Daughter of the Reef

by Clare Coleman

  “Get Rimapoa,” someone shouted, “before he can tell anyone.”

  But he was already outside, racing down the path that would take him to Tepua.

  “Put out the fire,” someone else called.

  Rimapoa heard a crackle of flame behind him and risked one glance back. The fallen torch had started a blaze at the bottom of the roof. Now a ribbon of flame was leaping up the dry thatch, widening as it went, sending up heavy smoke. He saw the men scattering, one heading in his direction.

  The blaze was spreading too quickly. He knew at once that the shed would be destroyed—swift punishment for the wrong that had been done there. But the wrath of the gods might not stop with this single act. With a shudder of fear, he ran faster.

  Beneath the shelter of the women’s sleeping house, Tepua lay curled on her mat, dreaming of home. She dreamed of a time, during the rains, when she had crouched under pandanus branches to stay dry. The rain had seeped through the leaves and dripped on her shoulders, running down her back, making her shiver. The tapping of the raindrops grew louder...

  She wriggled in her sleep and tried to squirm away, but finally the persistent sound woke her. That was not rain outside, she realized. The sounds she heard were of pebbles tossed against the cane walls of the house.

  In the darkness she lay clutching the wrap that covered her and wishing that the noise would stop. Why would someone be tossing stones? Then she remembered Rimapoa’s promise. Perhaps he had come with news about the trader.

  Still groggy, she wound her wrap around her body against the night’s chill. Feeling her way in the dark, careful to avoid waking anyone, she slipped outside. A half-moon gave enough light for her to find the bamboo fence. She moved away from the houses and called to Rimapoa softly, impatiently.

  Then she saw the fisherman, his clothing in disarray, his chest heaving, glistening with sweat. His hair was wild and his eyes frightened. She felt him shaking when he reached past the fence and grabbed her arm. “You must come with me. Now.”

  She had never seen him like this. “For what?” She tried to pull away from his harsh grip, but he would not let go.

  “Tangled-net’s kin have killed the trader. You will be next.”

  “Next? How can they harm me here? They would not dare invade the headman’s compound!”

  “They are desperate men. They will wait until you are out digging yams or bathing in the stream. Then ..."He made a sharp motion with his free hand, imitating a war club coming down.

  “I must tell the headman,” she said, her voice rising in anguish. “He will stop them.”

  The fisherman shook his head in dismay. She could see the urgency in his eyes. “Stop shadows? I do not know who all these men are. I recognized only two, and Tangled-net has many kin who pay the headman tribute. Will Pigs-run-out banish every one of them on the word of his daughter’s dancing teacher?”

  Tepua’s breath came faster and thoughts about the headman whirled through her mind. She did not want to ask favors of the man who had intended to share her mat tonight. She had avoided his attentions only by bringing him an intoxicating drink of ava, which had put him into a stupor. Such a ruse could not succeed twice.

  “Where can we go? How can we find refuge?” she asked as all the indignities she had suffered here came back to her.

  “The high chief will protect you. That is his obligation.”

  “The high ...” Her voice trailed off. She had asked long ago to seek the high chief’s aid, but Hoihoi had warned her that he lived far away. She knew something else about the high chief now. He was brother to that arrogant Matopahu!

  “We must go,” the fisherman pleaded. “At once. Before they start looking for you. I am in danger as well.”

  Tepua turned to look back at the women’s house, its thatch roof glimmering faintly in moonlight. The thought of leaving her friend Hard-mallet made her want to weep. She had also grown fond of her pupil, Small-foot. If she agreed with Rimapoa’s plan, she dared not go back, or tell anyone why she was leaving.

  Suddenly a chorus of cries from beyond the compound made her head spin around. Heavy footsteps pounded up the path from the shore. “Fire!” came the voices. “A big canoe shed is burning! Call the headman!”

  “That is also the work of those pigs,” Rimapoa hissed. “Now will you listen?”

  In a moment the uproar spread through the entire compound. Warriors hurried out through the gate. Servants spilled from the houses, pointed to the red-tinged sky, and began to moan and pray. Children awoke screaming.

