Child of the Dawn (11 page)

His lips moved, trembling. "I intend no harm—"

"
So much time without prayers, without sacrifices
," moaned the voice. "
Why start again now? Why trouble the dead?
"
 

With an effort, Matopahu gathered his wits and spoke. "I wish to restore this place so that the gods will return again." He wiped sweat from his upper lip as he listened to the reply.
 

"
So much toil and thought, so much weariness.
" The voice made Matopahu drowsy. "
Lie down among these stones
," it urged. "
Be one of us. We welcome you.
"
 

A sudden gust swept the ground, blowing aside dead leaves that lay on the old paving stones of the courtyard. Matopahu drew in his breath when he saw a long trench exposed, white bones showing in a burial crypt.
 

"
Join us now
," said the voice, and its tone became soothing. "
Forget your hopeless plans. Give up a struggle that is already lost. Enjoy the peace that you deserve.
"
 

"Yes." Matopahu felt a heaviness of limb, a weariness of spirit. Since the death of his brother he had forced himself to go on, pretending that the curse was taking no toll. Yet every morning he had found it more difficult to rise and face daylight.
 

"
We are waiting
," said the voice. "
Your bed is ready. Lie down with us. Lie down.
"
 

What the voice asked would be easy, he thought. He imagined the comforting dark earth, the warm covering of leaves. But he sensed that he must not touch the paving stones if he wished to find repose among the ancient dead. The stones were charged with
mana
, sacred power, that might destroy him before he reached the crypt.
 

As he gazed over the wall into the sacred courtyard, he saw how he could get to the grave-site. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the tumbled wall. Keeping to places where soil, branches, or debris covered the ancient pavement, he made his way into the center of the
marae.
Here and there an upright slab of stone rose starkly. He skirted these uprights with caution. They marked the places where great chiefs had come to pray. Only men who had inherited the right from their forebears dared approach them.
 

Ribs and a few long legbones lay waiting for him. As he stooped, the opening of the trench seemed to widen, as if inviting him in. "
Welcome
," said the voice. "
At last you are ready to join us
," whispered another. Invisible hands seemed to tug at him, pulling him down....
 

"Matopahu!"

Another voice, louder, came from a different direction. A woman's voice.
Tepua's.
What was she doing here? No women were allowed in this sacred place.
 

"Matopahu. Stop."

He had warned Tepua to keep away! Now her voice seemed to come from every direction. Why could she not leave him alone?

"Go back to your Arioi!" he shouted to the forest, though he could see no one. "Go back to your frenzied dancing!" He looked down at the bones and felt the comforting pull once more. Ghostly fingers tugged at him and he yielded, leaning over the crypt, wanting only to fall into the sleeping place that was prepared for him.
 

"Land-crab has beaten you!" Tepua's voice taunted him.

He bellowed his fury at the interruption. Losing his balance, he tumbled, arms flailing, into the crypt. His bare foot brushed something hard and charged with power. He shouted with dismay, for he had touched one of the sacred uprights. And now he felt the
mana
, more than he could bear....
 

A great light poured into Matopahu, flowing up his leg and into his body. He thrashed amid the loose bones, striving to break free. So many voices were demanding his attention that he could not tell what they were saying. He only knew that he was caught in the center of a struggle, the spirits of his ancestors and his living friends on one side, the dead of this place on the other.
 

With a shock he realized that the touch of the sacred
marae
stones was not the devastating force he had feared; instead, its power renewed his strength. His hands scrabbled in the dirt as he tried to pull himself up to the safety of the courtyard. But he had lost his contact with the upright, and his feeling of renewal faded. The earth seemed to be closing over him, cutting off his breath. He rolled, reached up, tried to find a purchase.
 

His fingers found something—a sapling, sprouting amid the stones. He recognized it as a young
rata
tree, sacred to the gods of this place. He fought the terrible pressure that was holding him down, struggled to free his legs until, at last, they moved....
 

And then, gasping, he hauled himself out from the crypt and onto the exposed pavement of the courtyard. The voices kept screaming at him while he struggled to push them aside. To protect himself, he pressed his palms and his cheek against the paving stones. Though not as powerful as the upright, these smaller stones also held
mana
, and radiated warmth as if they were living flesh. He took a deep breath. The gods had not abandoned him after all!
 

At last he got shakily to his feet and looked down at himself. He was filthy, coated with dirt and bits of decayed leaf. He must wash again, he knew, but first he had to seal the abode of the dead. Hastily he pushed whatever debris he could find—leaves, soil, loose rocks—to cover the bones. Gradually the voices grew quieter until he was hearing nothing but distant birdcalls from the forest.
 

 

After another bath, Matopahu returned to the task that he had almost abandoned. Repeating his pleas to the gods, he crouched by the low, tumbled wall. Now he had no more fears of touching the ancient stones. He felt only a tingle when he handled those that bordered the sacred courtyard.
 

Slowly moving along the boundary of the
marae
, he plucked ferns from crevices, pulled away vines, uprooted small bushes. Then he began replacing the rocks that had fallen.
 

The repeated acts of kneeling, bending, and lifting grew painful. It was not possible, he knew, to rebuild the wall exactly as it had been. Craftsmen had labored for months, carefully choosing smooth surfaces for the facing, and neatly fitting stone against stone. Yet he felt pride as he looked back at how much he had done.
 

At last, when only a few rays of sunlight were slanting through the branches, Matopahu heard the welcome voice of Eye-to-heaven. He left his labor, heading for his campsite outside the
rata
grove. The priest had set down his basket of provisions and sat waiting.
 

"Is there news from Tahiti?" Matopahu asked, as he did every time his friend appeared.

