Child of the Dawn

by Coleman, Clare;

  Let the land be purified.

  Let the defilement of war be erased.

  So that evil is cleansed from the land.

  So that we may abide on the soil and eat of its fruits.

  The priest raised a piece of broken coral and others did the same as he chanted,

  These are our offerings, great gods.

  We bring you these white fish.

  Let the land be made as pure as coral,

  Fresh from the sea.

  Then everyone rejoiced. At last, they were free of the taint of battle. The land was theirs again. The spirits of peace reigned once more.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Three days after the coral-fishing ceremony, an enormous crowd of spectators gathered in the clearing around the new performance house. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted in under the high roof, illuminating the platform that held stools for the honored guests. The highest-ranking men and women of the district had already taken their places. Wearing an elaborate feather headdress and ornamented cape, Tepua occupied the foremost seat, next to the one high stool that stood empty.

  The celebration today was for Ruro, though he would not be present to watch. Tepua was being honored as his mother, and Matopahu as father and regent—if and when he arrived, she thought in exasperation.

  Her thoughts turned to young Ruro as she had seen him just a short while before on Maukiri's lap. He was wearing a little tapa turban with a parakeet feather on the front. A small loincloth made of the softest white bark-cloth was wrapped around his fat stomach. Ruro was growing fast. From the size and the strength in his plump little limbs, she knew that he would attain the powerful physique of his father. But he also had the atoll heritage, which would make him as tough and sinewy as the pandanus tree.

  But where was his father? The guests on the platform grew restless, muttering quietly as they waited. The Arioi stared at each other, making subtle signs.

  Then, suddenly, far to the rear of the crowd, she saw a wave of activity. At last he was coming! A swell of cries and cheers developed as the vari'i appeared from the direction of the high chief's compound.

  He had dressed himself modestly in a simple tapa cloak, his head crowned only by a plaited sunshade. As he mounted the platform and took his seat, Tepua glanced at his expression of indifference. On this grand occasion, Matopahu was acting as if he preferred to be elsewhere!

  While she listened to the chanting begin, Tepua tried to understand. Though he had said nothing to her, she sensed that he still resented her lies about the child. As the thrill of victory had waned, his coolness toward her had become more apparent. Perhaps this was why he showed little enthusiasm for today's celebration.

  With a sigh, Tepua turned to watch the Arioi. Attending as an honored guest, instead of a member of the troupe, gave her mixed feelings. Though the Arioi honored her as Ruro's mother, she could never again participate in their rites. She must serve Oro now in other ways. She hoped that she could find alternatives.

  She watched the ceremonies begin, Head-lifted strutting forward to make his welcoming speech. To Tepua's eyes he had aged greatly in only a few days. His refusal to take a stand against Land-crab had cost him much support. Soon, she was certain, he would step down and let someone younger lead the men's lodge.

  A renewed Aitofa addressed the crowd. She, too, had changed, but much for the better. Now her step was light, her voice charged with spirit.

  As for Pehu-pehu...Tepua felt satisfied that the woman would trouble her no more. Pehu-pehu had fled to Eimeo to beg her old troupe to take her back. There was no longer room for two Blacklegs in Wind-driving Lodge.

  Now the chanting of the chorus began again, recounting the history of the order—the deeds of Oro and the founding of the Arioi. The obligatory performances followed, portraying tales from long ago. Tepua drew in her breath and waited patiently, sensing that everyone in the crowd felt as eager as she did for the event that would follow. Honoring the gods and ancestors was necessary, of course, but people had also come here to have fun.

  Rumors about a surprise performance by the Arioi had been on everyone's lips. The rehearsals had been done in secret. Perhaps Matopahu knew more about it than she did, Tepua mused. Perhaps that was another reason for his lack of enthusiasm. It was customary for the performers to poke fun at everyone, even heroes such as Matopahu.

  At last, to the approval of all, Aitofa announced the piece that all had awaited. It was to be a reenactment of the battle between Land-crab and Matopahu. Faces brightened. People leaned forward in anticipation. Everyone knew that this would be a parody of the actual events.

