Daughter of the Reef (44 page)

“Then that is why I am here—parched—starving,” wailed the fisherman. “While she is in Tahiti rutting with that pig of a nobleman.” Picking up a sharp piece of coral, he began to gash his forehead.
 

Ihetoa put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Yes,” he said glibly. “Matopahu and the woman are the source of all your woes. And now that you know this, you will help me take revenge on them both. I need you to lure her from the Arioi women's compound. It must be done in secret. I want her simply to vanish, along with Matopahu, leaving not even a bone or patch of blood behind. Then all will be as before, and all the harm undone.”
 

Rimapoa looked up but could not answer. He was breathing quickly, as if he had just been running along a beach.

“Come with me to the canoe and refresh yourself,” said Ihetoa gently. “I saved some coconuts for you. And
fe'i
, baked yesterday. Your last meal here will be a good one.”
 

Inside the novices' house at Aitofa's compound, Tepua yawned and turned over.

“Our
motu
princess is finally getting up,” came Pecking-bird's shrill voice.
 

Tepua yawned again and opened one eye. She saw the other young women coming back from their baths.

“Now,” said Pecking-bird, “that we know how highborn she is, I imagine she will expect us to become her servants.”

Tepua sat up and glared at Pecking-bird. She groped for a suitable retort, and remembered Pecking-bird's playlet.

Crossing her arms, she spoke in a deep voice. “Fishermen, what is taking you so long? I am hungry and you are slow.” This imitation of Pecking-bird's own performance set the whole houseful of novices laughing. “Are you not afraid of your high chief?” Tepua continued, improvising some additional lines. “I am fierce. I am a
motu
man. If you do not obey me, I will cook you all for my dinner.”
 

Pecking-bird's face reddened and she stormed from the house. The other novices, still laughing, clustered about Tepua. “It does not matter to me,” said Curling-leaf, “if you are of high birth or low. You have always been my friend.”
 

“I am the same person I was yesterday,” said Tepua. “My ancestry means little. My family is far away, and has no influence here. We are all novices together, and we must help each other any way we can.”
 

“In that case,” said Curling-leaf with a sly grin, “I think we should help you take your bath. Look. You still have paint smears on your face.”
 

For a moment the others held back. But when Curling-leaf took Tepua's arm, they joined in, half dragging, half carrying her to the stream, all the while laughing and joking. They threw her in the bathing pool, then began scrubbing at her face and arms.
 

Tepua came up spitting bubbles. She knew she deserved this treatment. Too often, without thinking, she had held herself aloof from the others. Now that her background had come out, and she had scorned the idea of accepting special treatment, perhaps she could finally feel that she was a true member of the group.
 

“Enough!” she cried. “I have lost all my paint, and some of my skin as well!”

At last the other women relented, allowing her to climb back onto the bank. While everyone was drying off in the sun, Tepua noticed something out of the corner of her eye. She turned, saw only a few leaves trembling. “I think we had an audience,” she said with a laugh.
 

“If so, they are being quiet about it,” said someone else.

“After last night,” said another, “I think the men will be happy to stay away from us this morning.”

Tepua understood. Following the Arioi performance, men and women had gone off together to share the excitement the evening's performance had inspired. After so much lovemaking, the men were probably sprawled, exhausted, under the trees. Yet someone had been watching from behind the bushes.
 

“We are going down to the beach to say farewell to the guests,” said Curling-leaf.

Tepua stiffened. “I have already said my parting words to my brother.”

“But it will be fun,” coaxed Curling-leaf. “Seeing all those boats in the water.”

“Maybe Aitofa needs me to grate coconuts.” When Tepua saw the look of disappointment on her friend's face, she followed the group down to the shore. There, to her relief, she found no sign of the huge double canoe that an atoll chiefess traveled in. Evidently Hoatu and Rongonui had left early.
 

Now other craft of all sizes were setting forth, bright pennants fluttering, paddles glistening, prows arching gracefully over the waves. To accompany the visitors on the first part of their journey, the Arioi had launched several of their own festive canoes. Aboard them stood men and women decked out in fresh garlands and glistening leaves.
 

Tepua watched the spectacle awhile, but could not lose herself in the gaiety. She could only envy the people returning to their homes and their families. The Arioi and a few friends were all she had.
 

Matopahu
. Even if she knew what to say to him, she could not go looking for him now. Eye-to-heaven had insisted that she wait. And what about Feet-out-of-water, whose recurring bouts of illness had kept her from him for so long? She knew that his family had called a disenchanter, a priest who specialized in undoing the work of sorcerers. If sorcery had not caused his illness, then the disenchanter would fail. Tepua despaired now of seeing that kindly nobleman again...
 

With a sigh, she glanced at the novices around her. They were so caught up in the spectacle that they would not notice if she slipped away. Quietly she turned toward the path that led back to Aitofa's compound...
What was that
? Someone had just ducked out of sight.
 

Tepua felt a sharp apprehension. She took a few steps into the deeper shade beneath the coconut palms. She peered around but saw no one.
 

Her heartbeat quickened. What if her brother had decided to take her home by force? He might have pretended to depart while sending men to watch for her. She asked herself if Rongonui could do such a thing in defiance of Hoatu.
 

She did not leave the shore at once, but waited until she saw a noisy group coming down through the grove. Then she hurried by them, raced through Aitofa's gate and into the novices' house. The spears that were used in exercises stood against one wall. Tepua took one out to the side yard and practiced skewering a straw “victim.”
 

She had been working at this for some time when a wavering voice interrupted her. She turned to see a solemn-faced young man. “My master, Feet-out-of-water, is ill again,” he said. “This time he is worse than before. If you do not hurry, it may be too late.”
 

