The Atua Man

by John Stephenson

  Larry left and quickly returned with a canvas sail bag and an armful of towels. His crew was still puzzling over the guns and the bullets scattered among the corn flakes. “Don’t dilly-dally. This is important. When you’re done, wrap the weapons and ammo in the towels and put them in the bag. I’ll make breakfast.”

  Larry disappeared below and his crew began to separate the ammunition from the cereal. David made little armies of rifle bullets standing upright. Jason had companies of shotgun shells, and Melanie had platoons of thirty-eight and forty-five pistol rounds.

  At ten o’clock Larry took his crew and the weapons ashore in the dinghy. He tied Mata‘i Iti to the pier and they walked up to the beat-up Toyota pickup truck waiting for them. Jason threw the sail bag of guns in the back and he and David climbed in after them. Larry and Melanie jumped in the front with the driver.

  “Larry’s not a very stable man,” David said, as they left the harbor and headed inland on a rough road. “He told me some bizarre things when you and Melanie hiked up to that waterfall on Fatu Hiva.”

  “I don’t want to get into that, Davy. We don’t know what’s going on and it’s probably for the best.”

  “You think Byron knew Larry had a clandestine agenda and that’s why he left?”

  “I doubt it. I think he lost all respect for him when he wouldn’t motor into Papeete. And … I don’t think he could take two more months without sex.” They both laugh.

  “For some reason Larry wanted to explain why he reacted the way he did when you fell overboard.”

  “I’ve already cleared myself of that.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that he would tell me, justify himself to me and not you?”

  Jason just shook his head. “That’s Larry. He doesn’t confront things well.”

  “He told me he just froze. He thought the weather would tear the boat apart if he heaved to. Melanie forced him to do it when I came after you.”

  “Dave, I know all that. I could see what was going on.”

  “No, it wasn’t the boat; it was you. He told me he wants to make you suffer. He thinks you’ve never had to work for anything in your life.”

  “Sounds like he’s talking about himself.”

  “Larry thinks spiritual masters have to go through a trial by fire, that they have to suffer to overcome the material world. He thinks he’s doing all this to make you deserving of your spiritual gifts. He’s crazy, J.J. And what do you think he’s going to do with these guns?”

  “He told me the people up here rely on hunting as much as they do the trading steamers, and the French make it very hard for them to buy rifles. They have a hundred percent tax on guns. He’s just helping them out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when he first brought out the guns in Honolulu?”

  “It didn’t cross my mind. You’re making a big conspiracy out of nothing.”

  “Well, he scares me.”

  Both of them fell silent as they drove through the center of town and into a valley. The truck pulled onto an expansive meadow of emerald grass in front of a wooden house with a large veranda where three men and a woman waited for them. The woman, about Larry’s age dressed in a pink muumuu and looking like the subject of a Gauguin painting, ran down the stairs to Larry, tears wetting her face. She was large, and her dark hair, adorned with flowers, was piled on top of her head like a crown. Larry jumped from the truck before it had fully stopped and ran to her, hugging her tightly, then waltzing her around while kissing her tears.

  The boys got out of the back of the truck and the driver grabbed the bag of guns and took them to the men on the veranda. Larry opened his arms and beckoned for Melanie to join him. She looked at the boys, shrugged, and then went to her father. The woman, Ama, embraced her and sobbed, creating a three-way hug.

  Jason and David watched, surprised by the passion between Larry and the woman. They both wondered who she was. The men on the veranda came down and introduced themselves; they were Ama’s sons. They spoke English and were from Bora Bora.

  Inside the house, while everyone dined on fish and suckling pig, plates of vegetables and bowls of fruit, Larry forbade talk of the past—no reminiscing and no personal histories. This was a celebration of the moment, filled with food and exotic drink. They talked about what life was like on a small island. They talked about the sea. They questioned why some people lived happy lives and others didn’t. Larry would switch into Tahitian at times and Jason, David, and Melanie would speculate about what subject had prompted the switch. Was Larry talking about them? Was he talking about the Bora Bora connection? Was he hiding something?

