Michener, James

by Hawaii

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  Again the crowd looked toward a new clown, for shark-faced Pa had grabbed a leaf-skirt and was crying in a shrill high voice, "Call me Tehanil" And he pirouetted grotesquely but with uncanny skill, evoking the Havaiki girl, until Teroro asked himself, "How could he have seen her dance? But his preoccupation with Pa was broken when he saw his own wife, Marama, leap into the dance in hilarious burlesque of her husband. "It's Teroro!" the crowd applauded as the skilled woman ridiculed her man, gently and with love, but also with keenest perception. As she danced Teroro wondered: "Who told ha about Tehani?"

  Marama and the shark-faced man were the night's success. Pa was so ugly and his features so preposterous that he could make them seem like those of any man; and he could be both gentle, as in his mimicry of Tehani, and savage, as in his next burlesque of the High Priest. With a bit of black tapa for a wig and a breadfruit branch for a staff, Pa gyrated furiously in demented manner, whirling about and pointing his stick at first one islander and then another. As he did so, Marama, dancing behind with a feather bag, played the burly executioner, clubbing down one victim after another. Finally, in a mock frenzy, the crazy dancer Pa gyrated directly up to King Tamatoa and pointed his stick at him, whereupon Marama rushed alongside, swung her feather bag, and brought it within an inch of the king's face. The victim fell as if his skull had been crushed, and lay in the sand, laughing, laughing.

  As the long wild night progressed, every item of island life was brought under ridicule, with chinless Pa as the ringleader. He pos-: sessed what islanders loved: a child's sense of fairy tale, and to watch his amazing pointed face move from one characterization to the next was endless joy. Toward dawn, when the fears and repressions of the past weeks were dissipated, a group of old women approached King Tamatoa and began pleading with him, obviously seeking some spe cial boon for the people, until at last he gave assent, whereupon the delegation's leader leaped withered-legged into the center of the crowd, screaming the good news: "Our great king says tonight we play the gourd game!" With hushed excitement the men and women sepa-rated into facing groups as King Tamatoa ceremoniously tossed toward the men a feathered gourd which glistened in the firelight. A chief reached out and caught it, danced a few ritual steps, then pitched it in a high, shimmering arc toward the eager women. A young girl who had long lusted after this man leaped into the air, snatched the gourd and dashed with it to the man who had thrown it. Clutching him by the waist, she rushed him passionately into the shadows, while the feathered gourd flew back and forth, determining the sleeping partners for that wild night.

  Teroro, although he had the island to choose from, elected his own wife, Marama, the penetrating clown, and as they lay quietly in the gray-and-silver dawn, with the timeless waves of the kgoon once more established over the night's loud revelry, Teroro confided, "Tamatoa has decided to leave the islands."

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  "I suspected he had reached some grave decision," Marama said. "He was so eager to laugh."

  "What I don't understand is, the High Priest has agreed to let Tupuna join us. And also to let us take Wait-for-the-West-Wind."

  Marama explained: "He's wise. He knows that islanders like to avoid direct conflicts that humiliate others. It's good procedure."

  Her words were so in conflict with his plans for revenge that he asked, "What about the humiliation we suffered at Havaiki? Would you forget that, too?"

  "I would," she said firmly. "When we're safe on some other island we can afford to forget Havaiki."

  He started to explain that she would not be going on the voyage, but he could find no words to do so gracefully; in cowardice he fell asleep, but after a while he half-woke and mumbled, "You were very funny tonight, Marama. You were really wonderful."

  WHEN THE DECISION to depart from Bora Bora was whispered from one village to the next, the island became a curious place, because no one admitted officially that the king was leaving. The High Priest continued to pay public deference to Tamatoa, and old Tupuna officiated at daily prayers to Oro. Young chiefs who had determined to join the expedition embraced wives who were obviously going to be left behind; but under this surface of indifference, all were preoccupied with one job: loading a canoe for an unknown voyage.

