Daughter of the Reef (4 page)

She knew she had to reach land soon or die of exposure. Her head throbbing, she pushed back her tangled hair and squinted at the horizon. Nothing except waves and sky and more waves and sky. She sighed, put her stem to the rising sun, and paddled.
 

Two more days and nights went by. She ate the last coconut, drank all but the last of her water. Though she made a sunshade by tying the remains of her bark-cloth robe to the canoe's mast, the sun constantly beat down on her. Heat and sea glare made her disoriented and brought frightening visions.
 

Once she thought that the mako had broken its bindings and returned to haunt her. She raved—shouting, cursing, striking the water, trying to beat off the shark's image. Again it attacked and again she stabbed it with the pointed end of her paddle shaft. Only when her spear pierced nothing but water and she nearly tumbled overboard did she realize that there was no shark. She fell back, sobbing and panting into the bottom of the boat.
 

And then, when she had lost track of days and nights, or where the canoe was pointed, she turned her bleary gaze and saw in the distance a long shelf of cloud like none she had seen before. She blinked, unable to make sense of the dark and towering form that lay beneath it.
Another illusion
? She had heard of high islands, said to be huge heaps of stone, but had never glimpsed one. She knew only low, flat, coral islands.
 

Shaking with weakness, she seized her paddle again, changing course, then stroking in a frenzy toward the impossible sight. She could not keep it up for long. Soon she slowed, falling into a pattern that allowed her a rest between strokes. Her mind went into a daze, her vision tunneled so that she could see only the jagged mass of grays and greens that lay ahead. She tried to remember the names of the high islands that lay in this direction—Eimeo, Urietea, Tahiti.
 

Dip, stroke, dip, stroke, change sides, dip, stroke. The canoe creaking, the wind hissing, the expanse of water as endless as ever, lips dry, skin cracking. Dip, stroke, dip, stroke, arms screaming, knees aching, everything whirling in a vortex of sea and sky, except at the center, the white mass of cloud and the craggy shapes beneath it.
 

Then she was far above herself, watching a little figure that sat in the canoe, paddling forever toward an island that never got any closer. Sun glistened on the waves, and on the tiny paddle that kept dipping and rising. Red-tailed seabirds passed overhead, making shrill cries. And far behind her appeared another canoe, terrible and shining, slowly drawing closer.
 

It was
Mahina
, she knew at once, the canoe of the dead. It had come to take her soul! Its huge sails billowed and its twin hulls plowed deep furrows in the sea as it approached. Its fierce master glowered from the deck, pointing his long finger in her direction. He opened his mouth to call her, his voice deep and harsh...
 

Suddenly a prolonged and violent scraping jolted Tepua out of her trance. She felt a wave lift the canoe, then drag it sideways. Surf pounded all around her, foam spurting above her head.
 

Wiping her arm across her eyes, she saw in the distance a vast panorama of green-clad peaks that seemed to ascend to the sky. At the shore lay a sliver of beach lined with innumerable coconut palms. Ahead, beyond the breakers, calm water gleamed with delicate shades of aquamarine. Yet all about her lay frothing sea... She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She realized that she had struck a barrier reef.
 

An incoming roller lifted the canoe again, spinning it and smashing it down on an outcrop of coral. A plank on the hull broke with a harsh crack. The hull started to sink, leaving only the outrigger afloat.
 

Grabbing her paddle, she jumped from the waterlogged boat, crying aloud as her bare feet were cut by the harsh coral. Quickly she flung herself out of the way as surf rolled the damaged boat toward her, then heaved it aloft and slammed it down again on the reef. The canoe shuddered, cracked open.
 

Scrambling wildly to escape the beating surf, Tepua staggered across the submerged reef, catching herself with her paddle when she could, but sometimes falling heavily. Ignoring the scrapes and gashes from the rock, she flailed forward, knowing her strength was almost gone. When her next step plunged her into deep water, she felt a strange sense of relief as she went down. Now it was over. The pain and weariness would end.
Mahina
would take her after all.
 

