Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (502 page)

And the fish swam safe in his sea, and he gathered the near and the green.

He sat in his house and laughed, but he loathed the king of the land,

And he uttered the grudging word under the covering hand.

Treason spread from his door; and he looked for a day to come,

A day of the crowding people, a day of the summoning drum,

When the vote should be taken, the king be driven forth in disgrace,

And Rahéro, the laughing and lazy, sit and rule in his place.

Here Támatéa came, and beheld the house on the brook;

And Rahéro was there by the way and covered an oven to cook.

Naked he was to the loins, but the tattoo covered the lack,

And the sun and the shadow of palms dappled his muscular back.

Swiftly he lifted his head at the fall of the coming feet,

And the water sprang in his mouth with a sudden desire of meat:

For he marked the basket carried, covered from flies and the sun;

And Rahéro buried his fire, but the meat in his house was done.

Forth he stepped; and took, and delayed the boy, by the hand;

And vaunted the joys of meat and the ancient ways of the land:

— ”Our sires of old in Taiárapu, they that created the race,

Ate ever with eager hand, nor regarded season or place,

Ate in the boat at the oar, on the way afoot; and at night

Arose in the midst of dreams to rummage the house for a bite.

It is good for the youth in his turn to follow the way of the sire;

And behold how fitting the time! for here do I cover my fire.”

— ”I see the fire for the cooking, but never the meat to cook,”

Said Támatéa. — ”Tut!” said Rahéro. “Here in the brook,

And there in the tumbling sea, the fishes are thick as flies,

Hungry like healthy men, and like pigs for savour and size:

Crayfish crowding the river, sea-fish thronging the sea.”

— ”Well, it may be,” says the other, “and yet be nothing to me.

Fain would I eat, but alas! I have needful matter in hand,

Since I carry my tribute of fish to the jealous king of the land.”

Now at the word a light sprang in Rahéro’s eyes.

“I will gain me a dinner,” thought he, “and lend the king a surprise.”

And he took the lad by the arm, as they stood by the side of the track,

And smiled, and rallied, and flattered, and pushed him forward and back.

It was “You that sing like a bird, I never have heard you sing,”

And “The lads when I was a lad were none so feared of a king.

And of what account is an hour, when the heart is empty of guile?

But come, and sit in the house and laugh with the women awhile;

And I will but drop my hook, and behold! the dinner made.”

So Támatéa the pliable hung up his fish in the shade

On a tree by the side of the way; and Rahéro carried him in,

Smiling as smiles the fowler when flutters the bird to the gin,

And chose him a shining hook, and viewed it with sedulous eye,

And breathed and burnished it well on the brawn of his naked thigh,

And set a mat for the gull, and bade him be merry and bide,

Like a man concerned for his guest, and the fishing, and nothing beside.

Now when Rahéro was forth, he paused and hearkened, and heard

The gull jest in the house and the women laugh at his word;

And stealthily crossed to the side of the way, to the shady place

Where the basket hung on a mango; and craft transfigured his face.

Deftly he opened the basket, and took of the fat of the fish,

The cut of kings and chieftains, enough for a goodly dish.

This he wrapped in a leaf, set on the fire to cook,

And buried; and next the marred remains of the tribute he took,

And doubled and packed them well, and covered the basket close.

— ”There is a buffet, my king,” quoth he, “and a nauseous dose!” —

And hung the basket again in the shade, in a cloud of flies;

— ”And there is a sauce to your dinner, king of the crafty eyes!”

Soon as the oven was open, the fish smelt excellent good.

In the shade, by the house of Rahéro, down they sat to their food,

And cleared the leaves, in silence, or uttered a jest and laughed

And raising the cocoa-nut bowls, buried their faces and quaffed.

But chiefly in silence they ate; and soon as the meal was done,

Rahéro feigned to remember and measured the hour by the sun

And “Támatéa,” quoth he, “it is time to be jogging, my lad.”

So Támatéa arose, doing ever the thing he was bade,

And carelessly shouldered the basket, and kindly saluted his host;

And again the way of his going was round by the roaring coast.

Long he went; and at length was aware of a pleasant green,

And the stems and shadows of palms, and roofs of lodges between.

There sate, in the door of his palace, the king on a kingly seat,

And aitos stood armed around, and the yottowas sat at his feet.

But fear was a worm in his heart: fear darted his eyes;

And he probed men’s faces for treasons and pondered their speech for lies.

To him came Támatéa, the basket slung in his hand,

And paid him the due obeisance standing as vassals stand.

In silence hearkened the king, and closed the eyes in his face,

Harbouring odious thoughts and the baseless fears of the base;

In silence accepted the gift and sent the giver away.

So Támatéa departed, turning his back on the day.

And lo! as the king sat brooding, a rumour rose in the crowd;

The yottowas nudged and whispered, the commons murmured aloud;

Tittering fell upon all at sight of the impudent thing,

At the sight of a gift unroyal flung in the face of a king.

And the face of the king turned white and red with anger and shame

In their midst; and the heart in his body was water and then was flame;

Till of a sudden, turning, he gripped an aito hard,

A youth that stood with his ómare, one of the daily guard,

And spat in his ear a command, and pointed and uttered a name,

And hid in the shade of the house his impotent anger and shame.

Now Támatéa the fool was far on his homeward way,

The rising night in his face, behind him the dying day.

Rahéro saw him go by, and the heart of Rahéro was glad,

Devising shame to the king and nowise harm to the lad;

And all that dwelt by the way saw and saluted him well,

For he had the face of a friend and the news of the town to tell;

And pleased with the notice of folk, and pleased that his journey was done,

Támatéa drew homeward, turning his back to the sun.

