"Until you came to visit me, I was not so certain I could manage it," Otaha replied. 'To my thinking, birth is everything. It does not matter what happens to a man. If he has the proper ancestry behind him, little can keep him from triumphing in the end."
The guest could only raise his eyebrows in response to Otaha's words. Matopahu was the firstborn son of a firstborn son, going back to great men of legend. If birth alone were the only requirement, then Fleeting-star could not find a better husband than himself. And yet...
Otaha seemed to sense Matopahu's indecisiveness. "Now is no time to discuss these things," the chief added heartily. "Food is waiting for us, and I hope you are hungry. You cannot get fish like this in Tahiti."
Long after dark, Matopahu lay awake on his bed of mats in the guest house. At last he rose, wrapped himself in his cloak, and crept out into the cool air. He heard a stirring behind him—Eye-to-heaven. A moment later, his taio joined him on the beach.
The moon had not risen, and the inky sky overhead was sprinkled with stars. Across the calm lagoon came faint sounds, distant voices. Lights moved, the torches of spear fishermen who stalked their prey in the shallows.
"I'm not sleepy," said Matopahu quietly. "Walk with me."
The beach ahead was only faintly visible, the border between land and lagoon blurred by darkness. As Matopahu led the way, he felt hollows in the sand, smooth bits of shell, and sometimes the coolness of water beneath his toes. The men soon reached Matopahu's quiet spot and made themselves comfortable, resting against a pair of palm trees.
"Taio, we both know what Otaha wants from you," the priest said softly. "The girl is very beautiful and as wellborn as any in these islands."
"Are you urging me to take her for my wife?"
"It is a tempting offer."
"But—"
"Do you hesitate because of Tepua? I have talked with her many times. I know her dedication to the Arioi. I feel certain that she will not leave her troupe."
"Even so, there have been signs. You saw one of them. I think that she will come to realize..."
The priest sighed. Matopahu's thoughts took him back to another shore, to the place in Tahiti where Eye-to-heaven had performed a cleansing rite long ago. While Tepua and Matopahu stood in the water, a pair of blue sharks, sent by the gods, had paid them homage as if they were great chiefs.
"Yes, my taio," said the priest. "I did see a sign. But its meaning has never been as clear to me as it is to you. Perhaps someday Tepua will be your wife, but not now. Meanwhile, Otaha is offering something we did not anticipate."
"So that is your advice? Take the woman. You surprise me tonight. You are the one who keeps insisting that the curse still lingers."
"It does, but its influence is limited now. If you mount an attack against Land-crab, the curse will bring you down. That is what the omens predict. But I see no reason why you cannot take a wife and live happily in another district of Tahiti. Otaha will give you a fine tract of land—"
"Abandon my brother's people?"
"You must be patient. Land-crab eventually will overreach himself. Meanwhile, by marrying Fleeting-star, you can become a man of influence once again."
Matopahu fell silent. His friend's advice was sensible, but he couldn't forsake Tepua. "I will not sleep tonight," he told the priest. "Go back to the guest house. Take this with you." He handed his cloak to his friend, leaving himself garbed only in a loincloth.
"Another vigil?" Eye-to-heaven asked.
"I think not," said Matopahu with a laugh. He strode out into the water, heading for the nearest moving light.
Matopahu waded slowly across a coral shelf that lay just below the surface. The kelp covering the rock felt refreshingly cool beneath his feet. A short way ahead of him stood a fisherman with a long spear, accompanied by a boy. A torch of bundled palm-leaf ribs gave off a yellow light, illuminating pools where fish moved sluggishly. When the torch burned down, the boy lit another.
With a smooth, quick motion, the fisherman struck. "Aue!" the man cried in dismay when his spear missed. "They are slippery tonight." Then he turned toward Matopahu. "Are you catching them in your hands, my friend? Maybe that works better."
"I am just watching," said the ari'i. "If you lend me your spear, I'll see what I can do."
