***
The woman chosen by Tokjān, called Lijitwa, was curvaceous and held her back straight, as does a warrior. Still of childbearing age, she brandished beautifully tattooed shoulders and chest above proud, plump breasts with long, dark nipples that had suckled many children. One or two periodically clung to the ends of her strong arms like pandanus fruits that she was ever swinging to Tokjān, to grab and try to amuse, to keep out of her way as she worked. She bore a genuinely welcoming, perpetual smile between her full, broad cheeks, and she ruled her household like a helmsman at sea. She commanded her children and man alike, and none was too busy to hear. They sat for supper in her cookhouse, where she, by her hearth, kept two or three dried coconut shells flaring consecutively in the fire during the meal. Her older daughters sat outside the cookhouse, weaving freshly stripped coconut leaflets into serving baskets. They passed them to still-younger daughters, who rushed them to her to amply fill and then deliver, first to Ḷainjin and then to Liṃanṃan, whose food sat idly before her while she held her aunt’s newest-born, naked boy in her arms. Much to her amusement, she teased him with her pointy, milkless breast, but much to his satisfaction, she periodically pushed a fingertip of baked and smashed pandanus pulp into his greedy mouth.
Lijitwa was not a woman given to idle talk. As soon as she served Ḷōtokjān, she got right to the point. Speaking — Ḷainjin assumed — on behalf of her man, she asked, “Our son says you want him to feed one of the birds on the islets?”
The boy had explained in detail his father’s policy of “no bird feeding, and no bird raising.” So Ḷainjin, yet to become familiar with her direct approach to problem solving, tried to politely deflect the conversation from the Chief by changing the subject to her delicious baked-in-leaf mixture of pandanus pulp and grated coconut and stating, “I always say, ‘Don’t be afraid to toss coconut — it’s good for the skin.’”
“Well, your hide is black enough to protect you from the sun, but look at my poor niece over there, red as a hermit crab caught out of its shell. She needs to wash herself down with coconut milk, or the skin will peel from her cute little nose. Liṃanṃan, will you stop teasing that boy of mine with that pimple on your chest! Here, give him to me before he starts to cry.”
She took the boy, who immediately honed in on her nipple to retrieve the last of his supper. Then she turned her smile back to Ḷainjin while furrowing her brow as if to concentrate on the answer she still expected him to provide.
He ignored her gaze for an instant and filled his mouth with an enormous quantity of her cooking to give himself time to think.
“Okay,” she said, laughing, “let me ask a different way. What does my son say to all the other boys on the island who want to take a similar pet?”
Ḷainjin took a long drink of coconut water, sucking it loudly from the eye of a husked, immature nut of perhaps seven cycles. He inspected the empty nut, squeezing it slightly in his hand, and then a polite belch erupted from his chest as he turned to her meekly and told her exactly what he assumed she wanted to hear.
“Your son has explained his father’s rule not to feed the birds. It weakens them. It makes them lazy and unable to catch their own food.” Ḷainjin turned to the boy sitting next to the cookhouse doorway and continued, “Children who take them as pets sooner or later tire of feeding them, so they fly away but lack the skills to flourish and die before they are able to reproduce themselves. The small birds are important to us because they nourish the soil so the kōņņat can grow, put down roots, and keep the sand from washing away.” The boy raised his eyebrows in affirmation, as though he had explained all this — although, of course, he had not. “And the big birds are particularly important to us! They come down from the clouds and hover like kites over the beach to warn us to prepare for the approaching big wind. Your son explained all this to me, and I understand and agree completely with the rule. But let me ask you this: Where does a bird seek to lay its egg?”
“The island of its birth,” replied Tokjān, Jitwa, and their son in unison.
There was a moment of laughter, and then the little daughters chimed in as well: “The island of its birth, the island of its birth!”
Ḷainjin turned to the little girls. “That’s right! That’s right!” he said, as they beamed back at him. The fire’s flame glistened in their black, image-reflecting eyes, as does the moon on the surface of the smooth waters of the lagoon. “My friend’s mate is of this string of islets, so she is covered by your father’s rule and you must not feed her. The egg that she laid is of the bird islet, and you must not feed the chick that breaks through its shell. However, my friend is not of these islets, and so he alone, among all the birds, does not live by this rule. He is a visitor and must be fed like your mother is feeding me!” To emphasize the last argument, he took another enormous bite of her cooking and grinned contentedly, not revealing whether he was satisfied with what he was eating or with the words that had just spewed from his mouth.
“Father, is it true? Can we feed the bird? Can we feed the bird?”
Tokjān looked at Ḷainjin with the same amused expression and mischievous twinkle in his eye as a boy about to break his father’s rule for the sheer fun of it. Then he glanced at his chosen woman, who met his eyes with the same broad smile she had worn from the moment Ḷainjin had entered her cookhouse.
“Yes,” he said, “you can feed the newcomer because he is not of this atoll.”
“Mother, can we go feed the bird now? Feed the bird now?”
“You can go with your brother tomorrow.” Then, as her smile broke into a laugh, she added, “But you must call this bird Mānnijepḷā!”
