Daughter of the Reef

by Clare Coleman

  “I know about that boundary,” she answered coldly, recalling Aitofa’s rebellious words. “I can take refuge at the women’s shrine nearby.”

  “Then let us get some sleep,” said the priest. “My belly is full and I am already nodding.” He turned and went deeper into the cave.

  Tepua remained. She had not told why she was so eager to follow the men to the marae, and she was glad that they had not asked. Eye-to-heaven’s questions at the stream had helped her remember another detail from her vision. She had seen a second man, a temple attendant, a witness to the high priest’s transgression. If she could somehow find him ...

  Matopahu drew closer and put his arm about her. “The night will be cold again,” he said in a whisper.

  And it may well be our last together. She tried not to let that dampen her spirits. Tomorrow he might be killed for his arrogance in accusing the high priest. Or he might succeed in pushing Ihetoa from his office. In that case, Matopahu could probably take up his old life—a life in which she did not fit.

  It was possible, of course, that he would merely be forced back into exile. If he lost to Ihetoa tomorrow, she felt certain that the famine would continue. She was not so selfish as to want that.

  “Listen,” said Matopahu with a wink as the last gleam of sunlight vanished. He nodded back into the cave. “Our friend is already snoring. And I am not even sleepy.”

  She shook off her worries. “I know a way to tire you out,” she answered, teasing. “At least one part of you.” She let her hand travel slowly down his hard belly, coming to rest on the even harder erection in his lap.

  “I am not sure I can tire out you,” he replied. “But I am willing to try.”

  The men woke Tepua when there was barely light enough to find their way out of the cave. They emerged into the early-morning coolness, hurried along the streambed, past the fe ’i trees to the edge of the cliff.

  “It is easier going down,” Matopahu said when he saw her hesitate. “I will do it first, to show you.”

  He chose a place where two hibiscus-fiber ropes hung side by side. He drew up one line and knotted it about his waist, then took a firm grasp of the other and backed over the cliff. Tepua tried to watch him as he went, but the sight of the ground far below made her head swim.

  Then she heard him call that he had finished the first leg of the descent. She pulled up one line, fastened it around her waist, and wound her fingers about the other. Her hands were already shaking. She suspected she would always feel this way when facing heights—she would have to go ahead anyway.

  Hand over hand, she let herself down, bracing her heels against the damp rock. She focused on her feet, refusing to look anywhere else.

  And then she was out of rope, forced to balance on a ledge while she untied herself. For the next part of the descent, she had only a single rope for her hands. She inched down the slope while she tried to imagine that she was only a few steps above the ground.

  The illusion sustained her awhile. She fell into a daze, no longer searching for handholds or footholds, but letting her body find them. Abruptly she was startled by Matopahu’s voice from below.

  “Slide the rest of the way,” he shouted. “It is quicker.”

  She dared a look down. Not much worse than the drop from the cave’s mouth. She tried wrapping her legs and arms about the line, letting herself slide until she hit the ground. Her hands stung from the cord, but she was safe.

  While Tepua caught her breath Eye-to-heaven arrived, looking as if he had enjoyed the dizzying descent as much as a good meal. She felt briefly envious of the men as they moved on, following the trails she had taken with the Arioi.

  Wistfully, she recalled the leisurely pace of her friends on the way up. Her current companions seemed never to need rest. Sometimes they even led her into strenuous “shortcuts,” plunging through a thicket or down a streambed, to emerge again onto another section of trail. The sun was only a little past its peak when they neared the coastal plain.

  From here on, the three had to avoid the main trails completely. Matopahu led the way along a winding course, through stands of hibiscus that hid them in shadow, then down a dry gully flanked by withering ferns. They detoured around the chief’s compound and finally approached the great marae.

  “You must stay there,” whispered Eye-to-heaven, pointing in the direction of the women’s shrine that Tepua had visited several times before. She agreed, and waited for the men to go ahead. When they were almost out of sight, she followed them, hiding in the shadows beneath the high, leafy rata trees.

