As soon as she vanished between the trees, he paddled away. The parting meant nothing, he kept telling himself. She would come back to him, just as she had done before. Yet he could not get free of the desire to gash himself and groan aloud.
He tightened his fist and refused to give in to his misery. He was about to approach the high chief. He must go as a man of courage, not one who whimpers over women.
Soon he reached the mouth of a stream that emptied into the lagoon. He stopped to bathe in the fresh water, then asked for a few dabs of monoi from some young people sitting on the bank. After rubbing his arms and chest with the fragrant coconut oil, he felt presentable, ready to face Knotted-cord.
When Rimapoa brought the canoe up to the high chief’s jetty, however, he was dismayed to see a familiar and hostile figure—the guard who had tried to keep him from landing when he first arrived with Tepua. “So you are back,” the chief’s man said with a snarl. “I know you, fisherman. You are not welcome.”
“Let the high chief decide that,” said Rimapoa.
“He decided long ago. I was there at your audience, but you were too busy stumbling in the dust to notice me.”
“And now I will have another hearing. I bring a gift that will make the high chief eager to see me.”
“Gift?” the guard snorted. “Are you keeping it under your fishing lines? He peered into the boat, poking at the gear with his spear point. At last he reached the basket with the feathers.
“That is my gift,” Rimapoa said. “Only Knotted-cord may open it.”
“It is my duty to inspect it first,” said the guard coldly. “Then have been known to offer the chief baskets filled with poisonous centipedes.”
“Then look if you dare. The sight is not for a commoner.” He had examined the feathers as he gathered them, but had carefully kept the basket closed as he added each new prize. Such a concentration of sacredness was too much for the eyes to bear. Now, his hands trembling, he picked up the basket and held it open.
For a moment sunlight gleamed on the brilliance of red and yellow plumage within. Rimapoa felt a stabbing pain in his eyes and immediately looked away. The guard gasped and stepped back, throwing his hand over his face. “I am blinded by the power of the gods!” he shouted.
“That is your just punishment. Now help me up.” The fisherman closed the basket, then leaned out to place it atop the jetty. When the guard only moaned and wailed, Rimapoa tied up the boat without assistance and climbed ashore.
The guard remained on his knees, rubbing at his eyes. “You should have warned me,” he said miserably.
“Get up, you lazy sow, and take me to the high chief.” The fisherman shook the guard’s shoulder. Gradually the man seemed to recover. He stood up, shakily, and finally retrieved the weapon he had dropped.
“What kind of fisherman are you?” the guard muttered. “Do birds come to your hooks?”
Rimapoa did not answer, but followed the man’s broad back up the path. The basket in his hands suddenly felt unwieldy. What if he dropped it, or lost his footing? Rimapoa shook his head, wishing he could get rid of his doubts.
Entering the compound, he tried to ignore the bustle of courtiers and servants, the chickens fluttering underfoot, the shouting children. He fixed his gaze on the high chief’s house, its doorway covered by a painted mat and flanked by guards. He paused, carefully holding his basket.
The man from the jetty went forward to confer with the other guards. One beckoned him closer. “The noble chief is sleeping,” the guard whispered. “Leave your gift. When he wakes, we will send it in.”
“I will wait,” said Rimapoa firmly.
“What is the trouble?” asked a voice from inside.
“A fisherman brings an offering to our exalted one,” said the guard from the jetty. “I have inspected it, and I assure you that it is worthy of the chief’s attention.”
“Then hand it in. The noble one is awake and looking for amusement.”
Rimapoa watched with both satisfaction and uneasiness as a plump hand pushed the hanging mat aside and took the basket. Never before in his life had he found a chance to rise above his humble station. When the high chief saw this magnificent gift, he would grant Rimapoa anything he wanted.
He tried to imagine having his own house and land, with so many trees that he could make frequent gifts of coconut and breadfruit to his less fortunate friends. And what if he should father a son? What a feast he would give! He imagined the details, growing hungry as he pictured the yams and bananas and pork...
