"I have seen them—"
"Yes. But I know you, cousin. You did nothing but look!"
"Matopahu will return to Tahiti," she said firmly.
"By then you'll be shriveled up like a crone." Maukiri stepped closer and felt Tepua's arm. "You do not eat enough, because you are unhappy. If Matopahu comes, he'll want to see you at your best. He will not complain if another man has been keeping you warm for him."
Tepua smiled and embraced her cousin, not wanting to argue. How could she explain that she had no interest in other men?
That night, Tepua once again felt sleepless as she lay on her mat in an Arioi house. Unaccountably her breasts tingled, as if Matopahu were caressing them. She noticed a feeling of fullness, and her nipples seemed unbearably sensitive. She had to turn on her side to keep the tapa cover from touching them.
She tried to blame Maukiri's words for her discomfort. She did not want to think about the absent ari'i now. She did not want to think about men at all.
As often happened of late, Tepua's thoughts drifted toward Matavai Bay and the experiences she had shared with Purea. Her interest had been piqued, yet she felt unsatisfied. She wished she could find a connection between this chiefess and the people of her own time. It might even turn out that she and Purea were distant kin!
As for foreign sailors, Tepua had already encountered a few of her own. Others were out there somewhere in the vast ocean. Though they were not demons, she understood how careless and deadly these foreigners could be. Someday they would make their impact on Tahiti.
Tepua sighed and turned over. Suddenly she did feel weary, though it was not the usual sensation. Her limbs felt heavy, yet her mind remained fully awake. In the darkness of the guest house she saw distant glimmerings. Then the light grew....
Standing atop Taharaa Hill, Purea thought that Matavai Bay looked unusually tranquil, its azure waters shimmering in sunlight. The foreign ship, anchored off the cape at the northern end, appeared tiny and innocuous, but this was only the illusion of distance.
The old chief, Hau, knelt beside a strip of raw earth that had been gashed open, a wound on the grassy turf of the hill. "The stone cannot be seen," Hau was saying, "but here is where it struck among the crowd. Remarkably, it missed the people and buried itself."
"The stone was flung all the way from the foreign vessel?" Purea found it hard to contain her disbelief.
"The ship was farther away then than it is now," Hau said solemnly.
"Why are you showing me this?" Purea asked, feeling a surge of anger. Was Hau trying to dissuade her from her plan, perhaps at Tutaha's instigation?
"To make you aware of what you face," the old man answered. 'The knowledge may cause you to draw back, or may increase your resolution. Either way, you will act with open eyes."
Hau rose and strode toward the path. Purea turned from the patch of exposed red-orange soil and walked after him. "Hau, give me your wisdom. Is this a foolish thing I am attempting?"
Gently he answered, "Only the gods can tell you. Perhaps Tupaia will bring the question to them. I know only this. If you fail to make peace, Tutaha will carry through his plan to make war."
And perhaps he will not wait to see if I fail. "Will the other chiefs support him in such a show of force? They already grumble that he has too much power."
Hau sighed. "If the threat of the enemy is great enough, the chiefs will gather behind Tutaha. What threat could be greater than this?"
Purea fell silent. In her imagination, threads of crimson spread slowly through Matavai's aquamarine waters and bodies lay in heaps along the beach. Saying little more, she followed Hau down the hill.
As Purea approached the foreign vessel, there was a long interval of silence on board her double-hulled canoe. For a time she heard only the dipping paddles and creaks of sennit bindings. Mist curled around the great hull ahead, making it appear ghostly and unreal.
Standing next to her on the platform were Tupaia, her priest and advisor, and also old Hau. She felt the deck rock beneath her feet as the pahi breasted a few low waves. Two large pigs grunted in their lashed-pole cages. She was taking them as presents to the strangers.
Tupaia still looked stern and disapproving, his bleached tapa cape drawn tightly about his shoulders. He had argued with her this morning before the craft set out. Was it not sufficient to send a messenger to invite the strangers ashore? Even if she had no fear for herself, what of her family? What if she were somehow contaminated by foreign evil?
