Man Shark

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by Knight, Gerald R.


  Finally, at the second sound of the conch trumpet, all the violent sounds of battle ceased and the torches were flared. Pedpedin, accompanied by his niece Kōkkālọk, appeared from beneath his stilted, thatched house and entered the square. The elder had apparently appointed her to speak for him. She entered the square at the edge of the opposing lines and addressed her uncle Tokjān, who stood in the middle of the opposition directly across from Ḷainjin. The men acknowledged each other with brief, barely discernible nods as the remainder of the torches flared, even as the light of the clear dawn began to glow about them. Her sky-piercing chant called out to the spirits of all their ancestors killed in battles past to mingle among them and then commanded the competition to begin.

  These are the men of that west-most place,

  quick tack then tack back.

  They’re they. Yet, we’re us!

  At this, the jebwa began with shrieking ululations and drumbeating accompanied by mysterious, ancient chanting by Tokjān’s islanders. The disembarked group, by tradition, was the first to perform. Sly competitor that he was, even though he had invited Ḷainjin to practice with his group, he had left him uninformed of the movements he had planned to use against him. His dance began with a very surprising, immediate retreat. He, with the rest of his group of four, disappeared as his lines closed in front of him. Then, in turn, the next group of four disappeared and so on, as his lines contracted and closed repeatedly and as the warriors ducked and rotated to the chant of the jebwa and to the rhythmic clashing of twirling spears. Pedpedin, Kōkkālọk, and Ḷainjin’s entire group were all stunned as they realized that this was the very movement they had themselves meticulously planned to spring on them.

  Suddenly, Ḷainjin remembered Tokjān’s words to him the evening they first met: “Our women fly from islet to islet and chatter like birds at nest.” Somehow, someone had informed Tokjān of the movements Ḷainjin had been practicing. Sure enough, as soon as the remainder of his lines, previously horizontal to them, dwindled into two lines vertically facing them, they separated and allowed the most recently retreated group of four to battle back and reverse the movement until, at last, Tokjān’s group rejoined its lines and restored all to their original positions. He had stolen their movement and now he had performed it first. The words of Ḷainjin’s grandfathers came to him as well. “Study your opponent. Anticipate his movements, and flaunt them to his face at the start of your engagement to defeat his spirit.”

  Then, without trumpet or any other sign of note, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, every other group of four battled back to form a second paired row, and the lines closed behind their retreat as they continued to dance, now four rows deep. Suddenly, again without signal, the lead circles at opposite ends of each double line began to slowly, at first almost indiscernibly, battle in opposite directions as each circle of four continued to clash spears, duck, and rotate in the jebwa’s strictly stylized form. Each line then pivoted slightly inward from opposite directions with each distractive, repetitive movement until they somewhat smoothly formed a gigantic double-ringed circle just at the point in the dance where the rhythm picked up with each successive sound of the triton shell and the speed of the dance accelerated to its final dramatic end. They completed the dance to the sounds of a gasping crowd. The sun had arisen, and its soft yellow rays were flashing here and there about them as the surrounding coconut palms swayed and gently rustled in the slowly warming morning air, and it was clear to all that Tokjān had successfully developed what had always been a basic lineal dance into a more sophisticated circular arrangement.

  Pedpedin could have chosen to feed his guests then and perform for them later or to press on while the emotions in the throng that had gathered were high. Kōkkālọk took her uncle’s hand as they nodded to his brother’s islanders to acknowledge their excellent performance. Was she squeezing his hand to stay his decision? She gave a piercing glance to Ḷainjin, who nodded to indicate his eagerness to begin. His mind was racing. He took consolation in the fact that Tokjān’s movement that formed the final circle was accomplished in less than flawless fashion. He was confident that, though the pattern of their movements would be similar, his men had practiced longer and harder. They could look better. By tradition, the jebwa starts with a slow, trudging rhythm that surges gradually, as would a proa at each tack if sailing into a gradually strengthening wind. He decided to challenge his group by setting the initial beat at the faster, second tack. It was a common competitive tactic to hasten the initial beat, and they had practiced for this eventuality. Thus, if all went well, the final pace of their dance should end up much faster than the pace of their competitors’ performance. The risk was that, if they were unable to hold the quickened cadence, they would most likely falter at the finale. That would be a disaster by anyone’s measure. The reward was that, if they failed, they would at least have set their sails into a storm rather than fair weather, which was the ancient temper of the dance. If they faced failure, they would keep their heads high until the seasons turned to give them another chance.