  The slit-log drums clattered wildly as the players, clad in outrageous costumes, arranged themselves in a tableau. On one side stood Land-crab's warriors. On the other stood Matopahu's forces. And in the center, the two champions faced each other.

  Their weapons were enormous "clubs" stitched together from pigskin and stuffed nearly to bursting. The fighters were painted absurdly, with dots and streaks of red over cheeks and bodies. The actor portraying Matopahu was the tallest in the troupe. He waved his club as the chorus spoke his challenge. The actor playing Land-crab was short and stocky, with a heavy wrapping of cloth to make his big belly seem even larger.

  Tepua gasped as a new performer—a hefty male Arioi dressed as a woman in a dancing skirt and flower crown— sashayed onto the stage. "She" was lugging a youth garbed in baggy diapers who pretended to suckle greedily at his mother's breasts. The oversized infant kicked and squalled as his mother shoved him under a massive muscled arm. 'Tepua-mua," the audience roared, while they pounded their thighs in applause.

  She felt her face burn as the hefty actor did a crude imitation of her dancing while trying to keep the mischievous infant under control. Well, she had certainly helped cast the sharp spear of Arioi humor at others who deserved it. Perhaps it was right that she also feel the sting.

  Onstage, "Matopahu" shook his weapon angrily at 'Tepua" while the chorus chanted his words of rebuke for bringing the child into battle. The skirted actor struggled to lift the infant in order to display him to the crowd, while the chorus spoke Tepua's answering lines in falsetto. The youth playing the infant assumed a look of idiocy, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and let his saggy diaper slip.

  "Matopahu" turned to his enemy. Without preamble, the fighters began to swing their weapons wildly, soft "clubs" smacking loudly into flesh. As each man was hit, he mimed great pain, hopping about in anguish.

  The audience roared its approval as the upper hand in the match went back and forth, "Matopahu" falling to his knees, then rising again to defend himself. All the while, 'Tepua" kept lifting the squirming child and making grimaces of dismay.

  Suddenly the lively infant slipped from his mother's grip. On all fours he scampered across the stage with his mother in hot pursuit. He capered about the two fighters, scuttling around them and then diving between their legs, disrupting the battle. "Matopahu" tripped over him and went down.

  Dancing with one hand holding up the diaper, the infant seized his father's oversized club and began raining blows on "Land-crab." The club split and grass stuffing flew about the stage. Then "Tepua" joined the fray, grabbing her enemy's weapon from his hand. "Matopahu" lay on the stage and rolled his eyes while the two beat "Land-crab" around the stage.

  Finally, with a bored expression, "Matopahu" got up, snatched the club from 'Tepua," and with a casual blow, knocked his opponent to the ground.

  At this moment, the crowd of "Land-crab's" supporters began shrieking with woe, throwing down their mock weapons, tearing off their garlands and necklaces. "Matopahu's" allies danced in triumph.

  The infant continued to tear around the stage, flourishing what was left of his stolen club and eluding all efforts at capture. Ignoring the celebration and the antics of the child, "Matopahu" and "Tepua" stood glowering at each other.. The battle was over, and now they were finishing their lovers' quarrel.

  The chorus began to recite accusations, each mor
e outlandish than the next. Growing impatient with the arguments, the infant bashed both parents over the head with his club and watched with delight as they too sank to the ground. Then he strutted about waving the tattered remains of his weapon. "Maeva ari'i," shouted the chorus, and the crowd joined in gleefully.

  Tepua stole a sideways glance at the real Matopahu beside her. He was trying to control his amusement. She saw his lips pressed together, his belly heaving. Suddenly he could hold it in no longer. When he began to laugh, the actors took this as a signal. The partners revived, turned to each other, embraced, touching noses. "All is forgiven," the chorus chanted.

  In the play that is true, but only in the play, Tepua thought glumly.

  Then the drumbeat quickened and the entire company of Arioi began to dance. The people in the audience rose to their feet as well. Head-lifted waved his arms and tried to restore order so that the closing chants of the performance could be said, but no one paid him any heed.

