Daughter of the Reef (40 page)

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.
 

When Matopahu had first heard about Tepua and Feet-out-of-water, he had laughed scornfully. Everyone knew that the old fool was useless to a woman. But gradually Matopahu's feeling of helpless anger had grown. Now, as he thought about it, he imagined his would-be rival drowning in a huge vat of ava. Here was a fitting end for him!
 

Feet-out-of-water has nothing to lose
, Matopahu reminded himself bitterly. The aging nobleman held chiefly titles but no power. He lived as he pleased on his large estate and paid no attention to what others said. If he wanted a
motu
woman as his consort, not even the high priest's disapproval would stop him...
 

Abruptly Matopahu realized that the drumming had stopped and entertainment ended. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to rise first. He smiled, stood up, aware that he had become the center of attention. The crowd opened to let him pass.
 

“My good friend,” said River-dry as they walked back toward the underchief's house. “There is a favor I would ask of you, a delicate matter. I have heard much about your remarkable god-voice. Of course, if you are weary ...”
 

The high chief's brother was far from surprised at this request. It had become almost a ritual, repeated in one household after another. “I can promise nothing,” he said, giving his usual reply. “But the god has proved agreeable lately, as you may have heard.” He signaled to his
taio
, who had been traveling with him, helping to assure the people that the gods' favors had been fully restored.
 

Eye-to-heaven continued to serve as interpreter of Matopahu's pronouncements. Recently his task had proved easy, since the words had been surprisingly clear. Both men knew that something had changed. The spirit who seized Matopahu now was far different from the one of earlier days—the one who had warned of famine and of Ihetoa's guilt.
 

It was not uncommon for one god to leave a man and be replaced by another. Yet Eye-to-heaven had begun to express his concern about this one. “The new voice worries me,
taio
,” he had said on several occasions. “I believe it speaks truthfully, but I sense a malicious streak. Be wary of letting it seize you too easily.” Matopahu saw that warning again in the priest's expression as Eye to heaven joined him at the underchief's doorway.
 

Only a small party of important men came with them into the house. The others remained outside, keeping a respectful distance. “I want only a single light,” Matopahu insisted. The smoky torches were taken away. The select audience took its place on the grass-strewn floor.

Matopahu sat on a thick pile of mats in the middle of the floor. Eye-to-heaven brought a candlenut taper and sat cross-legged beside him. “You may all chant softly, along with me,” said the priest, when everyone had settled.
 

The chant was simple, two lines repeated endlessly. Matopahu stared at the small sputtering light and tried to make himself comfortable. In earlier days he had never tried seeking the god-voice; it had always come to him when it chose. He had been happy when it left him alone.
 

Now his reputation as a prophet had spread throughout Tahiti. People from outlying settlements flocked to wherever he was in hope of hearing some new message. He had found a way to keep from disappointing them.
 

As he watched the blue-tinged flame he slowly began to relax. He put aside all his troubling thoughts and let the light draw him in. His breathing deepened and slowed.
 

Then a prickly sensation began at his nape and spread gradually down his back, taking a long time to reach the soles of his feet. His body began to feel so light that he thought it could be lifted by a puff of wind. Soon he could not feel the mats that lay under him. He seemed to float in the darkness, with only the small, bright center for company.
 

The chant droned in his ears. He no longer heard the words, only the repeating rhythms. In his mind, he spoke a chant of his own.
 

 

Come to me, spirit, I am waiting.
 

Come to me, in the darkness.

 
I long to hear your voice.

 

For a time he knew nothing, thought nothing. There was only the chill of emptiness about him. Then he felt a sudden disturbance. His left arm shuddered and a groan sounded. He sensed only dimly that something was being wrapped about his hand.
 

A sound emerged from a mouth, but the mouth was not his own. “Ahhh,” the voice said, in a strange and frightening tone. “Ahhh, I am here ... in the world of flesh.” Matopahu felt his shoulders twitch and his legs tremble. The light vanished, leaving him nothing to hold onto. Yet there were sounds...
 

He heard a frenzied whispering, then a firm and familiar voice speaking aloud. “O spirit who favors us by your presence,” said Eye-to-heaven. “I beg you answer one question.”
 

“Who—who asks it?” The god-voice rasped and squeaked.

“A worthy man. The noble chief who calls himself River-dry.”

“River-dry? I—do not know him.”

“He is here with us, spirit. He is eager to please you.”

“To please me—he must be generous. I—crave the things of the living. Let this River-dry bring offerings. Have—Matopahu—take them in my name.”
 

“You will have gifts, wise spirit,” said River-dry. “I have rolls of scented cloth already waiting for you.”

“And a woman. Yes. This is what I crave tonight.”

“Any woman you please,” the underchief answered quickly.

Matopahu scarcely heeded what was said. He had no part in this now. All he could do was listen. “Then ask. Ask your question,” said the god-voice.
 

The underchief seemed to have trouble getting out his words. “I—I would like to know, gracious spirit. About my first child. Will it be a son or a daughter?”
 