For a moment she let herself go limp, resting in the buoyant water as she would in her mother's arms. Behind her, the surf still pounded. But the waves were gentle in the lagoon.
 

She thought she heard her mother whisper to her, reminding her how well she could swim. “I want to sleep,” Tepua murmured, but the voice urged her on.
Just show me you can reach the shore. Then I will know you are a chief's daughter.

“No, Mother.” But despite herself, she felt her arms sweeping, her legs kicking.
Someone else must be swimming
, she thought,
for I am already asleep.
She began to dream—of other lagoons and calm, blue, welcoming waters.
 

 

 

2

 

ON the mountainous island of Tahiti, in a deep valley cutting inland from the sea, two boar hunters emerged from the shade of hibiscus trees. The men, dusty and perspiring, carried long hardwood thrusting spears across their well-muscled shoulders. Overhead, clouds covered the sun, but the air in the valley remained warm, humid and still.
 

In the lead walked Matopahu, brother of the district's high chief. He was a tall young man with black, wavy hair that spilled from beneath his turban of bark-cloth. For this hunt he had left behind his feathered headdresses and capes; he wore only the simple loincloth of a laborer. But anyone could see by the elegant tattoos on his back and thighs, by his stature and the grace of his movements, that he was a man of the highest rank.
 

“The tusker has slipped by us once again,” said the second hunter, Eye-to-heaven, as he wiped his brow. Eye-to-heaven was an important priest in the tribal
marae
—the sacred walled courtyard of the high chief. Yet today the priest also wore only a loincloth. He was shorter and stockier than his friend, and a few years older, with a pleasant oval face and crisply curled hair.
 

“The beast will soon have to make a stand,” replied Matopahu, glancing at the ribbon of water that cascaded down a steep cliff at the valley's head. From behind the hunters came the crackling and rustling of underbrush as beaters drove the wild pig toward sheer walls that towered on three sides.
 

The men had been chasing this animal since dawn, losing it in another valley, but finally trapping it here. Standing in the open now, Matopahu paused, wishing for a breath of wind to cool his face. In this narrow river gorge no breeze stirred.
 

“I say the pig will go on,” replied Eye-to-heaven. “And try to find a hiding place.”

“Is that your own judgment, my amiable priest?” asked Matopahu with a wry smile. “Or has some spirit whispered in your ear?”

Eye-to-heaven, who was his
taio
, his sworn friend, with whom he shared everything, laughed. “When I decide to make a divination, you will know,” the priest answered. “I was just offering my own opinion.”
 

“Then I will take it, my
taio
.” They walked on, passing more stands of hibiscus, whose yellow, trumpet-shaped flowers smelled so rich that the odor became cloying. Daylight would not last much longer, and Matopahu did not want the boar to get away from him. It had done too much damage, frightened too many people, destroyed too many garden plots. He had been hearing reports for a month, but only today had he been fortunate enough to catch up with it.
 

“This pig is leading us a chase worthy of the legendary Pua'a-mahui,” he said to Eye-to-heaven. “If night were not coming so soon, I would ask you to consult the spirits right now.” He turned toward the shallow river that ran down the center of the valley, studied the tangled foliage along its bank, but saw no sign of his quarry. Matopahu wondered if—as some people said—this boar indeed had been possessed by the Man-slaying God. If so, then it was unlikely that either spear or priestly incantation could stop the destruction.
 

Pushing aside his misgivings, Matopahu continued up the narrowing valley, passing dark
rata
trees whose trunks were surrounded by wide, curving buttresses. His footing grew difficult as he crossed a slippery tangle of roots. Behind him, on both sides, the beaters kept to their work, lashing the brush with bamboo flails.
 

The forest thinned and the club mosses beneath the
rata
grew more luxuriantly. Huge fronds of bird's-nest fern sprouted from decaying stumps, creating a maze of greenery in which the prey could hide.
 

Far ahead, Matopahu caught a rare glimpse of the pig—a dark, woolly tail vanishing beneath a giant fern. This was about as much as he had ever seen of the elusive beast. But now he began to think that his
taio
had been right after all. The animal was still running. It might seek a hiding place under the cliff.
 

