Daughter of the Reef (19 page)

“What is this?” asked the trader, glancing angrily from one man to the next. “She was forced?”

“Come inside the shed,” said the uncle. “We need not discuss this in the open. I have learned the woman's name and I have also recovered part of the canoe that brought her. When you have these, you will know the truth.”
 

“You go first,” said the atoll man. He waited until the five had entered the shed. Then his bodyguard, who appeared to be a Tahitian from another district, seized Rimapoa and dragged him after them. The trader came in last, holding his torch.
 

“Come look at this wreck,” said the uncle. Rimapoa had thought the uncle's promise a ruse, though he recalled some talk of “bait.” Now he was astonished to see part of a broken outrigger canoe on the ground beside the rack that held the old dugout. Perhaps it was the piece that Front-tooth had found.
 

At this sight, the trader seemed to lose all caution. He rushed forward with the torch and fell on his knees beside the weathered poles and lashings.
 

Seeing the trap almost sprung made sweat run down Rimapoa's brow. Despite his anger at the trader, he knew the gods would not ignore this desecration. Rimapoa strained against the bodyguard's grip, wanting now only to get away.
 

“I know this work,” the
motu
man said breathlessly. “It comes from our islands. Look—” Then a terrible splintering sound erupted, followed by a brief cry as the trader glanced up. But he could not react quickly enough. The torch flew aside in an arc as the rack collapsed and the heavy dugout rumbled down on top of him. The trader cried out once more. Then Rimapoa felt the alarmed bodyguard release his arm. The fisherman immediately rushed from the shed while the bodyguard fled in a different direction.
 

“Get Rimapoa,” someone shouted, “before he can tell anyone.”

But he was already outside, racing down the path that would take him to Tepua.

“Put out the fire,” someone else called.

Rimapoa heard a crackle of flame behind him and risked one glance back. The fallen torch had started a blaze at the bottom of the roof. Now a ribbon of flame was leaping up the dry thatch, widening as it went, sending up heavy smoke. He saw the men scattering, one heading in his direction.
 

The blaze was spreading too quickly. He knew at once that the shed would be destroyed—swift punishment for the wrong that had been done there. But the wrath of the gods might not stop with this single act. With a shudder of fear, he ran faster.
 

 

Beneath the shelter of the women's sleeping house, Tepua lay curled on her mat, dreaming of home. She dreamed of a time, during the rains, when she had crouched under pandanus branches to stay dry. The rain had seeped through the leaves and dripped on her shoulders, running down her back, making her shiver. The tapping of the raindrops grew louder...
 

She wriggled in her sleep and tried to squirm away, but finally the persistent sound woke her. That was not rain outside, she realized. The sounds she heard were of pebbles tossed against the cane walls of the house.
 

In the darkness she lay clutching the wrap that covered her and wishing that the noise would stop. Why would someone be tossing stones? Then she remembered Rimapoa's promise. Perhaps he had come with news about the trader.
 

Still groggy, she wound her wrap around her body against the night's chill. Feeling her way in the dark, careful to avoid waking anyone, she slipped outside. A half-moon gave enough light for her to find the bamboo fence. She moved away from the houses and called to Rimapoa softly, impatiently.
 

Then she saw the fisherman, his clothing in disarray, his chest heaving, glistening with sweat. His hair was wild and his eyes frightened. She felt him shaking when he reached past the fence and grabbed her arm. “You must come with me. Now.”
 

She had never seen him like this. “For what?” She tried to pull away from his harsh grip, but he would not let go.

“Tangled-net's kin have killed the trader. You will be next.”

“Next? How can they harm me here? They would not dare invade the headman's compound!”

“They are desperate men. They will wait until you are out digging yams or bathing in the stream. Then ..."He made a sharp motion with his free hand, imitating a war club coming down.
 

“I must tell the headman,” she said, her voice rising in anguish. “He will stop them.”

