Easter Island (29 page)

“You’ll take the necessary precautions?”

“Of course.”

“No physical contact. No contact with objects they’ve touched.”

“We’ll be careful,” says Elsa. “He’ll be my assistant for a change. But I won’t let him near the people.”

“Your assistant,” mumbles Alice. But there is something sharp in her tone. Some new testiness. It sounds like anger withheld, an outburst reined in.

Can Alice be angry with poor little Biscuit Tin?

At sunrise, they set out on their ponies along the southern coast. Elsa has offered her morning kisses to Edward and Alice, and has promised to be back at the campsite by dinnertime. This is Elsa’s first outing alone with the boy, and she watches him sway on his saddle, his bare legs straddling the horse, his hands clutching the reins. He has changed much since that first day he followed them from Hanga Roa—his neck, always narrow for his head, looks giraffelike since his last growth spurt, his shoulders have sharpened, as though his bones are growing too fast for his skin, and his eyes have taken on a gloss of solemnity, of something that looks, to Elsa, like wisdom. He is a playful child, but beneath it all there is a seriousness. He is an observer, a small and silent witness of the inexplicable. It strikes her that seeing him each day has let this change slip by her. He must be almost eleven now.

In Rapa Nui, she says: “You’re a good friend,
poki.
”
Poki
is Rapa Nui for child.

He laughs. Biscuit Tin seems unusually energetic today. He balances the two-foot
kohau
in his lap, and Elsa constantly glances over to make sure he holds it steady. This seems to make him giggle even more.

“You’ll have to wait outside, you know,” Elsa says. “The people we are going to visit have a contagious condition,
aau,
you know,
mamae, e
?
Papaku.
And you don’t want to go near them. That’s why they’ve put them away from everybody else. You understand? Don’t touch anybody or anything or I will drop you in a bucket of borax.
Beha! E!
” She shakes her head, dangling her tongue like a ghoul.

The boy smiles, as he always does when spoken to. Elsa has come to suspect he understands most of what is said to him, especially the admonitions in English. But for some reason he is unwilling to speak. As if there is an intelligence in him that does not want to be troubled with the facade of words.

Just past Hanga Roa, they cut inland and follow an overgrown path—nobody visits the colony. At the top of a hill sits a cluster of small huts. Silence reigns. Elsa scans the area for a rock or piece of wood on which to tether the ponies, but Biscuit Tin has already dismounted and is leading his pony to a small metal post nearby. Elsa follows. As she ties the rope and blows the sand off the
kohau
, she hears the fast flapping footsteps of Biscuit Tin running uphill.

“Poki! Ka noho!”

The boy looks back with an excited, innocent grin, and Elsa races after him, but not before he rolls a stone into the entranceway of one of the huts. Elsa grabs him back.

“
He aha koe, poki!
You must listen to me!”

But the boy’s smile persists, and he wriggles his arm free, plunges two fingers into his mouth, producing a dry, sharp whistle.

“Poki!”

Elsa is about to drag him back down the hill, when a woman’s voice calls,
“Luka?”

A bony woman in a man’s coat and felt hat emerges from the darkened doorway. Her small, piercing eyes fall on Biscuit Tin. Behind her, a man appears, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, his black hair a field of cowlicks. He limps up to the woman’s side. Together they stand in front of their hut, smiling, their sides touching, and each raises an outer arm in a semicircle, so that one’s fingertips reach for the other’s, and then Biscuit Tin, several yards away, begins to spin giddily, a tornado of excitement, and as he twirls and twirls, the couple close their eyes and bring their circle tighter, their arms trembling, rapt by the embrace of their invisible dearest, Biscuit Tin, who spins wildly in the love of their imagined arms.

Of course, thinks Elsa. Of course.

Maria and Ngaara Tepano know the
rongorongo
man, and point out his hut at the far edge of the colony. As they lead her toward this man—Kasimiro—Elsa trails several yards behind with Biscuit Tin beside her. It seems the boy wants his parents to think he has brought her, Elsa, his new friend, there to meet everybody. He points at her, nods in approval. He is showing her off.

