Daughter of the Reef

by Coleman, Clare;

  The new novice gazed at the bounty with astonishment. This morning, Curling-leaf had led her on a long walk through the hills, to gather flowers for the ceremony. All the preparations must have been done while they were away. But at whose expense?

  Evidently noticing Tepua’s confusion, Aitofa came to her. “Usually the relatives of a candidate provide all her feasts,” she explained. “Since the first is a small one, and you have no kin here, I made the arrangements this one time.”

  “Your kindness ... honors me,” Tepua answered, feeling awkward. Here was a gift she could not possibly repay.

  “You will have ample opportunity to show your appreciation,” said Aitofa sweetly. “I have decided that your service will be in my household.”

  Tepua tried to cover her surprise. “I will be pleased to serve you,” she said, hoping her words sounded humble. After all the chiefess had done for her, Tepua knew she should be glad of this chance to give something in return. Why then did she find the prospect so dismaying? “This is a fine feast,” Tepua added. “I cannot imagine one better. Look at the albacore!”

  “That part I did not provide,” said the chiefess. “A fisherman left it with one of the servants. He ran off without giving his name.”

  Rimapoa!

  Later, as she sat at her place, Tepua nodded with pleasure when a servant brought her portion of the repast. According to custom, women did not eat albacore. Yet Arioi women were different. At their feast, nothing was denied them.

  But what did this offering from Rimapoa mean? He had not admitted defeat, but was still courting her. The gift of albacore proved that. He had not accepted her decision at all...

  Tepua took up her new life and found it as exacting as Aitofa had warned. The season for Arioi performances had ended, but this did not lighten the burden on the novices. Part of each day she spent training, practicing dance or mime or spear exercises as she was ordered. The chiefess had told her that she must stay close to the house and have nothing to do with men until she mastered the main body of chants. Exhausted after every day’s work, Tepua found this restriction no burden.

  Her mornings were always devoted to labor, usually grating coconut for use in making monoi, scented oil. Tepua sat on what the novices called a “grating pig,” a short log that had a long piece of coral sticking out at one end. Pressing the white meat of a halved coconut against the coral, she gave a rotary motion to the shell, letting the shavings fall to a plantain leaf below.

  The coconuts were well aged, the nut meat tough. The work went slowly, tiring her wrists, arms, and fingers until they felt numb. One day Curling-leaf sat beside her, waving flies away, occasionally dumping the shavings into a trough when the pile grew high.

  “You are slowing down, and we have scarcely begun,” said Curling-leaf as she handed Tepua another open nut to replace the one she had finished. The odor of rancid coconut milk made Tepua’s stomach queasy. The buzzing of flies grew louder.

  “Let’s start on the creation chant again,” said Curling-leaf. “Remember what Aitofa told you.”

  That I am a prisoner here until I learn all the basic chants. The long names of characters and places seemed to slip from her mind as if they were covered with grease.

  “Oro dwelt with many gods in the sky’s vault,” Tepua began. “Over them he ruled as high chief. He had his wife, Ax-with-eyes—”

  “The wife’s name was Stand-to-unfold-the-sky,” interrupted Curling-leaf. “Ax-with-eyes was a daughter’s name.”

  All right, go on, Tepua told herself. “He had his daughters, Ax-with-eyes, Eater-of-the-summit, and a son, Sworn-friend. Ooops, forgot the other daughter, Fog-of-many-owners.” Tepua stopped to wipe sweat from her brow, then pushed the coconut down onto the grater again.

  “One day, in a fit of anger, Oro pushed his wife out of the sky. Probably because he couldn’t remember her name,” Tepua added, and Curling-leaf giggled. “Oro missed his wife and grew lonely. His sisters, Darkness and Grossness, went to earth to find him another. Clad in ti leaves, they came to Tahiti.

  “The people brought their finest women, but the god found none to suit him. So the sisters went on, until they reached Porapora. They found a great beauty named Water-of-man-of-war-birds, who lived in a place called Water-of-red-fig.” She stopped to flick away a bug that was climbing the heap of shavings. “Or was that the other way around?” The two women began to laugh.

