Daughter of the Reef (6 page)

He ran his fingertips down her arm and shuddered at how cold she felt. He pinched her nose shut, took a deep breath, placed his mouth on hers, and breathed out from deep in his chest, the way a healer had taught him long ago.
 

The first breath would not go in.

“You have to empty the water from her chest,” said Front-tooth with a superior air.

Rimapoa did not answer the boy. He rolled the woman on her side, swept the inside of her mouth with a finger, and hooked out a plug of mucus and seaweed blocking her throat. He breathed into her again, holding her tongue with his thumb so it could not slip back and choke her. This time, when he blew, he saw her chest rise. He gave her several strong breaths and then felt her throat again. The pulse was there, weak but persistent.
 

Front-tooth repeated his suggestion with an air of arrogance that irritated Rimapoa. “Boy, you know nothing,” the fisherman answered. “What you say comes from old tales. I have pulled people from the sea and I have never had to empty them like pouring out a bucket. There is only a little water in her throat.” He stopped his tirade to blow more breaths into the woman.
 

He continued breathing for her until he met some resistance as he blew in. He turned his head to one side and felt the tickle of breath on his cheek. He felt hope flood over him. She was starting to breathe on her own at last.
 

“The sun is dropping fast,” said the boy, edging closer. “And she is dead, anyway.”

“Be quiet,” ordered the fisherman, wiping the sweat of tension from his forehead. He hadn't realized until now how much he wanted this woman to live.
 

Rimapoa began massaging her feet and hands, trying to bring some warmth back into them. He paid no attention to the boy and was surprised to hear Front-tooth calling him again.
 

“Look, Rimapoa. Part of a canoe washed up here.”

“Maybe it was hers,” he answered, recalling the wreck he had seen on the reef. He frowned, wondering if there were men who had come with her. Surely she could not have been sailing in the open ocean by herself.
 

Front-tooth dragged a piece of the wreck closer to show him. “See. Patchwork pieces, all sewn together.”

Rimapoa glanced quickly at the dripping lengths of board. He knew at once that the boat had been made by
motu
people, who lacked trees large enough for building dugout hulls. “Then maybe she is an atoll woman,” he answered testily. “What does it matter?”
 

“Atoll woman?” The boy's eyes widened. “Then she is a
savage
!” He backed away. “Why save her? If she lives, she will probably
eat
you!”
 

Rimapoa wanted to laugh aloud at Front-tooth's ignorance. Instead he focused his attention on the young woman. Though she shivered, her breathing was stronger, enough to sustain her awhile. Now she needed a warm, dry place.
 

He slipped his callused hands beneath her shoulders and rump. She was heavier than she looked, telling him that much of her weight was muscle. He began the lift with care, hoping she had no injuries that might be made worse. Grunting with effort, he got to his feet, rolling her up against his chest.
 

“Go on home,” he told the boy. “Your father will be looking for you.” Carrying the woman in his arms, he strode past Front-tooth, crossing the beach into a stand of coconut. The fronds were rattling in the brisk wind as the slender palms bowed high above his head.
 

The fisherman walked quickly, scowling to himself at Front-tooth's foolishness. It was said that atoll dwellers killed and ate their enemies, but how could he fear this poor woman? Perhaps, he thought, feeling a twinge of sympathy, she had fled her homeland to escape just such a fate.
 

His concern for her grew, and he quickened his pace, eager to reach home. At last, just as darkness fell, he saw a glimmer of light at the doorway of his small, thatched hut. “Hoihoi, we have a visitor,” he called as he carried his burden, still dripping, inside.
 

His plump sister stood waiting for him, her meaty fists on her hips. Looking at her now, he could scarcely see how she had once been known as a beauty of the district. Nor could he recall that she had ever been sweet-tempered or even agreeable. As he approached, her eyes widened with surprise and then her expression darkened.
 

“Is this what your fishhooks dragged up?” Hoihoi asked scornfully, shaking her double chins. “What sort of bait have you been using?”
 

