Daughter of the Reef

by Coleman, Clare;

  She took another sip of water as she recalled what her father’s guests had said of their journeys. Hope formed her words. “Tahiti? Then ... I am only three days’ sail from home! You can take me back!”

  The other woman threw back her head, big body shaking as she laughed. “Girl, you don’t have enough strength to sit up on a mat, let alone a canoe. Lie back and rest.”

  Tepua’s body wanted to do that. Stubbornly she willed her tired head to lift, her eyes to stay open. “I can do it. Prepare a canoe.”

  “Prepare a canoe!” The Tahitian woman turned to a man in the far corner. “Did you hear that, brother? She is ordering us around as if she were the headman’s firstborn daughter.”

  “She has had too much sun, Hoihoi,” he answered from across the room. Then he came closer and crouched beside Tepua. Her vision was blurred, forcing her to squint at him. He had weathered skin, small wrinkles about the eyes and mouth, and he smelled of fish.

  “You will take me home,” Tepua said, addressing him as she would a servant.

  The man glanced at the heavyset woman in puzzlement.

  “Take you?” Hoihoi squealed in outrage. “He has no time for that. If you want to go home, you can swim!”

  Tepua ignored her, concentrating her attention on the man.

  “You must rest—” he began in a patient voice.

  “What is your name?” she interrupted.

  “Rimapoa.”

  “Rimapoa, I need to go home.” She said the words slowly, trying to soften her “k” and “g” sounds. Surely it must be a matter of understanding. If these common people knew what she needed, they would do it. That was the way things had always been.

  She didn’t like the way his expression hardened, although a little kindness remained in his eyes. Perhaps she had better try a different approach. “My father will reward you,” she offered, not allowing herself to doubt that Kohekapu, who had sailed with the wedding party, was still alive. “He will give pearl-shell fishing hooks, as many as you want. I know how much you value them.”

  The fisherman leaned closer, his interest evidently roused. “And who is this father of yours?”

  Taking a deep breath, she recited Kohekapu’s full name with all his titles, including even those now bestowed on her eldest brother.

  Hoihoi began to laugh. “So many titles! One for each little pile of coral!”

  “You would not laugh if he were standing here. Look. Here is the proof of my birth.” She turned her hand to show the back, where she carried her special tattoo, a unique rosette that was reserved for her family.

  Hoihoi wiped tears of mirth from her face. “That mark means nothing to me,” she said. “And now I think I have heard enough from you. My brother has made you our guest. Otherwise, I would throw you out to sleep with the pigs.”

  You should be beaten, Tepua almost shouted in reply. Yet a sudden fear stopped her tongue. Clearly, her father’s authority meant nothing here. The Tahitians could do with her as they pleased.

  If she wanted them to help her, she would have to use charm and tact, not threats. Even if she must humble herself ... She glanced down at her body, naked but for a small cloth about the hips. Somehow Hoihoi had washed her and rubbed coconut oil onto her skin to help relieve the sunburn. She had wrapped leaves about Tepua’s hands, with a poultice to ease the pain of coral cuts.

  She swallowed hard and realized that she would have to show her appreciation. It was not something she was used to doing, especially to those she considered beneath her.

  “It was ... kind of you,” she said, feeling awkward and a little angry. “I know you ... did not have ... to help me.”

  “Then let us hear no more talk about atoll chiefs,” replied Hoihoi.

  Too exhausted to say more, Tepua sank back onto the mat. Rimapoa stayed beside her. He looked down and gave her a sad little smile. “You need to rest,” he said again, smoothing back her hair. She wanted to flinch from his touch, but found herself too tired to care. His hand was warm and dry, his fingers gentle.

  “I would rest better at home,” she tried again. “Is there no way to take me?”

  “I have a small outrigger canoe that I use for fishing,” he admitted.

  “Then you could ...” She tried to sit up again, but his hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

  “You are in no shape for an ocean voyage. The trip would be long and full of dangers.”

  “But I managed to get here—by myself—in a little canoe.”