And now was the hour of the bath in Taiárapu: far and near

The lovely laughter of bathers rose and delighted his ear.

Night massed in the valleys; the sun on the mountain coast

Struck, end-long; and above the clouds embattled their host,

And glowed and gloomed on the heights; and the heads of the palms were gems,

And far to the rising eve extended the shade of their stems;

And the shadow of Támatéa hovered already at home.

And sudden the sound of one coming and running light as the foam

Struck on his ear; and he turned, and lo! a man on his track,

Girded and armed with an ómare, following hard at his back.

At a bound the man was upon him; — and, or ever a word was said,

The loaded end of the ómare fell and laid him dead.

II

THE VENGING OF TÁMATÉA

Thus was Rahéro’s treason; thus and no further it sped.

The king sat safe in his place and a kindly fool was dead.

But the mother of Támatéa arose with death in her eyes.

All night long, and the next, Taiárapu rang with her cries.

As when a babe in the wood turns with a chill of doubt

And perceives nor home, nor friends, for the trees have closed her about,

The mountain rings and her breast is torn with the voice of despair:

So the lion-like woman idly wearied the air

For a while, and pierced men’s hearing in vain, and wounded their hearts.

But as when the weather changes at sea, in dangerous parts,

And sudden the hurricane wrack unrolls up the front of the sky,

At once the ship lies idle, the sails hang silent on high,

The breath of the wind that blew is blown out like the flame of a lamp,

And the silent armies of death draw near with inaudible tramp:

So sudden, the voice of her weeping ceased; in silence she rose

And passed from the house of her sorrow, a woman clothed with repose,

Carrying death in her breast and sharpening death in her hand.

Hither she went and thither in all the coasts of the land.

They tell that she feared not to slumber alone, in the dead of night,

In accursed places; beheld, unblenched, the ribbon of light

Spin from temple to temple; guided the perilous skiff,

Abhorred not the paths of the mountain and trod the verge of the cliff;

From end to end of the island, thought not the distance long,

But forth from king to king carried the tale of her wrong.

To king after king, as they sat in the palace door, she came,

Claiming kinship, declaiming verses, naming her name

And the names of all of her fathers; and still, with a heart on the rack,

Jested to capture a hearing and laughed when they jested back;

So would deceive them a while, and change and return in a breath,

And on all the men of Vaiau imprecate instant death;

And tempt her kings — for Vaiau was a rich and prosperous land,

And flatter — for who would attempt it but warriors mighty of hand?

And change in a breath again and rise in a strain of song,

Invoking the beaten drums, beholding the fall of the strong,

Calling the fowls of the air to come and feast on the dead.

And they held the chin in silence, and heard her, and shook the head;

For they knew the men of Taiárapu famous in battle and feast,

Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not least.

To the land of the Námunu-úra, to Paea, at length she came,

To men who were foes to the Tevas and hated their race and name.

There was she well received, and spoke with Hiopa the king.

And Hiopa listened, and weighed, and wisely considered the thing.

“Here in the back of the isle we dwell in a sheltered place,”

Quoth he to the woman, “in quiet, a weak and peaceable race.

But far in the teeth of the wind lofty Taiárapu lies;

Strong blows the wind of the trade on its seaward face, and cries

Aloud in the top of arduous mountains, and utters its song

In green continuous forests. Strong is the wind, and strong

And fruitful and hardy the race, famous in battle and feast,

Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not least.

Now hearken to me, my daughter, and hear a word of the wise:

How a strength goes linked with a weakness, two by two, like the eyes.

They can wield the ómare well and cast the javelin far;

Yet are they greedy and weak as the swine and the children are.

Plant we, then, here at Paea a garden of excellent fruits;

Plant we bananas and kava and taro, the king of roots;

Let the pigs in Paea be tapu and no man fish for a year;

And of all the meat in Tahiti gather we threefold here.

So shall the fame of our plenty fill the island and so,

At last, on the tongue of rumour, go where we wish it to go.

Then shall the pigs of Taiárapu raise their snouts in the air;

But we sit quiet and wait, as the fowler sits by the snare,

And tranquilly fold our hands, till the pigs come nosing the food:

But meanwhile build us a house of Trotéa, the stubborn wood,

Bind it with incombustible thongs, set a roof to the room,

Too strong for the hands of a man to dissever or fire to consume;

And there, when the pigs come trotting, there shall the feast be spread,

There shall the eye of the morn enlighten the feasters dead.

So be it done; for I have a heart that pities your state,

And Nateva and Námunu-úra are fire and water for hate.”

All was done as he said, and the gardens prospered; and now

The fame of their plenty went out, and word of it came to Vaiau.

For the men of Námunu-úra sailed, to the windward far,

Lay in the offing by south where the towns of the Tevas are,

And cast overboard of their plenty; and lo! at the Tevas’ feet

The surf on all the beaches tumbled treasures of meat.

In the salt of the sea, a harvest tossed with the refluent foam;

And the children gleaned it in playing, and ate and carried it home;

And the elders stared and debated, and wondered and passed the jest,

But whenever a guest came by eagerly questioned the guest;

And little by little, from one to another, the word went round:

“In all the borders of Paea the victual rots on the ground,

And swine are plenty as rats. And now, when they fare to the sea,

The men of the Námunu-úra glean from under the tree

And load the canoe to the gunwale with all that is toothsome to eat;

And all day long on the sea the jaws are crushing the meat,

The steersman eats at the helm, the rowers munch at the oar,

And at length, when their bellies are full, overboard with the store!”

Now was the word made true, and soon as the bait was bare,

All the pigs of Taiárapu raised their snouts in the air.

Songs were recited, and kinship was counted, and tales were told

How war had severed of late but peace had cemented of old