  After lunch Larry and his crew said their good-byes and headed on to Ta‘aoa and the famous disappearing waterfall located beyond the Road of Men. It was a long one-hour drive over a twisting rutted road. The boys bounced around in the bed of the pickup, unable to find a comfortable position. The road clung to the rugged terrain, sometimes leaving little room between the jungle rising on one side and the cliffs falling into the sea on the other. When they finally reached a remote bay, at the base of the Road of Men, they parked on a grassy meadow near a stone church. A few houses fronted the meadow. They couldn’t drive any further.

  The guys were bruised and dizzy from the trip. While Larry and the driver were clarifying their route to the waterfall, David rolled out of the truck bed and stumbled across the grass to the beach. He let the waves wash around his legs. He had sailed on two oceans, survived storms and the Gulf Stream and had never gotten sick, but the ride to the Road of Men had him puking over the side of the truck. After David regained his equilibrium, he went back to get Jason, but Jason was still curled up in the truck bed.

  David climbed into the truck and put a hand on his friend’s back. “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel terrible,” Jason said weakly.

  Melanie joined the boys and didn’t like the way Jason looked. “Oh, Jason, are you okay?”

  Jason got up and struggled out of the truck. “I think it was just the ride.”

  Larry walked over and looked at Jason. “Bollocks. Let’s go and have some fun.”

  “He doesn’t look good.” Melanie said to her dad. “Why make him go if he doesn’t feel like it?”

  “Because he’ll never be in this place again and he shouldn’t miss the experience.”

  David put his arm around his buddy and said, “You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yeah,” Jason picked up his knapsack, and everyone but the driver headed for the Road of Men.

  The driver jogged across the green to a thatched house with some tables and chairs out in front and joined a handful of men drinking.

  “I think I’d rather follow him,” David said.

  Larry scoffed.

  “I thought he was our guide,” Melanie said.

  “No, it’s just us,” Larry took the lead and set a fast pace. “I know the way and it would be nice if you kids were a little more appreciative.”

  The rutted avenue embodied the clash of Western colonialism. It was lined with stately palms and cut through a village that had been abandoned for generations. Nothing was left but the grand building sites called paepae, which spread out on either side of the road. Each platform, about three feet high and thirty feet square was made from hand-hewn lava rock. Beautiful crafted stone steps led up to a terrace that would have held a number of well-built wood and grass structures—a large common house for family gatherings, a cooking house, an eating-house for the men that would have been tapu (forbidden) to the women, and numerous sleeping houses. Extended families had lived together—couples in their own sleeping quarters; children, siblings and cousins all, sharing the large common spaces, and sleeping with whomever would have them.

  Shading the paepaes were tall breadfruit trees which had multiplied to form a dense forest where the only open space was the road and the paepae. The Hiva tradition dictated that when a child was born, the family planted a tree for the child, and that tree, with its life-giving f
ruit, belonged to that person forever. But forever wasn’t forever on the Road of Men. The jungle had taken over the paepaes, covering them with roots and breaking down the stone. Whatever had caused the people to leave their homes had left a miserable atmosphere. Whatever horror had happened there still lingered and David felt like he was an unwelcome guest at a funeral.

  “You know why this village was abandoned?” Larry wiped the sweat from his brow. He was breathing heavily as the road narrowed and they climbed into the valley. It was a rhetorical question.

  “The Catholic Church destroyed these people. It was a slow strangulation of one culture by another.” Larry was in his teaching mode again. “The Hiva gave up the will to live. Before the missionaries, the people had attained a perfect balance between the land and the population. There was a season of harvest and renewal called the matari‘i when all conflict was put aside and the clans from all the valleys mixed. Traveling performers went from valley to valley inviting people to join their troupes. They satirized their rulers, pilloried the rich, and enticed the brightest and most talented to join them. They danced, performed mock battles, and chanted the genealogy of their ancestors. They kept the culture alive and had sex without boundaries.”

