Child of the Dawn (41 page)

Yet a stronger voice drove her. She remembered the people of this district as they once had been—proud and self-sufficient, fearing no enemy. They had always been ruled by Matopahu's line. The first canoe to reach these shores from the ancient homeland had brought his noble ancestor, a descendant of the gods. In her arms, Tepua carried proof that his line was not ended.
 

Now that the moon had emerged, she found her way easily along the familiar paths. She tried not to think what would happen if Land-crab's men discovered her. Getting rid of both father and son would end all possible challenge to the usurper's rule.
 

Yet, despite the danger, she could not turn back. If Matopahu were killed, what life would there be for Ruro? As an exile in Putu-nui's court he would never see the home of his ancestors. There would be no honors for him, no illustrious marriage, no daughter Purea of the many titles.... Gritting her teeth, Tepua walked on.
 

Something darted from the bushes. For a moment, she clutched the child to her in fright. Then she saw Te Kurevareva dancing about her, leaping with excitement. "So you do remember me," she called softly. The dog lifted her muzzle, sniffing at the child. The long tail wagged and the dog rose briefly on her hind legs.
 

"Stay with us," Tepua whispered. "Warn us of danger." She continued up the path and was glad that the dog followed.

As she passed open-walled houses, Tepua saw that people were still awake. They sat huddled under
tapa
cloaks staring out, listening to the distant sounds of battle. She knew this part of the district. Ahead lay the large dwelling of a man who had once possessed much influence.
 

Hanging mats kept her from seeing inside his house. Tepua nervously approached the doorway. She could not be certain how anyone would react to her news. They might even scorn her. Yet she knew no other way to help Matopahu.
 

"
la ora na
," she called in a nervous voice. "Come out and meet your new chief. Come see the son of Matopahu."
 

From within she heard mutters of disbelief. "He is here," she continued. 'The firstborn of the firstborn." The child gave a soft cry and shifted in her arms.
 

Then the old man who had been Knotted-cord's advisor came shuffling out. "Is this possible?" he asked. "I prayed to the gods that his line would survive. Now I cannot believe it is true."
 

She stood in a pool of moonlight. The elder stepped forward and bent over her for a better look. "It is so!" he cried suddenly. "Anyone can see his father in him. But why endanger the infant on this night of battle? Take him to safety. When he is fully grown, bring him back to us."
 

"By then there will be no one left to fight for him," she answered. "What happened to all the brave men? Even now I cannot find them."
 

Others emerged from the house, younger men, then women, finally a few boys. "What do you want?" asked a scowling man who carried a short spear.
 

"Stand with Matopahu!" she demanded.

He looked at the ground, then at the weapon in his hand. "I used to be one of the high chief's warriors," he replied in a weary voice. "Now I tend a yam garden."
 

"And your crops feed the usurper!" whispered a woman behind him.

"Watch what you say," cautioned another. "Do you want to bring the great wave?"

"If there is a punishing wave, it will wash away Land-crab as well," Tepua retorted. "Then the gods will have no one to look after the land. Can anyone believe that will happen?"
 

"Perhaps the prophecy is false," the old man admitted. "But there is danger on every side. Land-crab's men may be listening—"

"They are too busy trying to kill Matopahu," she answered. "But there are ten of us for each of his warriors. If we all rise together..."
 

"My people have lost the will to fight," the elder said with a sigh. He turned slowly to look at his sons and grandsons.

"Even this animal has more courage than you men!" Tepua answered. "Look. This is the high chief's dog. Now it follows my son." She held out the child. Te Kurevareva trotted closer and wagged her long, bushy tail.
 

"I am not afraid," replied one young man, going back inside. He emerged carrying a
paeho
, a wooden sword whose edge was set with gleaming shark's teeth.
 

"Then come with me while I find others like you," Tepua shouted. Several more fighters came forward, and she saw that she had attracted a small crowd from the surrounding houses.
 

"Spread the word," she told them. "We are defending Matopahu's son. We are driving the usurper from the land." She plunged on up the path, wondering how much time she had, unsure if her child's father still lived.
 

 

Matopahu's first awareness was of pain. Somehow the
ari'i
had returned from death. He was alive, yes. He knew little more than that.
 

The world around him remained black. He sensed that he was lying on something rough and gritty, with sharp pebbles that pressed into his back. Try as he might to shift his position, he could not move. All his efforts only intensified the throbbing at the back of his head.
 

The leaden feeling in his limbs frightened him. If the head blow had cost him the use of his arms and legs, then he was finished. The thought alarmed him so much that he retreated back into nothingness.
 

Yet his sense of pain returned and with it came another awareness—of sounds, voices, low, controlled, and sonorous. These were not the rough voices of warriors, but the trained ones of priests.
 

"Even if this man appears dead, be cautious," said the deeper of the two. "He evaded the curse placed on his brother. Who knows what else he can manage?"
 

"He may be full of tricks, but none will help him now," said the second voice scornfully. A hard finger poked into Matopahu's side. He felt himself rock limply, like a corpse.
 

"He managed to father a child," the first priest replied. "And a healthy one, too, from what I hear. Somehow we failed to set the curse deeply enough."
 

Child
? Matopahu felt a shock go through him, though not a muscle moved.
 

"The news may be false," the second priest argued. "I haven't heard the report."

"A messenger was just here. He saw crowds gathering for a fight. The mother had the child in the center, surrounded by guards, and people were cheering."
 

"
Aue
! Then you are right. The
aha-tu
ceremony must have had a flaw. This time, we will make no mistakes. Neither the cliff climber nor his squalling brat will survive."
 

The priest is lying. I have no son
! He tried to put the possibility from his mind.
 

