Child of the Dawn (9 page)

"I want to stay here," declared Curling-leaf. "The sea breeze is good. It will keep off the flies."

"Then we'll build our shelter over there," said Tepua. She and Curling-leaf climbed the gentle slope to the edge of the forest, then turned to gaze back at Eimeo's curving shoreline. Matopahu was somewhere on the other side, across the narrow stretch of water. Tepua intended to find him.
 

 

In the following days, the Arioi of Wind-driving Lodge struggled to establish their settlement in exile. To everyone's dismay, the Chipped-rock Arioi who had brought them here offered no other assistance. Despite promises, the visitors were left to fend for themselves.
 

"Was this a trick?" some people began to mutter. "Arranged by Land-crab to get us away from Tahiti?" But most of the exiles seemed determined to make the best of what they had.
 

Tepua's group made small clearings along the shore, put up shelters of sticks and palm fronds tied crudely with vines. Meanwhile, old gray-brown coconut husks had been left to soak in the lagoon for several days. When the fibers were soft, Arioi men sat and rolled handfuls on their thighs, making a tough and durable three-ply cord. Using lengths of this sennit, everyone retied the bindings that held their simple shelters together.
 

The women divided their work, collecting shellfish and coconuts, gathering fuel for the cookfires, or hacking away underbrush. Tepua joined the group clearing the women's practice area.
 

At the end of each morning's labor Tepua would stagger wearily into the lagoon for a cooling dip, then fall onto the spread of palm fronds that served as her bed. Only when she had eaten the main meal, in midafternoon, did she let her thoughts return to Matopahu. She spoke to Aitofa every day, but the chiefess could give her no news of him.
 

 

Now that Maukiri had decided to serve the Arioi, Tepua felt a need to educate her cousin on subjects she had never raised before. In spare moments the two women sat in a shady spot and talked about the followers of Oro.
 

"I've seen the way you look at the high-ranking Arioi," Tepua told her cousin. "Do not be too hasty with your admiration."

"I think they are the best people in the islands," Maukiri replied.

"Some are. Others—some in the highest ranks— disgrace us by doing nothing to help the troupe."

"How can that be? After spending years mastering the chants and learning to perform—"

"That is where you are wrong, cousin. Those of high enough birth often skip the rigorous training. They join us, then settle at once into a life of pleasure."
 

"But you are of high birth," Maukiri said, "and you began as a novice."

"When I arrived in Tahiti, I was taken for a savage!" Tepua reminded her. "It was enough that the Arioi let me in at all. Even now that they know who I am, many people resent having an atoll woman in the lodge."
 

"Then you do not think that I..." Her cousin's voice trailed off.

"Maukiri! Are you already thinking about joining? Look at the trouble we are in!"

Her cousin kicked the coarse sand with her heel. "You know my dancing. I am not as good as you, but almost...."

"It takes more than skill at dancing. The god must seize you. If that happens, then everyone will know that you must be one of us."
 

"
Aue!
Is that all?"
 

"No. The rules are strict. Have you heard them?"

Maukiri repeated what she had learned from other conversations. The Arioi were dedicated to pleasing their patron god through dance, chant, and mime. They instructed the people, retelling the legends of the great Oro, who presided over peace as well as war. They carried out essential rituals, including those that assured abundant food.
 

"There is one thing you have not mentioned," said Tepua. "We Arioi swear to remain childless. Do you understand that?"

"I wonder how you can manage it," Maukiri said. "The men and women certainly enjoy each other—at every opportunity."

"And sometimes a child is born," Tepua continued, "despite our efforts to keep it from happening."

"Then the women is sent away?"

"Not if she does what she must. Before the child draws its first breath."

"Aue!"

"Yes. I thought that might trouble you, Maukiri. I have never heard you say no to a chance for
hanihani
. At home you didn't worry."
 

"There was no reason."

