Daughter of the Reef (45 page)

These thoughts plagued Tepua while she waited for the diviner to return. She knew the night was waning. The time for her meeting with Rimapoa had passed, and she did not know if she would find him.
 

Suddenly she could no longer stand the hostile glances of the women. She stood up and walked to the center of the room. “I gave him joy in his last days,” she said loudly. “I helped him laugh. Do not hate me for that.” The women stared at her with widened eyes and said nothing. The men merely looked away.
 

Not caring now what the diviner would report, she went out through the doorway into the gloomy yard. The night sky was just beginning to show hints of dawn, and she had a long walk ahead of her.
 

Where was her spear? She remembered leaving it propped up against the outside wall of the house, but it was gone, and she could not face going back inside to ask after it. Now she had no need of a weapon. Her fear that Rongonui was trying to capture her had proved false. Rimapoa was the one who had spied on her at the stream and by the beach.
 

Empty-handed, she hurried from the compound. In the dim light she could make out the path, but every shadow seemed to hide a frightening shape. This was the wrong night for ghosts to be walking, yet malevolent spirits always congregated around the house of a dead man. Some descended from the sky. Others emerged from hiding places beneath the trees.
 

She tried her chant again, hoping it could ward off even these powerful influences. The air remained still as she followed the trail, the smell of decaying leaves rising all about her.
 

A bird cried in the distance. She chanted louder. A rat scurried across her path, startling her, making her stumble into a clump of saplings. As she clawed herself free of them she heard more scuttling in the underbrush, but the noise seemed too loud for vermin.
 

She began to run, trying all the while not to hear the strange sounds about her. A huge
rata
tree, surrounded by twisting buttresses, loomed ahead, its bark gleaming faintly.
 

She paused, clutching one of the buttresses as she called on her guardian spirit for aid. Then she raced on, hearing the rustling grow closer. Aitofa's compound was not far. Two more bends in the path and a long, straight run.
 

Suddenly she saw a demonic figure rear up ahead of her in the middle of the trail. It held a club in one outstretched hand. She dodged around the apparition, crashing through the brush and heading toward the beach...
 

“
Tiare
, do not run from me,” came the ghostly voice.
 

“Rimapoa!”

She dropped to her knees and tried to catch her breath.

He brandished the crude weapon and spoke in a voice that chilled her. “I waited for you. Then I remembered you had gone this way, and wondered if you had come back.”
 

Something in the way he spoke gave her fresh alarm. She blamed his ordeal. “Tell me how you escaped.”

He interrupted. “First, you must not worry,
tiare
. I never told the priests that you came with me to Fenua Ura.” His voice carried an undercurrent of deceit. “For my exile, they sent me to a little
motu
. Even you would not have found that place agreeable. I prayed to my god, and one day he let a fallen palm tree wash up on my shore. I made a crude raft.”
 

“And paddled back to Tahiti on it? I heard that story in a chant. And I did not believe it then either.”

He sighed, moving closer. She looked up, tensing, not certain what to expect. “Ah,
tiare
, it does not matter how I escaped. Another month on that island and the birds would have feasted on my eyes. I saved my life, but the cost is very great. Let me see the light of dawn on your face.” He reached down toward her, but she drew back.
 

“Still afraid of me?” he asked. “But why do I see bloodstains on your brow?”

“I am mourning for Feet-out-of-water,” she answered bitterly. “He was going to help me. Without him I will not make Pointed-thorn after all. First the feathers, now this.” She felt so miserable at that moment that she almost did not care what the fisherman planned to do to her. She watched his hands tightening on the heavy stick. A voice within tried to make her flee, but her muscles did not respond.
 

“What are you saying?” he asked angrily. “Your feast is taken care of.”

“My patron is dead. My only hope now is Hoatu, my brother's wife.”