"None," said the priest sadly.

"And...Tepua." Matopahu grimaced as he remembered her fleeing down the trail.

"You frightened and angered her. If that was your purpose, you succeeded well."

"I was trying to protect her," he answered moodily. Suddenly remembering something, he turned with puzzlement to his friend. "It is strange. I thought I heard her voice this morning, calling me."
 

"I assure you that she was not here. I visited the Arioi this morning. She was busy practicing her dancing."

Matopahu felt a surge of envy. "Which you enjoyed watching!"

"My friend, if you insist on driving her away, there will be plenty of others pursuing her." The priest sighed. "I will not be one of them."
 

"And I can do nothing but talk to her from a distance...as if she were my sister. She wants everything to be as before. If she had been sensible long ago, we would now have a son!"
 

"And he would be afflicted, as you are." The priest's expression darkened. "You are strong, my
taio.
You can fight this curse of Land-crab's priests. But a young child?"
 

Matopahu stared at Eye-to-heaven. As much as he loathed admitting it, his
taio
was right. No one would want to see this affliction touch a child. The boy would quickly grow pale and weak as death crept near.
 

"Let us argue no more," said Matopahu. "If you wish to help me, try to soothe Tepua. But make sure she doesn't come here again until I finish my work."
 

"I will try," said the priest, who turned to eye the food basket. "And now, after a day of work, I think you must be hungry."

The men headed for the stream, washing off the day's accumulated perspiration and dirt. Returning to the campsite, the priest emptied his basket, laying out the meal on banana leaves. Matopahu opened a coconut for his friend and another for himself. In congenial silence, they ate and drank.
 

Later, as the shadows deepened, they built a fire to keep off the chill. "Tomorrow is a crucial day," said the priest. "A day of grave risk. I must be with you."
 

"Why? I will be doing nothing more than what I did today."

Eye-to-heaven raised his eyebrows. "Still clearing the path? I thought you would be done by now."

"Clearing the path? I finished that yesterday."

The priest gasped and clutched his friend's arm. "I do not understand. I thought I made it clear—"

"I stepped into the
marae
this morning. And see—I am alive. Did you want me to waste a whole day waiting for you?"
 

The priest slumped back against a tree. "
Aue
! I will not ask you what happened. If you are safe, that is enough."
 

Remembering his struggle among the bones of the
marae
, Matopahu was glad that Eye-to-heaven did not ask more questions. He still shivered at the memory, and quickly he turned his thoughts elsewhere. "I came across something interesting this morning," Matopahu remarked. "Our friend Fat-moon was practicing archery."
 

'That is nothing new."

"But a match is planned. Soon."

"That is also no surprise."

"You do not see this opportunity as I do," said Matopahu, patiently. "Let's wait a few days, and then I will explain it."

 

Those days passed. Matopahu found that his progress was slower than he had expected. He finished restoring one short wall and one long wall of the enclosure, so that he was halfway around the courtyard. His muscles grew accustomed to the work. Every morning he rose before dawn, and did not stop until night had almost fallen.
 

At last the entire wall was complete. The
ari'i
stepped over it and entered the courtyard, studying what remained to be done. At one narrow end of the rectangle stood the
ahu
, a low stone platform. This was the most sacred part of the
marae
, the place where gods descended to witness the ceremonies.
 

Matopahu was grateful that this
ahu
was small and simple. When a marae was built in a prominent place, visible to all who passed by, the chief who owned it might raise a great stepped pyramid. Such a monument could never be restored by a man working alone.
 

Making a close inspection, Matopahu saw to his delight that the
ahu
here was almost intact. He had only to remove the ferns that sprouted between the cracks, and pull away the vines. The courtyard itself required more work. Many pavement stones had tilted or lifted and needed to be reset. The uprights, the standing slabs, he resolved not to touch again. Perhaps they leaned a bit, but they were deeply rooted. Their
mana
, he thought, would keep them firmly in place for ages to come.
 

He drew in his breath. Smoothing the pavement would be his biggest job, requiring him to dig holes so that each stone would lie level with the others. Eye-to-heaven had brought him simple tools—clamshells and digging sticks. With a new determination, he went to get them.
 

When that day ended, Matopahu looked at the small corner of finished work and wiped the sweat from his face. If this was as much as he could do...No, he told himself. Tomorrow he would go faster, better. The archery contest was coming soon....
 

And late one afternoon, when Eye-to-heaven arrived, Matopahu proudly showed him his work. The
marae
was restored.
 

"You astonish me,
taio
," said the priest.
 

"Tonight you will teach me the prayer of reconsecration," the
ari'i
insisted. "And tomorrow I will gather the offerings."
 

 

The night of his vigil had finally come. Wearing only a
maro
, Matopahu sat alone on the chilly pavement and listened to the wind. The moon was up, but only a glimmer of light penetrated the branches overhead. The upright stone before him was no more than a shadow, slightly darker than the rest.
 

He tried not to think about ghosts. He had sealed up the bones of the dead, but spirits were not always bound to them. In one hand he carried a protective tuft of red feathers. In the other he held a palm leaf that had been folded and knotted in a special way by Eye-to-heaven. Matopahu was depending on these talismans, and prayer, to shield him from harm.
 

Once again he began the droning chant, focusing all his attention on the words. He had no room for error. Everything must be done perfectly, or the plea would fail.
 

He addressed the principal god of this
marae
, the ancestor of the people who had lived here long ago. Those people had foolishly neglected their protector; perhaps they had all died. Now Matopahu would set matters right.
 

 

Spirits and messengers

Arise and run

To the god who once dwelled here.