But why would a messenger bring such false news? Maybe there was something to it. He recalled Eye-to-heaven's talk about a son, words he had dismissed in anger. Perhaps Tepua
had
chosen her child's life over her dedication to the Arioi!
 

Matopahu tried to keep listening, but throbbing in his skull and the buzzing in his ears would not let him. Had they captured the infant yet? Perhaps not, but what did it matter? He knew what the outcome would be.
 

The priests would strike at the child through him, just as they had struck at him through his brother. Under guard or not, his son would die. Matopahu knew that this time he would be the sennit-man.
 

A freezing wave of fear swept through him. The priests would wrap him while he still lived. He remembered the dreams that had tormented him....
 

Oh gods. If only he might be dead by then. Could he will himself into death before the sennit claimed him?

But what of your son
? a voice whispered inside him.
If you die, he has no hope
....
 

 

Aitofa stood before a crowd of Arioi, men and women, while Head-lifted tried to shout her down. Her followers stood in a circle, protecting her with their spears.
 

'The high chief demands your loyalty," Head-lifted called hoarsely to the people around him. "This is your duty."

"It is," Aitofa agreed. "Go to your chief. Tepua is carrying him."

'Tepua is disgraced!" retorted Head-lifted.

"She has made a great sacrifice," Aitofa replied. "A sacrifice that many highborn women of the Arioi have to make. She is no longer one of us, but she has brought us a remarkable gift." Aitofa remembered how unsettled she had been by the onset of Tepua's pregnancy. Knowing the difficulty of protecting the child, she had done everything to discourage Tepua from keeping it. But now Aitofa had no choice but to defend the son of Matopahu. The Arioi remained loyal to their chiefs—not to usurpers, but to those the gods had sent to rule.
 

As the crowd shouted and disagreed, Head-lifted seemed to sense that the mood was turning against him. "How can we know which one is the true chief?" he tried to argue. "Let us walk up into the hills and wait until this is over. Then we will be loyal to the one who survives."
 

Aitofa was astonished to hear a few cries of agreement.

"What has happened to you?" she shouted back. "Will you flee like fish from a shadow? Those who are still Arioi, come stand with me to defend the rightful chief."
 

 

Matopahu waited until he thought the priests had gone. Then he made a new effort to move his legs. Nothing, not even a quiver. Perhaps Land-crab's men had left him with a broken neck.
 

No. He had talked with men in that woeful state, and they said they could feel nothing in their legs. The gritty sharpness of pebbles digging into his thighs gave him a slight reassurance. Perhaps his problem was just weakness, or the effect of being struck on the head. Perhaps if he waited awhile longer...

Wondering if his eyesight had recovered at all, he forced an eyelid open a crack. In the dim light, he glimpsed a low wall built of round-faced stones. The sight sent a bolt of excitement through him. He nearly moved his head, but managed to control himself.
 

Now hope fluttered in his belly. Land-crab's priests had taken him to the principal
marae
of his people. His hand lay within reach of the wall, and these ancient stones held
mana
. If he could just stretch out his arm...

But the wall might have been standing on the other side of Tahiti for all the good it would do him. His arm lay, limp and heavy, unaffected by all his efforts to move it. His struggle was made even harder by the need to conceal it from the priests, whose voices told him they had returned. Any tremble, any uplift of the chest to gasp a breath, and they would call a warrior to club him again.
 

Once more, cautiously this time, he sent a demand to his muscles. Was there a slight flicker in his forearm? Did his fingers give a twitch? Yes, but very weak. His recovery, if real, was too slow to help him. The priests would see the signs long before he could make any real use of his arm.
 

He prayed that the men around him might move off again, but they remained, talking, until he thought he would cry out with frustration. Then someone called for attendants to carry his body to the binding platform, and he knew that his hope was gone. Arms reached under his back and legs. He felt himself lifted, carried away from the wall and into the
marae itself.

He opened one eye a crack, saw the priests standing ready under the chilling moonlight. The chant he feared had not yet started, but he knew it from memory.
 

"Bind him like a fish..."

He knew what was coming next. The sharp pegs and the coils of sennit lay ready. He heard a priest's impatient call.

The attendants quickened their pace as they carried him, feetfirst, past the familiar uprights of his ancestors. Just ahead he glimpsed a stone slab that made his pulse pound in his throat. If he could only think about that instead of the sennit!
 

The approaching upright was sacred to him as the firstborn of his line. It marked his personal place in the
marae.
More than once he had spent an entire night praying before it, begging the favor of the gods. There was great
mana
within the upright. If he could but reach out his hand...

For the sake of my child
, he thought as sweat broke out on his forehead. A short while ago he had managed to move his fingers, but he needed to do far more. The attendants were already carrying him past his upright stone.
 

Now!
Suddenly his arm shot to the side, his hand hitting so hard that the pain stunned him. The bearers shrieked in surprise, some releasing their hold on him, others tightening their grip. His fingers clutched and fastened on the stone as he tumbled to the side.
 

The priests cried out in dismay. Matopahu ignored them, concentrating on the one hand that clamped onto the upright. The rest of his body remained useless. But now he could feel the sacred essence of his ancestral gods.
 

He felt the power enter him, rushing from the stone of the
marae
and from the spirits that lingered around it, power that banished the weakness in his muscles. Strengthened by the contact, he grabbed on with the other hand. Pulling himself to the upright, he flung both arms about it in a desperate embrace. Now the ancient
mana
poured into him like the sea filling the lagoon at high tide. The attendants were shouting, trying to break him away from the power-filled stone. Others were calling for warriors.
 

Matopahu laughed. The priests' own rules worked against them now. A warrior would not dare step onto the sacred courtyard to attack him. He was safe, so long as he stayed here.