Elsa looks at him, the pink flush of his cheeks, the brilliance of his eyes. A strange jealousy pricks her as she realizes that the boy belongs to others, that he has always wanted to be here, not at the campsite. But she must now play the complimentary teacher: “
Poki . . . riva riva,
” she yells to the parents. “Clever. Funny. Big help to our study.” Yards ahead, the couple turns and beams. When they arrive at Kasimiro’s hut, they gesture for her to wait outside. A moment later, Maria returns.

“Have you any tobacco?” she asks in Rapa Nui.

“Not with me,” Elsa says, angry with herself for forgetting the island’s system of gift giving. This man might hold the key to all the tablets; she needs to tread carefully. “But I can get some. I could bring it back another time.”

Maria disappears again into the hut, and when she reemerges she is guiding Kasimiro, with Ngaara on the other side. One of the man’s legs, thinner than the other, dangles lifelessly as they help him forward. Maria takes Ngaara’s wool blanket and spreads it on the grass. Kasimiro, his arm around Ngaara’s neck, allows his limp leg to collapse on the blanket, then arranges his other limbs around it. His skin is dark brown and loose. Wisps of gray hair sprout from his scalp. He looks up at Elsa, sees the tablet in Biscuit Tin’s arm.

“Ahh! The
rongorongo
. Of course, of course. You want to read it. That is not a problem. But I have stories, you know. Good stories.” He offers a dramatic wink. “I had two wives who both tried to kill me!” The Tepanos shake their heads. It is clear they have heard this story many times. They settle themselves on opposite sides of Kasimiro, crossing their legs, planting their palms on the ground. There is a unison to their motions, a symmetry, as though living for so long together in seclusion they have blended into one being.

Kasimiro continues. “At first they tried to get me on their own, and then together. But I outwitted them!”

Elsa lingers several yards away, well beyond the blanket’s edge. She is unsure how she is going to manage this. If she gives him the tablet to translate, it won’t be safe to handle again. And what if he can’t really translate it? She can’t afford to sacrifice this
kohau
to a charlatan. Perhaps she can hold it in front of him.

Kasimiro looks at her. “No stories?” But before she can answer, his hands are in the air. “Ahh! Fine! Luka will hold the
kohau
there, and you will give me paper and pen to write, and you will stand there, just above me, and make your own copy of what I write. Yes? Fine. Be very careful not to touch me.”

“I just . . .” A blush rushes to Elsa’s face.

“
Mâtake,
” Kasimiro pronounces, “
riva riva.
” And he offers her a wide, crooked grin.
Fear is fine.

She signals Biscuit Tin to hold the
kohau
. She pulls several sheets of paper from her bag and slides them to Kasimiro, then a pen, and, as carefully as she can, she offers him a bottle of ink. As he reaches for it, she notices his fingers are twisted and curled. She flinches, but nothing in her movements seems to upset or surprise him.

He smiles again.

“Kasimiro, how long have you been here?”

“Ten years. Ten years with these crazies.” He gestures to the Tepanos, who simultaneously grin. As he begins scribbling, Elsa hovers a few feet away, her eyes straining to read. A dozen or so people come forth from the surrounding huts. They spread blankets nearby to watch. Their legs are marbled with blisters; behind a mesh of stringy brown hair, one woman’s nose has collapsed.

Elsa begins her writing. As Kasimiro scrawls, she too scrawls.
He ngae-ngae te tumu i te tokerau:
The trees sway in the wind. After several minutes, he says to Biscuit Tin,
“Harui,”
and the boy pivots the tablet so that the opposite end is now on top. With that movement, Kasimiro continues to scrawl.
E
ai no a te tumu toe:
Are there any trees left? Every few minutes, he repeats the
harui
command, then falls again into the trance of writing.
Ko ngaro’a ana e au e tu’u ro mai te pahi:
I heard that a boat would come.