Matopahu remembered the fear-whitened faces he had seen that morning as he questioned householders at the other end of the valley. “Oh yes, noble sir,” one man had told him. “The beast was huge and terrible. See how it rooted up my taro patch and knocked down the wall of my house. It is surely Pua'a-mahui, driven by the Man-slaying God.”
 

“Eeeyah, but it was monstrous!” said another. “Just as the legends say. One jaw pointed to the sky, and the other to the earth. The mouth could have swallowed a man.”
 

Matopahu's palms became moist with sweat as he remembered. Frightened people often exaggerated, but he had seen for himself the damage that the creature had done. Even if it was not the legendary beast, it was surely powerful enough to kill a man.
 

Perhaps that is why I am here
, he thought sourly as he continued up a rise. Matopahu knew that some people considered him a troublemaker. What better way to get rid of such a man than to have him die a hero's death?
 

The high priest, Ihetoa, had maneuvered him into leading this dangerous hunt. At an audience with the high chief and his retinue, Ihetoa had loudly bemoaned the dangerous pig until Matopahu had felt obliged to offer his help. In these peaceful times, what better way for the chief's brother to prove his valor?
 

“What do you say, my
taio
,” Matopahu asked, turning to his friend behind him. “Do you think Ihetoa is hoping that we never return?”
 

Eye-to-heaven smiled. “Perhaps so. But he will not get rid of us so easily.”

There had long been ill-feeling between the high priest and Matopahu. Ihetoa considered himself the only one who understood the gods' wishes. Yet sometimes a man who was not a priest fell into a trance and uttered words of prophecy. Such oracles might have divine favor, but Ihetoa viewed them only as his rivals.
 

Matopahu was one of those inspired men. He had no wish to compete with the priests, but when his god spoke through his lips, he lost all awareness of what he was doing or saying. Eye-to-heaven had taken on the task of remembering and interpreting his friend's pronouncements, and so he, too, had come into disfavor with his superior, Ihetoa.
 

“I will be depending on your spear, my
taio
, to make certain that the high priest is disappointed,” replied Matopahu. Recently his god voice had spoken again, warning of famine. The annual season of plenty was at its peak, yet the usual season of scarcity would follow.
 

Matopahu's voice had declared that the difficult season would be uncommonly long and severe this time. Until he could confirm Matopahu's pronouncement, Ihetoa refused to urge the unpopular practice of storing away extra reserves of food. To Matopahu's annoyance, the high priest still delayed his decision.
 

Now Matopahu halted, sniffing the breeze. The distinctive swine odor had grown stronger. He looked about warily, eyeing the nearest ferns. Behind him, the beaters advanced.
 

Then a shrill cry went up as a huge gray-brown form shot from cover. Before the pig vanished into another stand of ferns, Matopahu got a better glimpse of his quarry—the curved yellow tusks, long snout, and huge humped shoulders. Yes, this one was big, the largest boar he had ever seen. Sweat trickled down his chest and back as he gazed at the place where it had vanished.
 

More cover lay ahead, but the valley was narrowing. Eventually there would be only the river flowing between dark walls of stone. If the boar could find no refuge under the moss-covered rock, it would have to turn and attack the men.
 

Matopahu waved the beaters back. With spears leveled, he and Eye-to-heaven moved in. He could not judge how close he was to the animal. His mouth grew dry; his heartbeat quickened.
 

The stretch of rocky ground along the bank narrowed, forcing one man ahead of the other. Then they reached an impasse, a water-slick wall that edged the river. Matopahu turned back, and saw that Eye-to-heaven was already fording the shallow stream. Reaching the other side, he climbed the bank.
 

On the far side, with no warning, a clump of ferns near the priest exploded, releasing a gray-brown woolly streak. The huge boar, jabbing with lightning thrusts of its head, was on Eye-to-heaven before either man could react. The priest lunged wildly, ramming his spear point between the beast's ribs. Then he dodged from the assault, blood welling from his right thigh. Squealing its death challenge, the boar drove after him as he stumbled backward.