  The shouts hurt her ears. Her pulse pounded at her throat. In the midst of this pandemonium, Tepua could think only of getting away. Rimapoa released her arm and she followed the crowd, rushing out through the open gate.

  “To my canoe,” he said, when he met her on the other side. “If we leave now, we can reach the high chief by dawn.”

  She ran beside him toward the beach, so quickly that she felt dizzy from exhaustion when she finally reached the sand. When she had caught her breath, she helped drag his boat into the surf. They nearly swamped the craft in their urgency to launch it. As Tepua scrambled in, Rimapoa set the mast and raised sail, stopping briefly to send anxious looks up and down the shore. The fire was still burning, glowing in the distance and filling the air with acrid smoke. Frantically she paddled, helping the sail’s pull until the canoe was well away from shore.

  At last a good stretch of open water separated the boat from the fire. Rimapoa set his course, following the coastline, and lashed the sail in place. Then he picked up a coconut from the bottom of the boat, but his hands trembled so badly that he dropped it.

  Tepua was also shaking, but she managed to retrieve the coconut from the bilges of the canoe. She broke the nut open with a flat stone she found there and handed it to the fisherman. She certainly did not fault him for lack of courage. What had he been through this night?

  First he spoke a prayer, then poured the milk into the sea. “I doubt such a small offering will undo what Tangled-net’s kin have done,” he muttered, “but I must try.” Then he described what had happened since she last saw him.

  When he was done, she understood. He was not shaking as a coward might, but like a brave man whose reserves were almost drained.

  “You see why I must leave here,” he said. “The gods are angry. I fear they will punish us by keeping the albacore from everyone’s hooks. So if Tangled-net’s kin do not kill me, my life will be worthless anyway.”

  “You were right to go, Rimapoa,” she said softly. “But I am sorry for Hoihoi.”

  “She knows nothing of our woes. She will miss me, perhaps. But soon her cousins will be visiting and she will not be alone.”

  “Even so, I am sad for you.”

  “Perhaps it has worked out for the best, tiare,” he answered. “I have too many enemies here. Even before you came, I was in danger. And living in some other place, perhaps you and I will not be kept so far apart.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. I had not thought of that.” She sank down into the boat, too exhausted to say more. The cries from shore had faded, and Rimapoa fell silent as well. All she could hear now was the gentle lapping of lagoon water against the hull and the crashing of distant breakers.

  Wishing she did not feel so weary, she splashed a bit of water on her face. Soon she would have to explain why she had fled. What could she say that would not make her troubles worse? As she tried to compose her words, imagining herself standing before the high chief, she kept seeing Matopahu’s face.

  10

  A NIGHT’s journey up the coast from where Tepua had set out, in the sacred courtyard of the high chief’s marae, a long ceremony was nearing its end. Since dusk, Matopahu had been sitting on the chilly stone pavement. His joints felt stiff and his body cold from his nightlong vigil, for the priests had allowed him to wear only a loincloth.

  Behind him, far off, he heard a cock crow, though he saw no hint of daylight overhead. That bird’s reward would come quickly, Matopahu th
ought with a faint smile. One of the high chief’s servants would go after the impatient fowl and seize it tightly by the neck. Knotted-cord did not like waking early.

  Matopahu sighed, imagining his brother asleep on his warm mat. There was no comfort here for Matopahu, though he sat at his place of honor in the tribal marae. The low walls that surrounded the open-air shrine did little to block the wind.

  Throughout the night the priests had been chanting. Now they began again. In the torchlight Matopahu watched the high priest, Ihetoa, kneeling before the huge ahu, the layered platform of rounded stones that towered over the far end of the courtyard. The priest, too, wore thin garments, a loincloth and a light fringed cape, exposing himself to the chill in order to gain the gods’ favor.

  Matopahu turned to glance at his friend, the underpriest Eye-to-heaven, who knelt at his own meditations. In the gloom he could see nothing of the expression on his taio’s face. It was at Matopahu’s insistence that he and Eye-to-heaven had come to witness the high priest’s ceremony, in hope that it might resolve the dispute over Matopahu’s prophecy. This would be Ihetoa’s third attempt at asking the gods for an answer. He had promised to call on the most powerful, the god of war, peace, and fertility, the great Oro.