  Particular care was given to food supplies. It was relatively easy to prepare food that was going to be consumed on the voyage; it was dried in the sun and compacted into small bundles tied with ti leaves. What required special thought was the selection of roots and saplings for a new land. Experts sought taro roots that would produce the gray-blue tuber which made the best poi, and coconuts that came from the strongest trees, and breadfruit that did not grow too high but which did produce big heads rich in starch and glutinous sap. White-haired Tupuna spent three days selecting chickens that would yield meat and dogs that would bake well, for he constantly reminded his charges that they were heading for land that might be very spare, indeed.

  Then came the day when departure could no longer be politely masked, for with a saw made from a large sea shell, Teroro boldly cut eleven feet from each of the canoe's high sterns. "We cannot risk such high adornment on a long trip," he explained.

  "Auwel" cried men and women along the shore. "The great canoe of Bora Bora is being desecrated." Gently Teroro handed down the god-carved sterns, and priests bore them to the temple. The crowd watched while he used dried shark's skin to smooth the ends of the truncated stern, and he kept his back to the watchers as he worked, for he was praying, "Wait-for-the-West-Wind, forgive me for this mutilation," and out of his humiliation at having to cut down his

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  own canoe, an obsessive rage was generated which was to make departure from Bora Bora an event ever to be remembered in the islands.

  His rage increased when he left his deformed canoe and went to his own hut, where he threw himself on the floor and hammered the pandanus mats. Marama came to sit with him and assured him: "When we have found a new home we will find big trees and we can make new pillars for our canoe."

  "No! They'll remain as they are! A signal of our shame."

  "You talk like a boy," the placid-faced woman chided.

  "When I was a boy," he corrected, "if anyone insulted me, I beat him on the head. But now I'm a man, and Havaiki insults me without risks."

  "Teroro," his wife pleaded. "Look at it sensibly. What has Havaiki really done? They've invented a new god, and the world seems to prefer him. They haven't . . ."

  Teroro grasped his wife by the arm. "Haven't you heard the whispers?" he asked bitterly. "When Tamatoa goes, who is to be the new king? Fat Tatai of Havaiki."

  Marama gasped. "Have they gone so far?" she asked.

  "Yes!" Teroro snapped. "And do you know what they had the insolence to do? They proposed that I desert my brother and leave Bora Bora. I was to marry Tatai's daughter . . . trade pkces with him!"

  "Why didn't you tell me this?"

  "It was only now that I figured it out," he replied sheepishly. And as always, when he felt humiliated, he decided upon a plan of swift action. "Marama," he said hurriedly, "go across the mountain and assemble all who have agreed to paddle the canoe."

  "What are you planning?" she asked suspiciously.

  "To take West Wind for a trial, on the ocean. To see if the new stern works. Tell anyone who asks, that's what we're doing. But whisper to each man that he must also bring his best war club."

  "No, Teroro!"

  "Do you want us to creep away, unavenged?"

  "Yes. There's no dishonor in that."

  "Not for a woman, perhaps," Teroro said.

  Marama considered what was involved, the possibility of death and the chance that Havaiki might send canoes in retaliation, thus ending escape to the north, but after she had considered for a long time she said, "Since men are what they are, Teroro, you ought not to go unavenged. May the gods protect you."

  So, toward midafternoon two days before the intended
departure for Nuku Hiva, and while a good wind blew from the west, promising a later storm of some dimensions, thirty determined paddlers, plus the steersman Hiro and the navigator Teroro, set forth from Bora Bora to test their canoe. It moved sedately across the light green waters of the kgoon and stoutly into the dark waters of the outer

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  ocean, already whipped by the wind into sturdy waves. The canoe moved back and forth in speed tests, then hoisted sail and darted into a long leg down wind. When it had left the lee of the island Teroro asked, "Are we agreed?"

  "We are," Mato said, pulling his war club into position.

  "To Havaikil" Teroro shouted to the steersman, and West Wind tore into the waves and its paddlers strained as darkness fell over the impartial sea.

  For generations out of mind Bora Bora had been known among the islands as the land of the muffled paddles, for since it was the smallest of the major islands, its men were required to practice added caution. Now, with the dying moon not yet risen, they paused to wrap their paddle handles in tapa, so that they could creep silently, leaving barely a ripple on the sea, toward the hallowed landing of Oro, where only a few weeks before they had been so deeply humiliated.