  “Isn’t it always about sex.” David said.

  “Those villages that didn’t participate in the matari‘i became ingrown and weak, and the missionaries were able to take over.”

  As they reached the end of the lane, they came upon a takai‘i me‘ae, an ancient temple platform filled with large stone tikis. Larry climbed onto the me‘ae and stood next to one of the tikis. “Melanie, take my picture.” Larry put his arm around a life-size stone sculpture. Melanie snapped away as her father went from one god to the next. Some had fallen and Melanie got shots of Larry resting his foot on the head of one of the gods.

  Jason sat on the steps of the me‘ae and clutched his stomach. David squatted next to him and felt strange too. The atmosphere was very dark and heavy. It was as if something bad was going to happen, and it overwhelmed him.

  “I don’t think I can make it to the falls.” Jason was obviously in physical pain.

  David empathized with friend. “I’ve never felt anything like this, either. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason groaned.

  Larry and Melanie were ready to proceed up the valley. Larry nudged Jason with his foot. “Let’s go. We’ve got a good mile to the falls.”

  “You guys go on. I can’t do it,” Jason said.

  “Come on! You’re not going to let a little discomfort ruin our hike. Put some spiritual consciousness toward it.” Larry stared at Jason disapprovingly. Jason had grown pale and was sweating.

  “I’ll stay here with J.J.,” David said. “He doesn’t look too good.”

  “Bollocks. Stick with us, Dave. This might be your last chance to see the most famous of Marquesan waterfalls.”

  “Go,” Jason said. “I’ll wait for you here, Davy.”

  “Really?” David reluctantly got up.

  Leaving Jason at the temple, Larry, Melanie and David forged their way through the jungle, following the stream. With their machetes, they hacked at the creepers and hanging roots blocking their way. After a half hour of hiking, the valley narrowed into a tall gorge and the stream disappeared. Still, the roar of the waterfall echoed off the walls of the towering cliffs. They stopped at the entrance of the gorge and saw the soaring falls but not the river carrying away the water. It had disappeared. There wasn’t even a dry riverbed—nothing but the jungle and the chasm before them.

  Larry pointed to a little totem of rocks someone before them had constructed. “We can’t go through there yet,” Larry said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious?” Melanie answered. “You rushed us to get up here, now we have to wait while you appease some native god?”

  “Don’t be so critical. We should respect the native tradition.”

  “Like putting your foot on a tiki?” Melanie continued.

  “It’s not the same.”

  “I thought the Hiva here were Catholics,” David said.

  “Only on the surface.”Larry began foraging for his own rocks. The kids helped, and in a few minutes, Larry had built a totem of rocks bigger and taller than the one they had stumbled upon. “This has to be right. These cliffs are notorious for falling rocks. We don’t want them falling on our heads.

  Once through the ravine the gang hiked up a sloping meadow that ended at a small pool at the base of a thirty-foot cliff. Small rivulets of water spilled over the cliff but the two-hundred-foot waterfall roaring above could not be seen.

  Larry laughed at Melanie’s confusion. “One of the great deceptions of the island—the phantom waterfall!”

  David examined the pond before them. It was still and he couldn’t find anything that showed where the water escaped. It was amazing. Thousands of gallons of water poured out of the mountains, and all they saw was a dark pool at the base of a damp cliff. The river had been swallowed by the terrain, an eerie collection of grassy mounds, steep jungle walls, and the narrow box canyon that hemmed them in. It was unsettling. The jungle was strangely silent, no birdsong, no rustle of life in the underbrush. Gauguin’s devils hid in the shadows of the vine-clad trees, warning the aoe—foreigners—not to delve too deeply into the mysteries of the Hiva lands.

  “Anybody going to take a swim?” Larry stripped down to his underwear. David was spooked and didn’t want to go into the water. Melanie wasn’t in the mood. Instead, she took photographs from every angle.

  “Jeez, I can’t take you two anywhere.” Larry dove into the pond. The dark water hid what was beneath the surface and Melanie half expected her father to come up with a bloody head, if at all.