  When Tepua saw the sea of dancers outside the meeting house, she knew that she could not stand by and simply watch. She flung off her headdress and cape. It did not matter if Matopahu came with her. This celebration was for Ruro.

  She was no longer an Arioi in good standing, but no one could stop her from joining the crowd. With cries of greeting, the people outside made an opening for her. She suddenly felt charged with the energy she had thought would never return.

  The soles of her feet tingled with delight at the feel of the hard-packed earth of the dance floor. Stepping forward and back, her knees bent, she swung her hips boldly. Matopahu remained in his seat on the platform, his feet planted, his arms folded.

  She felt a sharp pang of disappointment that slowed her steps for an instant. But the joy of the dance itself was too great for her to stop. As she spun around, feeling her skirt whip against her legs, disappointment gave way to resolution. He was going to be stubborn, was he?

  She remembered how she had danced for him long ago, when she was new to Tahiti. And in Eimeo she had danced to challenge him, to taunt him into fierce competition with Uhi. She had driven both men to exhaustion, but now she meant to put on her best performance ever. She meant to cast a lure so enticing that even the stubbornest cliff climber would be drawn into her arms.

  Oh, Tapahi-roro-ariki, give me your spirit. Give me the strength of the shark, the suppleness of the eel, she prayed as she danced. Let me be all that my atoll home made me.

  Oh Purea, daughter of my son in afar-distant time, give me your spirit. Give me your visions, your patience, your courage. You are the one who will risk everything on the unknown, who will rise up to see with true vision. I am the canoe that launches from the beach. You are the canoe landing on the other shore. Let me be worthy of you.

  She felt the spirits come to her, filling her with power. Now she was dancing not just for Matopahu, but for herself, her son, for Maukiri who had come so far with her, for Aitofa, who had believed in her. She was dancing also for something greater—for Tahiti, her adopted land, its people, its pride, and its future.

  Her hands wove patterns in the air. Her fingers seemed to move of their own will, as when she wove figures out of string. And it seemed to her that she was weaving a vision of the future, this time not with fingers and cord, but with the entirety of her being, both mind and body.

  She moved in ways both ancient and new, using the motions of the dance to tell the story of her life: how she had been swept into the sea, how the gods had allowed her to survive and reach this land. She had struggled, suffered, grieved, and at last, triumphed.

  The people, and even the Arioi, slowed their steps to watch. Some understood her message. Some, perhaps, did not. But all seemed to understand that they were witnessing something extraordinary.

  Matopahu remained sitting on the platform, but his arms were no longer folded, and the expression of tolerant amusement had left his face. Now he was staring as if entranced, a hunger starting to burn deep in his eyes.

  Oh, but he was strong-willed, this cliff climber! Strong enough to stand against the highest wind. Strong enough to deny anything, even the call of his spirit.

  She flung her hair over her shoulder and laid her head back, calling out, not only with the silent voice of her mind, but with the movement of her limbs, the nearly visible images forming between her fingers. And she prayed once again.

  Oro-of-the-laid-down-spear, forgive me for choosing the life of my child over obedience to your order. I cannot believe that I was wrong.

  Perhaps I ask too much of such a god. Yet if my action did not offend you, show me by giving a small part of your spirit.

  In answer, a shimmering brightness began to grow, not only in front of her eyes, but deep at her center. It was the crimson of the sunlight shining on sacred red feathers, and the color of flames leaping against the dark night.

  As if from a great distance, she heard the cries from the crowd. "Nevaneva," they said. 'The spirit has entered her." She smiled to herself, pleased with the words of admiration. Indeed, she felt infused with the essence of the great god, but this was not the same divine frenzy that had gripped her before.

  No, this was different. Oro filled Tepua but did not take her. His strength became hers and the dance remained hers, even through the fiery nimbus that surrounded her.

  And then there was a shape moving in that fiery brightness—the form of a young god, dancing with her, laughing with her. He spoke in a voice like the rush of a wind-fanned flame.

