“No. Only on far Urietea do the buds make such a noise. Here in Tahiti we leave the task of frightening people to chief’s and high priests.” He had meant only to be clever, but he saw that his words brought a shadow across Tepua’s face. “I have been thinking about this atoll man who worries you so,” he said, reluctantly coming back to her problem.
Tepua frowned. “I wish I could have talked with the trader. He might have heard what happened to my family. I do not know if I have anyone left!” Her voice shook and tears shimmered in her eyes. “But I cannot let him learn who I am...”
Rimapoa stroked her hair and tried to comfort her. “Do you think the man actually recognized you?”
“I cannot be sure. He grew angry when I did not answer in his dialect. Perhaps he once came to a religious ceremony on my island and saw me—when I was still maiden-to-the-gods.”
Rimapoa wished she would forget that part of her past. “Remember,” he said gently. “Your life is changed now. You are under the headman’s protection.”
“Pigs-run-out,” Tepua scorned. “He is but a big lump of poi. I know my people, Rimapoa. Tahitians may look down on us as savages, but we are like coconut crabs. We fight hard and we are tenacious. If this man wants to know who I am, he will find out. And then he will return with his friends and try to take me away.”
“I will not let that happen. No one is going to take you from Tahiti. Tomorrow, I promise, I will find out what that scoundrel is thinking.”
The next morning, Rimapoa rose early, hoping to get his fishing done before the day grew hot. He went out alone, because his assistant, Front-tooth, had gone to visit cousins in a nearby valley. Rimapoa did not follow his usual habits. Since the albacore had started biting well lately for everyone, he decided to risk sailing within sight of one of the double canoes used for trolling. The fishing would be better over the albacore hole where the tira worked.
He had a second reason for watching this other boat. When its fishing was done, he thought it might lead him to Tepua’s trader. The tira’s crew always had a need for pearl-shell hooks.
He set a floating sea anchor and cast his lines, but his gaze kept straying to the tira. It was well made, better than any craft he could hope to own. So fine was the boat and so high its reputation that its owners had bestowed it with a name, something rarely done except with sacred craft that belonged to a chief. It was called Reef-wrecker, in honor of its hulls of tough tamanu wood, which had battled many a submerged shoal and broken off chunks of coral.
Rimapoa once had worked aboard that boat. He remembered the smell of sweating salt-sprayed men, the creak of the fish crane as it swung, and the splash of the albacore bursting from the water. He shook his head ruefully. If he had stayed with the group, he might have earned himself a share in the boat and its equipment. Reef-wrecker was communally owned—by women as well as men, for it was the fishermen’s wives and daughters who netted the red mullet used as bait.
But too much quarreling had ended that possibility. He gazed at the great canoe with longing, recalling its solid feel beneath his feet. Now the men who had been his companions called him a fish stealer. He watched, trying not to feel envious as Reef-wrecker began to troll.
As soon as the crane swung down to drop the baited hooks into the water, a fish struck. When the men pulled it up, gleaming and thrashing, he saw that it was a big one, the albacore known as aahi mapepe. But soon his own lines grew active and he nearly forgot the other boat. He was busy for a time fighting to bring in several smaller, but no less tenacious fish. When he finally glanced again at the trolling canoe, it had raised its crane and was paddling for home.
Quickly he secured his catch and set sail, following the tira. Once he cleared the reef passage into the lagoon, he saw high, claw-shaped sails of other fishing craft, all converging on the same beach. What could be drawing them except word of the trader’s arrival? This atoll man would do a good business today!
Rimapoa ran his outrigger onto the beach, tethering it to the bole of a coconut palm. Following the sound of the crowd, he hurried to the assembly ground, where everyone had gathered. Glancing down through the forest of tattooed legs, he glimpsed a large mat laid out with objects that flashed and shimmered in the sun.
The men in front crouched to inspect and handle the goods, letting Rimapoa see over their shoulders. He glimpsed fishhooks, and fine ones, too, made from sea-turtle shell or mother-of-pearl, shaped to spiral inward. Fish could not shake themselves free of them, yet a fisherman, with a deft twist, could pull off his catch and be ready to bait the hook again.
