Breathing deeply, trying to keep her thoughts from what was to come, she followed Curling-leaf. They passed a stand of glossy-leaved hotu, crossed a stream, and approached the shore. Here breadfruit trees stood in neat rows, surrounding a compound that was almost as large as the headman’s.
“Remember that this is a nobleman you are visiting,” said Curling-leaf as they drew closer to the low fence. “His father was a well-known chief, long ago. This man has influence as well as wealth. He can help you.”
“Are those your words or Aitofa’s?”
The other woman hesitated. “Those were the words Aitofa used when she sent me to him. I hope you heed them better than I did.” Curling-leaf embraced her quickly. Tepua saw the glimmer of a tear on her friend’s face as Curling-leaf turned back to the path.
Standing alone now before the compound fence, Tepua recalled the words of challenge she had shouted so many days ago. The people at the performance had asked who she was, and Tepua had answered: I am the sister of the shark. I am the daughter of the reef. She straightened her wrap, swept her black hair over her shoulders. Proudly she strode toward the guard who stood watching her.
A servant came to take her in. Children glanced up from their games, then looked away. Brown dogs eyed her and returned to scratching their fleas. Good, she thought, I draw no attention.
But suddenly it seemed that every woman of the household was watching her. She saw mats pulled aside at the doorways and faces pressed to cane walls. Her cheeks burned as several finely dressed women came out into the courtyard to gaze at her openly. Tepua forced herself to meet the challenging stares.
The servant led her, not to the main house, but to a smaller one with latticework walls that lay at the edge of the compound.
“Welcome to my little guest house,” said a deep voice from within. “I am pleased that you accepted my invitation.”
The servant stepped aside, allowing Tepua to enter alone. Her eyes took a moment to accustom themselves to the dimmer light within. Then she saw a heavy, pale-skinned man sitting on a broad stool. He was of middle years, a good deal older than either Matopahu or Rimapoa, and was dressed in a simple printed wrap that did not disguise the bulge of his belly. Beside him lay polished coconut shells and a wooden bowl filled with muddy-colored liquid. Tepua sniffed the peppery scent of ava root.
She stepped boldly into the room.
“The last time I saw you,” he said, “was the night your face was smeared with red paint. I could not get a good look at you then. Now I see that you are as beautiful as Aitofa promised.”
“You are kind,” she answered quietly. Her stomach fluttered.
He smiled. “I could not stop watching you that night. I would like to see you dance again.”
Tepua lowered her gaze. “Oro came to me. I cannot call up such a frenzy at will.”
“Frenzy? No. This is not a sacred occasion!” He picked up one of his cups and dipped it into the bowl of murky ova, then shouted an order through the wall.
From just outside, the sound of a drum began softly. Tepua remained before Feet-out-of-water, trying not to stare at the white, scaly patches that covered his skin—the result of overindulgence in ava. The thought of touching him repulsed her.
“Is the beat to your taste?” he asked. “Tell the drummer what you want.”
“It will do.” She remembered how she had managed to begin on the night she danced for the Arioi. Perhaps if she did not have to endure his stare ... She turned, facing the source of the drumbeat. Through the wall’s openings, she caught a glimpse of the drummer’s smooth, well-muscled back. If she were dancing for him instead of this wreck of a man, she might manage a bit more enthusiasm.
She began the movements. She could will herself to follow the beat, but that was all. Her arms moved heavily; her fingers felt clumsy. Slowly she turned to face Feet-out-of-water.
“Yes,” he said, smiling as he put down the cup he had just emptied. “Aitofa did not mislead me.”
Or you are too besotted with drink to care. She continued to roll her hips, turning her body until she had made a full circle.
“That is good, but enough for now,” he said, sending the drummer away with a curt order. “I do not want to exhaust you. Sit down and join me.” He dipped a cup into the bowl and held it out for her.
Tepua sucked in her breath. It had been her honor to serve this drink, when it was available, to her father’s most important guests. She had not been permitted to sample it herself.