  Ḷainjin closed his eyes and recalled the battle of the aorak that Pedpedin had related, the battle that had taken place not far from where Tokjān and his men stood. He opened his throat, and conjuring the spirits of the fallen with his spine-chilling cry, he chanted the ancient words:

  These are the men of that west-most place,

  quick tack then tack back.

  They’re they. Yet, we’re us!

  With that, he set the temper of the dance with a mighty clash and a second timely clash of his spear against that of Bōkrōk. The accompanying du began the jebwa chant at the faster pace he had set. His group of four and the group of four to his left, as though doubling Tokjān’s previous movements, retreated as practiced. His strategy became immediately evident as the lines closed and they disappeared into the path behind them. They would perform movements identical to those of their opponents yet mock them with greater numbers, quickness, and proficiency. To onlookers, unaware they had practiced these same movements, their performance would appear almost improvisational. He showed no mercy as he quickened the pace. The lines of the men facing Tokjān closed and shortened repeatedly as double groups of four men retreated into the path, progressively impelling Ḷainjin and the others back until they reached the lines of the jekaro boys, who had remained hidden to the opposition. Then, as the du temporarily ceased their enigmatic chant, Bōkrōk switched places with another, who joined Ḷainjin’s circle next to him.

  Bōkrōk, with a surprisingly loud clash of spears, then accepted the lead at an even faster pace and, with the practiced accompaniment of the jekaro boys in the lines behind him, resumed the dancers’ portion of the chant at a higher pitch. Ḷainjin’s group of four and the group next to his split and, as practiced, immediately switched to voicing the du side of the chant. Bōkrōk and his jekaro boys then moved forward at an incredibly fast clip, as group after group parted before their clashing spears until they battled out into the square and demonstrated their agility to the surprised and fascinated crowd. Thus, it turned out that these same untattooed boys, previously shy and of little account, who had followed Ḷainjin into the forest out of boyish curiosity, now demonstrated they had immersed themselves in his charisma. They leapt into view as accomplished young men to surprise the opposition, endear themselves to their families and adoring playmates, and elicit the pride of their irooj. Moreover, they now performed in tribute to their pregnant, scandal-prone patron who, puffing with pride, was in the process of ennobling herself in the eyes of all.

  Bōkrōk and the other three in his group traced their lines as they battled and chanted — in flawless fashion — into a perfect double circle as Ḷainjin and the irooj’s more experienced men, with the rest of the du, formed a half-moon about them to chant them forward. Once the circle was formed, the chanting momentarily ceased and then began again with the angry clash of Bōkrōk’s spear, and the man with the scar on his forehead led his
proficient team at unmatched pace through to the finale of the spirited, skin-pimpling performance. When the dance was done, the chant completed, and the drums silenced, the boys cringed in expectation as the puffer fish himself sprang from the path and launched his spear high into the air, and all watched as Paratak managed to land it vertically in the beach stones covering the square directly in the center of their two concentric circles.

  Although there were many heroes that morning, there was no talk of winning or losing. Many jokes of the great practice were told in small circles amid laughter and feasting, and many rumors spoken in low voices, and surely, the names Ḷōpako here and Likōkkālọk there passed from the lips of many.

  Based on past wanderlust, this would now be a time ripe for departure, time to set to sea again and leave his half-told story like the last draft draught of water upon the pretentious throats of those whose lives had intertwined with his but must now be relegated to memory. Though this option allured him still, Ḷainjin had a plan to defeat his past, engage his present, and fulfill his promise to seek happiness.

