The only cheering news was of Matopahu's recovery. Eye-to-heaven had told her that his taio was eager to see her—but not until he proved to everyone that he was renewed. This last part infuriated her all over again. Why must the man continue to put on his pretenses? She had seen him weak and sick, and had not turned away from him.
Trying to shake off her mood, she studied the crowd. She saw Arioi from several lodges greeting each other, noses pressed to cheeks. Other players strutted about displaying their finery, feathers and shell necklaces gleaming. Drums boomed as a few dancers held a final practice session.
Maukiri gestured eagerly toward a knot of people who were watching an impromptu performance. She raced off. Tepua watched her go.
The morning sun still cast long shadows, but Tepua felt the growing heat of the day. She gazed toward sharp, black peaks that rose behind the assembly ground and wondered if the air would be any cooler on the heights. The garland about her neck felt heavy; her new bark-cloth wrap chafed her skin.
Soon the dancing would begin. Though she would be standing in the final row of performers, she knew that Pehu-pehu would be watching her carefully. The interloper's opinion did not matter, she tried to tell herself. So long as Aitofa was satisfied, Tepua could feel that she was doing her best to serve the troupe. Yet she remembered Pehu-pehu's cold, measuring eyes and harsh criticism during the practice sessions. Tepua wished she could slip away into the forest and avoid the performance entirely....
The brilliant and outlandish costumes of the milling Arioi became a blur before her eyes. Something caught her attention and her gaze followed it before she even knew why. The object of her interest was a sunshade, worn by a tall man in the crowd. She did not see his face, only the peculiar headgear perched atop his bushy hair. There was something utterly strange, yet familiar about it.
The brim was not an open weave, like the sunshades she often wore, but a solid, flat piece of cloth. Instead of shading only the eyes and face, it encircled the whole head. It was closed at the top, like an overturned bowl that fit over the crown.
She could not help staring, trying to recall where she had seen such a sunshade. This was unlike anything the local people made. She gasped as she remembered. In her vision she had seen similar things on the heads of the foreign sailors. And before that, two visitors to her atoll had worn them. But how could a foreigner's headdress be here?
The tall Arioi wearing the curiosity noticed her stare and strutted toward her, displaying all his finery. "Why are you staring, pretty one?" he asked, giving her a casual inspection. "You are from Tahiti, I see, by the style of your garlands. Let me be the first to welcome you."
She pursed her lips, unsure whether he had heard about the misfortunes of her Arioi lodge. She certainly did not wish to tell him that her troupe was in exile. "I am curious about that thing on your head."
He looked startled, and the anticipatory gleam in his eyes faded. Obviously he had thought her interest was of a more intimate nature.
Well...perhaps it could be. Lately she had become far too serious. Here she was at a celebration, and no one had forbidden her to enjoy herself. She studied the stranger more carefully. His cheekbones and nose were highlighted with red, making his long face appear even longer. Yet she found something sensuous about the shape of his mouth, the generous lower lip....
But where had he obtained that sunshade? Aitofa had assured her that no foreigners had been seen anywhere near Tahiti. And the events of her vision, Tepua thought, would not come for many seasons. "Have you been traveling?" she asked cautiously.
He touched the brim of the sunshade. "This came from far away," he said. "An atoll trader brought it to my father, who is chief of Hitiaa. But don't take such an interest in the thing. I cannot give it up."
"I don't want your sunshade. I am only curious about foreign sailors—where they were seen—how long before they find these islands."
"Ah. Your questions can be answered," he said with a smile. He pulled her to him, affectionately pressing his nose against hers. For a moment, she found the embrace comforting. "My name is Uhi," he whispered. "We can meet later."
"Yes," she said, finding no reason to refuse. Matopahu did not want her yet, and she was tired of waiting for him. The excitement of the day was finally starting to reach her. Why not permit herself some enjoyment?
"Good," Uhi said, releasing her. "I will look for you. Do not forget." Suddenly he saw a friend, far off in the crowd, and shouted a greeting. In a moment he was gone.