  After his swim, Larry wanted to climb to the upper falls, where they could feel the water and solve the mystery of where it went. Neither Melanie nor David wanted to do that, so with his mood turning sour Larry agreed to head back and see how Jason was doing.

  They found Jason on the takai‘i me‘ae, lying in a fetal position next to one of the tikis. They had been gone almost two hours, and Jason looked worse and had difficulty breathing. David helped his friend to stand. Jason could barely walk back to the truck.

  “I think J.J. should ride in front,” David said to Larry.

  “That’s out of the question. He’s not sick, and he doesn’t deserve to be coddled.” Larry got into the truck and began blowing the horn. The driver ran back to the truck. He was drunk, and Larry insisted on driving. Melanie hopped in the truck bed with the guys.

  Driveling back, they kept to the high road that dipped into each valley. They avoided Atuona and took a more direct way to the harbor. All this time Jason mumbled about tuhunas and curses and some kind of native ritual. He was delirious and kept calling out Dr. Green’s name.

  As soon as they reached the boat, Larry had David haul in the dinghy and raise anchor. It was dusk, and Larry wanted to get to the other side of the island by morning. After Mata‘i cleared Tahauku Harbor and sailed into Atuona Bay, Larry gave David the course and went below. They were to sail around the west side of the island, along a coast of high cliffs, where the large swells came from behind and pushed the boat forward like the impatient hand of Neptune.

  It was a disturbing night. Jason grew sicker. Melanie and David attended to him in the cockpit between turns at the helm. The following wind and sea made Mata‘i skittish. The Aires couldn’t handle the wind at this angle, and it took a lot of skill to keep the boat on course and not jibe the mainsail. It was on this leg that Melanie proved herself to be a first-class sailor and helmswoman.

  Jason went on about shamans… about taking the people back to the old gods… those gods still had power… people must remember… they must restore the third gender, the artist, the tattoos, the dances that brought the land alive, and the chants that soothed the haka-iki. He rambled on about tuhunas—Tuhuna Up‘e, Tuhuna O’ono, Tuhuna Mata Tetau, and Tuhuna Patu Tiki, and M
elanie wrote those names down. She was worried about Jason and put aside her fear to follow her journalistic curiosity. She was curious about those words and wanted them for reference when Jason regained his lucidity.

  David was also in conflict. From what he had taken away from Elizabeth’s class only a few weeks ago, he should be able to dismiss Jason’s ranting as being without spiritual substance, therefore without power. But seeing his friend suffer so much, David couldn’t do that. He still had a deep feeling of dread from the hike. It was as if they were entering a valley of death.

  Tuesday, June 27, 1989

  Mata‘i sailed into Hanamenu on the leeward side of Hiva Oa about ten o’clock the next morning and dropped anchor a few yards off a gray sand beach. Larry went ashore alone, as usual, but this time he was nervous. He needed to meet someone at the behest of Ama from Atuona.

  David put up the awning over the cockpit while Jason lay with his head on Melanie’s lap. She dabbed his forehead with a cool cloth and massaged his temples. They were wondering why no one else had gotten sick—they had all eaten the same food.

  “Me thinks J.J. is over acting.” David said.

  For a sick man, Jason was rather lucid. “I think I tuned into something primal. I can’t say it was spiritual, but it definitely was not of this world.” Jason took the cloth from Melanie and wiped his neck and under his arms. “I think that there are layers of reality and given the right circumstances you can experience a nonmaterial realm that isn’t spiritual or pure. I think there are souls who have not moved on, for one reason or another, probably a strong attachment to something earthly in their immediate past.”

  “Do you believe there are ghosts and spirits?” Melanie said.

  “I guess that’s as good a label as any.” Jason said. “It’s the world of the spiritualist and I don’t think it’s a fantasy, not after yesterday.”

  David tied off the last cord of the awning and sat down next to Melanie.

  “I felt very strange up at that waterfall.” David said. “And Larry suddenly got superstitious.”