"Maybe your hand is swifter than mine," said the fisherman, "or your eyes keener." He offered the spear to Matopahu, who ran a finger along the carved tip, pleased at its sharpness. The whalebone point was mounted to a short section of hard tamanu wood, which was fitted and lashed to the spear shaft. Matopahu stepped past the fisherman, hefting the spear to judge its balance. The wrapped sennit handgrip felt good against his palm.
Matopahu grinned in anticipation as the boy held up the torch. He had not been spearfishing since he was little older than the boy. Of course, he remembered the tricks that water played, making fish appear in a different place from where they really were.
He peered down, waiting until he saw a long, dark shadow. Making a quicker thrust, he felt the point strike, pierce something solid, and slide in. The struggle began at once, the spear jerking in his hand. He brought up the fish, which flipped madly, spraying him with salt. Somehow he got it into the boy's basket before it could free itself.
"Ah, I think you have the right touch," said the fisherman. "Let me see you do that again."
The fisherman gave his name as Long-oar. When his basket was filled, he invited Matopahu to accompany him to his home on a small islet across the lagoon. The ari'i, calling himself simply "Mato," asked his new friend to wait. Then he crept back into the guest house and gently woke Eye-to-heaven.
"So you have decided," the priest said sleepily.
Matopahu squatted beside his friend. "We both know," he said quietly, "that the first son of an ari'i is special, a child of the gods as well as the man."
"That is so," agreed the priest. "And Fleeting-star will make a fine mother for that son."
"No, my taio. You are trying to help me, but I feel no conviction behind your words. We both know this. Tepua will be the mother of my son, or I will die childless."
The priest sighed gently. "You may be right, but it would not hurt to try with Fleeting-star."
"I must leave you," Matopahu said regretfully. "My taio, you have been more than loyal to me. My canoe is yours now, with everything in it. Stay here as long as you wish, Give gifts. Enjoy the hospitality. Find a chief who needs a priest."
"But you—"
"When Otaha wakes, I will be gone. Tell him I had a message from one of the supply canoes. Let him think I went back to Tahiti."
"Matopahu—" Eye-to-heaven put his hand against his friend's arm.
"I'll try fishing for a while. That is what I promised I would do. When Tepua is finished with her Arioi, I'll take her far from here. That is the only choice the gods have left me."
"You may change your mind," the priest said hoarsely.
"Don't give Otaha any hopes." Clad only in his loincloth, taking nothing with him, Matopahu turned away before his taio could offer any more arguments. Dawn was at hand. He hurried to the water and waded out toward Long-oar's canoe.
FOURTEEN
"Move yourself. Wake up!" Tepua groaned at the sound of Pehu-pehu's grating voice. She struggled to open her eyes.
A hand clamped on her arm and shook her roughly. "What is wrong with you, girl?" the Blackleg asked. "Every morning I have to send someone to drag you from your mat."
Tepua pulled free and stood up on her own before Pehu-pehu could yank her to her feet. "You should be setting a good example for the others," the Blackleg scolded. 'They look up to you as an experienced player. Soon they will all think they can sleep late."
Pehu-pehu was right. Tepua glanced unhappily at the empty mats around her in the guest house. The other novices had already left, somehow without waking her. Streaks of bright sunlight filtering through the mat walls announced that morning had long since arrived. Why did she still feel so groggy?
&n
bsp; "Go and wash. Quickly. Catch up with the others," snapped Pehu-pehu. Tepua felt only a moment's relief when the Blackleg stormed out of the guest house.
Resisting an overwhelming urge to return to her sleeping place, Tepua tied on her wrap. This drowsiness had lingered for days, and she wondered if some sorcerer was working against her. Other feelings had been troubling her— gnawing sensations in her stomach that turned to queasiness when she moved. Especially in the morning...
The obvious explanation was wrong, Tepua thought. Her monthly flow had come twice since her night with Matopahu, and she had been with no other man.
It must be the visions, she concluded. Though many days had passed since her encounter with Purea and 'Tapani Vari," she still saw remnants in her dreams. She woke often in the night. That was why she felt sleepy all day.
