He followed the path where it led back into the jungle, along the course of the swift-flowing stream. The trail sloped up sharply and Mafatu pulled himself up by roots and trailing lianas, now climbing, now crawling flat on his stomach. He found that he had to stop every now and then to catch his breath. Uri ran beside him, dashing off on this scent and that; the dog’s shrill, sharp bark shattered the morning stillness.
For a quarter of a mile the coconuts held, beautiful trees that were more luxuriant than any in Hikueru. It was always thus in the rich soil of the volcanic islands. Then came a belt of breadfruit and wild bananas, of oranges and guavas and mangoes. The roots of the mapé trees—the island chestnut—twisted over the ground in strange, tormented shapes. Vines trailed like aerial ropes from the high branches where orchids bloomed, while little parakeets fled on swift wings and vanished in the green gloom. Mafatu had never before seen woods like these, for Hikueru was open and wind-swept. These endless legions of trees seemed to close in upon him, imprison him with reaching arms, with heady odors, with eerie light and shadow. Ferns grew higher than a tall man’s head; the roof of leaves was powdered with starry blossoms.
By the time Mafatu reached the plateau he was exhausted and his leg throbbed with pain. He lay down full length upon the volcanic rock and watched wild goats leaping from peak to peak high above his head and heard their shrill bleating in the clear air. When he caught his breath he sat up again and looked about. The plateau appeared to divide the island into halves. From his vantage point the boy could see its whole circumference. He was hoping desperately for some sign of human habitation, yet fearing it too; for who knew whether humans might prove friends or enemies? He almost hoped that the island was uninhabited, but if it were— He shivered as he realized his isolation. Even at sea in his small canoe he had not felt so utterly alone as he did here on this strange, high island. Everything about it was alien and forbidding.
He stood there looking off to the southwest, and all at once his heart gave a jump, and he strained forward. A cone-shape, vague as a cloud upon the horizon, showed him the existence of another high island. It must have been fifty miles distant. As the boy watched eagerly, scarcely daring to believe the testimony of his eyes, he saw what might have been a column of smoke lifting high into the air from the peak of the cone. He had heard Grandfather Ruau tell of the Smoking Islands, the home of savage tribes. They were the dark islands of the eaters-of-men. Was that distant island one such? Perhaps this very island upon which he stood belonged to them, too! It was a terrible thought.
As he stood there surveying his world, the wind that swept up from the wide Pacific beat hard against him, whistling in his ears. Almost he had to lean against it to keep his balance. It was a southwest wind that blew straight from the Smoking Island, whipping the sea to anger. Inside the barrier reef the water deepened and shoaled in changing hues. Up here the whole world seemed consumed with light and color. Far off a mist of gulls drifted above the breaking surf, their hoarse cries as unceasing as the hum within a shell. Towering above Mafatu’s head, the basalt cone of the island looked as soft in hue as an amethyst, broken and worn by a thousand years of wind and storm.
He observed that the barrier reef encircled the entire island. There were only two openings in the reef through which canoes might enter. One opening lay on the side of the island where Mafatu had been cast ashore; the other was here to the southwest, facing the distant Smoking Island. In each case the opening was caused by a river which flowed from the mountain down into the lagoon; for the tiny coral polyp, which builds up its ramparts from the floor of the sea, cannot withstand fresh water. Wherever a river flows into the sea there will be a breach in the barrier reef.
Mafatu jumped in alarm as a wild boar crashed through the undergrowth. It was so close that the boy caught a glimpse of its dark hide. Uri leaped in pursuit, barking furiously. Mafatu relaxed and a smile crossed his face. Pig roasted underground in the hot oven stones of the umu—Aué! His mouth watered at the golden prospect. He would make a spear and kill the puaa, that’s what he would do! He was fired with excitement and set for the adventure. Then the thought of killing a wild boar in single-handed combat struck him dumb with wonder. Why, he would never have dreamed of such a thing in Hikueru! He was Mafatu, the Boy Who Was Afraid. … He set his jaw with fierce resolution. He had never known a man who killed a wild pig. But Grandfather Ruau, who had traveled as far as distant Tahiti, had told how the warriors of that island killed pigs in the mountains with naught but a knife for a weapon, bracing themselves so that the animal impaled itself upon the blade. It needed a strong arm, and a stouter heart. Could he, Mafatu, ever accomplish such a feat? Grandfather brought back with him a necklace made from the curling tusks of the boar, and Mafatu could remember to this day how the dark-blue scrolls of tattooing on the old man’s copper flesh set off the handsome ivory teeth. That necklace was the envy of every man in Hikueru and its possession earned Grandfather much respect.
