Daughter of the Reef (5 page)

Pua'a-mahui! Matopahu's breath caught in his throat as he splashed across the stream. The pig's rage stink billowed up around him as he hefted his long weapon, but he was still too far away to use it. He saw Eye-to-heaven go down, crimson streaming from rents above his knee. Mouth open, tusks gleaming, coarse brown hair flecked with spittle, the boar charged the priest again.
 

Matopahu shouted his own challenge, hoping to draw the boar's wrath, but the beast plunged on toward the priest. Eye-to-heaven retrieved his fallen weapon, but could not get it into position. Awkwardly, he clubbed the pig across the snout, deflecting its charge. With a snort of anger, the boar turned toward the oncoming Matopahu.
 

He choked up on the spear, locked the shaft against his body with his arms, and lunged to meet the attack. The impact pushed him back over slippery ground as the point rammed into the boar's massive chest. Matopahu drove his heels into the rocky dirt and shoved, feeling the spear cut through the beast's muscle and plunge deeper. Now Matopahu's nose lay within a hand's breadth of the disk-shaped snout and slashing tusks. Red-rimmed amber eyes glared at him like coals surrounded by fire. Foam sprayed from the pig's jaws onto Matopahu's face.
 

He wrestled against the boar's thrashing. Surely that thrust had gone deep enough to pierce the heart! A river of blood poured down the shaft, but still the beast would not die. Far behind him, Matopahu heard the beaters coming.
 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Eye-to-heaven limping forward, his own weapon dragging on the ground. “Keep back!”Matopahu warned his friend. But the priest tried another thrust, into the belly. This made the creature fight harder, for a moment. Then it paused, flanks heaving, spittle flying.
 

The foam from its jaws turned from pink to red. For an instant Matopahu thought that the animal had succumbed, but then he felt a sudden crunch of jaws against the bloodied spear shaft. In a new frenzy, the boar gnashed at the pole, sending Matopahu scrambling back hand over hand to keep clear of its jaws. He thought that the pig would chew the spear to splinters. Beside him he heard Eye-to-heaven's voice in an impassioned prayer as the priest tried to jab once more. The sweat of panic washed Matopahu's body.
 

With a crack, the shaft broke and the boar came hurtling at Matopahu. He stepped back, aimed the splintered end at the animal's gullet, and leaned all his weight into it. The pig gagged, staggered, skidded in the soil as it fought for breath. Spasms shook the body, each one weaker than the last, until finally the boar lay still. Then Matopahu threw back his head and gave a howl of exultation.
 

“You have finished him,” cried Eye-to-heaven, hobbling up and embracing his friend. “What a fight!”

“We did it together, my
taio
,” said Matopahu.' 'We both share the victory. Now you must tell me; was it merely a beast we just faced, or the spirit of the Man-slaying God? I have never seen such a fight.”
 

The priest did not answer at once. Matopahu saw crimson stains on Eye-to-heaven's leg. Quickly he examined the two ugly gashes. One lay on the inner side of the thigh, close to the groin. He shivered as he realized what the boar might have done to his friend. “You have not lost your manhood, my
taio
, but it was close.”
 

“Yes, very close. Here is my answer. If the evil god had been inside that beast, we would both be lying there in the mud.”

At last the beaters and the rest of the company arrived. They danced with joy at the sight of the dead boar, but Matopahu had a more urgent task for one of them. “Bind my friend's wounds,” he ordered the healer he had brought with him. Then, holding his pearl-shell knife, Matopahu bent over the carcass, intending to gut it on the spot.
 

“Wait,” said Eye-to-heaven, hobbling over to him, the new cloth about his thigh already stained with red. "Let me.”

“But you are wounded and in pain,” Matopahu protested.

“The pain is a small thing. This animal was a powerful opponent. Surely he carries a message of the future within his belly. I would be failing in my duty if I lost this chance for a divination. And the message will be for you, my friend, for the gods gave you the honor of the killing blow.”
 