He pounded the end of the stick against the ground. “No, I do not understand. You and that strutting Matopahu plotted against me. That is why the high chief stole my feathers and sent me to exile. Then he gave them back to you. With that treasure, you can go as high as you want in the Arioi.”
 

“You are mistaken, my fisherman,” she answered softly. “The feathers are gone. And Matopahu had nothing to do with them.”

He pounded with his stick again. “Then tell me why Ihetoa saw you two together by the
marae
. And why he is so eager to be rid of you both.”
 

“Ihetoa!” The name jolted her from the trancelike state she had fallen into. She stood up and faced Rimapoa, putting her hand on his where he held the club. “Did Ihetoa put you up to this?”
 

The fisherman pulled back and grimly held on to the weapon. His gaze bore into her, but he did not answer.

“The high chief took away Ihetoa's office,” she shouted, “because we exposed his lies!”

“That is not how Ihetoa tells the story.”

“Did he confess what his own priest saw? Your friend Ihetoa is guilty of
hara
! The gods spurned his offerings. His victims died for no purpose.”
 

Rimapoa tightened his fist. She saw the muscles twitch at the back of his jaw.

“Have you forgotten how you almost joined the sacrifices on the altar?”

“I remember how you saved me,
tiare
,” he answered hoarsely, still clutching the weapon. “But you still have not explained why you and Matopahu were together.”
 

“Because Aitofa sent me to him—in the mountains. With a message for his
taio
. Then the three of us came back together.”
 

“That was all? Just a message? No
hanihani
!”
 

She was breathing quickly and her pulse was racing. The ground was covered by a tangle of slippery roots, making the footing treacherous. If she tried to flee, she would surely stumble.
 

“You do not answer,
tiare
.”
 

“
Hanihani
, yes,” she answered bitterly. “In the mountains, where none of his highborn friends could see us. But it is finished now. The new high priest told me I must not touch Matopahu. Ask Ihetoa if you do not believe that.”
 

“Scorpion of a nobleman! Scorpion of a priest!” Rimapoa smashed the club against the side of a heavy tree. He swung it repeatedly until the wood splintered in his hand. Finally he slumped to the ground. “Ihetoa would have put me on the altar if I had not explained my scars. And now you tell me that he mocked the gods.”
 

Tepua was still trembling. She came forward slowly, finally crouching beside him and putting her arm about his shoulder, soothing the weathered skin. “Look at what has happened here,” she said. “With Ihetoa gone from the
marae
, the trees are heavy with fruit. That is the final proof of his wrongdoings.”
 

“Yes, I have seen that.” He reached over and gently took her hand. “
Tiare
, I do not think I could have done what that tainted priest asked of me. Even if all those lies I believed were true. But I will not ask forgiveness of you again. I will only give you this warning. Ihetoa wants to rid himself of his enemies, and you are one. Guard yourself. Never go anywhere without an escort. Never leave your compound at night.”
 

“And what will you do?”

“Tell him you failed to meet me, and pretend I will try again. But now I must go.” He embraced her for a long moment, pressed his nose to hers once more. Then, with a sigh, he stood up and vanished into the shadows.
 

 

Out of breath and exhausted from running, Tepua entered Aitofa's compound. Glancing up, she noticed how bright the sky had become. Soon everyone would be awake. She knew she had to spread the warning. If Ihetoa meant to destroy his enemies, he would be looking for Eye-to-heaven as well as Matopahu. Perhaps he was already setting his traps.
 

She went back to the gate and glanced at the sleepy warrior standing guard. “There may be trouble,” she told him.

“We have had peace in this district for a long time,” he answered with a yawn.

“Have you seen any strangers tonight?” She wondered if Ihetoa's men had been careless.

“No.”

“Have you seen the old high priest—Ihetoa?”

The guard jerked his head up. “Why would that sad fool be wandering about?”

“A fool can still kill a man,” she retorted. “I will take this. You can get another.” Before he could stop her, she grabbed one of the spears resting against the wall beside him.
 