  Not far ahead, she glimpsed the carved figures that marked the borders of sacred ground. Except in the rarest of circumstances, no woman could step beyond them and expect to live. But Tepua had an urgent reason for going on. She wanted a look at the attendants, the opu-nui, who served the priests.

  Her pulse quickened as Matopahu and Eye-to-heaven approached the boundary—and crossed it. Thinking she might lose them, she tightened her fist in despair. Keeping just outside the forbidden ground, she followed, watching the two men pass the low stone walls of the sacred courtyard.

  Near the marae wall almost hidden in the shadows of the overhanging trees, stood a group of small houses. In front of the doorways, several temple attendants lay asleep. While her companions approached from one side Tepua circled around to approach from another.

  She could not be certain if the houses themselves stood on sacred ground. Yet she crept up to the largest, keeping to the side that faced away from the marae, while the men went to the doorway and entered without announcing themselves.

  She peered through a gap in the wall and saw the high priest jump up with surprise from his sleeping mat. “Where are my attendants?” he shouted. “Get up, you lazy pigs! Look who dares come here—the false prophet, and the upstart who would like to take my place.”

  “We come for no personal gain,” answered Eye-to-heaven. “The famine forces us to seek you out.”

  His calm manner seemed to infuriate Ihetoa. “There is no famine!” the high priest retorted. He poked Eye-to-heaven in the stomach with a forefinger. “Look at your fine belly if you think otherwise.” Ihetoa turned to regard Matopahu. “Why should I care if the chief’s brother insists on seeing bad fortune all around him? The buds are a little late, but the breadfruit will come. I have declared it so.”

  “Declare it louder, for the trees have not listened,” Matopahu said. “In the night sky, the Seven Little Warriors are also announcing the season of plenty. Yet I see only leaves on the breadfruit trees. You delude yourself and your people, high priest.”

  “That is the last I will endure from you.” Ihetoa turned, shouted an order to his attendants who stood at the door. Tepua saw a dozen brown-girdled opu-nui rush in carrying heavy sticks.

  She shivered as she watched Matopahu hold up his hand—the same hand that he had wrapped in bark-cloth. “If you touch me, you will bring the anger of Knotted-cord down on you,” he said to the men. “I may be in exile, but I am of the high chief’s blood. An insult to me is an affront to him as well.”

  The temple attendants glanced at each other uneasily.

  “Your slick tongue can be silenced,” Ihetoa said, narrowing his eyes as he studied Matopahu. “I have the power to arrange it.”

  Tepua saw Eye-to-heaven step forward. “Now your own words betray you, Ihetoa. You admit, before us all, that you play with the lives of men.”

  The high priest’s eyes went cold and glittery. All motion in the room froze. “Do not cross me, small priest,” Ihetoa said, “unless you wish to suffer the same fate.”

  “Your threats mean nothing,” said Matopahu. “You have abused your office, Ihetoa, and now you must answer for what has happened. Look all around you. There may be no famine for us of the higher ranks, but what of those less fortunate?” He turned to one temple attendant. “Have you begun to worry about starvation? Speak the truth!”

  The man glanced nervously at Ihetoa and did not reply.

/>   “I know you are afraid to answer,” said Matopahu. “You are fed well here, after all. But what of your family and your neighbors?”

  The man looked away and took a step backward, but Tepua heard muttered agreement from his companions.

  “I will go outside and ask the others,” Matopahu challenged. The attendants made way for him. Tepua remained hidden as he came out, peering at the scene from behind a bush. In front of the houses, evidently drawn by the commotion, a larger group of opu-nui and priests were gathering.

  “Listen to me,” said Matopahu to the growing crowd. “Ihetoa denies there is a famine because he is to blame for not ending it. He made offerings to the gods, and they ignored his pleas. For good reasons! It was his irreverence that angered the gods and made them punish us. I accuse the high priest of hara.”

  Hostile whispers passed through the crowd. Several attendants shifted their sticks nervously from one hand to the other.