  "You have no need to ask forgiveness, Tepua-mua-ariki. You have served me well."

  Her rejoicing grew until she felt she might burst with the power of it.

  "Oro," she whispered, and reached out for his hand. She felt not only the incandescent touch of the god, but the solid warmth of a man's palm. Perhaps it was this touch that made the fiery halo start to fade, and the god's form shift and harden into the shape of Matopahu.

  Her spirit leaped, perhaps even more than it had for Oro. The one dancing with her was the beloved quarry she had sought to draw. She looked into deep brown eyes, as molten as the god's fire. Her gaze traveled down the powerful bronzed swell of his shoulders, his arms.

  "Even my pride cannot hold against you, atoll woman," Matopahu said in a low, fierce voice. "You have no need of line and lure."

  She danced then for him, and he for her. Each displayed to the other in a blazing courtship driven by the drums. And when the beat ended, with a rattling flourish, they stood with their gazes locked on each other, bound together by the fevered lash of the dance that had married their bodies and their spirits.

  Awed by the performance, the crowd pulled back, leaving a broad aisle open. Tepua felt every joyful face watching her as she walked hand in hand with Matopahu to the shore. The sun was low, casting a golden light across the water.

  They stood together, whispering of Ruro and all then-hopes for him, and of their plans with each other. The marriage ceremony would come soon. The ancestors would be brought down from their cave to witness the formalities and celebrations. But in the eyes of the gods, Tepua knew, the union was already sanctified. The gods had shown her what was to come.

  At last Matopahu flung his head back and gave a whoop of sheer joy. He plunged from the beach into the water. Tepua went after him, refreshed by the coolness that swept over her. The two splashed like children in the gentle waves as night came on.

  Inside the special house erected for the mother and young son, Tepua sat one night and let her gaze rest on the cozy glow of the candlenut lamp. A pleasant weariness weighted her limbs. Ruro lay contentedly asleep. By all rights she should also be deep in slumber.

  When the final candlenut burned out, she drew a tapa robe over herself and closed her eyes. Though drowsy, she did not immediately fall asleep. Images flickered behind her eyelids, images that were faint but growing brighter....

  Suddenly she was once again riding the waves of Matavai Bay. She was Tepua but she was also Purea, standing on the raised deck of her rega
l double-hulled canoe. She felt a sharp sting of loss as she gazed out across the water.

  The great ship of Tapani Vari was leaving through the pass, heading for open sea. All her pleading had failed to keep it here a day longer. Tears slid down her face, for she doubted that she would ever see Tapani Vari again. Despite the trouble he had brought, the anger he had stirred between chiefs, she had come to count the strange pale-skinned commander as a true friend.

  Tapani Vari had praised her with grand words and had presented many gifts. As she watched the square sails billowing from masts that grew smaller at every moment, Purea cradled the best gift of all. The warm purring weight in the crook of her elbow was a precious comfort. Tapani Vari had given her one of the remarkable creatures she called puhi, an animal with the golden eyes of a god.

  With a sigh of mixed grief and joy, she caressed the fur between the puhi's ears. The animal turned its gaze up to her with a soft mew. Looking into its eyes, she felt a new calmness and serenity come over her, as if she were floating in a tranquil sea the same color as those eyes.

  The days of trouble seemed far behind now. Yet she could still see Tutaha's livid face when he berated her for protecting Tapani Vari.... But in the end she had kept Tutaha from harming the visitors.

  Now Purea looked up from her reverie and watched the ship passing the outer reef, flags fluttering from the mastheads as if offering a farewell salute. To watch any longer would only prolong her pain. Once more she gazed down at the puhi, stroking its soft belly, feeling the slight swelling there and the little teats. Soon there would be more of the delightful creatures.

  The animal stirred in her arms, rubbed its head affectionately against her hand. Far more than just a gift, the puhi was a token of an enduring friendship. There would be many disturbing changes in the land, she sensed. Despite their good intentions, the foreigners would bring much suffering.