Tepua scowled.
A trick
? She realized that she had seen this servant at the nobleman's compound. For days, she had been expecting news from Feet-out-of-water, hoping for his recovery. “Have you come by boat?” she asked anxiously.
 

“There were none to spare. All the outlying kin are being summoned.”

She did not look forward to walking the long, wooded path. Hefting the spear, she decided to take it with her. As they left the compound the youth eyed her with surprise when he saw her still carrying the weapon. “No one at my master's house will harm you,” he said.
 

“I have other enemies,” she answered, explaining nothing more.

They quickly reached the path through the trees. The messenger, clearly in a hurry, did not seem to care that she was falling behind. Tepua called to him, but he merely beckoned for her to follow.
 

As she went she stayed alert to every sound and movement. An uncanny silence reigned. The insects had fallen still. The birds did not call to each other. The leaves hung motionless in the moist, heavy air.
 

Instead of fearing for her own safety, she chided herself, she should be thinking about Feet-out-of-water. He had always been pleasant to her, asking so little in return. He had never laughed at her ignorance of Maohi ways...
 

Nearby, a stick snapped, and she jumped in sudden fright. Before she could call again to the messenger, she heard a hiss followed by the soft sound of her name.
 

When she glimpsed the figure that came toward her from the underbrush, she forgot both Rongonui and Feet-out-of-water. For a moment she could not breathe. She tried to level her spear, but her arms felt like stone.
Ghosts do not walk in the daytime
, she kept telling herself.
 

“Rima—poa,” she whispered. What little flesh he had once possessed had melted away. Now she saw a skeletal figure, the shapes of ribs and shoulder bones showing through sun-blackened skin. His face was drawn, his eyes fevered.
 

“I escaped,
tiare
,” he answered in a dry voice. “Ask no more.”
 

“But you—”

“I cannot stay here,” he said, hanging back in the shadows. “If I am caught, the high chief will feed me to the eels. Let us meet later, after dark, and I will tell you all that has happened.”
 

“Later. Yes.” Her mouth hung open. Seeing him in this pitiful state, she felt willing to forgive him for whatever he had done to her. Clearly he had suffered enough. “You must leave Tahiti,” she insisted. “Take refuge with some other chief.”
 

“I will go away,” he promised. “But first, I beg you to meet me tonight. Come at moonrise. Behind Aitofa's compound.”

She could not linger now—not while Feet-out-of-water was dying. Hastily, she whispered her assent and hurried off, hoping she could catch up with the nobleman's messenger.
Rimapoa was alive
! But he looked so weak. If the high chief's guards saw him, he could not hope to outrun them.
 

 

She arrived, out of breath, at the compound of Feet-out-of-water. Never before had she dared to enter the main house, but now the messenger beckoned her inside. She shivered as she heard the chanting of a priest within and cries of the women.
 

She stepped inside. The nobleman's sister gave her a single, piercing glance before continuing her wails. All the women held shark's-tooth flails, and blood trickled down their foreheads.
 

Tepua approached Feet-out-of-water, who lay stretched out rigidly on his back, his face pale, his eyes shut. The thought that she had come too late made her own tears start. At once she took a flail that someone handed her and gashed her own forehead, but she barely noticed the pain. She hit herself again, this time feeling blood drip down to mix with her tears.
 

The priest continued to wave his hands and pray, trying to entice the soul back into the body. As she stared at Feet-out-of-water she thought the appearance of life remained.
 

On the nobleman's fingers were tied red feathers, to protect his departing soul from evil spirits. Had it left him? She thought she saw his chest rising and falling slightly. He was not gone yet! The priest must have also noticed this, for he intensified his frenzied efforts.
 

Feet-out-of-water opened his eyes. In an instant the wailing ceased and the mourners crowded about him. The priest warned them back.
 

The sick man raised his head slightly, searching the crowd around him. “Te—Tepua,” he whispered. The others glanced at each other in dismay, but stood aside to let her through. “Tepua. I—I have missed you.” He drew in a ragged breath, then tried to reach toward her with his hand.
 

“Do no touch him,” said the priest in a low, harsh voice. “For your own sake.”

She understood.
The contamination from the dead and dying.
The substance of whatever evil was destroying him could move from his body to hers. Yet how could she refuse him this last small embrace? In defiance, she clutched his hand, felt the cool skin that seemed to grow colder as she knelt there. Once more the priest began to chant...
 

So the rites continued, through the afternoon and well into the night. The priest was relieved by another, more vigorous man, whose efforts brought Feet-out-of-water's soul once more back into his body. Again the spirit slipped away and again it was called back. Tepua had no idea how long she had sat there, her head spinning from the incessant chanting and wailing.
 

At last the priest gave up his attempts to revive the nobleman and turned his energy to easing the spirit on its journey. He also dispatched a diviner, whose job was to paddle out in a canoe and watch the house from the water, until a vision showed him the reason for the poor man's demise.
 

While the priest inside chanted, the mourners waited anxiously for the diviner to return. If the death had been caused by sorcery, the culprit would be found and the attack avenged. If the death had been sent by the gods as punishment for some offense, then offerings would be made to keep the relatives from also being harmed.
 

Tepua remembered Eye-to-heaven's warning that she might bring woe to Matopahu because of her own transgression. Her
hara
might affect anyone she touched. Of course, Feet-out-of-water had known of this risk, but he had scoffed at it. It could not be true, she told herself now. She refused to believe that the gods would punish a man for caressing her. But what did the women of the household believe?
 

She searched their weary, grief-stained faces and saw only contempt for her in their eyes. It did not matter to them that she was now acknowledged as a high chief's daughter. “A
motu
princess is still a savage,” she imagined them muttering among themselves. If her
hara
had contaminated Feet-out-of-water, then what might it do to the rest of the household?