“I will make such a necklace for myself from the tusks,” the boy promised bravely. “And when I return to Hikueru men will look up to me and say: ‘There goes Mafatu. He killed the wild boar single-handed!’ And Tavana Nui, my father, will be filled with pride.”
The prospect of returning home set another train of thought in motion. “I must find a tree, a tamanu, for my canoe,” the boy said aloud. “I will burn it out, then make an adze of basalt to finish it. I’ll plait a sail of pandanus. And oh, it will be a wonderful canoe!”
At that moment his eye fell upon a mango tree loaded with juicy fruit, and he plucked a fruit and sank his teeth into the rosy pulp. For a few seconds while he ate his fill and the juices ran down over his chin, he forgot all about his canoe; forgot that he needed shelter, food, fire and weapons. Then, his hunger satisfied, his mind ran ahead again to the happy day when he would set sail for Hikueru, with all his demons put to rout and the bright flame of courage burning in his heart. Never again would he be called Mafatu, the Boy Who Was Afraid. He stood there taut with purpose, high above the demon sea.
“Maui, God of the Fishermen, hear me!” he pleaded. “I shall return home one day, I swear it. My father, Tavana Nui, will be filled with pride at my homecoming. It is a vow that I take now, O Maui. I have spoken.”
The wind from the sea swept up around him, its voice warm and soft and reassuring in his ear. Maui, God of the Fishermen, had heard and answered.
Mafatu decided that before he retraced his steps to his own beach he would explore the opposite side of the island. The trail dropped from the plateau in a series of swift turns and spirals. The boy clambered down, slipping and sliding, catching hold of roots and vines to keep from falling. Far below, a cool dark stream wound its way through a sheltered valley. Perhaps in that valley he would find some people.
At the base of the ancient crater, long ridges of lava descended to the valley. Of a sudden Mafatu remembered an old tale out of his childhood: he had been told how the youths of Tahiti slid down the lava slide on sleds of giant leaves! The thought had scarcely struck him before he was wrenching off half a dozen great leaves from a nearby banana tree. Even as he did so he stopped, suddenly alert. They were splendid trees, three times his own height, with broad leaves that waved in the wind like tattered banners. But what caught and held his attention were the stems where fruit had grown: they had been severed cleanly by a knife! His heart gave a great thump and hung fire.
He examined the stems with care. Tree after tree had been stripped of fruit, and within a week, too. Who had cut these bananas? Well—he would have to find out! His lips were grim as he set about making his “sled.” He bound the leaves together with a fibrous rope of vines and soon had a toboggan as long as his body. When Mafatu reached the lava slide, he set his sled in place and flung himself down upon it. With a shout and a shove he was off.
Down the natural slide he sped at terrifying speed. Trees whizzed past. Wind drove the air from his nostrils. The valley rushed to meet him. He brought up wi
th a bump in a thicket of cassi. As he extricated himself from the thorns he was still breathing with excitement. Aué, but that was fun! He did not stop to think how he would regain his plateau, for at that moment his eye fell upon a broad, well-defined path leading down through the jungle.
“Aiá!” he exclaimed. “This fine trail was never made by the feet of wild pigs!”
The boy stood there irresolute and uncertain. Some premonition of danger kept him poised, alert, and wary. He was half tempted to retrace his way and explore no further. Then an overpowering desire to know who had made that path urged him onward. The trail led toward the sea, widening as it went. Soon it opened into a cleared circle some hundred feet in circumference. Involuntarily Mafatu started forward, then drew back with a sharp cry. What he beheld filled him with awe and it set him trembling.
