Horror in Paradise

by Anthology

  As I peered into the water-mirror I had a ghostly feeling that many brown faces of long-dead Hawaiians stared over my shoulders; there were warriors and women, maidens and young men. Was this an oracle, a crystal in which one read the future? What had brought them; what had they found in the dark pool?

  We scrambled down the steep sides to a ledge near the water, descending from the warm sunlight into a grave-cold shadow. The Old Man stripped off his shirt and trousers and stood in short, spotless drawers. (Drawers, in a spot like that!) Nalani kept on her flimsy shift, I improvised a breechclout from the sleeves of my shirt. Having gotten down to essentials, I waited, prepared for anything.

  Although the Old Man, with his withered, wrinkled flesh hanging in loose folds on his spare frame, looked like a molting condor, I could see that he had been a grand figure in his youth (some time b. c. if one judged by appearances).

  The Old Man took several deep breaths and dived, groping his way down the black wall of the pool. Quite startlingly he started to disappear, first his head, then shoulders and trunk, finally legs. We had a last pale glimmer of the soles of his feet . . . and he was gone; into the face of the rock apparently. He “went out,” as frogs “go out” down the gullet of a snake. The sight was not comforting.

  “Where Old Man go?” I asked Nalani anxiously.

  “Inside,” she replied briefly, poising for a dive. “You come.”

  “Come, my eye! I want to know where we’re going.”

  “Inside.” She smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world to prowl around in dark underwater grottos.

  “Wait,” I insisted. “I go same time you go.”

  This was tricky business. I’ve always had a dislike of being cooped up in trappy places. Diving into unknown “insides” of rocks was not appealing. To back out was to lose all I had gained of the confidence of these people. Auwe!

  I filled my lungs to the last crowded inch. We dived. The water was colder and seemed damper than any I had ever entered before. I could follow the flash of Nalani’s legs as we turned under a submerged ledge and fumbled into murky darkness. It was creepy. Panicky thoughts invaded my mind. These Hawaiians were regular fishes in the water and could stay under indefinitely. Suppose I couldn’t hold out. I couldn’t turn back, we’d gone too far. I plowed on. My lungs began to heave and I knew things were getting out of control. I wanted to gasp. My eyes felt as though they would pop out like grape pulps.

  I saw Nalani slant up toward a faint glow of light, and nearly strained a ligament following after. I must have shot completely out of the water in my anxiety to breathe again.

  We were in a cave about the size of a large room. The roof arched about fifteen feet above our heads. The only light was that which reflected through the hole by which we had entered. I was surprised to see how short the distance was to the pool outside. It had seemed like a city block.

  A greenish corpse-light illumined the cave faintly. Our faces showed an unhealthy mauve tint; our bodies, under the water, were the white of eggshells. Dark rocks hung heavily above us, veined with a clotted blood-red and speckled with small spatters of white deposit which seemed to glow with phosphorescence against the black surface. The air was stale with the musty smell of roots and decay. There was a steady drip-drip of seeping water from stubby stalactites (if they’re the things that hang down) on the ceiling.

  The Old Man pointed to two ledges about as large as bench seats that jutted from the wall on either side. Nalani perched on one of them; I crawled up on the other. Our guide swam back and forth, pointing to the seats and at the red veins in the rocks and the white specks, fixing them in our attention. He said nothing. I think he saved up his words until he had enough and then told a story.

  By this time I was dull blue with cold and my flesh felt like stucco; and despite the fact that I was deeply appreciative of the honor of dipping into this sanctified mysterious water, I wanted to get out.

  The Old Man led off toward the exit. His rear view, with the legs and arms paddling grotesquely in silhouette against the dim greenish light, looked ridiculously like an enormous, skinny frog. Nalani followed; she was always a mermaid in the water. I had no one to view my exit, so I made it hurriedly and without grace.

  In the first seconds after emerging and scuttling up the walls of the well we got a curious illusion. The sudden blinding light, flooding over everything, made the lava and the distant trees and mountains look as though they had been freshly painted with many shades of gold lacquer.

