Child of the Dawn (6 page)

No. Tepua was not willing to abandon the good people her troupe had served for so long. She had already heard suggestions that her lodge seek a new district willing to give it a permanent home. She would oppose that move if there was any hope of returning to Matopahu's ancestral lands.
 

As for Matopahu himself...She clenched her jaw with frustration. He had vanished into exile. Somehow she would have to find him.
 

At last Tepua's canoe approached the shore. On the gently sloping beach, Aitofa, the chiefess of the women's lodge, stood waiting with a few companions from Wind-driving Lodge. Wearing a fresh cape and a garland of flowers, Aitofa looked her former self again. "You see," Tepua said with satisfaction to her atoll captain. "All is well here. Go on to Porapora and do not worry about me."
 

She turned to Maukiri, who was gazing with a furrowed brow at the beach ahead. "Cousin, you can go to Porapora, and then home if you want," she whispered. "Perhaps Tahiti is not for you after all." Maukiri, however, clutched Tepua's hand and insisted that she would stay with her.
 

The warrior captain accompanied the women ashore and looked about in all directions, as if expecting an imminent attack. Yet the scene appeared peaceful, with children playing at the edge of the water and fishermen mending their nets under the dangling needles of ironwood trees. The warrior peered into the shadows and walked close to a hut that stood above the black sand beach. Then, seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he listened while Aitofa informed him that this district was ruled by the great chief, Tutaha i Tarahoi, who had offered her Arioi his hospitality.
 

"I will bring your brother news of your safe arrival," the guard captain said finally to Tepua. She shouted words of parting as he returned to the double-hulled canoe. Then, with an unsettled Maukiri beside her, she walked along the shore of the district that would be their temporary home.
 

On every side lay signs of prosperity. The feathery tops of coconut palms arched out over the water. In the breadfruit groves, fat yellow globes hung in clusters of twos or threes, some so high that a pole could not reach them. Outrigger canoes in great numbers were pulled up on the beach. Highborn men swaggered about, wrapped in voluminous cloaks of
tapa
, the excellent bark-cloth used for Tahitian garments.
 

With a glance at Maukiri, Tepua turned to Aitofa. "I had hoped that my cousin—"

"I understand," the chiefess interrupted. "There is a place for her, if she is willing to work. We left most of our attendants behind."
 

Maukiri brightened. "I can stay with the troupe?"

"Yours will not be an easy life," Tepua warned her. Attendants took care of most tedious chores, leaving the players free to practice or to simply amuse themselves. Maukiri might find the demands too heavy. But for now, her cousin had no alternative.
 

Aitofa hailed a passing novice and sent Maukiri with her to find the other attendants. Then the chiefess, who held the coveted Blackleg rank, the foremost in the Arioi hierarchy, led Tepua on a walk along the beach.
 

Tepua felt that she owed much to this woman. On several occasions, Aitofa had stood up for her against Head-lifted, the chief of the men's lodge. She had accepted Tepua as a novice in the troupe despite his objections. Later, when Tepua made a foolish mistake, Aitofa had protected her from dismissal. Now Tepua looked at her for guidance through the trials ahead.
 

"Our position is difficult," Aitofa confided as they went. "You and I must talk, but not here. Do you know the path up Taharaa Hill?"
 

Tepua turned to gaze at one of the most striking features of the shoreline. Taharaa Hill jutted out into the water, its steep face of red clay rising to a crest sparsely covered with trees. "I have been up the trail," Tepua said, recalling earlier visits.
 

"Good. Then meet me at the top. When the sun is over there." She gestured at a point about halfway down the sky. "But do not tell anyone where you are going."
 

They continued along the beach, soon reaching the guest houses that the host chief, Tutaha, had set aside for his visitors. Two rows of neatly thatched dwellings, some with cane walls and some fully open to the breeze, stood in a breadfruit grove. A brook nearby flowed quietly into the lagoon. A huge, gnarled ironwood tree grew by the shore, its needles hissing softly as they tossed in the wind.
 