Elsa suddenly recalls a word from the recesses of her memory: boustrophedon, scripts written in alternating directions. Could the
rongorongo
be the same?

Kasimiro continues feverishly, pausing only to look up at the tablet, or to exorcise a stubborn cough. He is the first islander to suggest a particular spatial reading of the
kohau
. In less than an hour, she has a copy of his translation. But her delight is tempered by the need to verify its authenticity.

“Kasimiro, I was wondering if you could also make me a dictionary. On one side the
rongorongo
sign and on the other side the Rapa Nui word.”

He looks at her wearily. It is midday and the sun is hot. His curled fingers scratch at his chin. “This is not enough? This is no good?”

“We have dozens of
kohau,
” Elsa says. “Too many to bring them all here.”

“Aggh,” he spits out. “You must bring them here, one by one, to Kasimiro. We will all sit down for each one. Yes. All of us together with our English friend.” He flashes a smile and sweeps his arm to indicate his neighbors. “We will have tea! Yes! And tobacco!”

“Perhaps I can bring some more
kohau
. But it would still be best to try for some kind of key.” It seems unwise to wager her translations on his health. Still, she must promise another visit—she can see his sunken eyes beseeching. “Of course I will come back. Even just to say hello.”

But suspicion tightens his stare. “I’ll make you a key, but not today. Too hot. Come back tomorrow. We begin it then.”

“Very well,” Elsa says. What can she do? “Tomorrow.”

Biscuit Tin offers a flurry of distant good-byes, the pantomiming host of this unusual party. They ride back along the coast at a rapid trot, Elsa appraising the day’s discoveries. Finally, a translation—one brief chapter in the island’s history. The story of the land itself, of trees and birds and flowers.
He ngae-ngae te tumu i te tokerau:
The trees sway in the wind. Hotu Matua did find the luxuriant island of Hau Maka’s dream, but then the
moai
made war against the land—it is some sort of riddle. And there is more to come. The other
kohau
must tell other stories because their combinations of glyphs are different. Tomorrow she will begin her key, and then she will be able to decipher the
rongorongo
—this alone could put their expedition on the front page of the
Spectator
. This alone could be her very own book! No. She pushes the thought back. There is too much work to be done, too much needing verification. Still, she wants at least to share the news with Edward. They will be at the quarry.

She and Biscuit Tin cut inland toward Rano Raraku. The sun, directly above them, beats steadily. It has been weeks since Elsa has visited Edward’s site, weeks since she has allowed herself to sit amid the
moai,
imagining their past. Now, with this small translation, she is beginning to know them better. She suspects the tale of their creation, their transport, perhaps their demise. She cannot wait to tell Edward what fools they’ve been, wondering how the statues were moved without timber. The tablet holds the answer: There were trees on the island.

Approaching the base of the quarry, Elsa hears Alice squealing from above.

“You’ve got quite a difficult girl on your hands,” Elsa teases Biscuit Tin as they halt their horses. But the boy’s face, as he looks up at the crater’s rim, is grave.

Elsa gestures to a rock where they can tie their ponies. As they begin the climb, winding through the maze of
moai,
Biscuit Tin trailing hesitantly, she hears Edward let out a sharp shout, something like the word no. Whipping up her skirt, Elsa breaks into a run. The tall grass scratches at her legs, her feet loosen several rocks, and as she reaches the top she is nearly knocked down by a darting Alice. Elsa steadies herself and sees Edward below, his arm braced against a
moai
, heaving in exhaustion.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he says, “just fine.”

“You look exhausted! Have you been running? Sit, Edward. You should really be in the shade at this hour, you know that. You can’t do this to yourself. You can’t exert yourself like this. It’s ridiculous. I’ve some fresh water down at the horse.”

“I’m fine,” he says, catching his breath.

Elsa now notices the stillness of the quarry. “Where are the workers? Please tell me you haven’t been trying to excavate alone.”