He saw a series of wide stone terraces rising in a pyramid many feet high; on top of this pyramid a grotesque idol, hideously ugly, reared in the brilliant sunshine. It was an ancient idol, its contours softened with fungus and lichens, corroded by the rains of ages. The roots of convolvulus writhed about its base. No wind reached this hidden circle, and insects hummed in the hot air. Mafatu felt that he was stifling. His heart pounded. A marae—a Sacred Place. …
Scarcely daring to breathe, he advanced a step. Then he drew up short. Around the base of the idol he saw piles of bones, charred, but not old. The platform was strewn with them. Bones too large for dogs, too large for pigs. And then Mafatu understood. His heart congealed. This was a motu tabu, a Forbidden Island. Here the eaters-of-men made their terrible sacrifices to the Varua Ino.
Mafatu stood rooted, unable to advance, powerless to flee. Uri slunk at his side growling low, the hair on his neck lifting stiffly. Involuntarily the boy looked up; through an opening in the trees the cloud-cone of Smoking Island floated on a wine-colored sea. … Could that distant island be the home of the savages who used this motu tabu for their Place of Sacrifice? Was it here that they came in their black canoes to turn the night hideous with their drums and ceremonies and leaping fires? Mafatu shivered. He had believed that Maui, God of the Fishermen, had led him safe to this island. But perhaps after all it had been only a cruel prank of Moana, the Sea God, angry at having been cheated. The boy seemed to hear Moana saying: “Someday, someday, Mafatu, I will claim you.”
It was evident that the savages had been here recently, for the piles of ashes rested undisturbed by wind and storm. The cleared circle seemed to hold its breath, locked in a supernatural silence.
As the boy paused, irresolute, looking up at the towering marae, his eye was caught and held by a gleam of light and his heart gave a mighty leap. For he saw that a spearhead lay on the sacred platform. Finely ground, sharp-edged; a spear for food, a weapon against attack. Dare he take it? It might mean death. … His heart pounded. He moved one foot forward. His hands were damp and cold. The flashing spearhead winked back at him like an evil eye. The boy’s limbs turned to water. For a second he was powerless to move. In that moment had a score of black men leaped forth from the jungle he could not have stirred or cried. He fought himself for control. Taking a deep breath, he whispered, “It is you, Maui, who have led me to this island. I know it. Do not forsake me now!”
Almost it seemed as if he could see dark shadows moving among the ferns and hear the phantom whisper of voices. But he edged forward, poised for instant flight. There—he was so close to the idol that he could have touched it. He reached out his hand. It took every ounce of will. The spearhead glistened brightly. … His fingers closed about it, tightened. The towering idol cast a shadow of darkness across the green earth. Quickly the boy drew the spearhead toward him. But in moving it he dislodged a bone. It fell at his feet. Its touch was deathly cold. Mafatu gasped. Then he whipped about and was running, running. But he still gripped the spearhead in his fist.
He scrambled back up the path whence he had come. His heart was hammering, his leg stiff and sore. The twisted roots of the mapé trees reached for him as he fled. Never had they seemed so much like grasping fingers. The giant tree-ferns turned the jungle to an eerie gloom. The boy was filled with unaccountable dread. His limbs seemed weighted. When at last he reached the base of the lava slide, he turned at right angles and fought his way upward, hauling, pulling himself by vines.
At last he gained the plateau—drew up breathless and panting. The spear flashed in his hand. He looked down at it in wonder. Nothing had happened to him! He had touched the marae, dislodged a bone on the place tabu, yet still he lived. The sun shone. The sky arched blue. Nothing was changed. And this spear, aué! But it was a beautiful one! It was worth all the risk. Those eaters-of-men had wrought well. Now he, Mafatu, could kill the wild pig! Now he could defend himself against attack.
But, most important of all, he knew that he had won a great victory over himself. He had forced himself to do something that he dreaded, something that took every ounce of his will. The taste of victory salted his lips. He threw out his chest and cried: “It is you, Maui, who have helped me! My thanks, my thanks to you!” Uri leaped and pranced with excitement at his master’s side.