“You. Fisherman.” A guard’s deep voice startled Rimapoa from his daydreams. A hand grabbed him harshly by the arm. “You will wait until the high chief is ready to deal with you.” The guard pulled him roughly away from Knotted-cord’s house, taking him toward a small hut at the edge of the compound. Rimapoa saw another spearman behind him and did not dare protest.
“Stay in here. And be quiet,” the guard ordered, pushing him in through the low doorway. A stale and unpleasant odor filled the small space within. Rimapoa saw that the dry grass on the floor had not been changed in a long time. The cane walls were cracked and rotting.
Why were they treating him so? This stinking hut was no place to put a man who brought royal gifts. He felt perspiration on his face and chest, and a need to relieve himself. Crickets chirped in the roof thatch, giving him no cheer.
He approached the nearest wall, wrapped his thin fingers around the weathered canes, and tested their strength. The cords that bound them were frayed; he could break through before anyone noticed, race out into the compound...
But for what? The guards would catch him in the end and bring him back. No. He must stand fast and carry himself with assurance. If anyone accused him of misdeeds, he would firmly deny them.
The fisherman sighed and loosened his grip. He pressed his face to a gap and found that he could glimpse the front part of Knotted-cord’s house. All was quiet there now. He closed his eyes as he pressed his forehead painfully against the bamboo.
When he heard voices, he looked out and saw the high priest, Ihetoa, his white cape flying behind him as he strode up to Knotted-cord’s door. The high priest was a tall man, broad of shoulder, and quick for a man of his bulk. Ihetoa did not enter the chief’s house, but waited until the mat was pulled aside before he peered in. The priest seemed to be speaking to someone, perhaps to Knotted-cord himself. Then Ihetoa turned and walked across the courtyard.
Rimapoa’s pulse quickened when he saw the priest heading in his direction. He stood away from his peephole and straightened his shoulders, determined to answer well whatever questions might be put to him. The priest should be pleased, after all. The sacred power of the new feathers would add much to the ceremonies and artifacts of the temple.
Ihetoa’s expression bore no sign of gratitude as he burst into the room. “So you are the fisherman who comes with so many glorious feathers.”
Seeing that broad, livid face, Rimapoa lost his resolve. He stammered nervously. “They—they are gifts—to the high chief and his court. So they may earn—the gods’ favors.”
“Ah, so you wish to please the gods.”
Rimapoa felt a sudden burning at the base of his skull, at the place where sacrificial victims were struck. He sucked in his breath but could not answer.
“Very well. Then you will come to my marae. That is the place for a man such as yourself.”
And the place where the sacrifice is offered! “I—I first beg a moment’s patience while I visit the fishermen’s shrine.”
“For what purpose? To call on some menial spirit? Let us go where the gods of true power can listen. You will explain to them how you came by these feathers, and they will say what is to be done.” The priest turned sharply and walked toward the compound’s gate. Guards flanked Rimapoa, holding him tightly by each arm, forcing him to follow.
Leaving the gate, Ihetoa turned to the path that led out along the point. Ahead, rising amid a grove of ancient trees, stood the a
wesome ahu of stone. Suddenly the old fears gripped Rimapoa. The scars from Tepua’s hands, won at such a terrible cost, no longer made him feel safe. He looked with dread at the high chief’s marae.
Until now, the modest shrine belonging to Pigs-run-out was the largest temple he had approached. Even at a distance, the mana of this place made him tremble. How many men had been offered here? he wondered. The place was haunted by their spirits. He heard their voices as the wind rustled through the boughs overhead.
Rimapoa could scarcely force one foot to follow another. Carved spirit figures, guardians of the marae, glowered at him from the shadows of rata trees. Beside him, the warriors paused to remove their capes in a gesture of respect for the gods. Rimapoa, who wore a simple loincloth, could only bow his head.
“Here. Come this way, fisherman. This is as far as we need go.” Ihetoa stopped well outside the quadrangle that was surrounded by a low wall of rounded stones.
