Run Afoul (25 page)

“Well,” said Wiki uneasily, glancing at his father again.

“But why do men of high rank have to wear long hair?”

“Most New Zealand men have long hair, whatever their rank,” Wiki told her. “The head is
tapu,
the most sacred part of the body, and great attention must be paid to everything to do with it.”

He had lost the lady, he saw, because she was looking quite baffled. She frowned, and then ventured, “Sacred—like in church?”

“Not really.” Wiki paused, working out how to try to explain. Then he said, “We believe in two states of being—commonplace and special.
Tapu,
being important and dangerous, is the opposite to
noa,
which is commonplace and safe.
Tapu
is a force that governs the whole of Maori life; it affects places and objects, as well as people. For example, cooked food, being
noa,
must never be taken into the
wharehui,
the meetinghouse, which is
tapu.
No one would drink rainwater from the
wharehui
roof, even if he were dying of thirst.”

Naturally, apart from the Maori words, he had spoken in Portuguese. Forsythe's voice lifted again, demanding, “What was all that about?” Couthouy answered, but the words were lost, and, thankfully, Forsythe did not produce any intriguing item of information. Then, to Wiki's vast relief, the women took their leave, happily discussing the strange customs of the Pacific as they went.

There was a bustle as the white tablecloth was removed and fresh decanters and wineglasses set out on the bare mahogany, along with bowls of nuts. Then, after Palgrave suggested that they all move to join Lieutenant Forsythe and the scientifics at the middle of the table, Wiki became aware that the southerner, with a consciously dramatic gesture, had set an object on the table in front of his father.

The six scientifics swooped in to inspect it, and the Brazilian men were flocking about, too. Then Wiki was close enough to recognize the object, and stopped dead.

Forsythe demanded of Captain Coffin, “Now do you believe that I lived and fought with Wiki's people?”

“I never disbelieved you,” Wiki's father said tiredly.

“Then you know what this is, huh?”

“Of course,” Captain Coffin said. “It's a
mere
—a greenstone club.”

The greenstone weapon was just eight inches long and three inches at its widest part; its edges, once ground with sand to razor-sharpness, were stained dark, and the spiral carving on the knoblike handle was blurred. It had a presence much greater than its size—that of a
mere pounamu,
the supreme hand weapon and mark of a chief. Wrought with dogged patience from the hardest jade, clubs like this one were given proud names; some, by changing color, were reputed to have the power to foretell the future; some had such great
mana
—prestige—that prisoners of war of high rank requested the honor of being killed by them.

Forsythe said proudly, “I killed the chief what brandished it.”

“By shooting him, I suppose,” Captain Coffin said, even more wearily.

“Aye—from one hundred ninety yards. Killed him first shot.”

“And he was armed with this
mere,
and did not have a gun?”

“Aye.” A note of uncertainty had entered Forsythe's voice.

“It hardly seems sportsmanlike.”

Forsythe's attitude became aggressively self-defensive. “I was only doing the job I was hired to do, and the warriors with me were firing guns, too! If the tables had been turned, he would have shot me!”

“I believe you, more's the pity,” said Captain Coffin. “Damn it,” he said softly, and to Wiki's surprise, his eyes glistened with tears.

“Put it away,” he said then, more loudly. “You're insulting my son.”

“
Me?
Me insult
him? How,
for God's sake?”

“Didn't you listen to what he was saying? This club is
tapu,
and you've set it down in a
noa
place, on a table that is used to serve cooked food.”

Forsythe looked puzzled. Then he straightened and looked around. It was as if he were suddenly aware of his audience. Dr. Olliver was plucking at his plump lower lip, his eyes bright and alert; as Wiki watched, his hand dropped to stroke his bushy beard. The other scientifics were staring down at the
mere,
blatant greed in their faces. Forsythe noticed that, too, because he pulled it back before anyone could touch.

He looked at Wiki, shoved the club at his chest, and said, “Take it.”

Wiki said blankly, “What?”