  Ihetoa emerged from the house and strode into the crowd. “Anyone who disobeys me now will be meat for the altar,” he declared in a steady voice. “You men let yourselves be swayed too easily. I tell you, the gods will take care of us. When I make the final offerings, you can be certain that my prayers will be heard.”

  “Answer the charge of hara!” an underpriest bellowed.

  Ihetoa drew himself up. “How can I answer such a falsehood? I have been high priest here since Knotted-cord was a child. Not once has anyone found fault with my reverence.” He turned slowly, surveying the faces. “You have all served with me. You have all been in the marae and felt the sacred touch of the gods as they descended. Every season I carried out the holy rituals, and they were always successful.”

  “It is true,” several men replied.

  “There is more,” said Ihetoa. “When a fever gripped Knotted-cord and no one could drive it off, do you remember what happened? I went to the marae and asked the gods to take me in his stead. Matopahu did not stand beside me, nor did this other fellow who calls himself a priest. No. It was my humble plea that convinced the divine ones to save our high chief.”

  “He does have the gods’ favor,” muttered several more opu-nui.

  “He once had it,” Matopahu countered. “But no longer.”

  “Enough!” said Ihetoa to his men. “Take these troublemakers to Knotted-cord. He will know how to keep them from spreading their lies.”

  Once more Matopahu held up his hand, but this time the attendants surged toward him. Tepua anxiously scanned their faces, hoping she might still find the man she sought, an opu-nui from her vision who had been standing close to the high priest. But now it was too late. Matopahu and Eye-to-heaven, despite their vigorous protests, were being dragged away from Ihetoa’s house.

  In desperation, she sprang from behind the bush and shouted over the noise of the crowd. “One of you saw it. One of you witnessed the high priest’s sin.” She pointed at the center of the throng.

  The crowd of men spun to face her. “She profanes the marae!” shouted the high priest, his voice at a frightening pitch. He turned savagely on Matopahu. “This is the kind of man who accuses me of hara. One who brings a woman to soil the temple grounds!”

  “I am not on sacred ground,” Tepua shouted back, though she could not be certain.

  A party had started toward her with upraised sticks when Eye-to-heaven pointed to the boundary markers, stones set in the dirt beside the houses. The opu-nui grumbled among themselves, but agreed sullenly that Tepua had not violated the sanctuary. Even so, they glared at her and held their sticks ready.

  She gestured again at the crowd, crying out that the witness should be questioned. Which one was he? The face from her vision was nowhere in sight, but another man seemed to shrink from her accusations. She watched this opu-nui retreating to the rear of the assembly.

  “Enough!” Ihetoa roared. “Before you stands the true cause of our trouble. I know about this woman. She is the worst of these sinners, and the men have schemed to keep her from being punished. Take all three to the high chief.”

  The temple attendants looked confused. They held back for a moment, as if reluctant to touch a woman.

  Ihetoa shouted, “She is the one who broke tapu on Fenua Ura and stole feathers from the shadows of the gods. It is dangerous to touch her. Drive her before you with your weapons.”

  Tepua glanced behind her, searching for a path of escape, but for a moment longer she stood her ground. “Ihetoa wants you to forget the charges against him,” she answered. “That is why he accuses me now. Let him question instead the man who witnessed his own sin. Look! The rascal is trying to run away.”

  In the confusion, every man glanced at his neighbor, and small arguments broke out among the opu-nui. Then, from the rear of the crowd, came shouts and the sound of blows. Two men dragged another forward.

  Tepua stared at the small fat face, the pursed lips, the tangle of beard on the chin. She could not be sure that this was the man from her vision, but his expression of fear betrayed him.

  “Let the opu-nui speak,” said Matopahu.

  “I have nothing to say,” the temple attendant squeaked, fear making his sparse beard shake with the quivering of his chin. Ihetoa tried to interrupt the proceedings, but the sudden raising of sticks silenced him.

  Matopahu turned to the quaking opu-nui. “If you will not speak the truth, we can learn it another way. Eye-to-heaven will perform a divination.”