“Mānnijepḷā! Mānnijepḷā!” The girls had heard their mother sing these bedtime chants from the time they grew in her belly. “Mother, tell us the story again. Tell it again!”
“You two have heard that story so many times you can tell it yourselves.”
“She is very beautiful. Very, very good to look at!” said the girls, in the same manner as before. Each said nearly the same thing at the same time, competing against the other for attention.
“How should we call her this time, Mother?”
“Call her after your cousin Liṃanṃan!” replied their mother, laughing. “She is very beautiful, is she not?”
Liṃanṃan had apparently heard the story, as she made a quick, funny face at her aunt that made the girls giggle as they continued. “Her name was Liṃanṃan and she lived a long time ago,” said the older girl.
“And she smells good,” added the younger.
“And he is a man of unusual powers,” continued the older.
“How shall we call him, Mother?”
“Call him ‘the newcomer,’” she replied, turning her smile to Ḷainjin to let him know she intended to tease him as well but, out of respect, would not use his name directly.
“She chooses the newcomer, but he never goes fishing,” said one girl.
“And she complains all the time!” added the other.
“But why doesn’t he go fishing?” their mother asked.
The girls looked at each other awkwardly, each giving the opportunity to the other.
“Maybe because he loves her too much, and he is afraid someone will steal her away while he’s gone,” Ḷainjin offered.
“That’s it! He’s jealous.”
“He’s jealous!”
Ḷainjin smiled. “Well, I didn’t exactly put it that…”
“You are jealous! You’re jealous, jealous, jealous!” sang the girls.
“She’s always nagging at him. Newcomer, why don’t you go fishing? Go catch me a big fish,” the older sister said, acting the part of the beautiful woman they called Liṃanṃan.
“Or even just catch me a tiny, tiny one,” added the younger.
“Or even a crab off the reef.”
“Or go dive for a clam, why don’t you?” Liṃanṃan said.
“But he just sits there!”
&n
bsp; “He doesn’t say one word.”
Lijitwa asked, “But what is he doing?”
The girls looked at one another for the answer. Then the younger one tentatively answered, “He’s making rope?”
“Yes, that’s it,” her sister added. “He makes rope all day long. Every day, and every day, she complains! ‘Newcomer, why don’t you go fishing? I have such a craving for fish! Go catch me a big fish,’” she said again.
“Or even a crab off the reef.”
“He has to prepare his fishing implements!” said Ḷainjin, playing the part and turning to Ḷōtokjān. “This is the thing women never understand.”
“But surely you can catch me a tiny, tiny fish without all that planning and rope making!” the older girl argued. “Or even a crab on the reef. Even a boy can catch a crab, and I thought you were a man!”
At this, Tokjān stood, took his ekkwaḷ materials from a shelf among the rafters and handed them to Ḷainjin. “Just make your line in silence,” he said. “No man can successfully argue with a woman. Don’t even try.”
He began separating the fibers and playing the part of the newcomer, sitting there in silence and listening to the little girls heckling him as he rolled twine on his thigh and kept his mouth shut.
“Liṃanṃan, how many days has it been since you ate fish?” Jitwa asked.
“Wōjej, it’s been several cycles of the moon. My man just sits there and makes rope all day.”
“Girls,” Jitwa said, “how many cycles does it take for him to make all the rope he needs?”
“Three!” said one.
“Four!” said the other.
“And what does he do with all that rope?” their mother asked them.
The younger girl answered. “He anchors it to the reef.”
Her mother clarified the answer. “You mean he launches his outrigger canoe and anchors it to the reef.”
“Yes!”
“And what does he do with poor Liṃanṃan?”
“He takes her with him.”
“Why would he take his wife fishing?” Jitwa asked, feigning surprise and continuing to lead her daughters through the classic story.
“Because he’s afraid I’ll run off with a man who knows how to fish,” Liṃanṃan said. She looked at Ḷainjin and slapped his arm with the back of her hand as though chastising him for not being a good fisherman.
“You’re jealous! You’re jealous, jealous, jealous!” sang the girls.
“But before he launches his proa and anchors it to the reef, he fills it with coconuts and breadfruit and what else?” Jitwa asked.
“Pandanus!” they said.
“That’s right!” continued their mother. “He fills his hull with pandanus and piles it high on his outrigger deck. He anchors his proa to the reef, and they drift westward until he runs out of anchor line. And now that they are way out there, he decides to dive for fish.”
“Do men normally dive for fish that far out into the ocean?” Liṃanṃan asked.
“No!” the girls said.
“Why not?”
They looked at each other. Then the older one ventured a guess. “Because it’s too deep?”
“Of course, it’s too deep out there,” Liṃanṃan said.
Ḷainjin interjected. “Maybe he’s just going to pretend to dive, but he’ll follow the anchor line back to the reef and fish there instead.”
“You’re jealous. Jealous!” the girls sang, to shut him up again.
“So the newcomer takes his spear and a long stringer of rope for his catch and prepares to dive for fish. But before he dives, what does he tell her?” asked their mother.
“Chew the pandanus!” they sang out.