“Take it. I hadn't realized you set such store by it.”

For a long moment, Wiki couldn't move. He clenched his right hand to stop its trembling, but when he slowly held it out the shake was still there.

“It's that important, is it?” Forsythe said, looking embarrassed.

Important? It was
taonga
—treasure. Wiki took it. The stone was warm. When he blinked, tears fell out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Incapable of saying a single word, he turned and walked out of the room. Captain Couthouy could do the translating, he thought.

*   *   *

As he descended the shallow veranda steps into the scented garden, Wiki softly sang a
karakia
to restore
tapu
to the
mere.
As always, he didn't know if he had the right words. There were
karakia
for laymen, for children, for priests, and chiefs, and he didn't know one from the other. However, it didn't matter. When the rapid chant was finished, he tucked the
mere
into his belt at the back, where the weapon fitted into the small of his spine as if it had been made for it.

Then, letting his jacket drop, he looked around. Pergolas radiated out from the fountain, their trellised archways leading into moonlit gardens, and the air was soft and cool. He could hear the women chattering in the salon, and the music of a waltz wafted from the ballroom beyond the trees.

The moon was so bright that the shadow of the nearest trellis was black. It wasn't until Madame de Roquefeuille called out his name that he realized that she was perched on a nearby bench. Her gown was as white as the moonlight.

He went over, sat down, and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, they talk about babies,” she said, and made a kind of
pshaw
noise. “I'm not interested in that. So I came out for the air.”

Her voice was light and breathy, as if she were eternally on the verge of a giggle, and she shifted closer, in the cozy way of Brazilians, so that he could smell her scent and feel her warmth. Her skin was very white, the upper swell of her breasts gleaming faintly.

Wiki was finding it hard to concentrate. He said, “Were Lieutenant Forsythe and my father quarreling at the table? Or was Forsythe just bragging?”

Her white shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It was hard to tell. Men are such strange, rough creatures. Too, they spoke English. I suspect the lieutenant considers himself your friend, and your father does not approve at all.”

“Good God,” said Wiki. She was probably right, he thought, remembering Forsythe's strange loyalty to the men who had crewed the cutter.

“Fathers are like that,” she said, and snapped her fingers in an emphatic dismissal of the vagaries of paternal parents. “You waltz, they tell me.”

“That I do,” Wiki admitted uneasily, wondering how she had heard.

“Listen,” she urged.

Wiki listened. He could hear men's voices, and realized that the men had settled down to their conference, because Forsythe's Virginian accent predominated. The orchestra in the distant ballroom had struck up yet another a waltz. Then, close to hand, there was a sudden startling swish of fabric, as Madame de Roquefeuille impatiently stood.

When he looked up into her face she crinkled her eyes at him in her provocative way. Then she held out her hand, and said, “Let's go.”

“To the ball?” He laughed. “You're joking, surely.”

“I'm serious.”

“But what would your husband say?”

“I don't have one,” she said, and grabbed his hand and hauled.

Her hand was small, warm, and imperious, but he held back, protesting, “We can't just walk into the ballroom.”

“Why not?”

“For a start, we haven't been invited.”

“Talk for yourself,” she said pertly. “I was most surely invited—why do you think I wear white, and have no jewelry? Because that is the stipulated costume, you see. But my sister insisted that I stay and help entertain my brother-in-law's guests instead of going, which was tedious. Come
on,
” she said, and let go his hand, picked up her skirts, and ran off across the lawn.

Obviously, she kept herself in wonderful physical trim, because she was as fleet as a nymph. She was wearing little satin slippers, Wiki noticed as he pursued her. He thought she was giggling, but it was hard to tell, because she was moving so fast. He followed her across the lawn; and under the trees, and then onto the gravel path that wound up to the blazing windows of the ballroom.