  The chanting continued, until at last the sky brightened. Now Matopahu could glimpse the lagoon through the surrounding trees. To his side, on high poles near the center of the courtyard, stood the bamboo altar platform. Varied fruits, as well as a choice pig, had been laid out as offerings. On and around the stepped-stone ahu stood numerous carved boards, painted with red ocher, hung with strips of tapa and tufts of red feathers to please the gods. Soon, thought Matopahu, feeling light-headed from lack of sleep. Soon we will see if Ihetoa can keep up his sham.

  The high priest had never been pleased by the prophetic words that Matopahu spoke during his fits. Years earlier, Ihetoa had led the prominent men who opposed Matopahu’s assumption of the chiefhood. Matopahu’s father had given way to the influence of his advisers, altering the usual succession in favor of the younger son, Knotted-cord.

  Priests, Matopahu had come to realize, did not like having their roles as oracles overshadowed. On some islands, such as Urietea, a man might be both high chief and oracle. Here in Tahiti, the nobles and priests were too jealous of their privileges to permit such power to reside in one man. So they had kept Matopahu from the high office, though they could do nothing to take away his god’s voice. And Ihetoa was trying to disparage even that, by refusing to accept the prophesy.

  Now, finally, the high priest stood up and turned to the rear of the courtyard. He took a step forward, holding out his arms as a signal to his attendants. A lesser priest hurried up to place the tall forward-curving headpiece on his brow while another removed his simple cape and replaced it with one decorated by a rich fringe of feathers.

  From the tall rata trees that flanked the marae came a breathy moaning that made Matopahu’s nape hairs stand on end. It was only the wind in the branches, he told himself, but he knew that many spirits haunted this sacred place.

  Feathered cape billowing, the high priest stood watching Matopahu coldly. Ihetoa was an imposing man, broad across his shoulders and chest and solid through the belly. He had a face to match—wide, flat, with high cheekbones and full lips. An almost imperceptible nod of his head sent his assistants scurrying.

  Then Matopahu heard the conch trumpet blown, a resonant blast that made him look over his shoulder at the cluster of ceremonial buildings outside the courtyard. He saw two priests approaching, bringing with them the sacred god’s house from its keeping place. The ark was of polished wood, a closed chest covered by an arched roof of thatch. The men carried the ark suspended between two poles, and made their way carefully through the gap in the low wall surrounding the courtyard.

  The high priest took a step closer while the ark was placed on posts set up to receive it. Beside Ihetoa came a wizened old man dressed in a white waist sash and loincloth, his hands entirely blackened by tattoos. He was the god-handler, the one who actually opened the ark, unwrapped the sacred image from its scented bed of tapa and drew it forth. His hands carried so much mana, so much sacred power, that he could not feed himself, lest he make his food too dangerous for his stomach.

  A hush settled over the attendants as the old man came forward and reached under the thatch of the ark. There was but one opening, a round hole sealed with a sacred, white cloth. The god-handler slipped an age-withered forearm inside to draw out the image. To Matopahu, what emerged in the old man’s hands looked almost alive. He drew in his breath as he looked at the oblong shape covered with bright feathers, glowing in crimson like the heart of fire or the spilled blood of war.

  The high priest lifted his arms and chanted, “Oro, greatest and most terrible of gods, take on the mantle of these sacred feathers. Oro, fly to us from your place in the misty heights. Enter now into your image, your body, that we may hear you speak.”

  Matopahu’s throat grew dry. The ruddy light of dawn shimmered on the feathered covering and a breeze stirred it gently. Suddenly Matopahu saw the god breathe and move. So bright was Oro that his eyes ached to look on him.

  The acolytes and underpriests prostrated themselves before the image held aloft in the old man’s hands. Matopahu cast himself down along with them.

  He heard the high priest intone, “Oro, god of war and plenty, son of Ta’aroa and Hina-tu-atua, hear my plea. I beseech you to put away your wrath and offer us your wisdom.” The high priest chanted more words of praise to the god, then asked in a rising tone, “What can we expect in the coming season, O mighty one? Will the breadfruit bear in plenty? Or will the crop fail—as Matopahu warns us—leaving us with empty bellies?”