To placate the priest she had accepted his tuft of protective red feathers. She had also spent a long time petitioning her ancestral spirits to watch over her. Now she uttered one last prayer.
Perhaps Tupaia was overly cautious. Certainly Hau understood why she was here. It was essential to learn all she could about these strangers. What better way to start than by visiting the vessel that brought them?
As Purea drew closer to the ship, the onshore breeze brought her unfamiliar sounds. No Tahitian craft made such drawn-out creaks and groans, or had anchor lines of stone loops that clanked and rattled. Her gaze lifted to the masts, standing like great trees above the deck. Sections of exposed sail thumped against the spars, making sounds that resembled a beating drum.
As her double-hull came alongside the ship, Purea shivered in the shadow cast by the huge vessel. She looked up, startled to see that some faces were as brown as hers, but others were red or as pale as bleached tapa. Some men had the temerity to grin at her, showing missing or rotting teeth.
'Tell them I wish to visit," she asked Hau. By means of gestures and several short words that the old man had picked up while trading with the strangers, he conveyed her message. He did not have to add that she had brought gifts, for the foreigners were pointing excitedly at the two pigs, making sounds of hunger and rubbing their bellies.
A rope was let down from what looked like a very stout fishing pole fixed to the side; Hau tied it to the cages. One at a time, the startled hogs were swung aboard. The rope was let down again and Hau told Purea that she might be lifted aboard in the same manner, if she desired.
"I will not be hauled up like an animal," she replied haughtily.
A man who wore a tight blue garment about his arms and chest shouted an order. Someone unrolled a contrivance of tied ropes down the side. Hau seemed familiar with this; he put his foot on the first horizontal section and commenced to climb, amid a chorus of enthusiastic whistles and cheers. Purea was glad then that she had brought the old man—the strangers seemed to like him. Now it was her turn.
As she came forward, however, her feet momentarily refused to leave the deck of her canoe. In her youth, she had scaled many a high rock, yet she hesitated at the strangeness of the great wooden side looming over her. How could such a tall hull stay upright without an outrigger? she wondered. The addition of her weight on the ladder might overwhelm the precarious balance and bring the monstrosity crashing down on its side.
But Hau had gone up safely. She realized that the fear was a foolish thing. Drawing in her breath, she reached up and began to climb. Yet the sights, sounds, and smells of the ship battered at her resolve.
Purea knew from experience that voyaging canoes took on unpleasant smells after days at sea. Without fresh water for bathing, crew and passengers began to stink. Bilge water in the hulls turned sour. Odors lingered from fish that had been gutted on deck. But this...
Aue! Not even sacred feathers could ward off the unpleasantness. From the men, though some looked freshly scrubbed, came a cloying, rotten-pork odor. From others came a daunting reek of feces, urine, and old sweat. The briny, wet-wood smell of the ship's timbers was combined with harsh odors that stung her nose and made her eyes threaten to water.
Purea was sorely tempted to retreat to her pahi, or even to dive into the lagoon. She had to exert great willpower to keep her expression pleasant and her manner gracious as a ghost-pale hand extended to help her aboard.
At last she stood directly facing these strangers f
rom afar. Now she could see that they were no taller than men of her own kind, and, if she ignored their bizarre clothing, similar in most ways. Only their features—eyes and noses and lips—seemed odd.
A curly-haired man who seemed to be a leader swept off his blue headpiece and bowed low before her, speaking hard-edged words that Hau said were a greeting. The foreigner was well muscled and hearty, with crisp brown hair and a cheerful disposition. As soon as Tupaia joined the group, this man took charge, escorting Purea to what looked like a square pit in the deck, surrounded on three sides by a kind of fence. Wooden planks, stepped like terraces on a hillside, led into the depths of the ship.
As Purea stared into the unfamiliar opening she once more fought her revulsion. Why would the strangers want to show her their bilges? She stood fast for some time until Hau convinced her that living space lay below.
The ship's interior, she discovered, was like an enormous house partitioned by numerous walls. The passageways were narrow, and the ceilings too low. Some portions were lit by holes overhead, others by lanterns that shone far more brightly than any candlenut lamp.