Then the conch-trumpet sounded to announce the arrival of Fat-moon, the host of the gathering. Everyone turned toward the herald. Tepua spotted the leaders of her lodge, their pennant fluttering from a raised staff. She hurried over to stand with her troupe for the high chief's entrance.
Matopahu returned to Eye-to-heaven and the healer, Imo. He sat with them, listening to the preliminary ceremonies, the chanting and the drums. At last, when he thought that everyone had headed up to the archery course, he led his friends on a shortcut by a steeper trail. He knew this territory. Long ago, as a boy, he had accompanied his father on visits to the former chief of the district.
The site of the contest lay atop a small plateau. As he threaded his way through the crowd, Matopahu caught sight of the triangular shooting platform, assembled from stones neatly fitted together and made level on top.
Nearby, almost entirely screened from view by rata trees, stood the archers' marae beside a brook that was dedicated to their use. Here the contestants cleansed themselves in the water before offering prayers and donning sanctified garments. Evidently Fat-moon had completed the ritual. He was seated on a stool atop the archery platform, watching the arrival of the other contestants.
Two attendants stood below, holding up large palm fronds to shade him. The chief wore a simple bleached maro, and a turban of bark-cloth decorated with a single red feather. Matopahu examined his sturdy figure, noting the well-fleshed arms and wondering about the muscles beneath the skin. Fat-moon's jutting chin and square face made him think of a canoe's prow.
Near the platform stood important people of Eimeo, ari'i garbed in their finery. They were spectators, here to watch how their favorite archers did against Fat-moon's. Matopahu knew many of these people. During his exile he had visited them to ask for help, but they had refused to support him against Land-crab or even to share a meal. Now, when the Eimeo ari'i saw him confidently striding before them, their eyes seemed to bulge in amazement.
"I am alive," he called gaily to the crowd. "And strong. Look at me!" He raised his arms, holding up the bow. The closest onlookers moved nervously from his path as he approached Fat-moon's seat.
The high chief curled his lips in distaste. "What is this?" he asked. "I did not invite you."
"I am here to offer you a true challenge."
"We have players enough." Fat-moon gestured impatiently. "Go challenge the women archers. They will enjoy your company."
Matopahu ignored the laughter behind him. To the chief he said, "It is easy to win if you always take the best archers of the island for yourself. That explains why no team from Eimeo can beat you." He paused, drawing himself up, thrusting out his chest. "Of course, you have not extended the challenge to anyone from Tahiti."
He saw that his words had stung the chief. Fat-moon stood up angrily. "Do you think we are afraid of Tahitians? They are weaklings. They are children still sucking their mother's teats."
"Then you need not fear my bow. Let me shoot for your opponents."
"Hah. You are full of empty words. Putu-nui does not want you on his team."
Matopahu knew the history of the long rivalry between these two chiefs, Fat-moon and Putu-nui. "He has never beaten you," said Matopahu. "I cannot do his team any harm."
"What is all this talk about?" From the direction of the archers' marae strode a bull-necked man who was heavily tattooed over his chest and shoulders. This was Putu-nui, a lesser chief of the island, whose exploits were well-known in Tahiti. His f
ather and Fat-moon's had often been at war. Sometimes they had declared peace solely to permit the archery competition.
Putu-nui scowled as he eyed Matopahu. "I have heard of your troubles," the lesser chief said. "You look strong enough. But you must be sanctified with the others. Are you fit to enter the archers' marae?"
The tahu 'a, Imo, came up beside him. "Noble chief," he said firmly. "The gods have touched this man. Look at him. He not only lives—he thrives."
"I have nothing but your word for that," answered Putu-nui. He narrowed his eyes and glanced up at the high chief.
"The priest who purifies the archers will agree with me," said Imo, addressing one chief and then the other. "And he will explain his reasons."
Matopahu felt a tingle of anticipation as Putu-nui glanced at him again. He noticed a gleam of eagerness in the lesser chief's eyes, a hope for the victory that had long eluded him.
Fat-moon saw it, too. Matopahu read the other man's thoughts from the way his face hardened
I have put a scorpion in his food basket, Matopahu thought mischievously. If he forbids Putu-nui to choose me, he will assure his victory once again, but it will bring him no pleasure.
