Daughter of the Reef (30 page)

At last she stood up, staring with sudden detachment at the man who sat on the beach, his head down on his crossed forearms. Now she knew the real reason he had brought her on this journey. Not to gather feathers, as he had claimed. Not for
hanihani
either. Not even for a last attempt at wooing her from Aitofa. “Why did you need me at all?” she asked him. “Why not simply scrape your back with coral?”
 

He lifted his head, but stared in another direction. “The priests can detect trickery,” he answered in a tone of despair. “They have secret ways.”
 

“If you had explained—” She cut herself off. What man would admit to his fears? What man would beg his
vahine
to pretend a frenzy that he could not arouse in her? Knowing this, she still could not excuse him.
 

She gathered her wrap about her and began to walk away. “Wait,” he called hoarsely. “I have something more to say. Yes, I admit that I mistreated you! It was not an easy thing to do. But do not forget how you rewarded me for taking you away from your enemies—abandoning me to go off with your Arioi. Do not look down on me,
motu
princess. We two are fish that feed on the same shoal.”
 

She turned her back on him and stumbled toward the shelter.

“Listen!” he cried, coming up behind her. “Yesterday I felt the gods all around me, so close that I could scarcely breathe. I heard their hearts beating, their stomachs churning with hunger. For me. For my soul. Please understand,
tiare
.”
 

She stopped, turned to stare at him. He seemed a pitiful figure, covered with salt and dust, unable to meet her gaze. Yes, she did understand his terrors. He could not help but be affected by this place, with its aura of sacredness and its god shadows in every tree. She had tried to convince him to leave long ago, but perhaps she had not tried hard enough.
 

He came closer, reaching out to touch her hand. She flinched, like an animal withdrawing from something it knows not to trust. She saw the pain in his eyes as his fingers fell away.
 

“So you are afraid of me now,” he said with a groan.

“I bear part of the blame for this,” she admitted softly. “I am sorry. We must leave here. Now. Before anything else happens to us.”
 

“The canoe is ready to be launched. I am taking only some water and coconuts ... and the basket.”

The basket
. A shiver came over her at the thought. She realized that she no longer wanted anything to do with the treasure that she and Rimapoa had gathered.
Let him have it. Let him have it all.
She blinked back her tears as she followed him to the coral-strewn shore.
 

 

 

15

 

WEARY from days of sailing, Rimapoa neared the familiar coastline of Knotted-cord's district. Ahead, jutting out into the water, lay the forested spit of land where the great
marae
stood. His journey was almost at its end.
 

He sadly turned his gaze to Tepua, who sat in the bow facing away from him. She was leaving him now. He did not know when he might see her again.
 

She had forgiven him, she said. Yet they had slept apart every night since leaving Fenua Ura. And she wanted nothing to do with the treasure they had gathered.
 

Slowly, reluctantly, he brought the canoe in to a thickly wooded shore. “
Tiare
,” he said, trying to explain himself once more, as she got out and waded through shallows to the rocky beach. “Remember this. It was for your sake that I took so many feathers. So I could provide for you if you ever chose to leave the Arioi. And if you need me, I will still be here to help.”
 

Waves lapping gently at her feet, she glanced at him briefly. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and her eyes glistened, but then she shook her head and turned away. He wanted to jump out of the boat and run after her, but he knew that she would only resist his embrace. She must have time, he thought, time to heal her hurt. Then, perhaps, she would truly forgive him.
 

As soon as she vanished between the trees, he paddled away. The parting meant nothing, he kept telling himself. She would come back to him, just as she had done before. Yet he could not get free of the desire to gash himself and groan aloud.
 

He tightened his fist and refused to give in to his misery. He was about to approach the high chief. He must go as a man of courage, not one who whimpers over women.

Soon he reached the mouth of a stream that emptied into the lagoon. He stopped to bathe in the fresh water, then asked for a few dabs of
monoi
from some young people sitting on the bank. After rubbing his arms and chest with the fragrant coconut oil, he felt presentable, ready to face Knotted-cord.
 

When Rimapoa brought the canoe up to the high chief's jetty, however, he was dismayed to see a familiar and hostile figure—the guard who had tried to keep him from landing when he first arrived with Tepua. “So you are back,” the chief's man said with a snarl. “I know you, fisherman. You are not welcome.”
 

“Let the high chief decide that,” said Rimapoa.

“He decided long ago. I was there at your audience, but you were too busy stumbling in the dust to notice me.”

“And now I will have another hearing. I bring a gift that will make the high chief eager to see me.”

“Gift?” the guard snorted. “Are you keeping it under your fishing lines? He peered into the boat, poking at the gear with his spear point. At last he reached the basket with the feathers.
 

“That is my gift,” Rimapoa said. “Only Knotted-cord may open it.”

“It is my duty to inspect it first,” said the guard coldly. “Then have been known to offer the chief baskets filled with poisonous centipedes.”
 

“Then look if you dare. The sight is not for a commoner.” He had examined the feathers as he gathered them, but had carefully kept the basket closed as he added each new prize. Such a concentration of sacredness was too much for the eyes to bear. Now, his hands trembling, he picked up the basket and held it open.
 

For a moment sunlight gleamed on the brilliance of red and yellow plumage within. Rimapoa felt a stabbing pain in his eyes and immediately looked away. The guard gasped and stepped back, throwing his hand over his face. “I am blinded by the power of the gods!” he shouted.
 

“That is your just punishment. Now help me up.” The fisherman closed the basket, then leaned out to place it atop the jetty. When the guard only moaned and wailed, Rimapoa tied up the boat without assistance and climbed ashore.
 

The guard remained on his knees, rubbing at his eyes. “You should have warned me,” he said miserably.