  “Why must your legends be so long-winded?” Tepua asked. “I have had enough chanting for now.”

  “I know,” said Curling-leaf. “We all feel discouraged at the start. But listen to me finish. It won’t hurt to hear it through.”

  Then Curling-leaf continued the long story of Oro and his women and his gifts, finally telling of the great chief Tamatoa who had founded the Arioi society.

  “You did that well,” said Tepua, when she was done. Your dancing is also good, and you are the best of us when it comes to handling a spear. But Tepua did not say the rest aloud. She knew that her friend had long been ready to advance to Pointed-thorn. Only her inability to provide a feast stood in Curling-leaf’s way.

  A month passed while Tepua remained busy at Aitofa’s compound. During this time Rimapoa often came to watch her as she labored in the yard, and to talk with her from afar. He was surprisingly cheerful, and seemingly unruffled by Aitofa’s rules. Now he had gone away with the large canoe to fish near other islands, and would not be back for many days. She was surprised at how much she missed his visits.

  Her head felt filled to bursting with the words of the legends. At night the chants continued in her dreams, droning on and on, allowing her no sleep. If only she could have an occasional day of freedom, she thought, the rest might be bearable.

  Unexpectedly, one morning, her routine was interrupted. Aitofa summoned Tepua to meet her, not in her large house, but in a modest guest house in a secluded corner of the compound. When Tepua entered the room and saw who was seated on a four-legged stool beside the chiefess, she was so stunned that she almost ran back outside. Matopahu! She glared at him while a knot formed at her throat.

  “The high chief’s brother has asked for a word with you,” Aitofa said coolly. “He has an interest in your career with us. I am sure you know the value of such an ally.”

  Tepua’s cheeks grew warm as she remembered what Curling-leaf had said about the importance of having an admirer. But why, of all men, must it be Matopahu? As she recalled how Pigs-run-out had offered her to him, she felt a muscle jump in her jaw. Tepua needed no patron now. Advancement to Pointed-thorn was far off, might never come.

  “I will leave you two to discuss this in private,” said the chiefess.

  Tepua took a breath, her thoughts so tangled that she could not speak. Her hands clenched and unclenched as she studied Matopahu, who sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling between his thighs. He wore a simple cape thrown back over his shoulders. The broad, bare expanse of his chest gleamed with scented oil. Such beauty ... But I will not be another fancy feather for your turban.

  His face was almost as she remembered it—half-mocking eyes above wide flat cheekbones, crisp black curls about his forehead. But her vision was now adjusting to the light that diffused between the loose weave of the guest house wall. She saw unfamiliar lines about his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. His proud spirit seemed to have taken a beating, for he looked weary and downcast.

  Yes, something had changed, but she could not say what.

  He broke the silence. “You stand so still and stiff, as if your spine were made of ironwood.”

  “I want nothing from you,” she whispered fiercely. “I need no patron. I wish you had not come.”

  “Do not judge me before I have spoken.” His voice carried a rawness that told of hidden pain. “After you danced, I wanted to wish you success with the Arioi, but Aitofa asked me not to disturb her newest novice. Now that I am going away she permitted this meeting. I am being forced to leave the court for a time.”
/>   “Then I will not have to watch you laughing at me when I perform.” The words came out with a spite that she instantly regretted. Matopahu stood up and caught her by the shoulders. Tepua thought he would shake or strike her, but he only held her, waiting until she looked into his eyes. The warmth of his hands kept her from pulling away.

  “Tepua, I did not laugh,” he said solemnly. “I cheered you on. I was glad to see that the god favored you.”

  She searched the rich brown of his eyes, finding an earnestness she wished to believe in. He was not mocking her. He truly rejoiced in her good fortune. She grew acutely aware of the closeness of his body. His sweet musky scent made her head start to spin.

  I am not ready to lose myself. Not with this man. Though she trembled, she took his wrists and gently removed his hands from her shoulders. “Tell me the second reason you came.”