Fat-moon turned his head slowly, assessing the mood of the crowd. Until now it had been casual, as if everyone already knew the outcome. Now a ripple of uncertainty and excitement ran through the gathering, sharpening everyone's attention.
Matopahu tightened his fist on his bow grip. Thank the gods for the rivalries between chiefs. Fat-moon cannot deny me now or the people will sneer at him behind his back.
"Call the priest of archers," Fat-moon barked. Then he and Putu-nui listened intently while the man spoke in a low voice that Matopahu could not hear. Imo had taken this priest to see the results of Matopahu's labor in the ruined marae. The other man had come away awed.
Yet it was Fat-moon who would have to make the decision.
"Enough!" said the high chief, waving his priest away. He turned to address the onlookers and spoke loudly. "It is settled," he announced. "Matopahu will shoot with Putu-nui's team."
The crowd responded with roars of approval. Matopahu grinned, already imagining his victory. But then, as the other archers paraded out from the marae, his feeling of triumph faded; his fist tightened about his bow. The men of Fat-moon's team were as strongly built as any he had seen. Their oiled biceps glistened. Their faces beamed with confidence.
Putu-nui's archers seemed a different breed, some wiry, some plump, but none with the look of a champion. Every face appeared grim as the challengers sized up their opponents. Matopahu drew in his breath. His chances did not look good, but it was too late to back out now. He hurried toward the marae to prepare himself.
After their performances on Fat-moon's assembly ground, the Arioi mingled with the crowds that climbed through forest trails to the archery range. Maukiri caught up with Tepua, and together they ascended the shady path. "There will be games for women," said Maukiri. "I would like to see you shooting again."
Tepua's eyebrows rose. She had almost forgotten the rare but celebrated archery matches on her atoll. Teams of women from every islet shot for distance across a sandy clearing. One time the contest had continued for three days as team after team approached victory and then faltered. Finally, late on the third day, Tepua's arrow sailed past all the others. When the points were counted, her team had won. She remembered now how her companions had carried her home, then paraded with her up and down the beach.
"Tepua, will you try?" asked Maukiri.
"At home, archery is a game like many others," Tepua replied. "Here, the people make more of it, especially the men. They say it is a sacred contest, and that the spirits of their ancestors attend the matches."
'Then I—will stay away—from the men," Maukiri replied nervously. "But we need someone strong...."
"You have a team?"
"One of the novices invited me."
Tepua let out a long breath. "No. You play. I'll watch and cheer you on."
Maukiri grimaced with disappointment, then quickened her pace. Ahead, the forest opened onto a grassy plateau. The crowds were even thicker here than they had been at the assembly ground, and the humidity was worse. Tepua wondered if she could find a quiet stream, relax in cool water awhile before the match began.
As she and Maukiri were making their way toward the women's archery course, she heard a voice behind her. "Tepua! You must come." Curling-leaf broke through the crowd and caught Tepua's elbow. "Matopahu is here. He has challenged Fat-moon."
"Challenged?" She felt her pulse beating. Eye-to-heaven had said that the ari'i intended to prove himself. Now she understood his risky plan.
"Come," said Curling-leaf. "I know a place where we can watch him."
"He won't want me there," Tepua answered sharply.
"I cannot believe that."
"You watch for me," Tepua urged her friend. As Curling-leaf hurried back toward the thickest cluster of people, Tepua fought an impulse to follow her. If she could hide somewhere and observe without being seen...
Maukiri tugged at her, and Tepua tried to forget Curling-leaf's news. Teams were assembling around the smaller stone platform used by women. Aitofa, Pehu-pehu, and others of high Arioi rank stood together, peering along the uphill course, pointing out features to each other and speaking in low voices.
Suddenly Tepua pulled away from her cousin. "You'll do fine without me," she said, then darted after Curling-leaf.
"It is you again!" A tall figure stepped in front of her. She looked up and saw Uhi, the long-faced Arioi, with his foreign sunshade.
"I want...to watch...the men's match," Tepua said, catching her breath. "But I must not be seen."