“Get up, you lazy sow, and take me to the high chief.” The fisherman shook the guard's shoulder. Gradually the man seemed to recover. He stood up, shakily, and finally retrieved the weapon he had dropped.
 

“What kind of fisherman are you?” the guard muttered. “Do birds come to your hooks?”

Rimapoa did not answer, but followed the man's broad back up the path. The basket in his hands suddenly felt unwieldy. What if he dropped it, or lost his footing? Rimapoa shook his head, wishing he could get rid of his doubts.
 

Entering the compound, he tried to ignore the bustle of courtiers and servants, the chickens fluttering underfoot, the shouting children. He fixed his gaze on the high chief's house, its doorway covered by a painted mat and flanked by guards. He paused, carefully holding his basket.
 

The man from the jetty went forward to confer with the other guards. One beckoned him closer. “The noble chief is sleeping,” the guard whispered. “Leave your gift. When he wakes, we will send it in.”
 

“I will wait,” said Rimapoa firmly.

“What is the trouble?” asked a voice from inside.

“A fisherman brings an offering to our exalted one,” said the guard from the jetty. “I have inspected it, and I assure you that it is worthy of the chief's attention.”
 

“Then hand it in. The noble one is awake and looking for amusement.”

Rimapoa watched with both satisfaction and uneasiness as a plump hand pushed the hanging mat aside and took the basket. Never before in his life had he found a chance to rise above his humble station. When the high chief saw this magnificent gift, he would grant Rimapoa anything he wanted.
 

He tried to imagine having his own house and land, with so many trees that he could make frequent gifts of coconut and breadfruit to his less fortunate friends. And what if he should father a son? What a feast he would give! He imagined the details, growing hungry as he pictured the yams and bananas and pork...
 

“You. Fisherman.” A guard's deep voice startled Rimapoa from his daydreams. A hand grabbed him harshly by the arm. “You will wait until the high chief is ready to deal with you.” The guard pulled him roughly away from Knotted-cord's house, taking him toward a small hut at the edge of the compound. Rimapoa saw another spearman behind him and did not dare protest.
 

“Stay in here. And be quiet,” the guard ordered, pushing him in through the low doorway. A stale and unpleasant odor filled the small space within. Rimapoa saw that the dry grass on the floor had not been changed in a long time. The cane walls were cracked and rotting.
 

Why were they treating him so? This stinking hut was no place to put a man who brought royal gifts. He felt perspiration on his face and chest, and a need to relieve himself. Crickets chirped in the roof thatch, giving him no cheer.
 

He approached the nearest wall, wrapped his thin fingers around the weathered canes, and tested their strength. The cords that bound them were frayed; he could break through before anyone noticed, race out into the compound...
 

But for what? The guards would catch him in the end and bring him back. No. He must stand fast and carry himself with assurance. If anyone accused him of misdeeds, he would firmly deny them.
 

The fisherman sighed and loosened his grip. He pressed his face to a gap and found that he could glimpse the front part of Knotted-cord's house. All was quiet there now. He closed his eyes as he pressed his forehead painfully against the bamboo.
 

When he heard voices, he looked out and saw the high priest, Ihetoa, his white cape flying behind him as he strode up to Knotted-cord's door. The high priest was a tall man, broad of shoulder, and quick for a man of his bulk. Ihetoa did not enter the chief's house, but waited until the mat was pulled aside before he peered in. The priest seemed to be speaking to someone, perhaps to Knotted-cord himself. Then Ihetoa turned and walked across the courtyard.
 

Rimapoa's pulse quickened when he saw the priest heading in his direction. He stood away from his peephole and straightened his shoulders, determined to answer well whatever questions might be put to him. The priest should be pleased, after all. The sacred power of the new feathers would add much to the ceremonies and artifacts of the temple.
 

Ihetoa's expression bore no sign of gratitude as he burst into the room. “So you are the fisherman who comes with so many glorious feathers.”
 

Seeing that broad, livid face, Rimapoa lost his resolve. He stammered nervously. “They—they are gifts—to the high chief and his court. So they may earn—the gods' favors.”
 

“Ah, so you wish to please the gods.”

Rimapoa felt a sudden burning at the base of his skull, at the place where sacrificial victims were struck. He sucked in his breath but could not answer.
 

“Very well. Then you will come to my
marae
. That is the place for a man such as yourself.”
 

And the place where the sacrifice is offered
! “I—I first beg a moment's patience while I visit the fishermen's shrine.”
 

“For what purpose? To call on some menial spirit? Let us go where the gods of true power can listen. You will explain to
them
how you came by these feathers, and they will say what is to be done.” The priest turned sharply and walked toward the compound's gate. Guards flanked Rimapoa, holding him tightly by each arm, forcing him to follow.
 

Leaving the gate, Ihetoa turned to the path that led out along the point. Ahead, rising amid a grove of ancient trees, stood the awesome
ahu
of stone. Suddenly the old fears gripped Rimapoa. The scars from Tepua's hands, won at such a terrible cost, no longer made him feel safe. He looked with dread at the high chief's
marae
.
 

Until now, the modest shrine belonging to Pigs-run-out was the largest temple he had approached. Even at a distance, the
mana
of this place made him tremble. How many men had been offered here? he wondered. The place was haunted by their spirits. He heard their voices as the wind rustled through the boughs overhead.
 

Rimapoa could scarcely force one foot to follow another. Carved spirit figures, guardians of the
marae
, glowered at him from the shadows of
rata
trees. Beside him, the warriors paused to remove their capes in a gesture of respect for the gods. Rimapoa, who wore a simple loincloth, could only bow his head.
 

“Here. Come this way, fisherman. This is as far as we need go.” Ihetoa stopped well outside the quadrangle that was surrounded by a low wall of rounded stones.