The motu man, wearing a necklace of dolphin teeth over his tattoo-bordered chest, squatted on his heels, his arms draped around his knees. He answered questions by grunting, and making gestures with his fingers, as if his customers did not really interest him. Rimapoa hung back, careful not to attract the trader’s attention.
Tepua was right, he saw. The man would make a formidable opponent. He was well muscled, fierce looking, with strong features and an arrogant bearing. Often he slapped aside the hands of those who were too inquisitive, or growled in his version of Maohi speech. He made it clear that he would take tapa in trade for his goods, but not any foodstuffs.
A number of men ran home, returning with rolls of bark-cloth. Rimapoa recognized some of Tangled-net’s relatives among them. Tangled-net, of course, was absent. As soon as he had learned that Tepua was under the headman’s protection, he had gone into hiding. The man was a pig, Rimapoa thought, fit only for sacrifice to the meanest gods.
Rimapoa tried to put his anger aside. He hung about the edge of the crowd, listening to the talk. If the motu man truly had an interest in Tepua, he might say something in passing. But the visitor said nothing to reveal himself. Soon many men had either made their bargains or given up in disgust. Rimapoa felt conspicuous in the small remaining crowd. He did not like the cold glances that Tangled-net’s relatives were casting at him.
He turned toward his boat, thinking he should leave before trouble started. But he had nothing to tell Tepua and the trader was still talking...
“This tapa is your family’s work?” the motu man asked one of Tangled-net’s uncles as he looked over the cloth that had been offered.
The uncle had a jovial face and a big belly, but his arms were thick with muscle and his eyes shrewd. “The women of our household make the finest tapa in the district,” he replied proudly. “Not even the headman’s servants can pound cloth so evenly and bleach it so white. I want these six fishhooks for my bundle.” He pointed to a group he had set aside.
A glint awakened in the atoll man’s eyes. He softened his voice so that Rimapoa had to strain to hear. “Yesterday I saw the headman’s servants beating cloth. And I saw with them a skinny woman, not Maohi by her looks. Maybe she is distracting the others from their work. Maybe that is why their cloth is not so good.” He added the last part jokingly.
“I have heard about that woman,” said the uncle. “She is nobody. Just some vahine from one of your atolls.”
Rimapoa clenched his fist to keep from groaning aloud at the man’s loose talk.
“She interests me,” said the trader. “For your tapa I will give the fishhooks you chose, and two others, if you tell me all you know about her. Even more, if you have her name and something of her ancestry.”
Rimapoa hissed through his teeth. The savage was offering a far better deal than he had given the other men. This knowledge was worth something to him!
But then Rimapoa realized that he had edged dangerously close to the trader. He crouched behind a knot of men, peering out between them as Tangled-net’s uncle answered quietly, “I cannot talk here. Come to the large canoe shed just after dark.” He pointed to a place along the shore. When the trader nodded, the uncle handed over his cloth and picked up his fishhooks. After he had taken the first six, the trader brushed his hand away.
“The rest—later,” said the motu man with a cold smile.
As he hurried from the
assembly ground Rimapoa felt his fingers curl with rage. This uncle was playing a dangerous game for the sake of his nephew. Who could say what the savage intended? He might hope to reap a large reward by bringing Tepua home. But what would happen if he learned how Tangled-net had treated her?
Rimapoa scowled as he went to untie his canoe. The uncle must be scheming to get rid of Tepua so that his nephew could return from hiding. But how he meant to arrange this, Rimapoa could not guess. Tonight he would have to risk listening at the canoe shed...
Just before sunset, Rimapoa squatted behind the bole of a coconut palm, peering at the outline of the shed against the sky. A long row of center posts supported an arched roof of thatch that nearly reached the ground. Beneath stood racks where boats were stored when not in use. Now, during the fishing season, the shed was nearly empty. Only one canoe remained.