She gave them a hint. “But not to do what?”
The sisters responded in unison. “Don’t throw the cores into the sea!”
“And what does she do?” she asked, still leading them.
“She throws the cores in the sea!”
“Typical woman!” Ḷainjin added pompously.
Liṃanṃan chastised him. “Don’t make noise! You’re a typical jealous man, afraid to go fishing for your poor woman!”
“You’re jealous! You’re jealous, jealous, jealous!” the girls sang.
Tokjān chimed in. “He might as well have been talking to his oar.”
Jitwa reprimanded him. “You aren’t allowed to make noise either! You’re jealous too!” She was laughing with Liṃanṃan and the girls now — all delighted for this rare opportunity to be impolite to the men of the house.
“So, the newcomer dives down,” their mother continued, “and Liṃanṃan starts to chew her pandanus, and she throws the cores overboard. When he does not hurry to come up, she breaks off another nodule, chews it, and throws the spent core into the sea. But he still doesn’t hurry to come up, and after a few cycles of the moon, the spent cores have drifted in the current, westward to Ujae. They are found on the ocean shore by two brothers, who are attracted to them by their scent.”
At this point, Jitwa changed the tone of her voice to imitate that of a man. “This must have been chewed by one fantastic woman. I can still smell her scent,” she said.
Then she took the part of the other, again pretending to be one of the smitten men. “When was this core eaten?” she asked.
“Cycles and cycles ago,” she answered, changing her voice to act the part of the other.
“‘Let’s go find her!’ And so, the men launched their proa and paddled eastward.”
At this point, Jitwa stopped her story, turned to her daughters, and asked, “Ready to sing, girls?” Then she led them, and the three began to sing.
Their boat they launch and paddle east,
ocean bound — waow!
Night after night,
younger brother stops to ask,
‘This core was eaten when?’
‘Moon and moon and moon ago.’
They track the current’s westward flow,
on and on they look for her.
She someone most beautiful,
good to see — she!
The girls sang three choruses. In the second chorus, the spent pandanus core had been eaten “days and days ago.” In the third, it had been eaten “tides and tides ago,” to show they were getting closer.
After the singing, Jitwa continued. “So they paddled on until they found her sitting there on the outrigger canoe — still chewing, still smelling good, and still waiting for her chosen man to surface.
“‘Girl, you are one whiff of a good smell!’
“‘I guess I should be. That is the way of the women here,’ she said, pointing with her eyes back to her island.
“‘What are you doing out here?’” As she continued, Jitwa changed her voice from gruff to smooth as she changed parts.
“‘I’m waiting for the man with me to surface. He’s fishing.’
“The men look at each other and one whispers to the other, ‘Too much sun.’
“‘How long has he been down there?’
“‘I forget how many cycles have passed.’
“‘Okay, he must have been eaten by a shark. You better come with us.’
“So they took the beautiful Liṃanṃan back to Ujae with them, and they tried to hide her and keep her to themselves. They fed her fish night and day, but sooner or later, the irooj smelled her and took her for himself.
“Back at Lae, when the newcomer finally surfaces, he has a long string of fish and clam meat.
“‘Wōjej, wake up, girl. Here are your fish!’ He speaks slowly, pretending he’s not out of breath.
“But still no response from inside the boat.
“‘Wōjej, girl, take our line!’
“No response. Waow, he drops his line and climbs aboard. She is gone! An immense sadness overcomes him.”
At this, Ḷainjin covered his face with his hands, but peeked through his fingers at Liṃanṃan and the girls. They all seemed quite satisfied that he received punishment for his je
alousy.
“‘What to do?’
“He quickly pulls in his anchor line and reaches the beach. He runs through the village. ‘Has anyone seen her?’
“‘No! She is gone.’
“He returns to the ocean shore. ‘What to do?’
“He finds a piece of kiden wood that has drifted up from Ujae and carves it into a bird. Then the newcomer with certain powers rattles his magic chant:
Tipen keimera? Mera?
Tipen keidọọj? Dọọj?
“He launches the wooden bird into the air with all his might.
Tipen kemera? Kemera?
Tipen keidọọj? Dọọj?
“Waow, his bird comes to life, turns, and flies back to him. It grows larger with each flap of its wings until the bird must hunch down on the beach so the newcomer can crawl upon its back, and with a few steps and a flap of its wings, they are off, soaring in the clouds on their way to Ujae.”
Jitwa interrupted the story. “Ready, girls?” They nodded their heads twice and, on the third nod, began singing:
Mān-ni-jep-ḷā!
Search, searching off west for her — waow!
Search drifting off south for her, so
climb, climbing back north for her, go
glide, gliding on island now — waow!
Flutter, flutter past her.
Flutter, flutter past her.
Land, landing!
Because several islets are strung along the reefs of Ujae Atoll, and because one of the many purposes of the story is to teach the names of the islets — but also to lull the children to sleep — the bird must land on each islet looking for the missing woman. The children repeat the chorus as Mānnijepḷā flies from islet to islet until, as the story would have it, they find her on the last one.
Man Shark Page 26