  “With the gods’ help, yes. But do not forget that winds and currents helped carry you to us. To go back in the direction of dawn is far more difficult. Let us not speak of it until you are stronger. Instead, lie still and let Hoihoi nurse you.”

  Tepua allowed herself to slump back. She felt as though the world were spinning away from her. Everything was so different here—the speech, the customs, the houses.

  She shut it all out. Nothing here mattered. She would soon go home, to rejoin those of her family who still lived and to mourn those who did not. Clasping that thought for what comfort it gave her, she drifted into sleep.

  4

  TEPUA slept poorly that night, waking often and imagining that she was still in the canoe. In her panic she flailed about in the darkness, seeking the bailer or the makeshift spear, until she heard Hoihoi’s soft snoring and remembered where she was. Then she would feel for the solid earth of the floor and convince herself that she no longer rode the waves.

  What of the others—her mother, her father, her brothers and cousins? she would ask herself. How many drowned? She could think of nothing but returning home to learn their fate.

  She dozed again, to be awakened first by crowing cocks and then by the whispering voices of Hoihoi and the fisherman.

  “What if her story is true?” Rimapoa said. “With a bundle of pearl-shell hooks, I would not have to go out fishing anymore. I could sleep all day under the trees while other men brought me their catches.”

  “Ah, you fool. You are a fisherman, not a trader. Do you even know what stars to steer by to reach her island?”

  “I know men who can teach me.”

  “So. And what if you do manage to find the place? How do you expect those motu people to treat you? They will have a feast to celebrate the girl’s return, and serve you—baked in hibiscus leaves—as the main dish.”

  Tepua balled her fist and wanted to cry out against Hoihoi’s lie, but she bit her lip and waited for the fisherman’s answer.

  “I do not believe her father would reward me so poorly.”

  “Ha. But do you remember, when you brought her in, how she started babbling about a wedding party? If canoes tipped over, then maybe she lost some of her kin in the waves.”

  “But how does that—”

  “Think a moment, brother, before you sail to your death. If she truly is a chief’s daughter, she may now be his only surviving heir. If you bring her home, what if she finds a stranger ruling there now, a stranger who has taken a title that is rightfully hers? He may wish to be rid of both of you!”

  Tepua pushed her knuckles into her mouth to keep from screaming. It is possible, a voice within her wailed. She did not know who remained alive to rule her people. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she forced herself to keep silent.

  “Shhh! I hear our foreigner stirring,” said Hoihoi suddenly. “Say no more now, but weigh the risks carefully.”

  Tepua could hold back no longer. She shuddered with grief, her single cry piercing the air before she fell back, exhausted, onto the mat. She did not wish to consider what awaited her at home. It was her duty to return, no matter what had happened there in the meanwhile. If this fisherman refused to take her, she would find another.

  Cocks crowed once more. She heard Rimapoa stirring. He muttered a few words and rushed out into the dim early light.

  When Tepua woke again, she found herself alone. Daylight streamed through the latticework walls of the fisherman’s hut. How high the roof seemed, compar
ed with the houses of her home island. The single room appeared tidy though spare. It held a few mats, several heavy wooden bowls, and smaller utensils made of polished coconut shells. Against the rear wall she saw a small wooden shrine, a pedestal holding the carved image of the god that the fisherman worshiped.

  A post made from a smoothed length of a branching tree ran up through the center of the house. From its shortened limbs hung stoppered gourds and parcels of food—to keep them away from rats. Tepua glanced up at the rafters and saw a few small rolls of bark-cloth, perhaps the only valuables the fisherman possessed. If only Rimapoa would ignore his sister’s poisonous words, he might change his lot...

  Tepua frowned, recalling Hoihoi’s arguments. There might be risk after all for the person who took her home.

  “So, my noble castaway,” came Hoihoi’s voice from behind her. “Perhaps you are ready to take your morning meal.”

  Tepua turned and saw the woman coming through the doorway carrying a polished coconut bowl. She raised her head, acknowledging the greeting.