Rimapoa did not reply in kind. “Have you forgotten what our ancestors taught us?
Begrudge nothing to the stranger who passes your door.
” He knelt to let the woman down on a sleeping mat. He tried to arrange her limbs to make her comfortable.
 

“Ha. This one has not passed anyone's door. Not on her own feet.”

“Even so, sister, I have made her my guest.” He gave Hoihoi a challenging stare. “And now it is your duty to help me.”

He glanced back at his charge, studying her pale, haggard face. He doubted that his sister could see the promise of beauty that lay within. He gently brushed one strand of brine-soaked hair from the woman's face. Suddenly he felt clumsy and awkward.
 

He looked up again, studying Hoihoi's plump figure and stout, muscular arms. She had tied her hair back tonight, in a way that did nothing to flatter her face or her body. Yet her expression seemed to be softening now as she saw the firmness of his resolve. “Help her and I will bring you the next albacore I catch,” he promised quietly. “Even if it means I am late with my gift to the headman.”
 

“Make it a white-belly,” she muttered, marking the length of fish she wanted on her extended arm. “Nothing smaller.” Then she sighed and took a few steps closer. “Well, brother. What are you doing sitting there when we have a guest who needs attention? Go to the stream and get me some fresh water!”
 

 

When Tepua opened her eyes, she saw a strange woman crouching beside her. A bluish, flickering light covered everything, and for a moment Tepua thought that she had entered the realm of undersea spirits. Painfully she turned her head and saw an unfamiliar kind of torch, a stick strung with oily kernels that sputtered as they burned. Above her, far higher than she was used to, hung a thatched roof, while beneath lay a coarsely woven sleeping mat on a grass-strewn dirt floor. Her lips felt swollen and stiff, her tongue clumsy. “I—I am alive.”
 

The woman beside her merely grunted in response, her fleshy face showing no sign of friendliness. She wore a wrapper of thin and frayed bark-cloth, unlike the well-made material that Tepua's father obtained from traders. Tepua tried raising her head, then shut her eyes against a wave of dizziness. Surf seemed still to be roaring in her ears; her hands and feet throbbed from coral cuts. She saw again the anguished faces of the people from her wedding party.
 

“Where—where is this?” Tepua asked weakly. The night air felt heavy and moist. Strange, intoxicating scents drifted in through the open-weave walls.
 

The woman muttered something, then picked up an open coconut and held it out to Tepua. The young woman struggled to sit up. She found her hands bandaged with moist leaves tied on with sennit cord. Now she remembered every scrape and bruise, the damage that wind and sun had done to her skin, the blisters on her palms. She cried out with pain as she took the coconut between her bandaged hands and began to drink. The milk was sweet and rich. She gulped it eagerly.
 

“Slow,” said the woman, taking it away from her.

Tepua had never tasted anything so delicious. She reached out and pulled the coconut back to her lips.

“Stubborn,” said the woman. “You must be. Otherwise, you would be in some fish's belly by now.” She spoke with a lilt that left out parts of words and made other parts run together. Tepua had to strain to understand her.
 

The large woman let her finish the half coconut, but afterward would give her only water to quench her thirst. Tepua had to struggle against the weakness and vertigo that made her head swim, but she stayed propped up on her elbows. “What—what island is this?” She had to repeat herself before the woman understood.
 

“Tahiti, of course,” she answered with pride. “Not one of your heaps of coral. This is a
real
island.”
 

Tepua narrowed her eyes. She did not like the scornful tone in the woman's voice, a tone she was unaccustomed to hearing. But at least now she had some hope of speaking and being understood. She had listened often to her father's visitors—men from high islands, from Tahiti and its neighbors. These high islanders spoke a language similar to hers, but did not voice the hard “k” and “g” sounds of atoll speech, making only a breathy sound deep within their throats. She had to listen carefully to understand them.
 

She took another sip of water as she recalled what her father's guests had said of their journeys. Hope formed her words. “Tahiti? Then ... I am only three days' sail from home! You can take me back!”
 