  We stretched on the warm rocks and thawed, letting the sunlight seep into our very bones, melting them pleasantly. I felt as a jellyfish must feel when stranded on the sand.

  Finally the Old Man broke into his chanting talk, gesturing toward the cave and toward the high slopes of Haleakala. I gathered that something horrible had happened here at some time. Nalani translated the story. The cold black and white of print can catch only the skeleton of the legend. It needs the soft, slurring voice, the gestures, the setting, to give the real flavor of the Legend of the Mirror-Water Cave and the Princess Popoalaia.

  A very long time ago (legends begin this way in Hawaii, France, China, or Madagascar) high up on the slopes of Haleakala lived the Princess Popoalaia. She was married to a man far beneath her in station. Although he was strong as the strongest of men, and his skill in games and contests was great, although he was a splendid, fearless warrior and hunter, he was not a kind husband. He was a sullen, suspicious man, jealous of his beautiful wife’s every movement. He watched her constantly, and when he had to go down to the sea for fishes and seaweed (which the Hawaiians use for medicine and food) as he often did, his heart was heavy with suspicion. On his return he invariably questioned her closely, and, not content with her avowed innocence, he also questioned the men of the family and the women who were with her.

  Often he threatened his wife until she feared for her life. Yet she was as innocent and pure as the flowers that she wove into leis that she bound about her hair.

  On returning from one of his frequent trips, Kaaka, the husband, was filled with unreasoning jealousy. He had listened to tales told by malicious neighbors, and so angry was his mood that he lost all sight of her gentle sweetness and beauty. He strode into the house in rage, and, when his wife spoke to him, he answered her harshly.

  “Your time is short,” he said.

  He went out, and to the frightened ears of the princess came the sounds of Kaaka sharpening his stone axe. Often before he had spoken threatening words, but none so terrible as these.

  Summoning her little maid, she said, “I must go quickly or my life will not be spared.” Together they collected a few of the princess’ belongings, some precious keepsakes, among them the kahili, a wand that was tipped with feathers in a certain arrangement, which indicated her rank and family. They cut a hole in the rear wall of the grass house and fled from the place into the forest. Then, by underground passages and lava tubes, they made their way to the sea near Hana.

  Kaaka searched the countryside, first in anger, later in despair. There was no sign of the princess. Finally, coming to the village of Hana, he inquired of the people if they had seen her. No one could say yes. They did mention that the beach nearby was haunted by spirits, and that at night figures could be seen dancing in the moonlight. These figures disappeared as soon as human presence was recognized. Kaaka attached no significance to this.

  Finally, weary with his long search, he came to the pool of Wainapanapa and rested beside it. Because it looked cool and shadowy, he crept down the rocks to the ledge and stared idly into the bright water. His eyes were almost closing with fatigue when suddenly he saw something moving slowly back and forth, apparently deep in the pool. He thought it was a fish or bit of seaweed. He was startled to discover that it was the reflection of a kahili, the kahili of Princess Popoalaia. He knew then that within the cave the woman he sought was hiding. His anger seethed in his heart.

  He called to his men, and, with two of th
e strongest, slipped into the water, dived under the ledge and, before the women could escape, seized them. The warriors dashed the little maid to death against the rocks, while Kaaka, blind with rage and brutal with savage strength, murdered Popoalaia violently. Her blood stained the black rocks and her brains were scattered over the roof of the cave. The earth shuddered and huge boulders fell from the ceiling. The men fled from the place of horror.

  Because the princess was of royal blood, and so related to the gods, and because she was innocent, the spirits that ruled the islands decreed that the rocks of the Mirror-water Cave should bleed forever. It is said that on the nights of Ku, when the moon is in a certain phase, the waters of the cave rim red.

  André Dupeyrat

  The Man Who Turned

  into a Cassowary

  The Catholic Mission in New Guinea, second largest island in the world, was founded by Father Henry Verjus and two lay brothers of the newly born religious order of the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart in 1885 on Yule Island, off the southern coast some seventy miles west of Port Moresby. To this spot Father Andre Dupeyrat came at the age of twenty-seven and spent two decades ministering to the Melanesian people of the region.