Several temple attendants, known as opu-nui or “noble stomachs,” were sweeping fallen leaves from the paved floor of the courtyard. When they saw the high priest, they scurried away. Rimapoa glanced at the painted, carved boards that adorned the ahu, and at the low stone uprights that marked special places of worship. He could not avoid looking at the largest altar, a high wooden platform set on legs that rose above his head.
Atop it lay an offering of fruit, and the rotting corpse of a man. When the wind shifted, the odor made him gag. “The gods have demanded another sacrifice,” the priest proclaimed. “Once that is done, I feel certain that our season of scarcity will end. You have chosen a good moment, fisherman. Your arrival comes just when we need you.”
“But my—”
“Silence, until I ask you my questions. Tell me how you got those feathers.”
“I—” He struggled to find breath. “I—gathered—them on an island.”
“Name it.”
Rimapoa swallowed hard. The gods were listening now. He no longer could convince himself that he was safe from them. And even if the priest spared him, he must still deal with the ghosts that haunted this place. What revenge might they take if he lied? “Fen—Fenua Ura.”
The high priest smiled coldly, displaying yellowed teeth. “You speak the truth. No other island in these parts has such riches.” Ihetoa glanced up at the towering stones, then fixed Rimapoa with a penetrating stare. “Did you not know that Fenua Ura is restricted by the chiefs? Did you not see the tapu signs posted all around the island?”
The fisherman retreated under the priest’s stare, but behind him he felt the bulk of four armed men. He had planned his story, should this question arise. He had practiced it often when he was away from Tepua.
May the ghosts torment me for this lie, he thought. But I will not give it up. “In one place,” he whispered. “In one place, along the shore, no sign was posted. I thought that I was free to hunt there. Maybe there were warnings once, but the wind blew them down.”
“Wind?” Ihetoa laughed, making a dry cackle that chilled Rimapoa in his bowels. Then he spoke in a low and vicious tone. “You did not need to see the signs! The place is tapu. You felt it every time you took a step.”
“Then,” Rimapoa managed, the words barely audible. “Then I was careless. I beg you—forgive my mistake.”
“Ah. What is to be done with such a man?” the priest said, addressing the stones of the temple. “He steals feathers that are reserved for the high chief’s and he calls it a mere mistake!” Again he turned to Rimapoa. “Only your life can atone for this sacrilege, fisherman. I am sure you know this. But you can be glad that your sacrifice serves another purpose as well. You are to be our two-legged fish.” He made a signal to one of the guards.
My scars!
The words caught in Rimapoa’s throat. He saw, behind him, the man with the war club raising his arm. Rimapoa screamed, wrenching free of the hands that gripped him, throwing himself at the high priest’s feet.
“What is this?” Ihetoa asked in a tone of fury.’ ’What are these marks on your back? Why did no one mention them? Guards, where are your eyes?” When no one answered, he spoke again. “Fisherman, explain quickly.”
“A—a woman,” he gasped. “A woman—made them.”
The guards began to laugh and jest among themselves.
“It is true!” Rimapoa wailed.
“Such scars can be made by other means,” said the priest.
“There is—no trick.” He felt their stares burning his flesh. “I can—show you—the woman. Then you will know.”
“There is no woman,” said the priest. “Not for this liar, this topu-breaker.”
Rimapoa squirmed. “If you are wrong—”
“Silence!” Ihetoa roared. Then he turned to the guards and shouted an order. “Take him and check his story. Be quick. The gods are impatient.”
As Tepua made her way along a shaded path she tried not to think of Rimapoa or of the long journey that had ended so bitterly. She felt exhausted from lack of sleep and weak from hunger. Worst of all, she knew she must soon face Aitofa and resume her exhausting duties as a novice.
She walked listlessly, following a track between the houses, the smell of wood smoke teasing her as she went. People were readying their ovens for the principal meal of the day, but what were they preparing? She glimpsed a basket of purple stems from some wild vine. In another yard, the women sat around a heap of fern roots, wrapping them in leaves for baking. Famine foods. When Tepua glanced up into the breadfruit trees, she saw no sign of the tiny buds and catkins that must precede the next crop.