Rimapoa knew that boat, a large heavy dugout. It was too ancient and cracked for open-ocean use and too clumsy for paddling about the lagoon. The old man who owned the ancient craft refused to give it up, saying that one day he would paddle it—when the gods called him to paradise.
Rimapoa turned for a moment toward the last glimmer of light along the shore. Then he heard quiet footsteps as five men approached the shed. He recognized the big-bellied uncle from his silhouette. Several of the uncle’s companions were carrying war clubs.
The men all ducked under the thatched roof. Rimapoa, feeling alarmed, leaned against the rough bark of the palm. The voices were low, furtive. As twilight faded he scuttled closer, to hide behind another tree at the edge of the shed.
He heard the fishermen send one of their number to watch outside for the trader’s approach. Hairs prickled on the back of Rimapoa’s neck. This did not look like preparations for a friendly meeting.
The shed remained dark. No torches were lit. Rimapoa strained to hear the voices, and realized that the men were arguing.
“Let the motu man take away this troublesome vahine,” the uncle was saying. “That will be best for us. We should even offer to help him catch her.”
“Catching her will be easy,” another voice said with a laugh. “We just wait until she visits the fish stealer.”
Rimapoa knotted his fists as a third voice joined in. This younger man had a reputation for being reckless and cruel. And coldly clever. “Uncle,” the young fisherman said, “you still have not listened to me. I agree that we must get rid of the motu woman, but your way is too risky. Sending her back to her island would not be wise.”
“And why not? When she is gone, Tangled-net can come home.”
“But, Uncle, I am certain that this woman is of high birth—among her own people. For what other reason would the trader take such interest in her?”
“Tangled-net said she told great lies about herself.”
“Forgive my presumption, honored uncle, but Tangled-net is not the most truthful of my brothers. Suppose this Tepua has the ancestry she claimed, and was maiden of the temple as well. If the savage takes her home, her kin will say that someone here defiled her.”
Mutters broke out among them. Then the uncle said, “She will be killed for her carelessness. Good.”
“Uncle, is your brain made of fermented breadfruit mash? Her family will not rest at that. They will want revenge.”
“They may refuse to trade with us, that is all. We can find other sources of pearl-shell fishhooks.”
“Fishhooks?” The younger man laughed. “They will paddle into our lagoon at night and creep into our houses. You will wake up with a fish spear sticking through your great belly.”
The uncle grumbled and fumed, but the younger man’s voice rose above his. “Listen,” he hissed fiercely. “The one thing these atoll people understand is revenge. If the trader takes the woman away, they will come back after us, and our family will be destroyed.”
Rimapoa’s mood darkened further. He sensed where the argument was heading.
“Then what would you do, my arrogant sage?” Tangled-net’s uncle asked resentfully.
“Club the motu man and feed his body to the sharks. And the same for the woman, of course. Before she can cause more trouble.”
A chill ran down Rimapoa’s back. Tepua was safe now, so long as she stayed in the headman’s compound. But as soon as she went outside ... He shook off the grim thought and tried to hear what else the plotters would say.
“Getting rid of the trader will not be easy,” Tangled-net’s uncle grumbled. “He has the bearing of a warrior and eyes that miss little. Do you think he will not be on his guard, if he comes at all?”
“We are five,” said someone else, “and he is one.”
“But his cries will be heard. This trader has the headman’s protection during his visit. If we are found out—”
“Listen,” said the young man again. “I will tell you what to do. See that old dugout on the rack? What would happen if it slipped off and fell on a man?”
“It will not fall,” snorted Tangled-net’s uncle, but Rimapoa heard murmurs of agreement and admiration for the young man’s cleverness.
“The rack has been here for many seasons,” said the young man. “Perhaps the poles are cracked or the lashings loose. If someone were sitting just to the side there, the dugout might crush him before he could even cry out. And we have the bait to lure the man!”
Rimapoa began to shiver. Had these men no idea of what they were planning? To kill a man here would soil the canoe shed and anger the gods, ruining the fishing for everyone. There had to be a safer way to deal with the trader.