  Born in Cherbourg and having served in the French cavalry, Father Dupeyrat was ordained in 1929. He was returned to France in 1951, charged with spreading news of the missionary efforts in the New Guinea area then under Australian administration. He became a member of several learned societies but is best known for several popular volumes in translation, such as Papuan Conquest (Melbourne, 1948), Festive Papua (London, 1955), Papua: Beasts and Men (London, 1963), and Savage Papua: A Missionary among Cannibals (New York, 1954; British title Mitsinari), from which “The Man Who Turned into a Cassowary” is selected.

  I WAS once more making an expedition with the cure. Now, it was true, I had tried my wings and was allowed to go off alone, but we still made fairly frequent trips together, like two old black toucans which, like the ravens, always fly in pairs. Besides, these shared journeys were a necessity. To live perpetually alone among natives proves in the end as wearisome to mind as to body. One is separated by several thousand miles from any center of culture and civilization, severed from the ideas and events that agitate and change the rest of the world. This is not necessarily a bad thing, even quite the contrary. But the lack of any cultural or intellectual interchange, and the easy way one slips into the laziness and lassitude almost inevitably encountered in primitive countries, mean that the mind grows blunt and rusty. All these factors, in addition to the generally harsh conditions of existence, might well reduce the isolated missionary to the mentality and level of his primitive and wretched charges, whom he is nevertheless expected to educate and guide.

  We had reached Mondov’Imakoulata—a charming little mission station situated in the territory of the Mondo tribe, and dedicated to the Immaculate Virgin. It consisted of a single-roomed house, built however with proper planks, and a church built of palm trunks with a roof of glinting corrugated iron. It lay only two hours distant from Fane-les-Roses, in the direction of the great central range. Built on a tiny plateau which overlooked the whole upper valley of the Auga, Mondov’Imakoulata served four villages, of which one quite close by was called Mondo.

  That evening, the grave and dignified Josepa, who was catechist for the region, together with two village notables and three old men from Mondo, had arrived to keep us company. The conversation soon grew animated in the comfortable intimacy of our little house. Outside, the night was dark, a thick darkness without moon. Whenever there was a momentary silence, one could hear the rumble of mountain torrents, and the wind rustling and rattling through the foliage of the great trees. Meanwhile, as we sat by lantern light, with our guests squatting around us, we talked of a hundred and one items of local gossip. The talk happened to turn to someone who had recently been much in the public eye—a certain Isidoro Ain’u’Ku.

  Isidoro was still a young man, a member of the Hide tribe who lived near the sources of the Dilava. Extremely intelligent, and full of verve and energy, he had been one of the first to take instruction when Father Norin and Father Bachelier had visited his village for the first time a few years earlier. In a very short time, he had grasped their teachings and had passed his catechumen’s examination brilliantly.

  Then, after the compulsory period of probation, he had been accepted for baptism.

  Before giving him the sacrament, however, the missionary had asked him: “Are you married?” Ain’u’Ku had replied in the negative, and all the villagers had confirmed his assertion.

  In actual fact, he had been married, but against his will. For while he was still a child of no more than fifteen months, his parents had chosen an even younger girl child to be his future bride. For a long time, he had thought of her as his sister—a sister whom, besides, he could not bear. Growing older, and realizing the truth, he had refused to accept her as his wife.

  Unfortunately, they had already lived together beyond the age of puberty, and he had thus given at least tacit, and in any case, public consent to the union. And even though a pagan one, his marriage was indissoluble. Now that he had become a Christian, he was obliged to take back his legitimate wife, who, for her part, had also been converted.

  When he learned of this decision, Ain’u’Ku argued for a time, and ended up by shouting furiously:

  “If that is how it is, I shall no longer belong to God—now I shall go and place myself in the devil’s hands! . . . “

  He kept his word.