“Have some,” he said. “It will make you happy. I see too much sadness in your face.”
She did not know if Aitofa would approve, but the chiefess had sent her here. With a defiant laugh, Tepua sat down and took the cup.
“In one draught. That is how we drink it.”
Tepua eyed the contents warily. Then she raised the cup to her mouth and swallowed. Only when she finished did she notice the sharp, peppery taste of the roots that had gone into it. Her tongue felt slightly numb.
“Good?” Feet-out-of-water was beaming broadly and Tepua felt her own glum mood lifting. “I will tell you a secret,” he said in a mock whisper. “I have the best ava on Tahiti. There is a special place in the woods where I grow it. Maybe someday I will take you there.”
“The only roots I know are taro and yam,” Tepua answered. And I am learning about the one between a man’s legs. But she kept herself from saying the last part.
“Yes,” he answered. “I have heard how Aitofa puts you novices to work in her gardens. That is why I try to help when I can.” He leaned forward, reaching out to pat her hand, when suddenly he toppled from his stool and fell heavily onto the mat-covered floor at her feet.
Tepua cried out with concern when she saw him make no attempt to rise. “It is nothing,” he said. “When I take too much, the drink makes my legs heavy. Come, lie next to me.”
She had never seen anyone drink enough to be made helpless. Now she was moved by pity as well as disgust. She also felt light-headed from her own drink, though she had only downed one cup.
“Come here,” he said. “And I will tell you a story about a man and a woman.”
“I have heard plenty of those.” With a sigh of resignation she lay down beside him, leaving a small space between them. He whispered to her. Reluctantly, she wriggled closer.
“That is better,” he said. “You must bring your face to me. I cannot move.”
At last, with an effort of will, she rolled up to him, pressing her nose against his broad and fleshy cheek. It was a strange sensation, not as unpleasant as she had expected.
“Now, here is my story,” said Feet-out-of-water. “There was a woman so beautiful that all the men envied the one who took her to his hut. But her would-be lover drank too much ava. He drank so much that his spear would not rise. Even so, the couple laughed together and enjoyed each other’s company. Even without hanihani.”
“That is a good story. I will remember it.”
“Behind me, you will find a bowl of scented oil. I would like you to roll me onto my back and rub my chest. When I am able, I promise to do the same for you.”
Tepua agreed to do as he asked. It seemed a more agreeable task than the one she had expected to perform. His eyes closed while she worked, her palms gliding over his slick, soft flesh. She felt his breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep. Her own eyelids began to feel heavy. She remembered how long she had spent plaiting mats this morning...
When Tepua woke, the interior of the hut was almost dark. Feet-out-of-water was gone. She hurried to the doorway and saw a young womanservant waiting for her. “You must go home now,” said the girl. “A boat is ready.”
“Boat?” Tepua followed her out through the gate and down to the black sand beach. Four husky men were standing beside a large outrigger canoe. When they saw her, they launched the boat, then held it steady just offshore. One man came forward, picked her up, and carried her through the surf to put her in.
This is the way a noblewoman r
ides. Tepua felt a glow of pleasure as she watched the men dipping their oars, speeding her along the shoreline. She felt, for a moment, as if she were going to her real home. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine that these were her father’s oarsmen...
She was still feeling proud when she strode into Aitofa’s compound just as the brilliant sunset faded. Curling-leaf ran up to her. “It was not bad"—this time,” Tepua confided.
“Then I am happy for you. We may both make Pointed-thorn together.”
Tepua expected Feet-out-of-water to send for her again, but he did not do so at once. Meanwhile, she heard talk from the other novices that made her face hot. Matopahu had become wildly popular since his triumphant return from the mountains. He was now traveling through the district, enjoying the hospitality of one underchief after another. Some women were being made happy, she thought. Tepua could not help imagining Hard-mallet’s expression when he arrived at the compound of Pigs-run-out...