The other woman threw back her head, big body shaking as she laughed. “Girl, you don't have enough strength to sit up on a mat, let alone a canoe. Lie back and rest.”
 

Tepua's body wanted to do that. Stubbornly she willed her tired head to lift, her eyes to stay open. “I can do it. Prepare a canoe.”
 

“Prepare a canoe!” The Tahitian woman turned to a man in the far corner. “Did you hear that, brother? She is ordering us around as if she were the headman's firstborn daughter.”
 

“She has had too much sun, Hoihoi,” he answered from across the room. Then he came closer and crouched beside Tepua. Her vision was blurred, forcing her to squint at him. He had weathered skin, small wrinkles about the eyes and mouth, and he smelled of fish.
 

“You will take me home,” Tepua said, addressing him as she would a servant.

The man glanced at the heavyset woman in puzzlement.

“Take you?” Hoihoi squealed in outrage. “He has no time for that. If you want to go home, you can swim!”

Tepua ignored her, concentrating her attention on the man.

“You must rest—” he began in a patient voice.

“What is your name?” she interrupted.

“Rimapoa.”

“Rimapoa, I need to go home.” She said the words slowly, trying to soften her “k” and “g” sounds. Surely it must be a matter of understanding. If these common people knew what she needed, they would do it. That was the way things had always been.
 

She didn't like the way his expression hardened, although a little kindness remained in his eyes. Perhaps she had better try a different approach. “My father will reward you,” she offered, not allowing herself to doubt that Kohekapu, who had sailed with the wedding party, was still alive. “He will give pearl-shell fishing hooks, as many as you want. I know how much you value them.”
 

The fisherman leaned closer, his interest evidently roused. “And who is this father of yours?”

Taking a deep breath, she recited Kohekapu's full name with all his titles, including even those now bestowed on her eldest brother.
 

Hoihoi began to laugh. “So many titles! One for each little pile of coral!”

“You would not laugh if he were standing here. Look. Here is the proof of my birth.” She turned her hand to show the back, where she carried her special tattoo, a unique rosette that was reserved for her family.
 

Hoihoi wiped tears of mirth from her face. “That mark means nothing to me,” she said. “And now I think I have heard enough from you. My brother has made you our guest. Otherwise, I would throw you out to sleep with the pigs.”
 

You should be beaten, Tepua almost shouted in reply. Yet a sudden fear stopped her tongue. Clearly, her father's authority meant nothing here. The Tahitians could do with her as they pleased.
 

If she wanted them to help her, she would have to use charm and tact, not threats. Even if she must humble herself ... She glanced down at her body, naked but for a small cloth about the hips. Somehow Hoihoi had washed her and rubbed coconut oil onto her skin to help relieve the sunburn. She had wrapped leaves about Tepua's hands, with a poultice to ease the pain of coral cuts.
 

She swallowed hard and realized that she would have to show her appreciation. It was not something she was used to doing, especially to those she considered beneath her.
 

“It was ... kind of you,” she said, feeling awkward and a little angry. “I know you ... did not have ... to help me.”

“Then let us hear no more talk about atoll chiefs,” replied Hoihoi.

Too exhausted to say more, Tepua sank back onto the mat. Rimapoa stayed beside her. He looked down and gave her a sad little smile. “You need to rest,” he said again, smoothing back her hair. She wanted to flinch from his touch, but found herself too tired to care. His hand was warm and dry, his fingers gentle.
 

“I would rest better at home,” she tried again. “Is there no way to take me?”

“I have a small outrigger canoe that I use for fishing,” he admitted.

“Then you could ...” She tried to sit up again, but his hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

“You are in no shape for an ocean voyage. The trip would be long and full of dangers.”

“But I managed to get here—by myself—in a little canoe.”

“With the gods' help, yes. But do not forget that winds and currents helped carry you to us. To go back in the direction of dawn is far more difficult. Let us not speak of it until you are stronger. Instead, lie still and let Hoihoi nurse you.”