Matopahu put his knife away, watching while the priest prayed over the dead boar, rolled it onto its back, and slit its underside with his own blade. The pig's belly fell open, revealing the entrails nestled in the gut cavity. Eye-to-heaven studied them, frowning and murmuring to himself.
 

Matopahu left the priest to his exercise. The sight of pig innards did not bother him, but the method used to extract meaning from lobes of liver or loops of intestine was a mystery reserved for priests. Only rarely did a diviner hint at his techniques.
 

While Eye-to-heaven poked and pondered, and the beaters watched in awe, Matopahu stood up to let a freshening breeze dry the sweat on his face. He stretched and shook out the stiffness in his muscles. He had decided what to do with the pig's carcass. It had been a valiant animal, even if it had not proved to be the beast of legend. Such a pig would make a worthy gift for the high chief's dinner.
 

Relations between Matopahu and his brother had grown cool of late. Perhaps this gift would help prove Matopahu's good intentions.

“My
taio
, come and see what lies ahead for you,” Eye-to-heaven called suddenly.
 

When Matopahu knelt down beside the priest, Eye-to-heaven swept his palm above the entrails. “See how knotted and tangled they are? This can only mean that complications will enter your life.”
 

“That will be nothing new,” Matopahu answered.

“And the pattern of vessels in the gut membrane tells me there will be problems involving a woman.”

Matopahu laughed. His only problems with women were how to get rid of them. “But what of my disagreement with Ihetoa?” he asked the priest impatiently. “That is a real problem. The high priest continues to reject my prophecy. The longer he delays, the more everyone will suffer.”
 

Eye-to-heaven peered and squinted at the entrails. The meaty smell was beginning to attract flies. “I, too, wish to know how that will end,” he said. “But here I see no answer.”
 

The priest finished his divination with a short prayer of praise to the gods. Reverently he buried the viscera, for it could not be cooked and eaten if it had first been used for prophesy. Then Matopahu ordered his men to finish cleaning the carcass and tie it to a pole.
 

When the party was ready to leave, the beaters crowded forward, all begging for the honor of carrying the prize. Matopahu had intended to share the load between himself and Eye-to-heaven, for he enjoyed the thought of marching home in triumph with the prize on his shoulders, watching the amazed faces of the people in the settlements.
 

But Eye-to-heaven was too badly wounded to help now. And to ask someone else to share die victory with himself, Matopahu felt, would be an insult to his
taio
. So he chose the two strongest men among the beaters to carry the pig while he and Eye-to-heaven walked modestly behind them. With his arm about the limping priest, he followed the jubilant procession along the riverbank path that would finally emerge at the coast.
 

My brother will be pleased with this outcome
, Matopahu thought.
He is easily flattered. But the high priest will not celebrate our return.

 

 

3

 

AS evening approached, a Tahitian fisherman sailed home in his small outrigger canoe. Ahead he saw a line of foaming surf, waves breaking over the barrier reef. He steered toward a narrow stretch of smoother water, a pass into the calm, blue lagoon that lay between the outer reef and the shore.
 

The fisherman was called Rimapoa—“the one who fearlessly handles the unpleasant.” His darkly tanned skin and wiry build marked him as a man who worked hard and received little for his efforts. Today not a single albacore lay in the bottom of his boat.
 

Rimapoa glanced for a moment at Front-tooth, the boy who assisted him. “I know why the gods did not send fish today,” said the youngster. “It is because you argued with your sister this morning.” Angrily Front-tooth hit the splashboard with his fist.
 

The fisherman gave the boy a weary look. “I am always quarreling with my sister,” he answered with a growl. “By now the spirits have lost interest in our arguments.” It was useless, he knew, to tell Front-tooth to keep his thoughts to himself. He had little control over the boy, who was bound to him only through a friendship between families. If Front-tooth didn't like the arrangement, he would quit and join up with some other fisherman. Then Rimapoa would have no help at all.
 

“Then tell me why no fish took the bait,” said the boy. “It was good mullet and I hooked it on well.” Front-tooth leaned over the splashboard and stared moodily across the lagoon.
 

