Daughter of the Reef (23 page)

With gasps and sighs, the people parted for their ruler. Behind Knotted-cord came his chief wife, lesser wives, relatives and favorites, all riding the shoulders of husky men. The party was arrayed in cowries, feathers, mother-of-pearl, and long lengths of the finest dyed and painted
tapa
cloth. Matopahu was among them, wearing a feather-fan headdress, but Tepua chose not to look at him.
 

She wished that he had stayed away. But why did it matter? she asked herself. His opinions meant nothing tonight. The Arioi would be the ones who judged her.
 

She watched Knotted-cord's bearer lift the chief to the highest stool on the platform. In quick succession, the other notables were announced and took their lesser seats.
 

“Make way for the chief's of our lodge! Make way for the blacklegs.” At this cry, a man and a woman appeared at opposite sides of the performance house. Both wore the honored red loin girdle and elaborate flower crowns. Tepua knew that these were not the Arioi leaders she had watched with Hoihoi, but chief's of a larger and far more famous lodge.
 

The two blacklegs launched into a high-kneed prance. They advanced toward each other with a strutting motion that made everyone in the crowd laugh and cheer. The man threw his head back and roared at the audience. “Ha-ha! It is I, Head-lifted, chief comedian of this lodge. I am here to entertain you with my troupe. My mountain is the highest, my cape seaward the most beautiful, my river the freshest. It is I, chief Arioi of the district where coconuts fall like rain.”
 

The woman, who declared her name to be Aitofa, made a similar speech. Then the two blacklegs pranced toward the platform and took their seats on the remaining stools.
 

As the formalities continued Tepua's impatience grew. She feared half the night would pass before anyone began to dance. She felt foolish standing at the edge of the crowd, her face painted and her body decked out in yellow. People kept glancing at her as if expecting something marvelous to happen. Did they want her to disrupt the ceremonies? she wondered. Perhaps they were hoping that Oro might seize her now.
 

She stepped farther back as the players began to perform. The crowd roared with laughter at their antics, but Tepua did not. She felt a chill, and wished she had brought something warm to wrap around herself. Even the sight of a friendly face might help. She looked for Curling-leaf among the chest-slappers at the side of the hall, but could not find her.
 

And then, when she was not expecting it, the drumbeat quickened. The chest-slappers arranged themselves about the perimeter of the stage area. At a signal from the first in line, each began flapping the left arm, while slapping the upper chest with the right hand.
 

The painted and masked performers took their places and started to dance. Tepua watched the swirl of bright costumes, and was amazed at the skill of the best Arioi, the grace and speed of their movements.
 

She knew she was being dazzled by the thudding of the drum and the glare of the lights. But she had not come to gape, like the other spectators. Forcing herself to turn from the spectacle, she looked out into the moonlit landscape.
 

She could still hear the drumbeat, but her legs and arms felt heavy, refusing to start the dance. Who was she to challenge the Arioi on their own ground?
 

Facing away from the performers, into the darkness, she willed herself to move, her hips to start following the rhythm. The motions did not feel right. Her body was stiff and slow. Anyone looking at her would know she was not inspired.
 

Do not think
, she told herself.
Dance. Just dance
.
 

As she continued, her muscles slowly warmed and her movements became lighter, faster. She flung back her head, rolling her hips easily. The undulation came up her legs, through her belly, her chest, and out along her arms. It felt good. She did it again, faster, freeing her muscles from the lock put on them by fear.
 

She tilted her head back. Now the motions grew smoother. A warmth rose from her center, growing like a young tree and sending its line of strength up through her body. She shivered with the delicious sensation and gave herself to the dance.
 

At last she turned again toward the performance house. Her attention focused, not on the high chief and his retinue, but on the Arioi blacklegs, the man and the woman. Still dancing, she neared the building but saw no way to break through the crowd. Everyone was watching the performers within.
 