I have had enough! she wanted to cry to the gods. Let me have rest. Only Aitofa understood her suffering; Tepua had confided in no one else. But Aitofa could not allow her to evade her responsibilities to the troupe.
Wiping away a tear, Tepua left the guest house and hurried down the path to the stream. A cold bath would wake her, she thought, and then she would take her place in practice with the others.
Dust swirled in the dancing area, raised by the feet of the novices and the women of the lower grades—Pointed-thorn and Seasoned-bamboo. The morning sun shone on backs and bare legs. Sweat gathered and trickled down faces.
Ordinarily Tepua enjoyed the practice. Today, however, she kept wishing for the session to end. The bath had helped, but her body had not exhausted its repertoire of tricks to play on her.
He breasts strained and chafed against her wrap as she danced. As she swayed her hips, the feeling of her inner thighs rubbing against each other sent little trickles up into the nest between her legs. The sensation created a moist, expanding heat that quickly grew insistent, then demanding.
She glanced at the other women. Everyone knew that dance movements caused excitement; such feelings gave fire and spirit to the performance. She had seen the signs in other dancers and felt neither shame nor embarrassment. But the surges of raw lust she felt now could only cause distraction.
Aue! It was fortunate that she was not a man; then her condition would be unmistakable. To make matters worse, she needed urgently to urinate.
At last, the dancing master's voice rang out, ending the session. Tepua tried to make herself walk, not run, to the bushes, but halfway there she was overcome by the urgency. She crouched behind some low foliage and, with a groan of relief, released the water she had kept dammed up in her body. She let her head fall forward as her stream gushed softly into the soil, and the maddening sensation eased.
Standing up, she was glad to see that the dancers had dispersed. Right now she did not want to talk to anyone, not even Maukiri or Curling-leaf. She walked into a shady breadfruit grove, then leaned her back against a tree and sat down.
Beside being hot, the day was humid. Her breasts chafed against her wrap. As she loosened the cloth, her hands brushed against her nipples. She gasped at the warm rush of pleasure that went through her body.
Her breasts had often been sensitive lately, and they were not the only part of her that had changed. Her whole body felt warm, languid, earthy. She thought of Matopahu and the last time he had been with her. She remembered the touch of his hands and the look in his eyes.
How she had desired him then and how she wanted him now. She found herself trailing her fingers up the inside of her thigh, toward the place that was already damp and swollen, lips opening as if to receive the length of a man....
She rolled her hips, amazed at how aroused she felt. She was expanding inside as if she could take in anything. If she could only understand what was happening to her.
Thoughts of her atoll childhood crept back, scenes of her foster mother, Ehi, and the large family that crowded around her. Young Maukiri and her sisters were there, along with a few older girls. Tepua remembered how one was constantly going off to find her lover. The others would joke, saying that she was already filled with a growing child, so how could she want more?
Filled. Tepua lifted her hand, placed it on her belly. Could that be the answer? There was something strange about her body, a sense of deepening, a sense of change. Could there be a child growing, after all?
So stunned was she by the thought that she surrendered to it and lay back against the tree, her mind whirling. She needed to talk to a woman who knew more about these things. Perhaps Curling-leaf could help her.
She sighed and stood up. There was no denying that something was wrong. And as she retraced her steps back through the forest, she found that she had to stop once again in the bushes.
"You can be carrying and still have a moon flow," Curling-leaf explained, sitting back on her heels in the guest house. "At least it can happen for a while. Do you remember how much there was or how long it lasted?"
"Barely two days," Tepua answered, looking up from the mat where she lay. "And the flow was light."
Beside Curling-leaf, Maukiri sat cross-legged, her face solemn, her eyes round.
"Two of my mother's sisters grew big bellies when I still lived at home," Curling-leaf added. "I learned a lot from them."
"So you think—" Tepua broke off.
"If I touch you, I may be able to tell." With a feeling of trepidation, Tepua lay back and drew aside her wrap. Curling-leaf's palm, warm and dry, pressed deeply into Tepua's belly just above the curls of her nest.