Indeed, Tepua knew that if unwed Maukiri bore a child at home, it would be quickly adopted by one of her relatives. If she joined the Arioi, however, any child of hers would be suffocated at the moment of its birth. "Think about this awhile," Tepua cautioned. "Do not be too eager."
 

 

Early one morning, the company gathered at an assembly ground that had been cleared from the atoll forest. Rumors had been flying, and now they were confirmed. Chipped-rock Lodge had not abandoned the exiles after all. Tepua's troupe had been invited for a visit, to participate in a ceremony of friendship. Wind-driving Lodge would soon be performing again!
 

The air was charged with excitement as the players of lower rank sat on the ground, the others finding makeshift seats.
A new performance
. At last the troupe had some hope of returning to its former way of life.
 

Many Arioi formalities had been abandoned in exile. Gone were the high stools of the lodge chiefs, and their elaborate fans and high-plumed headdresses. Aitofa sat on a palm log, her dark curly hair adorned only by a wreath of orange beach vine. Head-lifted, the men's chief, sat beside her on a similar log, the gray fringe around his bald spot decorated by a single yellow feather. These two were the only members of the lodge holding the coveted Blackleg rank. The tattoos that covered their legs from ankle to thigh showed that they had reached the pinnacle of their lodge.
 

As Tepua waited for the leaders to begin, she noticed that a third seat in front of the crowd sat empty. She could not help wondering if some person of importance was expected. But the seat remained empty as the meeting began, the leaders discussing which dances and plays would be best for the coming occasion. Groups formed and duties were assigned. At last the gathering began to disperse.
 

Just as Tepua stood up to leave, a visitor appeared— perhaps the one who had been expected. At first glance Tepua saw a bedraggled figure dressed only in a
maro
. Suddenly she recognized the man. Eye-to-heaven!
 

She felt a warm shock spread through her, and her stomach jumped. The priest would certainly know where to find Matopahu. Trembling in her eagerness, she threaded her way through the crowd of her fellow performers.
 

Impatiently she stood waiting while Eye-to-heaven conferred with the lodge leaders. Straining to hear the conversation, she gathered that he had come to offer his assistance. The players needed many things that their hosts had not provided. They lacked bark-cloth for fresh clothing, but no trees on the
motu
were suitable for making it. They needed certain leaves and berries for face paints and cloth dyes, as well as bamboo for making nose flutes. Seeing the priest's ragged appearance, Tepua wondered how he could help.
 

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, nearly dancing in her frantic wish to speak to him. For the moment, her troupe's problems seemed unimportant. All that mattered was Matopahu.

Eye-to-heaven saw her and subtly acknowledged her presence with a sideways glance, but his discussion with the lodge leaders went on. At last, when Head-lifted invited him for refreshments, the priest briefly turned aside. "I must talk to an old friend first," he said loudly, beckoning Tepua.
 

Then she was alone with Eye-to-heaven, with no one else interrupting. She wished, with sudden fierceness, that the man before her was Matopahu. How she would fling herself into his arms....
 

She wiped her stinging eyes with the back of her hand. She had to be careful not to want too much. Eye-to-heaven was a start. Yet she felt her stomach sink at the troubled look on his face. "I am sorry that my
taio
could not welcome you back," the priest said.
 

Uncertainty made her discomfort worse. She had heard whispers about the fate of the high chief who was Matopahu's brother, but no one had explained what had happened to Matopahu himself. Was he sunk so deep in anger over his brother's overthrow, and his own change in fortune, that he could not face anyone?
 

Impatiently she flung back her hair. "If it is Matopahu's pride that is keeping him from me, tell him to cast it away."

"There is pride, but that is not all," said the priest. Tepua did not like the note of caution in his voice.

"I have known Matopahu too long to be turned away easily, Eye-to-heaven. I have had enough of mysteries. Is he sick? Tell me!"
 

The priest hesitated. "He is holding up better than I expected."

"If you won't say what is weighing him down," said Tepua, exasperated, "then let me help lift his burden."