She needed to get through! Out of desperation, she thrust her head back and gave a loud wavering howl. Heads turned among the spectators. People scuttled aside for her, whispering and pulling their children with them.
 

Questions rippled through the crowd as people watched her advance. “Who is this dancer? What household does she come from?”

Gathering her breath, she let forth a series of short yells, each one rising higher than the next. “I am of the household of the shark—mothered by sharks—fathered by sharks,” she cried, her hips moving ever faster.
 

Her fever grew as she flung her head back and forth, her black hair lashing her shoulders. She heard her words as if another voice were speaking. “I am of the household of the canoe, mothered by canoes, fathered by canoes. I am of the household of the reef, mothered by coral, fathered by coral.”
 

As she stamped her way to the front a new word came from the mouths of the crowd. “
Nevaneva
,” they breathed. “Oro's touch is on this woman.”
 

But Tepua knew that the fever came from the intensity of her dancing, not from the god. The rapture still had not taken her. Even as she heard the cries she felt the fire of her performance die down. In the faces of those watching, she saw doubt and disappointment appearing.
 

For a moment her attention shifted to the end of the platform. There she saw Matopahu turn with a smile to speak with the man beside him. Was he laughing at her poor efforts? she wondered. If so, she refused to accept his scorn.
 

Tepua shouted again, braying in defiance across the heads of the audience. Now she did not care if the god supported her or not. She sprang forward until she was dancing beneath the roof of the performance house, her gaze sweeping the faces of the chest-slappers as she spun past them. They had paused in their arm striking as well as their chanting, but took it up again, increasing the pace as if challenging her. Then Curling-leaf stood in front of her, urging her on with her own slaps and cries.
 

The dance itself possessed Tepua, sending her in with the other performers. As she whirled among them they turned with looks of astonishment. The others backed away from her, leaving a clear space in their midst. It no longer mattered where she was or who watched. She no longer saw anything clearly, only a dazzle of colors and shadows, the shimmer of lights and the dizzying sway of bodies.
 

Her arms and hips moved with a will beyond hers, harder and faster than she had ever danced. Her breath came in gasps, her strength drained into the demands of the dance until she thought she could give no more. Her legs quivered, threatened to collapse. A voice within her cried out for more, but her body, exhausted, could not give it.
 

Then something flared inside her, and a brightness came. It was the blazing orange red of fire, of sun, of war. As she danced on, her legs stopped trembling. They burned with a new strength, the power of a young god—Oro, who presided over war but loved peace, Oro-of-the-laid-down-spear, whose power let enemy sit down beside enemy. Then he was beside her, within her, surrounding her, his passion devouring all else...
 

 

Silence brought Tepua out of her trance. Hearing no drums, she staggered to a halt. Why had they stopped?

Feeling like a sleeper awakened, Tepua rubbed her eyes and stared at the circle of Arioi around her. The people in the audience were roaring with delight over her performance, pounding their thighs. She could read nothing on the players' faces, painted and masked as they were.
 

Two chest-slappers, Curling-leaf and a young man, approached her. They hesitated, wonder and fear shining in their eyes. “My frenzy is gone,” Tepua said weakly, and leaned gratefully against them as they took her arms. Her head was spinning and her muscles ached. Cooling perspiration chilled her back.
 

They led her to the side of the hall where the female blackleg, Aitofa, stood watching her. The chiefess had come down from her perch! One tap on the shoulder, Tepua knew, would give her the chance she wanted. After a few ceremonial words, the ritual questions and answers, she would be accepted as a novice. Aitofa raised her hand...
 

Suddenly another hand caught Aitofa's forearm. The chiefess turned with annoyance to the stocky man who had come up beside her. He was the other blackleg, the leader of the Arioi men. “Why do you stop me, Head-lifted?” asked the woman.
 

“Do not be too hasty in judging this dancer,” he answered.

“Have you any doubt that she was possessed by the god?”