  In the days that followed, Ḷaluj, Bōkrōk, and Ḷāātre labored to lash together the canoe parts they had hacked from various live trees with their adzes. They lashed together the hallowed upper and lower hulls of breadfruit wood through holes drilled by small bows and stingray barbs. They layered pandanus leaves that would swell when wet to plug the seams, and sealed the seams with glue from the gum of the breadfruit tree. They cut deck planks fitted in similar fashion from boards previously seasoned, hacked, and sawed with coconut-fiber twine and the wet grit of crushed shell. They fashioned the rounded lower outrigger booms with identical downward curvature by hacking them from the hardwood limbs of the kōņo tree. The dual upward-curving booms, lashed at the hull at one end and to the outrigger stay at the other, required greater flexibility. They square-hacked these from limbs of the kiden tree. They carved the kubaak from a breadfruit log, but of course, the masterpiece that gave the proas of the islanders of Rālik and Ratak their renowned durability at sea was the lashing at the end of each lower perpendicular boom that joined the kubaak and secured it parallel to the hull. Ḷaluj, amid a crowd of much-interested onlookers, lashed these himself. They were why such a canoe would prove useless in the hands of islanders not from Rālik or Ratak — because once these unique lashings rotted, how would they be replaced? It was why the mere observation of tying the lower booms to the kubaak was such a great learning opportunity for Bōkrōk, Ḷāātre, and the others.

  A second stylized lashing was necessary to join the rojak. Early in the planning process, Ḷaluj cut these to Ḷainjin’s specifications from limbs of the kōņo and gave them to Taknaṃ. Then, by day and on moonlit nights, she wove the finely cut strips of seasoned pandanus leaves and sewed them at the luff with fibers she made from boiled immature coconut leaves. Finally, she lashed the woven sail to the spars with Ḷaluj’s most tightly twined ekkwaḷ.

  When word passed that the boat was ready to launch, Ḷōpedpedin sponsored a celebration. He called for the killing of turtles. Much food was prepared and many coconuts felled. That morning, Ḷaluj and Ḷainjin took the boat out for a short ceremonial cruise. Ḷainjin was pleased though Ḷaluj again argued that the cut into the wind should be much sharper. “Not if the sole purpose of this boat is to sail away with the wind and never return,” Ḷainjin responded, mocking the old man’s previous words but leaving them to dangle in his imagination.

  They returned from their sail just in time for the feast. Likōkkālọk, belly bulging, came with her workers and brought food as well. The jekaro boys performed the jebwa again, much to the delight of all. Ḷainjin, by tradition, spoke in honor of the old artisan who had hacked out the hull and of the titled landholder, or aḷap, who provided the breadfruit trunk. He thanked them all and then expounded on his favorite subject. “The proa,” he said, “does not part the sand without providing food or trade or some additional opportunity to those ashore. It is an islander’s most prized possession and the center of atoll life, around which all else rotates.”

  After speaking, Ḷainjin stood next to the proa as the islanders came, family by family, and placed gifts on the boat — here a necklace, there a kilt or woven sleeping mat, or a turtle-shell comb. When the procession ended, the irooj raised his arm, and one appointed from each family came forward at once to pick one of the gifts. As the crowd massed around the proa, each politely hurrying to pick their favorite takeaway, Kōkkālọk saw her opportunity to draw close to him. She pressed her belly tightly against the back of his hand as he braced himself in the crowd and held it fast to the bulwark at the edge of the boat’s foredeck. Instantly, their gazes met, hers with dancing eyes and flirtatious, puckered lips — his, he imagined, as surprised as a fish plucked up from the sea. She allowed him no escape as the ever-increasing, provocative pressure of her belly just above the edge of her skirts was such that no man could jerk his hand away without embarrassment. Therefore, he simply stood motionless, enthralled as she stood across the hull from him, wrapping her long hair into a bun and capping it off with a comb she had snatched from the deck. She leaned back to advantage her belly ever forward, glancing at his hand as though seductively tempting him to reach down into her skirts. He, feeling the child moving within her, grasped the meaning she left unsaid.