The houses were deserted. Tepua heard drumming in the distance. 'The other dancers are practicing," Aitofa explained. "We have to keep Tutaha amused if we want to stay. I hope you have lost none of your skills."
 

"So do I," said Tepua. At one time she had been hailed as the best dancer in the troupe. Now, after so much time away, she felt stiff and awkward. She glanced down at her body.
 

The atoll garments she wore, of finely plaited pandanus-leaf matting, had served her well on the voyage, but were not suited to Tahiti. Aitofa seemed to understand. She beckoned Tepua inside one of the houses and handed her a length of painted bark-cloth.
 

Putting the mat skirt and cape aside, Tepua wrapped herself in the
tapa
cloth. The feel of the soft and pliant material against her skin made an immediate difference. She was almost a Tahitian again. The sound of drumming began to call her.
 

"Go," said Aitofa. Tepua happily raced out to plait a garland of beach vines and flowers. When she heard the pounding of the music, she could almost forget the difficulties ahead.
 

 

From afar, Aitofa saw the stocky figure of Head-lifted, the men's-lodge chief, coming from the direction of Tut-aha's compound. As he drew closer she saw that his face was severe, his body taut with anger. "Our host will not keep us here long," Head-lifted told her. "And we have nowhere else to go. This is what your scheming has brought us!"
 

"I have heard enough accusations from you," Aitofa replied. He had agreed to perform the satire that angered the usurper, but now seemed to be trying to push all responsibility for the outcome onto her.
 

"We could have been more subtle," he went on. "We could have waited awhile before ridiculing the man."

"That is not the Arioi way."

"And what kind of Arioi can we be now?" he retorted.

Aitofa stood up to him. "We have a task ahead of us—a message to spread. We will perform the same satire for Tutaha, and for any other chief who invites us to his district. Before we are done, Land-crab will be the laughingstock of Tahiti."
 

"That is what we will
not
do," he answered.
 

"The troupe thinks otherwise. Have you forgotten that a lodge chief can be replaced?"

Head-lifted's face was livid. The veins in his neck stood out as he glared at her. "Do not speak words you will regret, Aitofa. This is not my command. Our host, Tutaha i Tarahoi, forbids us to perform any satire. We will stick to the classical legends or find ourselves all in the lagoon."
 

Then Tutaha needs to be mocked as well
, Aitofa thought. Yet what could she do? It would be folly to insult one's host or go against his wishes. Her plans would have to wait.
 

 

In midafternoon, Tepua took a steep trail, heading up the flank of Taharaa Hill. She had obeyed Aitofa's instructions, slipping away without telling anyone her plans. As she walked, she kept looking back to make sure that no one was following her.
 

The climb was exhausting, an ascent over trails worn deeply into the red clay of the hillside. She did not know why Aitofa had insisted on such a distant place for the meeting. Perhaps there were more enemies down below than she realized.
 

At last, when she reached the top, she gazed on a vast panorama of water and land. Her old fear of heights had never left her, but the view of Matavai Bay was so commanding that she stood firm. A sheer drop lay below her. To the right stretched open sea. To the left, the coastline was cut deeply, curving in a great arc. On the gleaming waters of the bay she saw outrigger canoes that appeared no larger than a fingernail, their tiny sails stretching before the breeze.
 

Tepua sat quietly for a time and contemplated the view. Then she heard footsteps, turned, and saw Aitofa coming up the wooded trail. "Now we are free to talk," the Blackleg said, slightly out of breath, as she gazed at the scene below. "From here, Tutaha and Head-lifted and all the other men who trouble us are like tiny crabs on the beach."
 

"More worries?" Tepua frowned.

"Look at all this," said Aitofa. "The bay and the land around it are all under Tutaha's control. We dare not anger such a powerful chief."
 

"But what have we done to him?"

"Nothing. Yet. But we have been warned." Aitofa explained the restrictions that Tutaha had imposed on the visitors.

"Does this mean that he supports Land-crab?" Tepua asked when she heard that the satire had been banned.

"He says nothing one way or the other."