Her party was ushered into a long whitewashed chamber whose inward-curving wall had small, square openings for light, spaced at intervals. Here the visitors were invited to sit, not on low stools or mats, but on high seats with wooden backrests. Food was brought to a platform with legs that reminded Purea of a sacrificial altar in a marae. The food was not placed on banana leaves or served in wooden troughs, but laid on shallow round platters.
Purea picked up an empty platter, turned it over, tapped it with a fingernail. This was stone of some kind, but stone carved to such fineness that it rang sweetly when struck. There were no coconut shells to drink from. Instead liquids were poured into cups made from the same thin, fine stone. The cups had loops on the sides for fingers so that they were easier to hold. How clever these strangers were!
When she was invited to partake, Purea regretted that she had to refuse. 'Tell them I am under tapu," she said to Hau.
"They do not understand our ways," the old man replied, "but I will try."
The dismayed looks on the faces of the strangers told Purea that they, like her own people, wished to have their hospitality accepted. For a moment the welcoming atmosphere turned uncertain, then tense. Purea did not want to insult her hosts, but neither would she risk the gods' wrath. The restrictions placed on her, first as a woman, second as mother of the noble Teri'irere, could not be ignored.
It was Hau who broke the strained mood, accepting a small round cake offered to him by one of the blue-coated men. He uttered the customary prayer and flicked a crumb to the spirits. This act made the foreigners frown, as if they did not comprehend. Then Tupaia threw off his priestly caution and accepted a slice of a loaf that smelled faintly like cooked breadfruit. He, too, made the offering, took a bite, chewed slowly but with evident appreciation. At last, the foreigners showed signs of approval.
Purea relaxed. Hau and the priest had spared her from insulting her hosts, and for that she felt deeply grateful. "I wish to visit the chief of all these men," she said to Hau. "Can you arrange it?"
"They say their commander has been ill. He is recovering but is still weak."
Purea shuddered inwardly at the thought of a sick man having to lie in these dark wooden caverns with their dank smells. "It would be better for their chief to lie in the shade and enjoy the breeze. Say that I wish to meet him and invite him ashore."
She waited while Hau conveyed her reply to the man in authority. At first he shook his head at the request, a gesture that Hau had told her meant refusal. But as the old man continued to speak with the foreigner, and Purea added one of her coaxing looks, the sailor finally laughed tolerantly and agreed.
"He will take us both to his chief," said Hau. "Tupaia will stay here."
Purea wondered if their escort was a subchief in the foreign hierarchy. He seemed to have an air about him that commanded obedience and respect from the others. After leading her and her companion along a narrow passageway, he paused at the threshold of a room and swung aside the slab of wood that closed it off. Purea heard him speaking briefly with someone; then he motioned his visitors inside.
A weak, high-pitched male voice spoke Hau's name and then words of greeting. Purea peered past Hau at the sick man, the master of this great vessel. She half expected to see him lying on a mat on the floor, but of course these people did things very differently than did her own. Instead the invalid reclined, propped up on pillows, on a raised bed that was built into the wall.
He was a short, middle-aged man, gaunt with illness. Purea imagined that he had once been stout. His hair, sparse and thinning, was plastered to his head with fever sweat. His skin was pale with a tinge of yellow, except for a flush over his cheekbones.
The skin crinkled at the corners of his watery blue-gray eyes as he beamed in welcome at Hau and then gazed curiously at Purea. His appraisal evidently gave him pleasure, for his eyebrows rose, and the careworn lines that illness had etched in his forehead momentarily vanished.
She waited while Hau introduced her, giving her titles and then the shorter name by which she was known. The old man then tried to speak the commander's name. It had odd sounds in it that Hau could not pronounce. To Purea's ears it sounded like "Tapani Vari."
"Ia ora na. Life to you, Tapani Vari," she said.