  The next moment, she abruptly broke her attention. She relaxed the pressure against the back of his fingers. Her eyes steadied. Her lips formed a smile. She backed slightly away as her gaze turned abruptly to someone behind him just as he heard the nervous giggle he had listened to a hundred times and felt the familiar pressure of pointy breasts against his back. Liṃanṃan’s hand reached for his upper arm, which gave him the opportunity to retract his hand, just grazing her belly as Kōkkālọk, showing no sign of awkwardness or unease, turned to Liṃanṃan and spoke.

  “A boat won’t part the sand!” she said, tapping the new comb atop the bun of fragrant, black hair on her head. She smiled untimidly at one and then the other, and then turned her back and passed through the distracted crowd. He wondered how much of their engagement Liṃanṃan had seen. Had she viewed the desire Kōkkālọk provoked from most men in his eyes? Could Liṃanṃan sense the infidelity she had hearkened from somewhere deep within him? He would never know unless she spoke of it. Unless of course, he asked Kōkkālọk, who could have snuck glimpses of her face moments before she approached from behind him. Not daring at that moment to face Liṃanṃan, he turned his attention to one after the other congratulating him on his new vessel as the crowd eventually dissipated. Finally, having struggled to regain composure, he turned to her and gained relief from her joyful, loving smile.

  He worried she might bring the episode up as they ate. However, she revealed nothing. She maintained her lovely composure throughout the meal and then gathered leftover gifts not taken from the boat and passed them out among the feasting crowd. Her manner, of course, had changed ever so slightly since her pregnancy began, as their sexual preoccupation, by custom, had abruptly ceased. She began sleeping, as was tradition, back at her father’s house. No woman of Rālik or Ratak, save apparently Kōkkālọk, would risk the health of her child to fulfill her own desire or that of her chosen, a duty often performed by a younger sister. Paratak, as rumor had it — no doubt out of jealousy — continued to play the fool by insisting Kōkkālọk sleep next to him. Ḷainjin, on his part, refused to sleep with the others at the men’s house, which was a well-known ruse anyway. Those men spent their nights carousing around the island and attempting to entice girls from their father’s houses. They would sleep late into the morning and then share with each other their stories of the night before. To Ḷainjin, these were men of pitiful stature. They became addicted to their nightly escapades and rarely ventured from their sexual obsessions. He ate his meals with Liṃanṃan at her father’s house, and he learned to eat more slowly and to talk more. They told each other stories from their youth and came to know each other on a
different level — though significantly, he continued to keep his true name and the story of his heroic search for his mother from her as promised. Some nights, he would fall asleep as they talked, but when he wakened, he would return to his house until morning unless he had planned to fish, which was often.

  Battle season over, fishing became his new passion. Ḷainjin took his new boat out trolling a few times to establish its luck and then eventually lent it to Paratak. The Pohnpeian had stayed away from the canoe during construction, no doubt due to unease over the constant presence of Etre, but after the launching, Ḷainjin encouraged him by beaching when he spotted him on shore, offering him a fish or two, and relating the story of its catch. Soon, Paratak began watching for Ḷainjin’s sail, and he would find him waving from shore to receive more fish and more stories. Ḷainjin first taught him the names of the fish and then the fishing methods used to catch them. Then he taught him all the parts of the boat and the sailing terminology. He taught him the important weather signs and impressed him when most of his predictions came true. Soon Paratak, under Ḷainjin’s tutelage, was sailing by himself and fishing with the hooks Ḷainjin gave him. Their friendship grew day by day, much to the surprise of all.

  On occasion, they would stop at the uninhabited islets along the reef, build a fire, and cook some of their catch. Paratak, in between his sailing lessons, was keen to hear the story of Ḷainjin’s visit to the stone village of his home island. He — of course — knew about the kājokwā and the importance of the rafts made from them in the construction of the village. However, his family did not live in the stone city. He was never part of the group that rushed out into the ocean to help tow the kājokwā to shore to celebrate the final day of their retrieval. So he was unaware that his own people were not the ones who retrieved them. Ḷainjin explained that only the proa of the outer atolls were large enough and had hulls deep enough to tow the kājokwā from the kāleptak, the great countercurrent that streamed eastward against the wind just south of Pohnpei.

 

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