"I saw Tutaha's canoe sheds," Tepua said bitterly. "And many war canoes. If this chief took up our cause, he could destroy Land-crab in a day."
 

"If he had enough encouragement, he might."

"Then we must encourage him!"

"Do not be too eager, Tepua. Tutaha is ambitious—for himself and for his son. He has all this land and wants more. His family could take our district for themselves, and then we would be no better off than now."
 

"Then we should not look to him for help?"

"We should hope that he stays out of the conflict. For now, we must try to keep Tutaha's friendship and make no requests he cannot meet."
 

Tepua sighed. "And what of Matopahu? Why is he not also a guest of Tutaha?"

Aitofa's expression froze. Tepua felt that she had something more to say but was holding it back.

"You have heard something?" Tepua pressed.

"He is safe from his enemies in Eimeo. You may not see him for a while."

Tepua felt her throat tighten. Matopahu had been foremost in her thoughts throughout the journey. Now that she was back here, how could she bear the separation?
 

Aitofa pressed her hand, trying to offer some comfort. "Tepua, there is something you can do for both of us. You have a gift. Pray to the gods. Perhaps they will show you an answer to our predicament. And to Matopahu's as well."
 

Tepua tried to gather her thoughts. She looked out at the bay, where two large sailing canoes appeared to be having a race. One was pulling up rapidly from behind.
 

"Ask the gods...."

She knew what Aitofa wanted. Tepua had a prophetic gift, but one she had long tried to keep secret. In Tahiti, she had told only Matopahu about it. She wondered what had made him reveal it to Aitofa.
 

Once more she looked at the pair of canoes far below. She had been mistaken, she realized. One was not in pursuit of the other; they were sailing off in different directions.
One carries my hopes, and the other, my life
. Perhaps it was too late to change course.
 

She balled her fist. "I will...try," she answered hoarsely. "But I need a quiet place. No one must disturb me."

"Good. I will arrange for whatever you need. You will not return to the troupe tonight."

 

Aitofa led Tepua on a different route down, coming to a settlement at the base of the hill. The Arioi chiefess had family ties here; and she and Tepua were made welcome by a local underchief. After a pleasant meal with the women of the household, the Blackleg showed Tepua to the small guest house that she was to occupy alone.
 

"Meet me in early morning," said Aitofa as they were about to part. "Behind the compound is a bathing pool in the brook. Go upstream until you see three large rocks in a row."
 

Aitofa hurried off so that she could return to the troupe before dark. Tepua was left alone under a thatched roof—to deal with the troubling request that her leader had made. Plaited mats covered the floor, cushioned by a layer of freshly cut grass. The slanting sunlight of late afternoon filtered through openings between the canes that walled the little house.
 

In Tepua's lap lay a long loop of cord, the kind used by children for making string figures. She stared at the cord, hesitating to take it between her fingers. The art of
fai
, string figures, was popular on Tahiti as well as the atolls. To most people it was only a game. But when Tepua worked with string she sometimes entered a trance, seeing in the patterns the answer to a difficult question.
 

Of course, there were others with prophetic gifts, men who fell into fits and spoke in distorted voices. Long ago, Matopahu had been such an oracle, seized sometimes by a god whose voice was high-pitched and difficult to comprehend. But such oracles were not always trustworthy. Tepua understood why Aitofa was relying on her for this delicate task.
 

Tepua had always been cautious with her gift, asking the gods for a vision only in times of need. Now, with all the difficulties surrounding her, the need appeared sufficiently great. In a soft voice, she began to chant, calling on the spirit of her ancestress, Tapahi-roro-ariki, who had helped her through so many trials. When the initial chanting was done, Tepua wrapped the cord once around each hand.
 

Her start was the classic one; she slipped her left middle finger beneath the string crossing her right palm, then picked up the string on the left palm in the opposite way. Trying a variation of the usual opening, she lifted a loop from the back of one hand, slipped it over her fingers, and dropped it across the strings that stretched between her hands. Repeating with the other side, she went on to pick up strings from her little fingers and pull them across her palms.