  “This is something you will like,” said Hoihoi, who wore a wrap of bark-cloth printed with fern-leaf designs. She carried a white flower in her short, swept-back hair, and seemed more cheerful than she had been last night. Perhaps she believed that Rimapoa meant to ignore Tepua’s offer.

  The younger woman leaned forward eagerly, for a fierce hunger had appeared during the night. The dish, she saw, held a thick, pasty concoction.

  “Poi. We make it many ways. This one uses cooked breadfruit with coconut cream.”

  “Breadfruit?” Tepua didn’t know what the word meant.

  Hoihoi clucked. “I forgot that you are an atoll girl. Come outside and let me show you the tree.” She turned, taking the bowl with her.

  Hunger drove Tepua to follow Hoihoi. She stripped the wrappings from her hands and found the skin sore but starting to heal. Wincing as she put weight on her foot, she tried to avoid pressing on the side, where coral had gashed it. Then she picked up the length of bark-cloth that had covered her during the night and wound it about her waist, tucking it in under the armpit. When she was finally ready, she limped out into the leaf-strewn shaded yard.

  “Up there,” said Hoihoi, gesturing at a handsome tree where broad, dark green leaves were deeply scalloped. The round, rough-skinned fruits were of varying sizes, the biggest as large as a man’s head. “That is the food I like most.”

  On the ground, Hoihoi had set out on a broad leaf a coconut-shell cup full of water for washing, and another for drinking: Now she put the poi beside the cups. When Hoihoi sat cross-legged at her own place, in front of a second bowl of poi, Tepua noticed the chain of tattooed sprig marks around her heavy ankles and wrists, and the delicate swirl marks on the backs of her hands. “Do you know how to eat this?” Hoihoi asked.

  Tepua eyed the bowl hungrily. Vegetable food such as this was scarce among Tepua’s people, who sustained themselves on reef fish and clams. When her island’s version of poi was available, children usually ate most of it.

  She cautiously plunged a forefinger into the yellowish mass. Gummy strings trailed from her finger as she raised it to her lips. The sweet creamy taste filled her mouth. Wonderful! Hurriedly, before she could even swallow, she plunged her hand back into the bowl.

  “It is getting on your chin!” Hoihoi chided, holding up her own finger, which she had licked completely clean.

  Tepua was too busy scooping poi into her mouth to worry about such niceties.

  “You will have to learn our customs and tapus,” said Hoihoi. “I don’t want my neighbors thinking I have a savage living here.”

  The young woman thought only about filling her empty stomach. She was using two fingers now, not caring how sticky her face felt.

  “Did you hear how I said that word?” Hoihoi persisted. “Tapu, not tabu, as some foreigners say it. You must learn to speak properly.”

  What does it matter? I’ll be leaving in a day or two, Tepua wanted to explain, but her mouth was too full of food.

  Hoihoi waited until she had finished most of the bowl before continuing her lecture. “The women of a fisherman’s household have a special duty that you must understand,” she began solemnly. “And this applies to guests as well. While Rimapoa is away in his canoe, we never sport with men. A look and a wink, maybe, but no hanihani. Remember that spirits are always watching. If we do not obey, they will keep the fish from his hooks.”

  Tepua felt her eyebrows rise, pulling the burned tight skin of her forehead. It took her a moment to understand and then she didn’t know whether to laugh or lose her temper. Of all the things to warn her about, Hoihoi had picked the most ridiculous. Tepua smiled as she licked the last bits of poi from her fingers. “You need not worry about me.”

  “Yes, I forgot,” said Hoihoi gruffly, waving away a persistent fly. “A chief’s daughter, and not yet wed. I know how they treated you at home. While the other girls went out to have a tumble beneath the bushes your father kept you under guard. But he is not here now.”

  “What does that matter? I have my duty to my family, just as you have yours to Rimapoa.”

  “But my brother is usually home by afternoon!” said Hoihoi with a broad grin. “Then I can go off and do as I please.”

  Tepua tossed her head scornfully. The open lechery of this woman repelled her. She replied, “After I am married and have borne my first son, I, too, will be free to do as I please.”