  The chief’s brother felt his lips trembling. He had not expected his own name to be mentioned. Now any blame for disturbing the god would clearly fall on himself. Nervously he watched the priest continue. Ihetoa leaned close to the image, as if to hear its answer, but did not dare touch it. A renewed moaning in the trees made Matopahu’s shivering grow worse.

  The high priest muttered and the moaning sound came again. Then Ihetoa was speaking, uttering words of gratitude and praise to Oro. The god-handler lowered the image and replaced it inside the ark. But what was the answer? Matopahu turned to his taio and saw only a puzzled frown.

  Ihetoa’s face betrayed nothing. He stood in silence, waiting until the god’s house was taken away. Then he raised his arms and turned toward the ahu of the temple. “Here is what great Oro has said to me,” he intoned, his voice harsh in the cool, morning air. “These words are addressed directly to Matopahu. ’Have patience,’ the god says. ’Do not try to be the first cock announcing the dawn. Remember what happens to the ones who crow too early.’” He lowered his arms, turned to the high chief’s brother, his face displaying a faint smile of satisfaction.

  “But that is no answer,” Matopahu protested as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Telling me to have patience. That settles nothing.”

  “Then you have not understood it,” Ihetoa replied coldly. “Talk to your priestly friend and let him explain.” He turned, walking solemnly out of the courtyard. His assistants lifted the god’s house and followed behind him.

  Matopahu understood the meaning well enough. It meant that Ihetoa could continue to stall, refusing to announce that the people should take action. And Matopahu already knew, merely by observing the trees, that little remained of the current breadfruit crop. Unless an effort was made to preserve much of this, and the root crops as well, many people would go hungry in the coming season.

  Matopahu wondered if Oro had really spoken. If he had, then perhaps the high priest had lost his ability to interpret the mysterious sounds that the gods made. In fury, he turned toward his taio.

  “I cannot prove him wrong,” whispered Eye-to-heaven. “At least he has not flatly denied your claim. He would not dare do that.”

  “But how long must we keep this to ourselves?”

 
“Our friends—your supporters—are quietly taking precautions, though it will not be enough if a real famine strikes. For now we must be satisfied with that.”

  “I will be satisfied,” answered Matopahu bitterly, “when Ihetoa is no longer my brother’s high priest.”

  A short time later Matopahu was walking along the wooded shore. His earlier weariness had vanished, driven off by his anger at the high priest, and he felt a need for exercise.

  In the marae, which lay on the nearby spit of land that jutted into the lagoon, he had left the ceremonial garment that the attendants had provided. Now he wore a waistcloth and shoulder cape plaited from strips of hibiscus bark. Unwilling, at this early hour, to don the elaborate headdresses affected by nobles at his brother’s court, he had wrapped his head with a turban, his only concession to vanity being a long plume fastened above his forehead. He walked barefoot, enjoying the feel of the sandy ground.

  To walk here was a privilege that his brother no longer could enjoy, Matopahu thought with a wry smile. Since assuming his title, Knotted-cord was carried everywhere he went so that contact with the sacred personage might not accidentally sanctify a place used by commoners. Not long ago, the chief’s bearer had stumbled, letting Knotted-cord’s leg brush the outside of a noblewoman’s dwelling. She had been forced to abandon the house, since it had been made sacred by the chief’s touch. Matopahu shook his head at the thought of the owner’s discomfiture, and dug his toes deeper into the sand.

  Then, with a sigh, he turned, looking toward the fence of bamboo that surrounded the high chief’s compound. Matopahu could see his brother’s residence, with its high thatched roof and walls of canes set closely together. He assumed that Knotted-cord was still sleeping soundly within. Or perhaps not so soundly ...

  The dispute over the famine prophecy was only the latest in a series of conflicts that had threatened the peace of the district. Though he did not encourage them, some men whispered of deposing Knotted-cord and making Matopahu their chief. Matopahu did not take these mutterings seriously. His brother’s hold on the high office was too strong now. Soon, Matopahu expected, the men who had pushed him aside would act to remove him from the court as well. In all likelihood, he would be forced into exile. Perhaps that would be for the good of all ... except himself.