  Gently, gently, the double canoe was beached before any outlook spotted it, and thirty resolute men, leaving two to guard the canoe, slipped into the night toward the village where fat Tatai, the intended king of Bora Bora, slept. The avengers had almost reached the village when a dog barked, causing a woman to cry, "Who's stealing breadfruit?" She sounded an alarm, but before effective action could be taken, Teroro and his men had fallen upon the village and were seeking out all who had insulted them, and most particularly fat Tatai, the nominated king.

  It was Teroro who led the avengers to Tatai's compound. There he and shark-faced Pa swept into the main hut, smashing and crashing all they encountered. A girl's voice, soft and petulant, whispered, "He is not here, Terorol"

  Then she screamed in pain, for Pa's great club struck her, and from the floor she whimpered, "He is not here."

  Pa was about to crush her skull when Teroro pulled him away and with his left hand dragged her to safety. From a flare set ablaze by the frugal woman who was determined to protect her breadfruit, Teroro saw that Tehani was naked except for a hastily grabbed skirt which she held before her, and he rediscovered her spectacular beauty. From a distance came his brother's voice: "Don t you know any young girl?" and on the impulse of the moment he brought Tehani's face to his and rasped, "Will you go north with me?" "Yes."

  "Are you hurt?" "My shoulder." "Broken?" "No."

  "Wait for me at the canoe." He thrust her toward the shore and then caught her again, muttering, "We have come to kill your father. Do you still want to go?" "Ill wait at the canoe," she said. Now he heard Mato shout, "We've found himl"

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  "Save him for me," Teroro pleaded, swinging his club, but when he reached the prostrate figure of Tatai he saw that Pa had already killed him. Grabbing a handful of thatch from a roof he spread it about the dead man's head. "The new king of Bora Boral" he cried derisively.

  "To the canoe!" the steersman shouted.

  "Not before we destroy this place!" Teroro cried, and grabbing from the woman's hand the brand by which she was inspecting her breadfruit, he swept it along the thatch of a nearby house; the rising wind ripped the flames along, and soon the sacred channel of Oro and the environs of his temple were ablaze. In this light, the men of Bora Bora retreated.

  At the canoe a battle raged, only prompt reinforcement saved the craft, for one of the guardians was already dead and the other was badly wounded. As the Bora Borans drove back the attackers and leaped into the truncated canoe, Tehani ran from a clump of palms, crying, "Teroro! Teroro!"

  "Traitor!" the defeated Havaiki warriors cried, already inventing an explanation that would excuse their defeat. They launched their spears and in their frustration would have killed her, except that Teroro left the canoe, leaped into the surf, and ran back to rescue her.

  "We are in danger!" the steersman warned, standing the canoe out into the channel.

  But Teroro continued running until he intercepted the girl and swept her into his arms. Then, dodging spears, he dashed for the beach and into the surf. He might not have made the canoe, except that Mato dived into the channel and took the girl, whose shoulder was so damaged that she could not swim. Together they lifted her into the canoe and set their course for Bora Bora, but before they had left the shadow of Havaiki, Teroro said to the girl, "We found your father."

  She replied, "I know."

  The return trip was one of intense excitement, marked by psycho-logical relief at having struck a blow at Havaiki and at the just pun-ishment of a stranger who had presumed to rule Bora Bora. And there was the ironic joy of knowing that before Havaiki could re-taliate�if indeed they ever dared try�all involved would be on the open sea, far from Bora Bora.

  But above all, there was great animal joy in realizing that during the strike at Havaiki, the promised storm had actually formed and that it now blew with real force, for although the unexpected strength of the westerly made the journey back to Bora Bora difficult, it also meant that the one essential requirement for a long journey to the north was at hand.

  "This storm will blow for days!" Teroro assured his men.