Despite her slow pace, Tepua arrived all too soon at Aitofa’s household. She was sent at once to join the remaining young women in the yam garden outside the compound. The food that came from this field was precious now, she understood. “Dig carefully when you harvest,” Curling-leaf told her. “The roots must come out unbroken.”
Flies buzzed around Tepua’s head as she squatted to probe the ground with a pointed stick. Her eyes kept shutting. Whenever they did, she saw flashes of bright plumage and birds fluttering just out of reach. If only she could forget them ...
Again she probed the soil, and this time she found so large a tuber that she could not dig it up. It seemed to run underground across the entire field. She worked feverishly with the stick, thinking how many people her discovery would feed, when she felt a hand squeezing her arm.
“You fell asleep,” said Pecking-bird, a young novice who seemed to delight in Tepua’s misfortunes. “But now you have visitors.” Pecking-bird raised her voice so that all the others could hear. “The high priest’s men have come to talk to you.”
The digging sticks halted as everyone turned to Tepua. “What have you done?” whispered Curling-leaf. But Tepua could not answer. Nor could she keep her own stick in her trembling fingers.
Perspiration chilled the back of Tepua’s neck as she rose from the yam patch and brushed soil from her knees. Then a group of warriors burst from between the surrounding trees, thrusting their prisoner before them. Tepua’s throat tightened when she saw Rimapoa, his arms bound behind him, his face smeared with dust, his eyes wide with fear and despair.
“Is she the one?” the leader of the warriors asked Rimapoa. Mutely he raised his eyebrows, signifying yes.
“Come closer,” the leader said, beckoning to Tepua. The other novices had all backed away. Only Curling-leaf still stood close by her. “This fisherman has fresh scars on his body,” the warrior continued. “He says you clawed him while you two were rutting. Is this true?”
Tepua heard an outbreak of gasps from the novices behind her. “With that man?” said Pecking-bird. The other women laughed nervously. “Not even our motu princess would want him!”
“Answer, woman! The high priest has chosen this man for sacrifice. Tell us the fisherman is lying so we can get on with it.”
Lie? Tepua stared at Rimapoa, unable to reply. She could still hear Pecking-bird’s words of disdain and the scornful laughter of the other no
vices.
And then a terrifying thought came. Admitting that she had been with him might be tantamount to making a far more serious confession. The high chief should have rewarded him. Instead ...
Tepua narrowed her eyes. There was only one explanation. Yes, Rimapoa had lied. To her—about the tapu markers on the island. And that made her guilty as well!
“What is keeping you, woman?”
She opened her mouth to deny Rimapoa’s claim, but her voice would not come. It was true that he had lured her to Fenua Ura, then drugged her to the point of madness. But seeing him now, staring at her, lost in his own fears, she no longer felt anger, only sorrow.
“Take him back to the marae,” said the leader to the other warriors. “His falsehoods have struck this woman dumb, but we know the answer.”
“Wait!” she cried. “I made those scars. We were together and—I forgot myself.” She looked away as Rimapoa gave a long sigh and sagged between his two guards.
“Turn him around,” ordered the leader. “You.” He indicated one of his men. “Take her hand and place it on his back. See if her fingers line up with the scars.”
Before she could protest, the man grabbed Tepua’s wrist and spread her fingers over the marks. Then, with contempt, he flung her away. Her eyes burned. It was not enough for them to hear her confession; they had to prove it in front of this audience. Behind her, the novices whispered furiously, and she heard Pecking-bird’s voice rise. “They say that all savages rip up their men—”
Another novice sneered. “That one’s no man. He’s a slimy eel. She fornicates with eels.”
“What is this commotion?” demanded another voice. Aitofa appeared on the path from the compound. “Who disturbs my novices at their work?”
“We beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, noble chiefess,” said the warrior leader. “The high priest needed to ask a question of this woman.” He pointed to Tepua. “But now we are done with her.”
Daughter of the Reef Page 22
