“You are high priest,” Tepua said. “Can you not order the real mourners to stop? Then we could find the false ones.”
“Can one order a hurricane not to blow?” Eye-to-heaven replied. “While their grief still rages they listen to no one. Even Knotted-cord must cower in the marae. Eventually the wind will die down by itself.”
“Tiare, there may be another way,” said Rimapoa. “Ihetoa will want to learn if his men have succeeded. He will be eager to talk to me. Then I can lure him into a trap.”
“If you can find him,” growled Matopahu, “then we will simply go after him.”
“ You are not going very far,” answered Eye-to-heaven to his taio. “Not today.”
“In any case,” said the fisherman, “the rest of you cannot hope to hunt him down. The house where I left him has too good a vantage point. He will see you coming and slip away.”
“Then how can we lure him?” Tepua asked. “With what bait?”
“The bait is lying there.” The fisherman cast a scornful glance in Matopahu’s direction. “Of course, if your noble friend would rather hide in the marae, then—”
Eye-to-heaven struggled to keep Matopahu from jumping to his feet. “When we are done with this, fisherman,” said the chief’s brother, “I will remember what I owe you—some fresh scars to go with the ones Tepua gave you. Now let me hear your plan.”
“I will tell Ihetoa that you were badly hurt,” said Rimapoa. “And that you crawled into shelter to wait your death.” He turned, then pointed to a small cane-walled house in a nearby clearing. “There. That place will do, and it should be empty. Everyone sensible is in hiding.”
“What makes you certain he will come?” Matopahu had managed to sit up, though his face appeared pale from the effort.
Rimapoa smiled grimly as he answered. “I know that vengeful priest. He will not trust my word. He will have to see for himself that you are finished.”
“I say we should try this plan,” said Eye-to-heaven. “If it fails, then we have lost nothing. You go to the house while the rest of us keep out of sight.”
Matopahu sighed. “All right. I will be your bait. But I will also defend myself. Give me a weapon. If that priest comes after me, I will be ready for him.”
Silently she picked up the paeho of one of the fallen assailants and handed it to Matopahu. Ihetoa will not get to you, Tepua vowed to herself. You arrogant, oracle-making son of an eel ... I will see to it.
“Go find Ihetoa,” Matopahu said to the fisherman as he heaved himself finally to his feet. He staggered toward the house in the clearing, but refused even his taio’s assistance in walking. One arm hung limp, apparently useless.
“Do not be afraid,” whispered Eye-to-heaven to Tepua. “He will gather strength. When Ihetoa comes, he will be ready.”
Rimapoa was sweating heavily by the time he neared the isolated house. If the priest remained inside, Rimapoa thought, he must be watching through a gap in the wall. And Ihetoa had ordered him not to disguise himself!
Squatting by the bank of a brook, Rimapoa rubbed his face with a handful of gravel. Plumes of sooty water streamed away from him as he worked. With dismay, he looked down at his charcoal-smeared body. He had no time to finish the job. The sun was already low. Ihetoa must be lured now, or the chance would be lost.
Warily, he proceeded up the last steep stretch. Across the front of the house, ruddy sunlight fell brightly on decaying, latticework walls. Rimapoa listened and heard nothing, not even the whine of mosquitoes. Perhaps Ihetoa had gone away. “I bring news, priest,” the fisherman announced in a tremulous voice.
“Then approach,” came the answer. “Stand by the doorway, but do not enter.”
With heavy footsteps, Rimapoa walked around to the side of the house. The doorway lay deep in shadow and he could see nothing of the man within. “Is she dead?” asked Ihetoa, his voice slightly muffled by the wall.
“N—not yet. But I will have a good chance at her tonight.”
“That was not what I expected to hear from you!”
“She—she painted herself like a mourner. And stayed with a group. I could not get close.”
“Then I should have left you on that island!” Ihetoa fell silent a moment. “Come closer,” he said. “Tell me what happened to the others.”
Rimapoa saw streaks of sunlight across the dark floor, but still could not make out the priest’s figure. A shadow moved, a long and ominous shape, and he jumped back in fear. “There was a fight. The chief’s brother defended himself.”