Rimapoa did not reply, and he wondered whether Front-tooth was right after all. Rimapoa was a solitary deep-line fisherman. The parties of men who trolled for albacore from large double canoes constantly warned him to keep away from their fishing grounds. Today he had gone as close as he dared, but not close enough to lure the elusive albacore. Yet on other days, the fish had found his hooks...
 

The fisherman sighed, and turned his attention to the churning water that lay just ahead. Shooting the pass was always risky. He leaned on the long steering oar, turning his bow to the channel's entrance. Water boiled in whitecaps to either side of the canoe as waves struck the submerged coral.
 

Slackening the line to the boom of his curved claw sail, he let the fore part luff in the wind, waiting for the right moment. As his gaze crossed the frothing boundary between sea and lagoon, he saw a wreck—a battered half hull, its sternpost canting up. The reef had taken its toll once again.
 

Rimapoa was in no hurry. He had no fish lying in the bottom to spoil. Ignoring Front-tooth's impatient grimaces, he let several rollers sweep by before choosing the strongest. He felt the surge as the wave gathered behind him and he pulled hard on the sail, catching the wind. The outrigger lifted on the wave's crest and rode through.
 

Leaving the breakers crashing behind him, Rimapoa tacked into quiet waters. The sail bellied and the outrigger surfed, making his spirit lift. He knew that even if there were no fish and he had to make his living ashore, he would still sail his canoe. There was nothing like the feeling of a well-built craft leaping like a flying fish across the sea.
 

The love of it was in his bones, for one of his ancestors had been a canoe master on an island far to the west. This heritage showed in the fisherman's long legs, his wiry frame, and the tight curl of his hair. It showed also in his daring, in his willingness to face the sea in all its moods.
 

The canoe was gliding toward the narrow, sandy beach when Front-tooth shouted, “Look over there!” The boy flung out his arm toward shore.
 

Rimapoa scowled and squinted. With the sun so low, every rock and piece of driftwood on the beach cast a shadow. Yet he saw something at the water's edge that did not roll like driftwood when the waves lifted it. It moved loosely, like a half-filled sack ... or a human body.
 

“Who is it? Who is it?” asked Front-tooth excitedly. Then, without warning, he leaped over the splashboard and swam toward the beach.
 

Rimapoa shouted after him, but to no avail. He wanted Front-tooth's help when he reached shore, and now he would have to manage alone. Angrily, he lowered the sail and brought the canoe in, struggling to pull the dugout hull to dry ground. Front-tooth was calling him, but he ignored the boy while he secured the boat.
 

He found Front-tooth crouched beside a lifeless young woman who lay sprawled in the sand. The boy had dragged her up from the waterline and was now poking her ribs and peering into her face.
 

“She is dead!” announced Front-tooth. “Drowned!”

Her black hair spilled down in salt-and-sand-encrusted tangles. Her closed eyes were sunken. Her jaw was so slack, her skin so ashen and colorless, and her limbs so still that Rimapoa thought she had been dead for some time. “Careful,” he warned, pushing the boy aside. “Do you want to anger her spirit?” Her soul might still be nearby, able to wreak harm.
 

But Rimapoa suddenly noticed a faint flush under the skin of the woman's cheek. He dropped to his knees and touched two fingers to her throat just beneath the angle of her jaw. At first he found nothing, and then he was not sure of the small flutter beneath his fingers. He brought his cheek to her open mouth, hoping to feel the gentle pressure of her breath.
 

“Why do you bother?” asked the boy scornfully. “She looks like she's been dead for days. She smells like it, too.”

Rimapoa glared back at him. “Go get help, you useless son of an eel! Fetch Hoihoi!”

“Your sister won't listen to me,” Front-tooth said with a whine. His feet did a nervous dance on the wet sand.

The fisherman grunted his agreement. Hoihoi was not easily roused into action. He focused again on the unfortunate woman, tipping her head back, using two fingers beneath her chin and his palm against her forehead. By custom, one did not touch another person's head, but he knew no other way to help her.
 

For a moment he studied her face. The sculpted cheekbones and the strong chin that drew to a point were unlike those of Tahitian women. Not long ago, he imagined, she had been beautiful.