  At this, the man went even paler, and sweat shone on his face. He cast a pleading look at the high priest, but now Ihetoa had no help to offer.

  Then the accused man turned to Tepua, his expression changing to one of awe. “How could you have known this?” he asked her in a quavering voice. “It is said that the gods sometimes speak to a woman when no man will listen. They must have chosen you to help me purge myself of this hateful knowledge.” Visibly overwhelmed, he flung himself at Matopahu’s feet.

  “Have mercy, noble one!” he cried. “I did see the high priest’s irreverence, but I kept silent. When he offered a ’two-legged fish’ on the altar, I saw him grin with triumph. I knew he was not thinking of the gods, but of his own victory, for he had long sought to do away with that man.”

  Matopahu and Eye-to-heaven picked the attendant up, setting him on his feet. Tepua watched Matopahu shade his eyes and scan the group. “Are there others who can add to this testimony?” Matopahu asked.

  After a brief silence, an old dignified priest from the lesser ranks came forward. He said that he, too, had witnessed Ihetoa’s failings. He had grieved over them, but had kept silent out of fear. “I am also guilty,” said the old man, “for not telling what I knew. This has long troubled me. Now I must make amends for my lack of courage.”

  “At last we have something worth bringing to Knotted-cord’s attention,” Eye-to-heaven replied. “Let us go to him and repeat what has been said here. Let the high chief decide the outcome.”

  “Wait,” said Ihetoa. “Two men may see the same fish, but each tells a different story about its length. In my own eyes, I have done no wrong. If I appeared pleased during the offerings, it was only because I knew that I was making the gods happy.”

  “There is more to it than that,” answered the old priest.

  “I have not finished explaining,” said Ihetoa.

  “You must step down,” said the old priest. “That is the only way to settle this. Let another take your place, until you are freed from your sin. Give this new high priest a chance to make prayers. If the breadfruit trees bud, then we will know I am right.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “Then take back your office, confident that your innocence has been proved. If that comes to pass, put me up on your altar and see if my flesh will appease the divine ones.”

  When the old man stopped speaking, the crowd of opu-nui, swelled now by all the priests from the marae, began to shout and wave whatever weapons they carried. They advanced on Ihetoa, and his protests could not hold them back. The flo
od of men surged from the marae and toward the high chief’s compound.

  Tepua fled, taking another route, until she found refuge in a quiet grove near the shore. Then she fell down and hugged the warm sand until her trembling ceased.

  She did not hear anyone approach. The sound of a voice made her start, and she jumped up to flee again.

  “I have been searching everywhere,” said Matopahu softly, sitting beside her, taking her in his arms. She could not believe how reassuring his touch felt at that moment.

  Her heart was still pounding. “I did not know—what they would do to me.”

  “You are safe now,” he answered. “My brother has been forced to give Eye-to-heaven the high priest’s office.”

  “And Ihetoa?”

  “He will be sent away—to serve at a lesser temple until he can cleanse himself of the sin.”

  She let her breath out slowly. “Then you have all you wanted.”

  “I have a victory. Are you not pleased?”

  “For you, yes. And for the people harmed by Ihetoa. But I fear that your taio will learn about my offense now. He heard the priest’s accusation. He will ask questions.”

  “Do not fret, my coral flower. Eye-to-heaven cannot treat you as an ordinary woman. Not after the way you found that opu-nui. You must—as the poor fellow said—possess some gift from the gods.”

  He pressed his nose warmly against hers. “There is something you have not told me,” he said gently. “How did you solve the riddle of my oracle?”

  She stiffened, remembering Bone-needle’s many warnings, but saw no way to keep her secret now. Of all men, surely Matopahu would be the most willing to understand. “I had a vision,” she confessed quietly, and explained how she used string figures to bring it on. “Ihetoa appeared, and

  I witnessed his offense in the marae. I saw the other man also, but not so clearly.”

  Matopahu’s eyebrows arched in surprise. He told her that he had never heard of such an ability. “Then you are blessed by the gods,” he said, drawing back from her, leaving a sudden space of chilly air between them.