“But he is dead.”
“By now, yes.”
“By now?” Another shadow moved. A sharp cracking sound, like that of a heavy club hitting a post, made Rimapoa start. “What do you mean?” demanded the priest.
“He—was bleeding badly. Crawled into some hiding place. He will not last long. I am sure of it.”
“I am not sure of anything. Where are the rest of my men?”
“Matopahu fought well. The others are lying under the bushes.”
The response came in a deep hiss. “Then where is Matopahu?”
“In a small house. I can show you.”
“Where?” the priest insisted. “Describe it exactly.”
“Halfway—halfway along the path from the high chief’s compound to the fishermen’s marae.” Rimapoa paused to gather his thoughts. “The fence is falling down on one side. There is a pile of coconut husks near the door.”
“Yes. I know the house you describe. But you are too slippery, my tainted fisherman. Swear to me on your god that Matopahu is there.”
Rimapoa replied with his oath, but the priest still remained hidden.
“Then tell me, if you saw him crawl inside, why you did not follow and finish him off? Is he not the one who stole your woman as well as your feathers?”
Rimapoa drew in his breath. “There was no reason to soil my hands with him. What purpose in killing a man who is already dead?”
Ihetoa pounded his stick again, making Rimapoa jump. “You will do it now. For me. Just to make certain.”
“Ye—yes. If that is your wish.” Rimapoa looked down in dismay at the small club he carried. Perhaps he could use it against Ihetoa instead. But the man refused to show himself, and Rimapoa could not guess what weapons he had with him in the house.
“Good,” said Ihetoa. “I am ready now. You lead the way and I will be right behind you.”
The fisherman took a few steps forward, but heard nothing from Ihetoa. He glanced back at the open doorway. “I am coming, fisherman. I will let you get ahead.”
With his face exposed, Rimapoa did not wish to travel in the open. He was too likely to be attacked by mourners. Hastily he ducked from the shade of the house into a stand of hibiscus trees. He paused, turned to look behind him.
He heard a rustling of brush, but still could not make out the priest. Then he did catch sight of something that made him shiver. It was only the priest’s shadow, elongated by the slanting light, but Rimapoa recognized the bulky outline of a chief mourner’s costume. Now he understood why Ihetoa had sneered at the suggestion that he blacken his face. In this garb, his head and upper body were fully concealed. No one could possibly recognize him.
“Go on,” said Ihetoa irritably. “Why are you so slow? The sun is almost down!”
Rimapoa scrambled ahead. The priest was too clever, he saw now. When they reached the house, Ihetoa would remain far back, well out of sight, and the trap would fail. In the gathering darkness, he would vanish before anyone could catch up with him.
He saw no way to fight the priest—who carried a paeho in one hand and an enormous club in the other. He could only hope to beat him by playing the fool.
“It is still a long way,” said Rimapoa, turning to call to his invisible pursuer. “Can you move faster?”
“I am keeping up,” came the distant voice.
The fisherman began to lope between the trees. Ahead, in the gloom, he saw what he needed. Perhaps he could fake a mishap and not reall
y hurt himself badly...
He braced himself for pain as he ran full tilt toward a fallen log, screamed as he leaped over it, and went down. Then he tried in earnest to get up, but when he put his weight on the leg, he groaned aloud in agony.
“Clumsy pig!” shouted the priest behind him. “Now what good are you?”
“I will be all right,” Rimapoa insisted. He leaned on his club and limped awkwardly a few steps, then a few steps more, panting heavily. He heard the footsteps coming closer, but dared not turn around. He was hopping for his life, leaning into the makeshift crutch, when a blinding bolt of pain struck the back of his skull...
Tepua, hiding a short distance from the house where Matopahu lay, watched afternoon fade toward twilight. Her legs had grown stiff from sitting. She kept watch in both directions along the path, but all remained still.
At last, she could sit no more. She signaled Curling-leaf to stay behind, then picked up a spear. “It is too quiet,” she whispered. “I want to scout the woods.”
“Alone?” Curling-leaf frowned.