'That is easily done, my pretty," he answered, taking her hand. "I'll show you where to hide." He led her away from the crowd and into a wooded area by the side of the course. They were not the first here. Other spectators, many in pairs, had found places, but some seemed more interested in each other than in watching the contest. Tepua's thoughts were far from hanihani, but she knew she could not say the same about Uhi's.
"You promised to tell me about that sunshade you are wearing," she reminded him.
"It belonged to a stranger, a sailor from a distant land. That is all I can say."
"You said you knew more," she protested.
"Why are you so interested?" He turned and stared at her intently.
Tepua's tongue felt dry and she wondered how to answer him without revealing too much. She certainly did not intend to talk about her troubling vision; so far, only Aitofa knew about that. Tepua thought about her recent visit home.
"When I was traveling in the atolls," she said awkwardly, "a small foreign boat nearly smashed on the reef."
"That is all?"
She stiffened, trying to hold the painful memories at bay. "I have seen foreign sailors. I know what their weapons can do," she whispered.
"Then the atoll people must be weak and their gods helpless," he answered with a laugh. "Foreigners avoid our waters. They would not dare approach Tahiti or Eimeo, where so many war canoes are ready to defend the land."
Tepua gritted her teeth at his insult to her people. "Someday it will happen," she retorted. "A foreign vessel will reach our shores—"
"Aue! That old prophecy! I have heard it too many times."
A sudden blast of the conch-trumpet made Uhi spin around. "They are already starting the match," he said ruefully. "We have wasted time arguing when we could have been..." His voice trailed off as the first archer, Fat-moon himself, mounted the platform. The chief knelt, faced uphill, muttered a prayer, and sent his arrow skyward. A cry of excitement went up from the crowd. Tepua shaded her eyes, peering up along the rising stretch of the course. In the distance, a man carrying a white flag ran to plant it where the arrow had landed.
The archers stood in line, one after the other, each taking a single shot. By waving their flags, attendants told the spectators when someone had beaten the current distan
ce mark. After Fat-moon's team finished, Tepua drew in her breath as Putu-nui's first archer approached the platform.
When she had last seen Matopahu, his shoulders sagged and he was covered with dust. Now he looked freshly washed and oiled. His chest gleamed; his white tapa garments were dazzling even in the hazy sunlight.
'This fool will not last long," Uhi jeered.
"Wait until he has shot," she retorted.
"You know this Matopahu?" Her companion came up behind her, his arms twining about her midriff, his maro pressing against her lower back. "Yes, if you are from Wind-driving Lodge, I am sure you do. All the women of that troupe have spread their legs for him. But he's no use to you now."
She suppressed an urge to stamp on Uhi's foot. Matopahu was kneeling, drawing back his bow. She dared not make a sound.
In the still air she heard the twang of the bowstring and the arrow's hiss. The crowd remained silent as the attendants marked how far the arrow had flown.
"What is this?" shouted Uhi, suddenly pushing her aside. He rushed from cover and peered along the course. "The Tahitian has beaten Fat-moon's mark!"
Tepua felt jubilant. Perhaps Matopahu's shooting would prove something today. If he could lead his team to victory, the chiefs would see him with new eyes.
"It is only one point," she admitted. She understood the difficulties of the game. On this first round, Fat-moon had set the distance mark for his team. Now his opponents would score one point for each arrow that passed it. But if they failed to score again on the next round, they would lose all their accumulated points.
"You are right," said Uhi. "It will not happen again."
Tepua watched tensely as the game went on. For two or three rounds, Fat-moon's arrow would fly ahead and Matopahu's would land just behind. For another two, the reverse would happen. Even when Matopahu scored, his teammates rarely were able to do the same. Several times Fat-moon's team neared victory, but was held back by the requirement that the winning points be made on successive rounds.
Meanwhile, the sky grew cloudier, and Tepua heard a stirring of wind in the trees. The first raindrops pattered onto leaves, sending a few onlookers to seek cover. The heavy scent of moist vegetation filled the air. "Now we will all have a bath," Uhi muttered, taking shelter under the broad leaves of a hotu tree. Tepua did not follow him. Matopahu was approaching the platform.
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