Daughter of the Reef (12 page)

A chief's daughter! What did that matter now?

She tried to focus her attention on the trail as it wound along wooded slopes. For a time she could see little more than the trees and brush that surrounded the path. “Look over here,” said Rimapoa when she had been climbing long enough to need a rest. She followed him as he skirted a bamboo thicket. Then she gasped as she emerged on an open hillside far above the coastal plain.
 

Now she knew how a bird saw the world. The height made her dizzy, but she fought the sensation long enough to glance at the view. Along the distant shore she saw the tops of coconut palms, looking like feathers mounted on sticks. Beyond them stretched the milky blue waters of the lagoon.
 

“From here,” Rimapoa said, “you have a good view of our neighboring island, Eimeo.”

But Tepua felt a rush of panic. She was not accustomed to such heights. The hillside seemed to be tilting, pushing her over. She stepped backward, then fell and clutched the ground.
 

“Tepua!” She felt Rimapoa sit down beside her and put his arm about her shoulders. His touch was comforting, sheltering. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not know this would frighten you.”
 

“Never been ... so high before,” she answered. “Climbed palm trees, but ... never anything like this.”

“Close your eyes. I will carry you back to the trail.”

“No.” Tepua felt the stubborn part of herself take hold. She had never handled a canoe alone before her accident, yet she had salvaged one from the sea and sailed it here. She refused to let a hillside overwhelm her.
 

She tried looking out again. The vertigo wasn't so bad when she was lying down. Cautiously she rolled onto her stomach and lifted her head. That was better.
 

Beneath her, forested slopes swept sharply down to meet the lowlands. The broad plain was thickly planted, mostly with breadfruit trees, and between these she glimpsed many thatched roofs.
 

On a point of land that jutted out into the water rose a stepped tower of stone—the
ahu
of a sacred courtyard, where prayers were offered to the gods. And behind that the lagoon shimmered with transparent shades of azure and sea green, the color deepening farther out. Shading her eyes against the glare, she saw the churning of distant breakers, and beyond—far beyond—the jagged green peaks of Eimeo.
 

She blinked and tried standing up, feeling Rimapoa close beside her. “The waterfall is only a few steps away,” he said. “Are you ready?”
 

When she nodded, Rimapoa slipped his hand in hers. His touch was so reassuring that she did not pull away. He turned and led her up the path. Tepua was glad when the screen of forest surrounded her once again.
 

Shortly, they came to an opening in the trees at the base of a high, dark cliff. A glistening cascade shot over the clifftop, sparkling as it fell in an unbroken sheet into a basin surrounded by stones. Children were bathing in the pool, splashing each other, racing in and out of the spray.
 

Tepua gazed in astonishment. She had finally grown used to the streams and rivers of Tahiti, but this scene was startling and new to her—the coolness of the mist ... the huge, glossy leaves of the plants along the bank ... the rich scents from blossoms high in trees. The atolls held nothing like this.
 

Rimapoa found a dry place above the bank and invited her to sit. She enjoyed being beside him, feeling the firmness of his hand as it pressed against hers. The surroundings were so lush that she felt she could lose herself here.
 

A warning sounded in her mind. Rimapoa's company was pleasant, and the surroundings exhilarating, but she was content merely to sit and drink everything in. Rimapoa would not be so easily satisfied.
 

“Why are you so quiet?” he asked when she continued to sit stiffly beside him. Slowly he withdrew his hand.

She felt relieved at this gesture, yet saddened at the same time. He was so considerate, so kind. What more could she want from a man? She did not wish to hurt him, yet she feared she had already done so.
 

How confusing and awkward this all was! If only she could tell Rimapoa that she found him attractive, but felt more comfortable with him in the role of a friend.
 

“How beautiful this place is,” he said, letting his arm rest gently against hers.

“The waterfall is pretty,” she replied. She did not wish to withdraw from the comfort of his touch. If only he could be content to remain this way, wanting nothing more.
 

“Tepua, I sense something still troubling you. Not the heights—”

“No.”

“Is it Hoihoi? She will not need you for a while.”

He had given her an opening, a way to steer his thoughts in another direction. “I was just remembering something that your sister told me.”
 

He sighed and Tepua realized, with a twinge of regret, that she had succeeded in breaking the mood. At least he did not move away from her this time. “What lie is my sister spreading?” he asked in a pained voice.
 

“I hope it is a lie,” she answered. “But Hoihoi says that the other fishermen speak unkindly of you. They use a word I do not understand.”
 

Rimapoa glanced away. “What is that word?” he asked.

“
Mafera
.”
 

He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Tepua wondered how that word could hurt him so, and regretted that she had said it. He gave her a long, appraising look. “Let me ask you this, pearl woman. Do you know how albacore are caught?”
 

Tepua confessed that she did not. At home, the fishermen would bring the gleaming albacore and bonito in baskets as tribute to the family of the chief. She had never asked how they made their catches.
 

“Then let me tell you, for there are two ways. The first uses a twin-hulled canoe and many people. Some men paddle while others throw out baited lines to trail in the water. At the end of the trip, they share whatever they have caught. But if no fish rise to their hooks, they accuse someone in the crew of breaking a
tapu
and angering the spirits. Too many times I was blamed unfairly, so I no longer fish with the large boat.”
 

“Then—”

“The other way is my way. I go out alone to deep 'holes' in the sea where the albacore gather. I drop my hook far down and wait. Sometimes the fish strikes so hard that I am nearly pulled from my canoe. I have fallen in. I have lost fish that the other men who work together could have landed.”
 

She felt a rush of sympathy. “That must be hard.”

“It is. But when the fish hits and the battle begins, I cannot stop—until he is thrashing in the canoe or breaks from my line.” Rimapoa paused, his eyes bright and the muscles knotted in his arms as if he were straining against a wildly fighting albacore.
 