She hurried toward the high priest's
marae
, dreading the prospect of entering the deep shadow that surrounded it. A man could hide easily behind one of the ancient trees. As she neared the turnoff to the woman's shrine, she saw a pair of
opu-nui
coming out on the path from the main temple.
 

“Go back,” they shouted, waving briskly. “Do not enter, woman.”

“Then call Eye-to-heaven for me,” she replied as she tried to catch her breath.

“He will not like being disturbed.”

“I bring news of Ihetoa!”

At those words, both men turned and rushed back in the direction they had come. Tepua stood there, holding her weapon upright and leaning on it for support until the high priest came running out to meet her.
 

“What is this about Ihetoa?” Eye-to-heaven asked, his oval face perspiring despite the coolness of the morning air.

She described her encounter with the fisherman and watched the priest's expression darken. “If Ihetoa has come seeking revenge,” he said, “then perhaps some evil god is helping him.”
 

“Evil—why?”

“Because Feet-out-of-water has died. Ah, you are confused. Your friend was of high birth. Now he will be mourned with all the fervor his family can muster. It will be a dangerous time for everyone when those people start to run wild.”
 

She frowned in confusion. She had watched funeral rites that became frenzied, but none that menaced bystanders.

“You have not seen our ghost-masquers,” the priest continued. “The dead man's kin and friends will paint their faces and become madmen, rushing through the settlements, swinging clubs or slashing with shark-toothed swords at anyone who gets in their way. Do you understand why I am worried?”
 

“Then—Matopahu—”

“I will warn him. Do not worry. We Tahitians are used to this. We take refuge in the
marae
, where the mourners dare not come. You are safe from them because you are Arioi. Even a crazed mourner will not harm an Arioi. Go home now. You are
not
safe from Ihetoa. You must keep out of sight until this is over.”
 

Tepua stared at him. In the distance, she heard the faint sound of chanting. “Go,” the priest insisted, “before the ghost-masquers reach us.”
 

Tepua clutched her spear. Perhaps he was right. Ihetoa might send someone else after her when he realized that

Rimapoa had failed him. And Matopahu could take care of himself.

“Listen—I hear them!” said the priest.

Ghost-masquers
? She turned and fled toward Aitofa's compound.
 

 

 

21

 

INSIDE a decaying, deserted house that stood alone on a hillside, Rimapoa crouched, staring up at Ihetoa and his men. The fisherman had spent the morning in the nearby hills, trying to keep out of sight while he gathered supplies that the priest had ordered. By now the sun had passed noon, its heat beating down on the broken thatch overhead. Small patches of sunlight lit the bare dirt floor.
 

“More coals!” Ihetoa demanded.

Rimapoa looked at the string of charred candlenuts that lay cooling at his feet. He gingerly touched one and found it did not burn his fingers. “These are ready,” he answered, handing a piece of charcoal to each man in Ihetoa's party.
 

The warriors, who bore unfamiliar tattoos and frightening scars, began to paint black stripes on each other's faces. Rimapoa could not guess where the priest had found these men, or how he had induced them to help him. They were not Maohi, for they spoke with grunts that the fisherman could not understand. He assumed they were savages, who cared nothing about offending the gods by taking a man's life.
 

A rat scuttled across the floor. One warrior casually tossed a club, catching the creature with a glancing blow. It scampered off, squealing in pain, while the other men laughed.
 

“That is what you will get, fisherman,” said Ihetoa, “if you miss the atoll woman another time. And we will cut off a part of you that you are fond of.”
 

Rimapoa bit his lip and busied himself with his next task—kneading sticky breadfruit sap into a heap of white clay. The resulting paste would also be used to decorate the men. He thought he understood their foul purpose.
 

The fisherman had considered running away at daybreak rather than returning to tell Ihetoa that he had failed to catch Tepua. But then, how would he know what this fiend was planning? For Tepua's sake he had let himself be drawn into Ihetoa's new scheme.