The priest frowned. "What he has to do now, he must do alone. When I see him—"

"Let me come with you!"

Eye-to-heaven sighed. "He is stubborn. And perhaps foolish. If I bring you to him, I do not know what he will do."

She felt coldness seep through her insides at his words. Had Matopahu gone so deeply into mourning that he would not want to see her? She had been away a long time, but that could not have changed things so much.
 

Clenching her fist by her side, she said, "Show me the way. He need not know how I found him."

The priest sighed. "My
taio
does not always know what is best for him. Seeing you may help him through his difficult trial. Can you leave your duties?"
 

Tepua straightened herself and turned toward Aitofa. Asking permission to leave was not easy, Tepua realized. The time away from here had changed her. On her home atoll she had been the one who gave orders.
 

Yet her high birth meant little to the Arioi of Tahiti. If she disobeyed Aitofa, she knew that she could be dismissed from the troupe. The position she had worked so hard to attain would be lost, her service to Oro ended.
 

The lodge chiefess finished her conversation with Head-lifted and came to Tepua. "Go with the priest, if you must," she said quickly. "But be cautious, Tepua. Listen to what Eye-to-heaven tells you. Only a priest understands what has happened. I do not know if you should touch Matopahu or even go close to him."
 

"Touch him...Not if it is
tapu
." Tepua blinked away a tear. "I...understand," she said, though she did not, and backed away.
 

 

Matopahu's sharp stone adze bit deep into a stalk of giant bamboo as thick as his forearm. Another stroke nearly severed the cane, but a few tough fibers held. He twisted the stem in his sweat-grimed hands, wrenching it loose and throwing it aside.
 

He knew that his mood was hardly the proper one for this task. Clearing a path to an abandoned
marae
should be done in a spirit of awe and reverence, not impatience. He lifted his adze and felt a wave of dizziness that dropped him to his knees.
 

Oh, gods and ancestors, not again!
He tried to lift the adze but it slipped from his fingers. Around him the bamboo canes seemed to crowd in, like warriors about to take him prisoner. He fought to get to his feet, but his legs had become clumsy and nerveless.
 

The sun in this clearing had beat too long on his head, he tried to tell himself. But the pounding pain of a headache became the pounding of drums, and the throb of a low chant that grew louder....
 

 

Here is your fish

O great Ta'aroa....

 

Matopahu clapped his hands over his face. The memory of the dream filled his mind. The disembodied, fire-lit hands wound cord about the corpse of his brother....
 

While the drums beat, the dead arms were lifted and the sennit passed around. The folded legs were lifted and the sennit passed around. It bound the calves to the thighs, the knees to the chest, the elbows to the sides. The cord wound ever tighter until the wrapping became a solid mass about the body.
 

The sennit mask of the face grew dark with moisture seeping from the hollows of the eyes. It was a sign that the god accepted the offering. The voices chanted.
 

 

Take your fish

O great god.

Your fish is weeping.

 

Matopahu fell on his side. He grabbed desperately at the earth, winding the wild grass around his fingers, driving his nails into the soil, fighting to feel the warmth and green life of the sunlit patch of hillside.
 

He lay there, ribs heaving, one hand clenched, clawing the earth, as if he would defy the spirits of the
aha-tu
curse. And at last, by his own will, he felt the moist clay loam beneath his fingertips and the sun's warmth stroking his back, renewing his strength.
 

The terror was past. Yet the memory remained so vivid that when he touched his face, he nearly felt the long deep welts made by cord pulled tightly across skin. Gradually his breathing slowed and he sat up. He stretched, running his hands down his arms and his shoulders as if to be sure that his flesh was unmarred by the marks of binding. His skin felt smooth and warm, shaped by strong muscle beneath.
 

The sennit-curse might haunt his mind, but it had not yet ruined his body. Matopahu let his palms slide down his flanks as he got to his knees, feeling the sinewy power of his legs.