"My mother showed me how to check for the beginning of a child. She pressed my fingers in, like this. Once you have felt it, you never forget." Curling-leaf's face showed a frown of concentration. "Here. I have your answer."
Trembling, Tepua let Curling-leaf guide her hand to the place and press her fingers into the flesh. Low in her belly she felt a small round firmness, like the pod of the rata tree. Now all doubts fled. She let out a groan of despair.
The rules of the order. No child of an Arioi may live.
Yet she pushed that knowledge aside as a feeling of wild joy burst upon her. How could she explain it? She felt as if she contained a ball of golden light. If left alone, this ball would expand. She would grow round and ripe, sweet and strong, like the breadfruit at harvest.
Tepua had often envied women with their outthrust bellies, proudly standing where they could be admired by all who passed. When they came to term, she had heard their cries and knew that these were far more than protests of pain or grunts of effort. Perhaps the act of pushing out the life within ignited something more intense than even sexual release, something that spilled from between their legs in the form of a living, open-eyed child.
"It is true," Tepua cried, but her voice sounded too thin and faint to her ears to express the immensity of what she felt. Curling-leaf seemed to understand. Maukiri, staring solemnly, did not.
"I am sorry, Tepua," Curling-leaf said. "I can tell that you are hoping, somehow, to hold on to this child."
"I cannot help it." Tepua wished she could make Maukiri understand. How could she explain to her cousin what it felt like? A vast gulf had suddenly been crossed. Tepua had left her girlhood behind.
She was seized by an unexpected rush of energy. Leaping up, she pulled her friend with one hand and Maukiri with the other. "Come with me, down to the lagoon. I want to run into the waves and sing and splash."
Though their expressions showed puzzlement, the other two came with her to a place where breakers rolled in on a black-sand beach. Usually the waves inside the reef were gentle, but today the wind had whipped up their strength. When Tepua saw that this section of beach was empty, she threw aside her wrap. Maukiri and Curling-leaf shed theirs and they all plunged in. Slowly her companions caught Tepua's mood, and all three began to frolic like children.
The waves caught Tepua and tumbled her over, but she fought free and popped up again, leaping high in celebration and throwing spray around her.
Matopahu's child.
She slapped the
waves out of sheer exuberance, dunked and splashed Curling-leaf and frolicked like a dolphin in the surf.
Oro's child.
Curling-leaf surfaced beside her, her expression grown solemn again, but her eyes still sparkling. She cupped her hands, filled them with foaming seawater, lifted them over Tepua's head to let the water drain out and flow down over her hair.
"I am a fool to be happy for you," she said. "But I am."
Tepua reached out, hugged her friend and received a briny hug in return. Over the crash of the waves and Maukiri's delighted shrieks, she shouted, "Yes, it makes no sense. This will only bring me pain. But somehow, I want to shout and sing."
Her friend's voice was steady. "It is not something you can make sense out of."
Curling-leaf groped beneath the water and came up with a handful of seaweed and a starfish of midnight blue, all of which she arranged on top of Tepua's head. "There is your new headdress." She giggled.
Tepua took down the slowly curling starfish and held it to the place low on her belly where Curling-leaf had pressed her fingers. She looked out over the reef, at the heaving back of the sea. A voice out of the past sounded in her mind. The priest, Eye-to-heaven, speaking in ritual.
"There is prayer in the moving ocean. The ocean is the great marae of the world."
My...child.
With a sudden mischievous laugh, Maukiri surfaced like a prowling shark, grabbed the starfish away from Tepua, and threw it at Curling-leaf.
"You daughter of an octopus!" Curling-leaf shouted, and dragged Maukiri backward into an oncoming roller. Tepua joined the noisy, splashing fray. At last the three staggered ashore, weak with laughter.
"She made me swallow so much water that there is a new ocean—inside me!" Maukiri complained to Tepua, pushing Curling-leaf.
"You won't have it long," the accused retorted. "You and your cousin can crouch side by side in the bushes."
Child of the Dawn Page 19
