual sensation. Her limbs felt heavy, yet her mind remained fully awake. In the darkness of the guest house she saw distant glimmerings. Then the light grew....
 

 

Standing atop Taharaa Hill, Purea thought that Matavai Bay looked unusually tranquil, its azure waters shimmering in sunlight. The foreign ship, anchored off the cape at the northern end, appeared tiny and innocuous, but this was only the illusion of distance.
 

The old chief, Hau, knelt beside a strip of raw earth that had been gashed open, a wound on the grassy turf of the hill. "The stone cannot be seen," Hau was saying, "but here is where it struck among the crowd. Remarkably, it missed the people and buried itself."
 

"The stone was flung all the way from the foreign vessel?" Purea found it hard to contain her disbelief.

"The ship was farther away then than it is now," Hau said solemnly.

"Why are you showing me this?" Purea asked, feeling a surge of anger. Was Hau trying to dissuade her from her plan, perhaps at Tutaha's instigation?
 

"To make you aware of what you face," the old man answered. 'The knowledge may cause you to draw back, or may increase your resolution. Either way, you will act with open eyes."
 

Hau rose and strode toward the path. Purea turned from the patch of exposed red-orange soil and walked after him. "Hau, give me your wisdom. Is this a foolish thing I am attempting?"
 

Gently he answered, "Only the gods can tell you. Perhaps Tupaia will bring the question to them. I know only this. If you fail to make peace, Tutaha will carry through his plan to make war."
 

And perhaps he will not wait to see if I fail.
"Will the other chiefs support him in such a show of force? They already grumble that he has too much power."
 

Hau sighed. "If the threat of the enemy is great enough, the chiefs will gather behind Tutaha. What threat could be greater than this?"
 

Purea fell silent. In her imagination, threads of crimson spread slowly through Matavai's aquamarine waters and bodies lay in heaps along the beach. Saying little more, she followed Hau down the hill.
 

 

As Purea approached the foreign vessel, there was a long interval of silence on board her double-hulled canoe. For a time she heard only the dipping paddles and creaks of sennit bindings. Mist curled around the great hull ahead, making it appear ghostly and unreal.
 

Standing next to her on the platform were Tupaia, her priest and advisor, and also old Hau. She felt the deck rock beneath her feet as the
pahi
breasted a few low waves. Two large pigs grunted in their lashed-pole cages. She was taking them as presents to the strangers.
 

Tupaia still looked stern and disapproving, his bleached
tapa
cape drawn tightly about his shoulders. He had argued with her this morning before the craft set out. Was it not sufficient to send a messenger to invite the strangers ashore? Even if she had no fear for herself, what of her family? What if she were somehow contaminated by foreign evil?
 

To placate the priest she had accepted his tuft of protective red feathers. She had also spent a long time petitioning her ancestral spirits to watch over her. Now she uttered one last prayer.
 

Perhaps Tupaia was overly cautious. Certainly Hau understood why she was here. It was essential to learn all she could about these strangers. What better way to start than by visiting the vessel that brought them?
 

As Purea drew closer to the ship, the onshore breeze brought her unfamiliar sounds. No Tahitian craft made such drawn-out creaks and groans, or had anchor lines of stone loops that clanked and rattled. Her gaze lifted to the masts, standing like great trees above the deck. Sections of exposed sail thumped against the spars, making sounds that resembled a beating drum.
 

As her double-hull came alongside the ship, Purea shivered in the shadow cast by the huge vessel. She looked up, startled to see that some faces were as brown as hers, but others were red or as pale as bleached
tapa
. Some men had the temerity to grin at her, showing missing or rotting teeth.
 

'Tell them I wish to visit," she asked Hau. By means of gestures and several short words that the old man had picked up while trading with the strangers, he conveyed her message. He did not have to add that she had brought gifts, for the foreigners were pointing excitedly at the two pigs, making sounds of hunger and rubbing their bellies.
 

A rope was let down from what looked like a very stout fishing pole fixed to the side; Hau tied it to the cages. One at a time, the startled hogs were swung aboard. The rope was let down again and Hau told Purea that she might be lifted aboard in the same manner, if she desired.
 

"I will not be hauled up like an animal," she replied haughtily.

A man who wore a tight blue garment about his arms and chest shouted an order. Someone unrolled a contrivance of tied ropes down the side. Hau seemed familiar with this; he put his foot on the first horizontal section and commenced to climb, amid a chorus of enthusiastic whistles and cheers. Purea was glad then that she had brought the old man—the strangers seemed to like him. Now it was her turn.
 

As she came forward, however, her feet momentarily refused to leave the deck of her canoe. In her youth, she had scaled many a high rock, yet she hesitated at the strangeness of the great wooden side looming over her. How could such a tall hull stay upright without an outrigger? she wondered. The addition of her weight on the ladder might overwhelm the precarious balance and bring the monstrosity crashing down on its side.