  For nearly a year, he disappeared from view. In the mysterious depths of the forest, he went through his novitiate as a sorcerer, guided by some hierophant who taught him the magic rites and formulas, the incantations, and the various ways of killing people. He appeared once more in his own village, thin, gaunt, and sunken-eyed, but with the title and already the reputation of sorcerer. And as he was very subtle, clever, and enterprising, his renown, and the fear it inspired, rapidly spread.

  “Father, we tell you this is the truth,” said one of the old men. “Ain’u’Ku has the power to change himself into a cassowary.”

  The cassowary is a bird rather like the ostrich. It is strong, stupid, and voracious. One can hear a cassowary coming along the forest tracks from a long way off. As it runs, it beats its side with short wings, producing a sound rather like the chuff-chuff of a railway engine that is still getting up steam. Its huge feet, armed with redoubtable claws, strike thudding echoes even from the spongy and elastic floor of the forest.

  We could not help laughing when our other guests earnestly seconded the old man’s story. We had heard all those ancient legends about men who turned into beasts before—for did not Europe as well as Papua have its tales of werewolves and other lycanthropic monsters? Rather indulgently, we set about delivering them from these backward notions. Suddenly, one of them made a sign, and we all fell silent. From far away, we could just hear the sound of a cassowary running.

  Now the interesting thing was this: everyone knows that cassowaries do not travel by night. Nor, for that matter, do the Papuans. There are too many dangers lurking on the rough mountain trails as they wind along the precipices, and even worse, there are the spirits of the forest. The notion that someone might be playing a trick on us was thus ruled out. Besides, the practiced ears of our guests, and even our own hearing, could not have deceived us. It was without doubt a cassowary.

  “We were talking about Isidoro,” someone murmured in a strangely altered voice. “He must have heard us. He’s coming . . .”

  At this point, it should be mentioned that Isidoro’s village, Hide, was beyond the main range of mountains, on the opposite side to its western slopes on which was perched the little mission station of Mondo. Thus, the journey from Ilide to Mondo, even for a Papuan, entailed a good five hours of steep climbs and almost vertical descents over a series of razor-backed ridges, plunging ravines, and narrow gorges, the whole way lying through dense virgin forest at altitudes varying
from three thousand to nearly eight thousand feet.

  We shrugged our shoulders. No one could possibly make such a journey by night, unless he took pains to light his way with resinous torches and advanced with great caution—a process which would stretch the traveling time to at least ten hours, instead of five.

  Meanwhile, the sound of the cassowary drew rapidly nearer. Soon, we heard clearly the drumming of its massive feet on the clay floor of our small courtyard. Then, abruptly, it ceased. A few seconds later, our door was pushed open and someone entered. It was Isidoro.

  “I heard that you were here,” he declared, all smiles. “I have become bad, but you are still my fathers. I have come to see you and to say your name” [i.e., to welcome you]. “Give me a little tobacco to eat”—[that meant, to smoke]—” so that we can talk comfortably together.”

  He squatted down before us, shredded up with his nails the hard little wedge of tobacco I had given him, rolled it in a scrap of newspaper, then lit his cigarette with my lighter. We began to talk of one thing and another. Our Mondo friends, gray with fear, said nothing.

  Isidoro, who appeared quite fresh and at ease, stayed nearly an hour. We did not, at any point, make any mention of the cassowary. Nor did he.

  “I am paying a visit to Mondo,” he said, finally getting up. “I am going back there to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We shook hands, and he departed.

  Scarcely had the door closed behind him, than we heard once more the thudding of the cassowary’s feet and wings.

  I leaped outside. The night was black as ink. I could see nothing, and my shout received no answer. But beneath the black sky with its sparse spangling of winking stars, under the loud rustling of the wakeful forest, could be heard, unmistakable and baleful, the dying thunder of the cassowary’s running feet.

  It became imperative to throw some daylight on this mystery. Otherwise, the superstitious beliefs that held our villagers in thrall would only be confirmed and strengthened.