Like Sir Patrick Palgrave's place, the building was colonnaded, and the portico was elaborate. When they were within yards of the entrance Madame de Roquefeuille stopped and dropped her skirts, allowing him to catch up with her, and then tucked her hand demurely into the crook of his elbow. They walked sedately up the short flight of steps and into the anteroom, to find several dignified gentlemen chatting over their claret and cigars.

“Madame de Roquefeuille,” exclaimed one in a tone of surprise. “An unexpected pleasure! You decided to join us, after all?”

“Just for one waltz,” she said, without bothering to introduce Wiki, and with no further ado tugged him into the brightly lit ballroom.

The temperature immediately rocketed, fueled by the heat of what looked like a million candles. The room was huge enough for a thousand to dance. Men gossiped in groups about the fringes, while older women fanned themselves from the clustered chairs where they perched, but most of those present were galloping about the floor in the throes of a hectic Boston waltz.

Everyone, Wiki immediately saw, was wearing white, just as Madame had predicted. He, by contrast, was wearing black. However, he was not the only one to stand out, because Captain Wilkes and the other officers from the expedition were wearing uniform. Wiki glimpsed Midshipman Keith's stunned expression just as Madame de Roquefeuille stepped into his arms.

She was definitely laughing, Wiki decided as he took charge of their revolutions, because he could feel her quivering. Her face, pressed against his upper arm, had gone quite pink. Across the floor and round and round they charged, while Wiki's braid flopped up and down between his shoulders, and Madame's copper hair started to tumble out of her chignon. Her merriment was so infectious he had trouble not to laugh out loud while he swung them both round and round.

“The gossip was true—you really can waltz,” she gasped when the music slowed, and she was able to loosen her convulsive grip on his hand. “And very well, too,” she added.

“
Gossip
is putting it mildly,” he said, intent on keeping on the far side of the crowd from Captain Wilkes. “Are you sure you don't have a husband?”

“I'm a widow.”

“Oh,” he said, thinking he should have guessed, and added, “I'm sorry.”

“I am sorry, too. He was rich and generous. I liked him.”

“A lot?”

“Definitely too much to let any other man take his place,” she said.

Wiki thought about her widowhood as they revolved in intimate circles, meditating, too, on how young and lithe and alive she felt—far too young to be a widow, though it was patently obvious that she managed to enjoy herself. She was the perfect height to fit against his shoulder as they slowly circled, their bodies close together. He could feel her every breath, and smell her warm scent.

Forcing himself to think about her dead husband, Wiki asked, “He was French?”

“His father was French, but he—Pierre—was as Brazilian as the rest of us. Unfortunately, he was a very keen horseman.”

“He died while riding?”

“With Sir Patrick, yes. They were playing a Persian game that Pierre's father learned in India—it is called polo. The players ride round and round on fast horses, chasing a wooden ball with clubs called mallets, which they toss from hand to hand with astounding skill. When Pierre fell he was accidentally hit with a mallet on the head. It was very sudden and sad, but he died doing what he liked most.”

She let go his hand to make a casual, flyaway gesture, and as if at a signal, the orchestra stopped. “Let's go,” she said abruptly. “Come, quick, before the captain who is staring this way arrives with difficult questions.”

Wiki was more than willing. There was a door open nearby, and he briskly followed her through it. The night was cool, and the stars twinkled in their multitudes. He pursued the sound of her giggles down the path, then onto the lawn, and at last the bright windows of the ballroom were hidden behind the trees. Sir Patrick's perfumed gardens enfolded them. Voices still drifted out from the long, lit windows of his house. It was as if they had never been away.

Instead of going back to the bench where she had been seated when Wiki had found her, Madame de Roquefeuille dropped to the grass on a slope that overlooked a bed of roses. Though the flowers were lost in the dark, Wiki could smell their heady scent as he took off his jacket and spread it on the ground. “Sit on this,” he said. “You'll get grass stains on your dress.”

“And ruin my reputation?”

“I was thinking about
my
reputation.”

She laughed again, and shifted to sit on the coat. Then she saw the
mere
tucked into the back of his belt, and said, “What's that?”