“I will go. You watch the doorway from here.”
Using underbrush to stay hidden, Tepua worked her way around the house to the far corner, but saw no sign of intruders. She glanced at the sky, now starting to pale and redden with evening’s approach. Settling against a tree, she decided to try watching from this new vantage point. If Ihetoa was coming, he might not use the most obvious route.
Sunset was almost at hand. She wondered if Ihetoa was waiting for nightfall. If he did not fear the creatures of night, he might hold back awhile longer.
Crickets began their shrilling chorus, joined by the overhead rattling of palm fronds in the breeze. The distant cries of mourners began to fade. Tepua became alert when she saw low branches at the other corner of the house start to ripple. That was not wind! She tensed, clutching her spear, watching clouds of pollen billow from late-blooming flowers to swirl in the failing light. A bough dipped, and then a monstrous figure emerged into the clearing and turned in her direction.
She took in her breath with a gasp. Could Ihetoa summon shades from the other world and bend them to his will? The creature had limbs and a body, even a head, but it lacked a face. A silvered blankness hid the front of its head. Behind the featureless visage, spikes fanned out to form a sinister halo.
The breast and shoulders were covered by a huge upturned crescent that was set with shimmering disks. Beneath hung an undulating curtain that seemed alive with its myriad tiny, gleaming parts.
Blind the apparition looked, but blind it surely was not, for it turned one way and then the other as if surveying the scene. And it carried a blazing torch! Tepua felt invisible eyes watching her. Sweat beaded on her skin and began to trickle down her face.
If Ihetoa could call forth such a shade, what chance did she have against him? A cry of dismay gathered in her throat, but she held it back, afraid the creature might turn on her. She knew that Curling-leaf and Eye-to-heaven could not see the intruder, for the house shielded him from their view.
The specter raised its torch, casting an orange light on the leaf-strewn ground beside the house. About this, lesser shadows seemed to gather, as if the demon had brought minions to serve it. Tepua shivered. Oh, great must be the power of a man who could summon such aid!
When the apparition turned its blank face to the house and began to advance slowly toward it, she considered her choices. If the thing was from the world of shades, she had no hope, nor did Matopahu. But if it was mortal ...
She wished, suddenly, that she had a length of sennit cord to wind about her fingers. If she could divine the nature of her enemy, she might understand how to face it. She stared at her hands, imagining the strings slipping from one shape to the next. Tapahi-roro-ariki, she mouthed silently. Show me the answer. The imaginary strings stopped, holding one form. And then, just for an instant, she saw the same vision that had come to her in the mountains. Ihetoa!
She came out of the trance when the specter was still several paces from the house. She picked up her spear. The huge head turned slightly, as if sensing her presence, and Tepua stanched a cry. The specter’s face suddenly came ablaze with a brilliant red light. What mortal possessed a visage of fire? She felt despair weighting her arms.
No. She could not abandon Matopahu. If the intruder was a man, she would battle it as a man, and if it was a spirit, she would fight as best she could. She crept through the brush, her spear lifted, as the figure stalked toward the far wall of the house.
Then she saw that the silver fire of the apparition’s face was the dying sunlight reflected from the surface of a pearl-shell mask, a mask so flat and featureless that it made the figure appear blind. When the mask turned from the sun, the glow died and she discerned the narrow slits that allowed the wearer to see.
Was this Ihetoa under the bulky costume? Tepua strained her eyes against the murkiness of twilight. The figure, as if it knew she watched, passed into an envelope of shadow.
Now she kept silent for a new reason—she did not want to frighten the intruder away. She knew that her friends would see him as soon as he went to the other side of the house. But first he stepped up to the closest wall and pressed his face to a gap. Suddenly he began moving beneath the edge of the roof, his purpose now evident as his torch swept the thatch. Berating herself for slowness, Tepua launched herself toward him. The dry roof caught, crackling and smoking while the intruder stooped to ignite the cane walls as well.
“Ihetoa!” Tepua shouted, and saw the apparition turn sharply at the sound of the name. Then the figure rushed away from her and around the periphery of the house, all the while setting fire as it went.