  “Because it may be my last chance to make amends for what happened at the underchief’s house.”

  “Then you admit—”

  “I admit only that I was stupid and smug and full of myself. Does that satisfy you?”

  Grudgingly she accepted his partial apology. He was right. His only transgression had been his arrogance, and she was hardly one to condemn that.

  “Now you look less formidable,” he said. “Perhaps you would even help me solve an irksome problem. People have given me too many gifts. I have no more room to hang rolls of tapa from the eaves of my house. And now that I must go away, what will become of my wealth? I fear it will vanish into the houses of my enemies.”

  “Give the tapa to your friends. They may have some use for it.”

  “That is exactly what I am doing. I would like to count you as such a friend. Aitofa has agreed to hold the cloth for you, and to trade it for the foodstuffs you will need when you advance to Pointed-thorn.”

  So he has already made the arrangements. Without even asking me. Her anger returned. Smiling scornfully, she said, “You are generous.”

  His expression brightened. “I am glad that you accept.”

  “I accept for my friend Curling-leaf,” she said triumphantly, “who needs your help sooner than I do. The cloth will pay for her feast, and I will tell her of your kindness.” Savoring his look of astonishment, she turned toward the doorway.

  “Wait—” He started to come after her.

  “Tell me, noble brother of the chief, why you have become so humble.”

  He leaned against the house pole and did not answer at once. “I have found that even an oracle can fall from favor,” he said darkly. “Knotted-cord will not listen to my warning of the coming famine. The high priest refuses to accept my prophecy and even assures my brother that we will have plenty to eat. I wish I could believe he is right.”

  “And that is why you must leave the district?”

  “That is one reason. In time, you may understand the rest.”

  Hearing this, Tepua could not help feeling a degree of sympathy for him. Now she understood why he seemed so troubled today. Without his feathers and his fancy capes, he no longer resembled the arrogant nobleman she had seen strutting with his peers. “I do not know much about oracles,” she said. “I was told that a god speaks through your lips. But the high priest also has ways to commune with the gods.”

  “They deceive him or he deceives us, I cannot say which. I have warned Aitofa and my other friends. Those who trust me will prepare themselves for a harsh season. The breadfruit is almost gone, but we still have taro and yams. We must save what we can and hope that wild foods from the mountains will provide the rest.”

  “Then I will help gather and store food for Aitofa’s household,” she answered in a gentler tone. “Your warning is all I can accept from you. Let there be no gifts between us, no unspoken obligations.”

  He smiled sadly. “You have not lost any of your spirit. I leave it to you, then, to make your way among the Arioi however you can.”

  “So I will, noble brother of the chief.” She was about to turn and leave, but instead found herself standing before him, not knowing why. She let him put his arms about her and draw her close. The warmth that she had sensed before enveloped her now, surrounding her with gentleness and strength.

  When he pressed his nose to her cheek and inhaled softly, she felt a shiver that made her catch her breath. She could not stop herself from returning the embrace. Her fingertips glided up, over the smooth skin of his back. She leaned into him, wanting to feel her thighs and her belly against his. The tips of her breasts tingled as they brushed his chest.

  This was the man as she had imagined him, in the moments before Pigs-run-out had exposed the truth. She had allowed herself to be deluded once. Now, here she stood, dusty and sweaty and covered with sticky bits of coconut ... while Matopahu still pretended that she attracted him! In her embarrassment, she tried to back away from him.

  “You have not told me the full truth about yourself,” he said, holding her gently but refusing to let her free. “I think you are more than a motu noblewoman. Can it be that you are really a chief’s daughter and a child of the gods?”

  She closed her eyes, feeling the momentary excitement drain away. She had always been ready to believe that he desired her simply for herself. With a surge of anger, she squirmed free of him, racing out, her face hot and her tears brimming.

  She tried to imagine how delighted Curling-leaf would be with her news of the gifts, but that only made the tears flow faster. I am no longer a chief’s daughter. If that is why he takes an interest in me, then he is worse than a fool.