The fisherman shook his head in dismay. She could see the urgency in his eyes. “Stop shadows? I do not know who all these men are. I recognized only two, and Tangled-net has many kin who pay the headman tribute. Will Pigs-run-out banish every one of them on the word of his daughter's dancing teacher?”
 

Tepua's breath came faster and thoughts about the headman whirled through her mind. She did not want to ask favors of the man who had intended to share her mat tonight. She had avoided his attentions only by bringing him an intoxicating drink of
ava
, which had put him into a stupor. Such a ruse could not succeed twice.
 

“Where can we go? How can we find refuge?” she asked as all the indignities she had suffered here came back to her.

“The high chief will protect you. That is his obligation.”

“The high ...” Her voice trailed off. She had asked long ago to seek the high chief's aid, but Hoihoi had warned her that he lived far away. She knew something else about the high chief now. He was brother to that arrogant Matopahu!
 

“We must go,” the fisherman pleaded. “At once. Before they start looking for you. I am in danger as well.”

Tepua turned to look back at the women's house, its thatch roof glimmering faintly in moonlight. The thought of leaving her friend Hard-mallet made her want to weep. She had also grown fond of her pupil, Small-foot. If she agreed with Rimapoa's plan, she dared not go back, or tell anyone why she was leaving.
 

Suddenly a chorus of cries from beyond the compound made her head spin around. Heavy footsteps pounded up the path from the shore. “Fire!” came the voices. “A big canoe shed is burning! Call the headman!”
 

“That is also the work of those pigs,” Rimapoa hissed. “Now will you listen?”

In a moment the uproar spread through the entire compound. Warriors hurried out through the gate. Servants spilled from the houses, pointed to the red-tinged sky, and began to moan and pray. Children awoke screaming.
 

The shouts hurt her ears. Her pulse pounded at her throat. In the midst of this pandemonium, Tepua could think only of getting away. Rimapoa released her arm and she followed the crowd, rushing out through the open gate.
 

“To my canoe,” he said, when he met her on the other side. “If we leave now, we can reach the high chief by dawn.”

She ran beside him toward the beach, so quickly that she felt dizzy from exhaustion when she finally reached the sand. When she had caught her breath, she helped drag his boat into the surf. They nearly swamped the craft in their urgency to launch it. As Tepua scrambled in, Rimapoa set the mast and raised sail, stopping briefly to send anxious looks up and down the shore. The fire was still burning, glowing in the distance and filling the air with acrid smoke. Frantically she paddled, helping the sail's pull until the canoe was well away from shore.
 

At last a good stretch of open water separated the boat from the fire. Rimapoa set his course, following the coastline, and lashed the sail in place. Then he picked up a coconut from the bottom of the boat, but his hands trembled so badly that he dropped it.
 

Tepua was also shaking, but she managed to retrieve the coconut from the bilges of the canoe. She broke the nut open with a flat stone she found there and handed it to the fisherman. She certainly did not fault him for lack of courage. What had he been through this night?
 

First he spoke a prayer, then poured the milk into the sea. “I doubt such a small offering will undo what Tangled-net's kin have done,” he muttered, “but I must try.” Then he described what had happened since she last saw him.
 

When he was done, she understood. He was not shaking as a coward might, but like a brave man whose reserves were almost drained.

“You see why I must leave here,” he said. “The gods are angry. I fear they will punish us by keeping the albacore from everyone's hooks. So if Tangled-net's kin do not kill me, my life will be worthless anyway.”
 

“You were right to go, Rimapoa,” she said softly. “But I am sorry for Hoihoi.”

“She knows nothing of our woes. She will miss me, perhaps. But soon her cousins will be visiting and she will not be alone.”

“Even so, I am sad for you.”

“Perhaps it has worked out for the best,
tiare
,” he answered. “I have too many enemies here. Even before you came, I was in danger. And living in some other place, perhaps you and I will not be kept so far apart.”
 

“Yes. Perhaps. I had not thought of that.” She sank down into the boat, too exhausted to say more. The cries from shore had faded, and Rimapoa fell silent as well. All she could hear now was the gentle lapping of lagoon water against the hull and the crashing of distant breakers.
 