“Ahhh,” the god-voice squeaked. “Here we have a wise question. Here we have no simple answer. Why is that? Why is the outcome so confused?” The voice began to click and squawk and gabble. Matopahu knew his limbs were thrashing, but he felt nothing, suspended as he was in another place. Then clear words came again. “Twins! That is what you have coming. A boy and a girl. I cannot say which will be first from the womb.”
 

“That—that is a fine prophecy,” River-dry answered.

“And all I can tell you,” the god-voice squeaked. “I have worked up a hunger. Bring me the woman now. Wait. Bring me two. I will choose. I want—both your sisters.”

Matopahu heard a hiss of indrawn breath. It was customary, he knew in his dreamy haze, for the guest to be entertained by the wife or consort of the host. The host's sisters, on the other hand, must be treated as chastely as if they were the guest's own kin. But now it was a god speaking, not a man, and no one could refuse the demands. The women would feel honored to be called.
 

“Uh ... as you wish, noble spirit,” replied River-dry.

Later, toward dawn, Matopahu woke and felt the warmth of the women, one on each side of him. What a pity, he thought, that he could not remember the pleasure they had given his body. That had been for the god and the god alone.
 

He stretched, feeling the stiffness and aches that always followed these visitations. He quietly rose and went out, glad to feel a fresh breeze on his face. “You are up early, my
taio
,” came the voice of Eye-to-heaven, who was already outside.
 

“Come. Let us walk,” said Matopahu. The shore lay just ahead and the tide was low. In the growing light he watched small waves lap the exposed beach. “All went well last night, I trust. I cannot remember much.”
 

“River-dry and his family will have something to talk about for a while.”

“But you are not pleased, my
taio
. I hear it in your voice.” Matopahu waded a short distance out, letting the cool water swirl around his feet.
 

“I am thinking that I would like to go back to the simple life of a priest. I have had enough of being an honored guest night after night, traveling from one nobleman's house to another.”
 

“Yes, it is tiring,” said Matopahu. “But we have our obligations. It is important to restore the people's confidence in their gods—and in their high priests.” He did not add that he still keenly enjoyed being the focus of attention. At home, he was constantly overshadowed by his brother.
 

“You know I cannot desert you,” said the priest. “It is not only a matter of our friendship. What would people think? To leave you would mean breaking up all the good work we have done.”
 

“Then let us continue this tour for a time, my friend. Maybe you will come to think differently.”

“No, I will not change, my
taio
,” the priest answered with a sigh. “You are the changed one. You let men's whispers fill you with ambition. You do not discourage the rumors.”
 

Matopahu smiled. “I say nothing.”

“But men try to guess your thoughts. As do I. What will happen if someone dares ask your god the question that all wish asked?”

“If I will be chief?” Matopahu laughed coldly. “To that question, I can only hope that the god will answer in riddles. It is your job to be sure no one asks. That is one reason I need you with me.”
 

“Then I will stay, my
taio
, but I urge you to reconsider what you are doing.”
 

 

In a clearing near the Arioi house, Tepua sat with a group of other novices watching Pecking-bird and her friends improvise a skit. Preparing these little comedies was part of their training. There was to be a competition, judged by high-ranking Arioi, to select the best performance.
 

Pecking-bird, holding an imaginary chief's staff, sat stiffly on a rock. “Fishermen, what is taking you so long?” she asked, looking down haughtily, her voice pitched low to imitate a man's.
 

In front of her, three young women pretended to struggle with a net. So far, no one in the small audience was laughing at her playlet.
 

“Fishermen, I am hungry,” said Pecking-bird. “And you are slow!”

“This will fill your belly, noble chief,” said one of the mock fishermen. The others mimed lifting a huge fish from the net. Still, nobody laughed.
 

In exasperation, Pecking-bird turned her back on the players and sat down in the shade beside the onlookers. “Let me see who can do better,” she challenged.
 

Tepua felt her muscles tensing. While she watched Pecking-bird's group, ideas for her own playlet had continued to grow. Ever since her discussion with Feet-out-of-water, she had wondered how to bring her thoughts into the open. She did not know what the other novices would say, but now she wanted to find out. “Let me try,” she answered.
 

“I am already laughing,” said Pecking-bird.

Tepua ignored her. She picked up a wooden bowl, a prop that someone had left on the ground. “Curling-leaf, will you join me?” She held out the bowl.
 

“What—what am I supposed to do with it?” Curling-leaf took the bowl but remained seated.

“Imagine that it is filled with
poi
,” said Tepua. “And pretend to eat.”
 

“And what about you?”

Tepua assumed her own regal pose and forced her voice into the lower registers. “I am the high chief.”

Peking-bird gave a shrill cry of scorn.

“But I am no ordinary high chief,” Tepua continued. “You have all heard of me, I am Rooster-crows-too-early-gets-head-lopped-off.” She saw a few smiles, but now she hesitated. What she wanted to do next would raise eyebrows, might even be viewed as sacrilegious. Yet the Arioi, by turning things around, seemed to get away with the most outrageous buffoonery.
 

“What makes me special is this.” She picked up a piece of bark-cloth and wrapped it around her hand. She heard indrawn breaths as the audience recognized the sign of the god-possessed. She hoped that they would also notice that she wasn't exactly imitating the behavior of a god-seized prophet, for she had made a point of wrapping the cloth about her right hand instead of the left.