“I see only that under her red paint and yellow leaves she is a foreigner. Who can say what savage spirit entered her tonight?”

“Perhaps you have doubts, but I have none. Seldom have any of us witnessed such a performance. The women's troupe needs another strong player.”
 

“Then choose a Maohi woman,” the red-girdled chief replied. “Someone who will not embarrass us.”

“Show me a Maohi woman with the same promise!”

Suddenly a young player rushed up to the arguing pair. “Noble leaders, excuse my interruption,” he said. “The high chief is growing impatient. He wishes the show to continue.”
 

“Then we will finish the discussion later,” Aitofa said coldly to Head-lifted. She made a quick motion to the two novices who were still holding Tepua. “Put her over there.”
 

And then Aitofa was gone, leaving Tepua to stumble between the two chest-slappers to a seat in the dry grass beside the platform. Curling-leaf gave her a few words of encouragement. Then the novices ran back to their places at the edge of the hall.
 

Tepua closed her eyes briefly, still catching her breath, then slowly looked around. Close by, on one of the high stools, sat Matopahu, watching her. He gave her a wink. He spoke, but the drummers, starting again, drowned out his words.
 

The Arioi had given her no answer! And now she could not put Matopahu from her mind. She stole another quick glance at him, the well-formed limbs, the handsome, arrogant face beneath the black-and-white fan-feathered headdress.
 

Perhaps she had misjudged him, she thought. Perhaps he did wish her well tonight. But she could not go to him and hear what he had to say. No. She must sit here, where Aitofa had put her, and endure the rest of the entertainment.
 

It was going to be a long night.

 

 

12

 

WHEN Tepua woke, she stared for a moment at the cane walls of an unfamiliar house. She remembered only hazily how she had come here after the performance.
The dance
. She blinked as she pushed herself up, feeling soreness now in every joint and muscle.
 

“Tepua ...” called a soft voice from behind her. She turned and saw Curling-leaf standing at the doorway. Tepua could read nothing from her expression. The novice probably did not know what decision the lodge chief's had finally made.
 

Tepua touched her face, felt the dried paint, and realized that she had forgotten to wash it off.

“Come with me to bathe,” said Curling-leaf. “When you are done, Aitofa will see you.”

They left the compound, coming soon to a stream that ran through a pleasant breadfruit grove. No one else was bathing. “The others were here long ago,” Curling-leaf explained. “You slept late. Aitofa told us to let you rest.”
 

“I am already showing bad habits,” Tepua muttered as she hastily washed, then went to meet Aitofa in the spacious house that stood in the middle of the compound.
 

Aitofa sat, like other chiefs, on a four-legged bow-bottomed stool. Tepua had paid little attention to the blackleg's appearance during the nighttime revels. Now she saw a tall, handsome woman, someone undoubtedly of a noble family. Aitofa's features were strong, too severe to be beautiful. Squint-lines showed at the corners of her eyes.
 

Her short hair was decked by a simple wreath of flowers. About her shoulders, and drawn across her small breasts, she wore a finely plaited shoulder cape. Aitofa crossed her arms and studied Tepua with an expression that made the latter feel like a promising but annoying child.
 

“How many Arioi performances had you seen before deciding to dance among us?”

Tepua hesitated. “One, noble chiefess. Two, if you count the beginning of last night's show.”

Aitofa threw back her head and laughed. “One! By Oro's navel, you are more reckless than I had thought. What are your reasons for seeking to join the Arioi?”
 

“The god possessed me last night. Is that not enough?”

“The god has his will, but we of flesh have ours. Sometimes the two conflict, and a person who enters the society regrets it later.”
 

Tepua had thought she might be asked such a question. She had resolved to be frank about her hopes, but tell no more than Matopahu knew about her past. “I came from a good family on my island,” she said. “But my ancestry means nothing to people here. With the Arioi, perhaps I can regain something of what I have lost... And protection from my enemies, should they ever seek to find me.”