To Tepua, something hidden in his spirit seemed to emerge. He was, for a moment, no longer Rimapoa the outcast and rogue, but the fisherman-hero of myth, who could draw up great islands on his hook. She sensed that Rimapoa at sea became a very different man than when he was ashore.
 

“Some men say that fishing my way spoils it for others,” he continued. “They say that if albacore are caught on deep lines, they will not come to the surface. So they use ugly names for what I do, and they shun me.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes I fish at night so I will not be noticed. That is the worst offense of all, in some eyes. That is what they call
mafera
.”
 

She saw the pain in his eyes and wished she could soothe him. Gently she replied, “I see no harm in it. One man alone cannot take many fish. If the others do not like it, what can they do to you?”
 

Rimapoa's grin returned, though some bitterness remained. “They will do me no harm. Hoihoi knows a bit of sorcery and they fear she would take revenge on them if they tried. But the next time the priest calls for an offering, my name will be mentioned.”
 

Hair rose on Tepua's nape as his meaning became clear. “
Offering
!”
 

“You do not sacrifice men to your gods?” The worry lines about his eyes were deeper now than she had ever seen them.

Tepua shuddered. “We have so few people—”

“Here, on Tahiti, it is different. When the gods demand an offering, the chief's pick someone they can easily spare—someone like me.”
 

Again she stared at him, not knowing what to say. How could the Tahitians do such a thing to a man who seemed so gentle? “Then why do you stay here?” she managed to ask.
 

“Where else can I go? Here I have my arrangements. The headman takes my fish and lets me live on his land. Though I have enemies, they keep their distance. In another place, as a stranger, I might suffer an even harsher fate.”
 

“Perhaps your friend the headman will warn you if your name is chosen. Then you can hide somewhere and let them take another man.”
 

“Friend?” Rimapoa snorted. “Pigs-run-out is not my friend. He tolerates me only because of the tribute I pay him. But I have a spirit who protects me and will give me warning. When the time comes, I will get away.” He smiled, though she knew he did not feel as confident as he sounded. “But we have spent too much time in gloomy talk,” he said.
 

“I think we should start walking back,” she suggested, before his amorous mood could show itself again. “Let me teach you a game I know. We can play it on the way. You hold your hand like this and cover your thumb. . . .”
 

She tried not to see his look of disappointment.

 

The next morning Tepua and Hoihoi went out early to gather seafood. The air was quiet, the beach still shaded by coconut palms. Low tide had drawn the lagoon down, exposing shellfish beds. Tepua saw Hoihoi's eyes brighten when she spied a cluster of oblong blue-black shells in among the whelks and limpets.
 

“Mussels,” Hoihoi said, licking her lips. “Just the right delicacy for this day.”

“What is so different about today?” Tepua asked, yawning. She still didn't know why Hoihoi had gotten her up so early.

“Today we will have feasting and dancing and special visitors. The Arioi will perform for us. We must feed them well.”

“Arioi?”

“You will see.”

When the baskets had been filled to overflowing, Hoihoi marched ahead, leading the way to the assembly ground, a large clearing above the beach. In the wide pits that served as communal ovens, Tepua saw fires blazing, heating the stones within.
 

As was customary, men and women worked separately, each group preparing their own part of the feast. Hoihoi took her basket first to one of the men and emptied half its contents onto some coconut leaves. She waited until he acknowledged the gift. “Do you expect pork in return, woman?” he chided. “Take some of those bananas.”
 

Hoihoi snorted her anger, then told Tepua to pick up the largest bunch. They delivered their load of food to the women's oven, staying on to help until everything had been wrapped in leaves and buried to cook. “Now,” said Hoihoi, “we must go to the house and get ready.”
 

Along the way, they gathered green coconut fronds, brightly striped leaves of the
ti
plant,
maire
ferns, and flowers. At the hut they wove these into colorful headdresses. Then they joined the other women in the stream for a midday bath. The mood that day, Tepua thought, was unusually bright, each woman boasting about how much she would eat and how long she would dance at the celebration. There was also lusty talk about men, but Tepua did not listen to it.
 

She did follow the lead of the others, rubbing herself with scented oil and combing out her long hair. Suddenly she heard drumming from afar. “Arioi!” shouted the women, running off in several directions.
 

In a few moments Tepua was following Hoihoi, who was already bouncing to the drumbeat as she walked. Decked in fresh wraps and their new headdresses, the women hurried toward the beach. There Tepua drew in her breath as she gazed across the lagoon.
 

A flotilla of double canoes was coming in to shore. The tall prows, elegantly carved, and decorated with red and yellow streamers, were like none she had seen before. On the decks stood men and women in festive costumes, their faces painted black and red. They danced and paraded while musicians behind them played on tall drums and slender nose flutes.
 

“Who are these people?” Tepua asked as Hoihoi danced to the music, and the crowds grew thick along the shore,

“The followers of Oro,” Hoihoi answered. “They entertain us, and teach us, and help us please the gods. Tonight you will see.”

“And who is that—a great chief?” Tepua pointed to a tall, heavyset man who stood by the shore, apparently waiting to greet the arriving Arioi. He wore an elegantly painted cape and a feather headdress that spread out like a fan. She saw his feathers shimmering and gleaming in the sunlight, but could not get a glimpse of his face.
 

“He is but the headman here, the underchief, the one called Pigs-run-out.”

The man who might have helped me
. Tepua pushed that thought aside. She did not wish to remember that she had met Tangled-net outside his compound. The underchief turned briefly, assessing the crowd. Then Tepua saw his middle-aged face, dignified in expression, with a trace of petulance about the mouth and the lower lip.