Reaching out with a tremulous hand, the invalid patted the cushion of another backrest seat, near the bed. He spoke briefly with Hau, and she could hear the astonished pleasure in his voice. His eyes never left Purea as she took the seat and extended her hand to him. Weak as he was, the commander struggled up from his pillows, raised the back of her hand to his face, and touched it briefly to his lips. Though she was not acquainted with the gesture, Tapani Van's demeanor made his intent clear. He was greeting her with the honor and respect due a noblewoman.
The commander spoke briefly to Hau, but his gaze remained on Purea.
"He says that he is greatly pleased to have such an important ari'i visit him. He wishes that he were in better health so that he could extend a fitting welcome to you," said Hau.
"Tell him that his hospitality is most gracious. Say also that I invite him to visit me ashore. There he will get well."
Tapani Vari replied through Hau. "He cannot come now. He must rest and gain strength. Tomorrow morning he may feel better. Perhaps then." Hau listened as Tapani Vari added some more remarks. "He speaks of you with great respect," Hau said. "As if you were high chiefess over all of Tahiti."
Purea felt a glow of pleasure. It would do no harm to let the foreigner have an exaggerated sense of her importance.
'Tapani Vari is a wise chief," she said mischievously. "All he lacks is the belly of a great man. If he comes to my house to eat, he will grow one." She patted her own stomach, then made a circle with her arms and puffed out her cheeks to emphasize her meaning.
Tapani Vari laughed heartily before Hau had finished the translation.
"He says you are a fine lady, and that he is eager for tomorrow to arrive."
Then he brought out gifts. Sitting up in bed, he draped her shoulders with a pretty blue cloak made from cloth much finer and stronger than tapa. The garment tied loosely at the throat with ribbons. He also gave her something that resembled a short-handled paddle. Its center was clear like shallow water. When she lifted her gift by the silvery handle, she cried out and nearly dropped it. A face appeared, as if she were looking at another woman who stared with equal amazement back at her.
It was a reflection, of course, but far clearer than any she had seen in any pool. The water in it was perfectly smooth and flat and did not run out. What a wonder to show to the ladies who attended her!
When the visit was over, their curly-haired escort accompanied them to the gap in the rail, where the rope ladder hung down to Purea's canoe.
'Tell them that we enjoyed seeing the ship...." Purea began, turning to Hau. She did not complete her request. A raucous
yowl erupted as she hastily withdrew her heel from something ropelike and furry that whipped away from beneath her foot. An animal's tail?
Tupaia gave a shrill battle cry and lunged to protect his chiefess from the small but ferocious beast that crouched, hunched and hissing, in front of her. Its eyes were orange coals aglow in its black face. In an instant he snatched it up in his two big hands. Holding the writhing black-and-white animal above his head, he turned to throw it into the water.
Shouts of protest rang out from the foreign sailors. A pale-haired youth ran at Tupaia, tried to seize his arm. The priest's eyes flashed and he shifted his squalling captive quickly to one hand. The other went to his shell dagger.
Purea knew that everything she had accomplished could be undone in an instant. She grabbed Tupaia's weapon hand. The priest's face turned to hers, his eyes bulging, his features contorted with battle frenzy and bewilderment. For a moment he froze.
Then with a disgusted grunt he thrust the struggling animal into the hands of the red-faced boy. The youth clutched it tightly and shrank against the tall, curly-haired man, who lifted both hands to calm the other men down.
"Have we broken some tapu?" Purea asked Hau as her priest stood stiffly beside her with an air of affronted dignity. She could not guess what this creature meant to the foreigners. Her people kept only dogs and pigs—animals raised for meat—yet sometimes coddled and fondled young ones.
Purea turned to the curly-haired sailor and tried to make him understand, with words and gestures, that her priest had intended no harm. He seemed to grasp her meaning, for as he took the little beast from the flustered youth and stroked it, he smiled with his eyes. The creature also seemed soothed by his touch. Its lashing tail stilled and its flattened ears came up. As it turned its head to fix a baleful gaze on Purea, the intense copper of its eyes startled her.
"Oh," she cried as the curly-haired man began to hand the little beast to another sailor, "do not take it away!"
Child of the Dawn Page 17