There were whisperings that more people wanted to put Matopahu in his brother’s place. “But he does not wish to be chief,” Tepua blurted out before she could stop herself. The others stared at her, as if wondering how she could know such a thing. She bit her lip. “That is what I have heard,” she added hastily.
The thought chilled her. Matopahu as high chief? In her imagination she saw him mounted on the shoulders of his bearer, his newly bulging stomach pushing out his noble garments. She saw the disdain in his eyes when he looked at her, and wanted to weep. That was not the way her mountain man should end up.
She resolved to say no more about him, and to try not to listen when others mentioned his name. When she heard that Feet-out-of-water had sent for her again, she welcomed the distraction with a gaiety that surprised her.
“A boat is coming for you soon,” the messenger said. This time she prepared herself for the meeting with more enthusiasm. She walked down to the beach, and her mouth fell open when she saw what awaited her—a large double canoe, outfitted with a small thatched house in the middle of its deck. Colored pennants fluttered from the bow posts. Sunlight gleamed on the arms and backs of the paddlers. What a sight for someone who had spent the morning pounding cloth!
When she slipped inside the hut, she found Feet-out-of-water smiling at her. “Today I am taking you to my secret place,” he announced as he pressed his nose against hers.
“Where the ava roots grow?”
“No. A better place than that.”
The men rowed them swiftly past the wooded shore. Children raced along the narrow beach, calling and waving. She glanced out the doorway at the fine young paddlers and tried not to wish that one of them were beside her, instead of the aging nobleman.
“You are still sad, I see,” said Feet-out-of-water, patting her arm. “I must ask Aitofa to take better care of you.”
“It is not Aitofa. ...” She fell silent, listening to the creak of timber and cord and the steady rhythm of the paddlers. She wondered if she might mention the question that troubled her. “I am worried—about these rumors of replacing the high chief.”
“Ah,” said Feet-out-of-water. “It is no surprise that people are grumbling. Knotted-cord supported Ihetoa far too long.”
“I do not know how chief’s are judged here,” she said. “Is one mistake enough to turn people against him?”
“It should not be. Knotted-cord is far from the worst chief we have had. And with Eye-to-heaven’s advice to guide him now, he will do far better.”
“Then why do people talk of pushing him aside?”
“Ha. It is foolish, I agree,” said Feet-out-of-water. “Matopahu is not suited for the chiefhood.” He gave her a curious look. “Surely you are bored with this talk of politics.”
“No. Please go on.”
“I have no quarrel with the chief’s brother. He is superior in wit and character to poor Knotted-cord. It is this business of being an oracle that worries me. There is danger in having one man serve as both high chief and oracle.”
“I have heard that on some islands it is even worse. The same man is high priest as well.”
“Quite so. I am impressed with your knowledge, little novice. Such a man may come to think of himself as a god, but he can only be a man, and must make the mistakes of men. This could happen here—in our district of Tahiti.”
“Would the nobles and underchiefs tolerate it?”
“For a time. Then they would cast him out as well, probably kill him.”
Kill him! Tepua’s breath quickened and she found that she could not speak. So this was what Matopahu risked. A humbler man might change his course, but Matopahu was far from humble.
She became aware that Feet-out-of-water was looking at her, raising his eyebrows at her sudden silence.
“It is nothing,” she said hastily, then donned a pleasant expression as she would a costume. “I was just ... surprised.”
Feet-out-of-water sighed and stretched himself. “Politics can be very tiresome. Let us turn our thoughts to more pleasant things, eh? I think you will enjoy the place where we are going.”
Through the doorway she saw that the canoe had turned away from shore. Ahead, graceful arches of coconut palms rose above the surf. Then the rest of a small coral island came into view.
Fortunately, this place in no way resembled Fenua Ura. It was a tiny motu, with only ironwoods and a few coconut palms sprouting from its sandy soil. The ground had been carefully swept of fallen leaves and debris.