“Gods eat your soul!” she hissed. By the time she reached the front, the cloth flap over the doorway was a sheet of flame. She screamed Matopahu’s name, her heartbeat drumming frantically. The crackle of burning thatch was loud, and the harsh smoke almost overwhelming. She hurried after Ihetoa.
From the corner of her eye she saw her companions breaking from the bush, running, weapons lifted, toward the house. They were too distant; they would come too late to help her.
A banging and cracking inside sounded faintly above the growing voice of the blaze. Matopahu was trapped! On the far side of the house, the sounds were loudest. There, the monstrous form had set the final wall afire. Howling her throat raw, Tepua charged Ihetoa.
He tossed the torch aside and lifted his tooth-edged sword. She feinted with her weapon, heard his blade hiss past, then danced out of range. She clenched the spear shaft, sighting on the one vulnerable place that wasn’t guarded by the heavy cloth or shell of the costume. The sweat-gleamed patch of skin at Ihetoa’s neck seemed to beckon the spear tip as he raised his sword again.
Baring her teeth, Tepua drew back and cast the weapon with such force that the handgrip stung her fingers. And then the false ghost-masquer was reeling, hands clutching a shaft that transfixed his throat and pinned him to a wall post of the fiercely burning house. He arched, the spasm making him rise to his toes while the hole in his throat tried vainly to quench the flames with a torrent of red. Then he sagged and hung limp, held up only by the spear shaft still embedded in the wood.
Tepua knew the heady swell of triumph that comes from seeing an enemy broken. She panted fiercely, drawing her lips back against her teeth. The red of his blood was the red of her hatred. She could think of nothing else as she leaned one hand against the body and yanked out the spear. She was about to plunge it into him again when the snarl of the fire reminded her that she had more to think of than revenge.
Whirling, she faced the house again, heard the thumps from inside, saw that the wall was sheeted with flame. She wailed in dismay and rising horror.
“No!” she screamed, and swung up her spear. In a frenzy she attacked the barrier that stood between her and Matopahu, ignoring the red feathers that seemed to flutter all around her. Each touch left a searing track on her skin. Dimly she felt people beside her, hands on her arm
s, drawing her back.
“It will come down! Get away or you will be killed, too!”
She did not know who shrilled the warning in her ear—she was too immersed in the flood of grief that made her struggle and scream like a maddened animal. She knew her friends were dragging her away slowly, for she fought them for every step of ground.
Before her, the wall bulged as if pressed from within by the exploding pressure of the fire. Nothing inside could survive such heat. Yet she saw something—the tip of a paeho blade, perhaps—poke through the one part of the wall that was not yet ablaze.
Then the hole widened and Matopahu tumbled out like a thrown club, garments alive with flame. Caught in the middle of a tearful wail, Tepua turned it into a full-throated screech. Fire seemed to lash after Matopahu, but he rolled and clawed his way to safety. In the ruddy light she saw the burn and soot marks that crisscrossed his back, almost obscuring the huge bruise on his shoulder.
His loincloth was bedecked with shimmering tongues of red and yellow. She threw herself beside him, rolling him, swatting at the fire, and ripping away the burning cloth.
And then, when at last he lay on his side, hands outstretched, Tepua fell on top of him, yelling and crying in joy as well as grief.
“Woman, you will make a new river in Tahiti with your tears,” said a muffled voice beneath her. “I am dazed, not dead. What about Ihetoa?”
“Roasting in the fire with a hole through his neck.”
“That was to be my job.”
“You eel!” she shouted. “You crawler-in-the-bushes. You useless climber of cliffs. Is there nothing you will let a woman do for you?”
He managed to put one arm around her and pull her closer. “I will think of something,” he said with a muffled laugh.
22
WHEN Rimapoa opened his eyes and saw Hoihoi’s stout figure looming over him, he thought he had somehow never left home. It had all been a dream—Tepua, the feathers, Ihetoa. Now he would get up, ready his boat, go out fishing for albacore...
But when he tried to move, the pain at the back of his head made him gasp.
Daughter of the Reef Page 34