  Rimapoa had almost lost track of how long he had been with the tira. Three new moons had passed, he thought, or perhaps four. Now, on a blustery afternoon, he sat with his companions on an unfamiliar beach as they waited for their food to cook.

  His thoughts turned, as they often did, to Tepua. Secretly he had often watched her, muddied and perspiring, working Aitofa’s garden plots. Despite the heavy labor, her determination to stay with the Arioi had shown no signs of wavering.

  Rimapoa’s own lot had not been easy either. The crew of the tira had long ago given up on albacore for the season, and had been reduced to makeshift methods of fishing. The men had rigged a sail, and traveled far from Tahiti in search of food. Today they had been fortunate, using small live fish to lure larger prey. Working together, they had subdued a large barracuda and dragged it into the boat.

  Finally they had put in to this motu and shared their catch with the islanders. In return, the local people had brought heaps of clams, and pudding made from the fleshy inner part of the pandanus fruit. The islanders had also supplied coconut shells and husks for fueling the cookfire.

  Now, as Rimapoa waited with the other men by the steaming pit oven, several young motu women provided entertainment. A crewman blew a piercing melody on his nose flute while the girls gaily swung their hips and fluttered their fingers. They lacked the skills of Arioi, Rimapoa saw, but their eagerness more than made up for that. The one in the center always seemed to be glancing at him. He could not help returning her smile.

  Soon the music ended, and the dancers raced off, vanishing into a stand of narrow-leaved pandanus trees. But Rimapoa was certain the girls would be back later, after the men had eaten. These islanders had traditions of hospitality to their infrequent visitors that included keeping them warm during the night. Rimapoa began to feel aroused by this prospect, though he knew that no woman could make him forget Tepua...

  A call from the cook distracted him from his daydreams. Rimapoa turned to the pit oven, watching eagerly as the cook’s assistants shoveled away its covering of leaves. The wind shifted, bringing aromas that made his mouth water. He and the others had eaten almost nothing for the last two days. Now, as soon as the food was passed out, they began to gorge.

  “We are eating better than anyone back home,” said Two-oars, the master of the tira, as he licked his stubby fingers.

  “It is true,” said another.’ ’Last time we were there I saw people digging up ’
ape roots at the riverbanks.”

  Rimapoa scowled. He knew that ’ape, whose broad leaves resembled those of taro, was eaten only in desperation. The starchy corms had to be baked for an entire day before they became edible.

  He recalled his last visit to Tepua, and wondered if she, too, was beginning to feel the pinch. The Arioi must be better off than most people, he thought, yet in time they would also find their stores running low.

  He worried less about Hoihoi. She had her own taro patch, as well as a huge storage pit for mahi. And she carried an ample reserve of flesh about her.

  Every year had its season of scarcity; this one was just more severe than usual and was affecting almost every type of food. Surely the gods had turned away from the people, but no one could say why.

  “I heard,” said a crewman, “that the high priest at home is starting to worry. He is going to have another ceremony. Some say he plans to call for a ’two-legged fish.’”

  The other men laughed nervously, and Rimapoa felt a cold sweat on his back at the mention of a human offering. He was an outsider and his remaining time in Knotted-cord’s district was almost gone. He had no family, no influential people to help him.

  “A man can protect himself from that fate,” said Two-oars, after devouring another piece of fish. “All he needs is a passionate woman—one with long fingernails.”

  “What sort of woman can let her nails grow?” growled the crewman beside him. “Only a highborn daughter, who sits in her house all day while servants do her work.”

  “Has anyone taken a good look at these island girls?” asked Two-oars.

  “Not at their fingernails!” his companion answered.

  “Well, a man can sometimes be lucky. Even if priests treat him as less than a man ever afterward.” Two-oars turned and barked an order to his cook. “Bring me the rest of those clams!”

  Rimapoa sat in the darkness, finishing his food, wishing he could stop thinking about women. It was no longer just hanihani that he longed for. A woman’s touch could make a sacred thing profane. A woman could make a man no longer fit for the gods!