One man carried her ashore, but two were needed to lift her host and bring him over. When he stood up on his own, he used a walking stick to steady himself. “This is where I come when my household grows too noisy,” he said. He pointed to a thatched shelter beneath the trees.
His men carried in mats and supplies from the canoe. He waved the boatmen away and led Tepua inside.
“I have given up my ova for a while,” he said jovially, “so that we may better enjoy each other’s company.” He lowered himself heavily onto the mat beside her and pressed his nose to hers. At once his fingers moved to her wrap and began to fumble with the knot. Tepua could not help stiffening as he loosened the tie.
“Are you afraid, pretty one? Or repulsed? The unappealing tone of my skin cannot harm you. In fact, it is looking much better after these few days without my drink.”
Tepua swallowed, not knowing what to say. She allowed him to unwind her wrap. Then, at his order, she turned her buttocks to him.
She willed herself not to flinch at his touch. Drawing in her breath, she held herself rigid as he began to caress her with a gentle motion. “Sweet globes,” he crooned. “Mangoes ripening on the tree.”
To her surprise, she found the warmth of his hands not unpleasant. From a coconut bottle he poured scented oil and began to rub it gently into her skin, working upward over the small of her back and onto her shoulders. She began to tingle.
She felt herself loosening. Perhaps it was not the man at all, but the lovely island and pleasant little hut that were affecting her so. Now that she could not see him, she might as well imagine that the broad-shouldered paddler lay behind her, rubbing her with his supple hands.
“How I like you Arioi girls,” he said. “All the dancing and exercise makes you nicely firm. Other women are so soft and flabby.” He pressed his body against her. She felt his length hardening, and she did not pull away. It was pointless to think that she might turn back now.
He caressed her for a few more moments, bringing his slick hands around to stroke her breasts. The tingling grew stronger, preparing her for what was to come. Then she felt him push inside her and give a few frenzied thrusts. After a shudder, he collapsed with a deep sigh of contentment.
For a moment she bore the weight of his paunch pressing against her back. Then she gently tipped him sideways so that he rolled away, already snoring, onto the mat. She drew her wrap over herself for a cover and lay down beside him, feeling a mixture of relief and regret.
The act had been less repulsive than she h
ad feared. If this was the worst she must endure, then she knew she could bear it. So long as Oro was pleased, what did her own feelings matter?
As the nobleman lay sleeping beside her, her thoughts returned to their conversation on the boat. What he lacked as a lover, Feet-out-of-water made up for in other ways. He had talked with her as few men had ever done, listening carefully to her opinions. He understood well why Matopahu should not be chief.
Matopahu’s supporters had won a victory when Ihetoa was forced out of office. Perhaps they could keep the former high priest from ever returning. But to cause more changes would be folly. Why could they not see that?
Folly. The word drifted through her mind as she closed her eyes sleepily. The Arioi were masters at exposing foolishness. Matopahu himself had once told her how important this was. If the Arioi felt a need to do so, they could ridicule even the doings of the high chief’s brother...
19
IN a torchlit courtyard, drummers started a rapid beat, sending six young women dancers into frenzied motion. Matopahu, watching from his seat of honor, whispered a few compliments to his host. The entertainment had been lavish and had gone on so long that now Matopahu wished to stand and stretch his legs. The dancers’ hips moved in a blur. The girls were pretty, yet he could not work up an interest in any of them.
Matopahu’s gaze turned to the other guests, men of the district, who still watched with rapt attention. Then he glanced at his host, a young nobleman called River-dry, one of Knotted-cord’s underchiefs. The young man’s narrow face was aglow as he watched the entertainment. He seemed guileless at this moment, but Matopahu knew otherwise.
Earlier, while speaking in private, River-dry had hinted strongly that he would support Matopahu if he wished to displace his brother. Matopahu had merely smiled at these suggestions. It was far too soon to tell anyone what he might be planning.
Now, as the guest looked away from his host’s intent face, he found his thoughts drifting elsewhere. These dancers meant nothing to him. There was only one dancer he wanted.
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