Back once more at his own shelter, Mafatu kept looking and looking at the spear. Happiness flooded through him in warm tides. It was not so much the possession of a spear. No . . . it was the fact that he had touched the marae. That took courage, ai, courage! And as he set about searching for a firestick he sang a song at the top of his young lungs. It was a brave song of Taaroa, the hero-god who rose out of the sea to slay the enemies of his people:
“Taaroa puai e!
Hiti raa no te moana,
Horoa te puai ia’u,
Taaroa e!”
His voice rose clear and strong across the jungle stillness. Sea birds and parakeets hushed their cries to listen to the strange, intruding sound.
At last Mafatu found a firestick to his liking: a piece of hard wood, bone-dry, as large around as his forearm. Then he searched for a smaller piece of the same wood. Propping the larger piece against a rock, he squatted on his haunches before it and gripped the small sliver in both hands. He began to move it back and forth, back and forth upon the hard surface. A groove commenced to form. A little pile of wood dust gathered at one extremity of the groove. Now the boy’s hands were moving faster and faster. Back and forth they flew, while perspiration stood out on his forehead and his breath came in gasps. At last he was rewarded. A wisp of smoke drifted upward from the wood dust. A glow. … The boy seized a few twigs and, cupping his hands with great care, blew upon the spark. A flame burst into life.
He had made fire.
Weary with the exertion, Mafatu settled back on his haunches and watched the leaping flame. Fire! His arms and back ached unmercifully; the wound in his leg throbbed. But the warm glow of flame comforted him. It made him think of home, of food and warmth and companionship; of faces around the evening circle; of the drone of old men’s voices, telling their endless tales of daring. And he was swept by a sudden wave of loneliness, a longing for the sound of his father’s deep voice. … He shut his lips tight and fought it back, then leaped to his feet and set about his small tasks with a great show of business. He would not think of those things. He would not remember—if he could help it. Now he would have cooked food, warmth when he was wet through and the first implement with which to set about building his canoe. Tomorrow he would fell a tree by fire and start to work upon his dugout. He would make fire only by day, and then not too large a blaze, for its glow might be visible on the distant island of the eaters-of-men. Thus he forced his thoughts into safer channels.
He threw breadfruit into the fire. There it would stay until it was charred black and thoroughly cooked. Next, he laid half a dozen fei—wild bananas—in the coals, covering them with wet leaves so that slowly they would steam through. While his dinner was cooking, he had yet another task to do. He set about it at once: he tore off half a dozen fronds of a low-growing coconut tree; then he began to plait them into flat, matlike sc
reens. These, made into a lean-to, would be his shelter against wind and storm. Several layers of them would be watertight.
“If only I had my knife, Uri,” the boy groaned. “How simple it would be! I must search the lagoon for a pahua shell. It grinds down to a fine cutting edge. We’ll soon have a good knife.”
Uri thought so too; that was evident from the motion of his tireless tail.
“Perhaps,” Mafatu thought suddenly, “I might find a knife at the Sacred Place of the eaters-of-men.” Then he shook his head. “No! I shall never return to that terrible marae tabu!”
But each day, he resolved, he would climb to the high plateau, his lookout to the southwest. Someday, someday the eaters-of-men would come back. Before long, perhaps. … Mafatu was certain of it, as he was certain that the sun shone and was warm. It was inevitable. And when the black men came, he would have to leave, or die.
The boy looked fondly at the tamanu tree that he had marked already for his canoe. “Tomorrow I shall start work upon it,” he promised. “And aiá, what a canoe I shall build! Deep and strong, but light. An outrigger as swift and powerful as a shark’s tail. And when my father sees it he will say: ‘Aué, my son, but they build fine canoes in that island you have come from.’ And then I will say: ‘But I built it myself, my father.’ And then he will say: ‘Aié! Is it possible—this fine canoe?’”
The fire blazed brightly and the breadfruit gave forth a tempting odor. Jets of vapor rose from the steaming bananas. Uri snuggled down at his master’s side and Mafatu hugged the dog close. “Ai, there’s food for you, too, my brother,” he cried. “And tomorrow we shall have fish. See my spear, how bravely it flashes! I will make a new shaft for it, and then I shall kill the ma’o, the shark! And the wild pig, too. Ai, Uri, you will see!”
Call It Courage Page 3