Tangled-net’s uncle at once raised a similar objection, but the young instigator brushed his warning aside. “The gods care nothing for the death of a motu savage,” he said scornfully. “And we can always have a priest purify the canoe shed afterward, just in case.”
More muttering followed, and then a general agreement. As the plotters began their preparations Rimapoa beat his fist soundlessly against the tree. Perhaps he should try to warn off the trader or alert the headman.
The trader meant nothing to him. He wanted only to do what was best for Tepua. But if these men murdered once and got away with it, they would not hesitate to try again. He did not see how anyone could protect her.
He trembled, sweating. His hand crept to the shell-bladed knife stuck through the knotting of his loincloth. No. He would have no chance against five such ruthless men. They already hated him. Given the slightest excuse, they would kill him as eagerly as they would their other chosen victims. But if he helped the trader, then Tepua might be taken away...
He shook his head, unable to decide. Tepua’s life would be in danger whether or not the trader was killed. Still struggling with this dilemma, he heard footsteps approaching, and realized that he had deliberated too long.
Now he saw two men, one carrying a torch of bundled coconut-leaf ribs, approaching the rear of the shed where he crouched. The trader, he realized, had turned cautious, bringing an escort. Rimapoa stood up, aware that he had no choice now but to greet the stranger. He signaled for caution. “I must warn you,” he whispered.
The motu man charged forward and grabbed Rimapoa tightly by the arm. Then the fisherman felt a spear point pressing through the thin cape over his back and knew that the bodyguard had slipped behind him. “I am not your enemy—” The sharp point pressed harder before he could explain.
“I will hold on to you, in case of trouble,” said the trader. “Say nothing.”
At that moment Tangled-net’s uncle and the rest of the plotters emerged from the canoe house. “Who is this man?” the trader demanded as the others arrived.
A hand grabbed his chin, jerked his face toward the torchlight. “Rimapoa the fish stealer. A thief and a breaker of tapu. He is also the man who sleeps with that woman you are so curious about.”
“Him!” The motu man gasped with astonishment. “Then she is not the one I seek. A chief’s daughter was lost at sea, but such a maiden would not take up with one of your fishermen.” The la
st words were spoken with the deepest contempt.
“Lies!” Rimapoa answered, no longer caring if the savage met his doom here. The man knew nothing about Tepua. Perhaps someday she would happily become a fisherman’s vahine—Rimapoa’s woman. “Tangled-net is the one who took her,” he shouted. “Against her will! Do not blame me for his evil work.”
“What is this?” asked the trader, glancing angrily from one man to the next. “She was forced?”
“Come inside the shed,” said the uncle. “We need not discuss this in the open. I have learned the woman’s name and I have also recovered part of the canoe that brought her. When you have these, you will know the truth.”
“You go first,” said the atoll man. He waited until the five had entered the shed. Then his bodyguard, who appeared to be a Tahitian from another district, seized Rimapoa and dragged him after them. The trader came in last, holding his torch.
“Come look at this wreck,” said the uncle. Rimapoa had thought the uncle’s promise a ruse, though he recalled some talk of “bait.” Now he was astonished to see part of a broken outrigger canoe on the ground beside the rack that held the old dugout. Perhaps it was the piece that Front-tooth had found.
At this sight, the trader seemed to lose all caution. He rushed forward with the torch and fell on his knees beside the weathered poles and lashings.
Seeing the trap almost sprung made sweat run down Rimapoa’s brow. Despite his anger at the trader, he knew the gods would not ignore this desecration. Rimapoa strained against the bodyguard’s grip, wanting now only to get away.
“I know this work,” the motu man said breathlessly. “It comes from our islands. Look—” Then a terrible splintering sound erupted, followed by a brief cry as the trader glanced up. But he could not react quickly enough. The torch flew aside in an arc as the rack collapsed and the heavy dugout rumbled down on top of him. The trader cried out once more. Then Rimapoa felt the alarmed bodyguard release his arm. The fisherman immediately rushed from the shed while the bodyguard fled in a different direction.
Daughter of the Reef Page 13