Wishing she did not feel so weary, she splashed a bit of water on her face. Soon she would have to explain why she had fled. What could she say that would not make her troubles worse? As she tried to compose her words, imagining herself standing before the high chief, she kept seeing Matopahu's face.
 

 

 

10

 

A NIGHT's journey up the coast from where Tepua had set out, in the sacred courtyard of the high chief's
marae
, a long ceremony was nearing its end. Since dusk, Matopahu had been sitting on the chilly stone pavement. His joints felt stiff and his body cold from his nightlong vigil, for the priests had allowed him to wear only a loincloth.
 

Behind him, far off, he heard a cock crow, though he saw no hint of daylight overhead. That bird's reward would come quickly, Matopahu thought with a faint smile. One of the high chief's servants would go after the impatient fowl and seize it tightly by the neck. Knotted-cord did not like waking early.
 

Matopahu sighed, imagining his brother asleep on his warm mat. There was no comfort here for Matopahu, though he sat at his place of honor in the tribal
marae
. The low walls that surrounded the open-air shrine did little to block the wind.
 

Throughout the night the priests had been chanting. Now they began again. In the torchlight Matopahu watched the high priest, Ihetoa, kneeling before the huge
ahu
, the layered platform of rounded stones that towered over the far end of the courtyard. The priest, too, wore thin garments, a loincloth and a light fringed cape, exposing himself to the chill in order to gain the gods' favor.
 

Matopahu turned to glance at his friend, the underpriest Eye-to-heaven, who knelt at his own meditations. In the gloom he could see nothing of the expression on his
taio's
face. It was at Matopahu's insistence that he and Eye-to-heaven had come to witness the high priest's ceremony, in hope that it might resolve the dispute over Matopahu's prophecy. This would be Ihetoa's third attempt at asking the gods for an answer. He had promised to call on the most powerful, the god of war, peace, and fertility, the great Oro.
 

The chanting continued, until at last the sky brightened. Now Matopahu could glimpse the lagoon through the surrounding trees. To his side, on high poles near the center of the courtyard, stood the bamboo altar platform. Varied fruits, as well as a choice pig, had been laid out as offerings. On and around the stepped-stone
ahu
stood numerous carved boards, painted with red ocher, hung with strips of
tapa
and tufts of red feathers to please the gods.
Soon
, thought Matopahu, feeling light-headed from lack of sleep.
Soon we will see if Ihetoa can keep up his sham.

The high priest had never been pleased by the prophetic words that Matopahu spoke during his fits. Years earlier, Ihetoa had led the prominent men who opposed Matopahu's assumption of the chiefhood. Matopahu's father had given way to the influence of his advisers, altering the usual succession in favor of the younger son, Knotted-cord.
 

Priests, Matopahu had come to realize, did not like having their roles as oracles overshadowed. On some islands, such as Urietea, a man might be both high chief
and
oracle. Here in Tahiti, the nobles and priests were too jealous of their privileges to permit such power to reside in one man. So they had kept Matopahu from the high office, though they could do nothing to take away his god's voice. And Ihetoa was trying to disparage even that, by refusing to accept the prophesy.
 

Now, finally, the high priest stood up and turned to the rear of the courtyard. He took a step forward, holding out his arms as a signal to his attendants. A lesser priest hurried up to place the tall forward-curving headpiece on his brow while another removed his simple cape and replaced it with one decorated by a rich fringe of feathers.
 

From the tall
rata
trees that flanked the
marae
came a breathy moaning that made Matopahu's nape hairs stand on end. It was only the wind in the branches, he told himself, but he knew that many spirits haunted this sacred place.
 

Feathered cape billowing, the high priest stood watching Matopahu coldly. Ihetoa was an imposing man, broad across his shoulders and chest and solid through the belly. He had a face to match—wide, flat, with high cheekbones and full lips. An almost imperceptible nod of his head sent his assistants scurrying.