  “Ah, but that is a long way off, my atoll flower.” Hoihoi’s voice softened, and she quietly finished her meal. She dipped her fingers in a half shell of fresh water. Tepua used her own bowl to rinse the stickiness of poi from her fingers.

  “I have been thinking,” said Tepua, when she was done, “that I should not keep asking your brother to make this journey that he fears is so difficult. Instead I should go see your chief. Surely he knows men with larger canoes. He will grant me the customary hospitality.”

  “If he is certain that your people are no enemy of his, he may help you,” Hoihoi answered. “But our high chief lives up the coast, far from here. We have an underchief, a headman, who looks after our affairs.”

  “Then I must go to him and explain my predicament.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “That is just what you should do. After all, Rimapoa’s boat is old and small. The headman can find you one far better.” With sudden eagerness, she rose to her feet and straightened her wrap. “Come now. I would like to settle this quickly, before my brother comes home. Maybe we can get in to see the headman this morning.”

  Spurred on by Hoihoi’s encouraging tone, Tepua forced herself to stand. After days of kneeling in the canoe, her knees felt stiff as an old crone’s. She still felt weak, and the cuts on her feet stabbed her at every step, but she followed the fisherman’s sister out of the yard. They took a path that led toward the water.

  Every sight here was startling and new to Tepua. Wherever she turned she saw tall thatched houses like the fisherman’s, usually standing in clusters, shaded by breadfruit trees and surrounded by low bamboo fences. In open sheds beside the houses she saw fire pits and implements for cooking. The residences were spaced comfortably apart, yet seemed endless in number. She could not imagine how so many people could live in one area and get along with each other.

  Creatures that were rare in the atolls seemed common here. In almost every shaded yard, she glimpsed dogs with upright ears and coats of white or brown. Tame fowl—hens and gaudy cocks—fluttered or pecked at the ground.

  Plants of exotic shape and unfamiliar color grew wherever she looked. Trumpets with five-pointed crimson stars in their centers bloomed among vines that snaked about trees and over the trail. Flowers she could not name stuck tongue-shaped petals out at her. Sprays of blossoms, colored cream or pink, erupted like sea foam from the bushes.

  When she let her gaze travel up the hillside toward the distant green-mantled peaks, she grew dizzy and had to look away. She longed for the familiar flat terrai
n of her homeland and the simple plants she knew.

  And here lay another surprise—a broad stream of water in its own channel, flowing brightly toward the lagoon. At home the only time that fresh water ran on the ground was during a heavy downpour. Tepua’s eyes widened. While Hoihoi splashed indifferently across, the newcomer had to muster her courage, fearing she might lose her footing and tumble onto the rocks.

  At last, close to the seashore, the two women came to the bamboo fence that surrounded the headman’s compound. Here a guard turned them away at once. “The headman is out, gone for two more nights,” said the guard as he shifted his polished wooden spear idly from one hand to the other. Its slender tip looked hard and extremely sharp.

  “What is your problem, Hoihoi?” a new voice interrupted. Tepua turned to face a pair of men squatting in shade outside the compound. Between them lay a pile of small stone disks, evidently part of a game. The speaker grinned up at Hoihoi. “You usually don’t need the headman’s authority. I have seen you settle many a quarrel without anyone’s help.”

  His partner, a stocky younger man with a lopsided face, studied the stones and looked annoyed at the interruption. Tepua did not recognize the game they were playing. She noticed that both men were darkly tanned and had the callused hands and salt-roughened skin of fishermen. Their sides were tattooed above their hips with a series of dotted arches that vanished, front and back, into their loincloths.

  “The problem is not mine,” answered Hoihoi, gesturing toward Tepua. “This is Tepua-mua, my brother’s guest. She is looking for a boatman to take her east, to her pearl-shell island.”

  “Ay,” muttered the older fisherman, seemingly indifferent to Tepua’s plight.

  “What does she offer?” asked the younger fisherman—the one with odd features—as he suddenly showed an interest in the conversation.