  At daybreak it became possible to turn and run before the wind

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  safely into the lagoon, and as they reached its protection Teroro drilled his men in the story they must tell: "We took West Wind for a trial. The storm came up. We saw we couldn't get back. So we laid over in the channel at Havaiki," He repeated the sequence and added, "In this storm no one from Havaiki would dare come here with the true story."

  "What about the girl?" Pa asked.

  Everyone looked at Tehani, huddling wet in the hull, and it was immediately apparent, especially to Tehani, that the simplest solution to the difficulty she presented would be to knock her on the head and throw her into the storm. Pa was ready to do this, but Teroro stopped him.

  "She's my girl," he said bluntly. "We'll take her to my house." "She'll betray us." "She won't. We'll say that while we were in the channel I went ashore to get her for the journey north." "Do you intend taking her?" Mato asked. "Yes. She's my girl." "What about your wife Marama?" "She can't bear children. She can't go." "This one will betray us!" Pa warned.

  Teroro reached down into the hull and pulled Tehani to her feet. Thrusting his face into hers he said, "Until we leave Bora Bora you will speak to no one about this night. No one." "I understand," she said, sinking back into the canoe. "It is you I will take north," Teroro promised her. As the canoe neared shore, Mato cried, "What a storm! We went all the way to Havaiki."

  Of all the listeners, only Marama knew the full significance of this statement: that some great revenge had been carried out. Swiftly she counted the canoe and saw that the young chief Tami had been lost. "Where is Tami?" she called. "He was lost reefing sail in the storm," Pa lied. A man called, "Why did you go all the way to Havaiki?" Pa answered, "Teroro went to fetch the girl he will take north with i him."

  From the bottom of the hull, where she had lain hidden, Tehani slowly rose, and it was in this way, with the west wind of the storm beating in her face, that Marama learned she would not be accompanying Teroro to the north. No sound escaped her lips. She stood in the wind with both hands pressed against her sides, her hair whip-I ping about her shoulders, her great placid face, handsome as a moon i on the thirteenth night, staring at the stranger in the canoe.

  She thought: "A man is dead. Some dreadful event has occurred that will contaminate the islands for years. Brave stupid men like my husband have gained their revenge, for what it matters. And a young stranger takes my place in the canoe." Patiently she studied the newcomer and thought: "She is beautiful and her body is well

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  formed. Perhaps she can have children. Perhaps it's better." But then she looked at Teroro, and her heart broke.

  Hiding her tears she turned to go home, but her degradation was not completed, for her husband called, "Marama!" She returned to the canoe and he said, "Take Tehani home," and Marama reached down and took the girl's hand and led her home.

  In its second night the storm rose to an intensity that quite precluded any departure on the day planned, and as the winds howled, those responsible for the voyage had a few last hours free for dreaming. The visions of Teroro were agitated, and toward dawn he saw two women standing by West Wind, and the canoe had no mast on which to hang its sail. He awoke in fright, shook his head vigorously, and realized that the two women were merely Marama and Tehani and their standing by the canoe signified only that each wanted to go north with him, so he wakened Marama, explaining, "The king wifl allow only one woman to go, Marama, and he insisted that I take a younger."

  "I understand," she said dully.

  "It isn't that I've grown tired of you," he whispered.

  "Tupuna explained," she replied.

  "You understand how it is? he pleaded.

  "I understand that I have given you no children."

  "You've been a good wife, Marama, but the king . . ."

  He fell asleep, but before the birds had wakened, he dreamed again and saw his canoe with no mast, and this time the two women spoke, Marama in a deep voice crying, "I am Tanel" and Tehani singing in a lilting voice, "I am Ta'aroal"

  Teroro woke trembling and cried, "Why should the gods speak to me on such a night?" And for a long time he tried to decipher the dream, for he knew that before a voyage each dream meant something, but he could not find the key. So he rose in the gray light of dawn, while winds howled and drove rain across the island, and hurried, almost naked, to'the hut of old Tupuna.

  "What did such a dream mean?" he pleaded.

  "Did the voices sound like those of gods?" the bearded old man queried.

  "No, they were women's voices, and yet Tane's was deep as it should be, and Ta'aroa's was high and piercing like his voice in a storm."