Sister of the Sun (8 page)

On their vessel, the outsiders stirred, looking up with alarm."Do not frighten the foreigners,'' Tepua called back. "Go slower," she ordered her paddlers. "Everyone, slower!"
 

Ahead, she saw the black-haired man staring at the oncoming canoes. A sudden look of fear crossed his face. "We come to offer you help," she shouted to him across the water. Now she wished she had brought a young palm branch as a sign of her peaceful intentions.
 

The dark-haired stranger, crouching near the bow, glanced down at the thing he was holding. His hands moved, but his actions remained hidden. Then he lifted something resembling a straight shaft the length of a man's arm; he pointed it toward the sky above Tepua's head. From the stern, his light-haired companion shouted what seemed a warning, but the other man took no notice. The light-haired man shouted again, lunged forward, clambering over the thwarts....
 

A sudden dread gripped Tepua. "Is that a weapon?" she cried. Then a noise shook her, a sound louder than thunder. Gray smoke billowed. Men screamed, some diving into the water. On shore, the crowds fled the beach.
 

Tepua felt fear pounding inside her chest, but she forced herself not to move. She smelled the harsh smoke, unlike any she knew. Then she saw Paruru, whose paddlers had never halted. His arm was raised, his spear tip aimed at the man who held the terrifying thing. She called out, trying to stop him, but the warrior did not seem to hear.
 

The dark-haired sailor tried to dodge. He could not move quickly enough. Paruru's long spear thrust forward....

The foreigner gave a cry as the slender bone point plunged into his gut. Then his hands flew up and the weapon tumbled from his grip, dropping with a splash into the lagoon. The bright-haired sailor tried to help his companion, but Tepua saw there was no hope for the man.
 

"Everyone move back!" she shouted. At last, Paruru's men complied. Warily, she ordered her canoe to approach the foreign craft alone. Her paddlers were trembling and she understood their fear. What if the strangers possessed another of those weapons?
 

"We do not wish to harm you," she called. "We want only peace."

The bright-haired man paid no heed to her. He bent over his companion, his face contorted by grief. Tepua felt a flood of sympathy.
 

She called to the few people left on shore, and to those brave ones who were creeping back from the shadows. "Bring gifts of friendship—mats, baskets. Light a fire and bake food for the strangers." Then she turned once more toward the mourning sailor.
 

She knew only one way to express her feelings, her
aroha
. She let out a mourning wail, as if one of her own people had died. The women on shore understood at once; they also began to wail. Some picked up sharp pieces of coral and gashed their foreheads. Then others came out from hiding, a long line of women. They waded a few steps into the water and faced the strange
vaka.
The din of their cries, Tepua hoped, would be heard even by the gods of these foreigners.
 

At last the grieving sailor looked up and made signs toward Tepua. He wanted to come ashore, she realized. He pantomimed digging a hole, burying the body.
 

"We cannot allow that," Tepua called back sadly.

The man made more signs and beat his fist angrily against the side of the boat.

"No. That is not our custom." Tepua was relieved to see the high priest coming in a canoe to speak with her.

"Tell him," said Faka-ora shortly, "that the corpse must be given to the sea. The great waters will make it clean."

"You must go out," she called to the sailor as she pointed to the pass. "Out to the ocean again. We will help you, and then we will bring you back here. We are your friends."
 

The stranger stared at her in silence. She could not tell if he believed her. Those eyes spoke of thoughts that she feared she might never understand.
 

 

Sometime later, after the tide had nearly ceased to ebb, Paruru stood on shore while he watched the dead man's journey begin. Taking advantage of the slight outward current, a
pahi
began towing the foreign craft toward the pass. Paruru observed this operation with relief. He knew the importance of sending the dead man's soul on its way. The spirit could cause grave harm if allowed to linger here.
 

Earlier, Paruru had watched the stranger with water eyes wrap a piece of sailcloth around his fallen friend, weighting the contents with blocks of coral sent from shore. Now the outsider sat staring at the bundle he had placed in the bow of the boat. The other surviving sailor, the one with red hair, had recovered somewhat, and sat close by his grieving companion. But the younger man kept looking about nervously, as if afraid that another spear might come.
 

All along the shore, people stood gazing at the odd procession. Many continued their mourning, men as well as women. For now, all attention was directed toward the boats.
 

Paruru glanced around and was glad to see that no one was watching him. What he had to do now would not please Faka-ora. But Paruru had spoken with another priest, and believed that he could carry through his plan safely.
 

As he waded out toward where the foreign vessel had been anchored, Parana recalled with satisfaction the bold moment of his attack. Even the weapon's roar had not shaken him. How many other warriors could boast of facing such a danger? Soon, travelers would carry songs of his deed throughout the atolls. People would speak of the weapon he had overcome, calling it the thunder-club or the spewer-of-smoke.
 

It troubled him that Tepua seemed far more angry with him than impressed by his courage. In time, he hoped, she would understand what had happened, realizing that he had saved her life from another blast of that terrible weapon. And greater things might come of this incident....
 

Paruru waded deeper, feeling warm water swirl about his thighs. At the edge of the sloping reef flat, he dove into the clear depths. He swam a short way out, and then down. The dropped weapon lay just below him, resting among the dark sea cucumbers. The thing lay in plain view, where anyone could find it. He did not want to lose this prize.
 

As a boy, seeking pearl shells, he had often gone far deeper. He remembered holding on to ledges, pulling himself along the bottom, staying under longer than any of his friends. But now, as he kicked his way into the chillier depths, he felt an unexpected need for air. He stretched his arm downward, but the bottom still lay out of reach.
 

Angry with himself, he came up gasping for breath. What a fool—to dive without preparing himself! Swimming toward a submerged coral head, he found a place to stand. With waves lapping at his shoulders, he whispered a brief prayer to his guardian spirit.
 

Next he began his exercise, pulling in deep breaths and blowing them out quickly. Again and again he did this, until he felt almost dizzy. This time he carried a chunk of coral, to make the descent easier. He dove once more, using feet and his free hand to help pull himself under. The water pressed against his ears and eyes with a force stronger than any he remembered.
 

This was not right. Some evil force was trying to keep him from the weapon. He refused to give in to it, though the pain in his ears grew fierce. Kicking with a frenzy, he fought his way down to the stony floor. Then his hand touched the hard shaft of the weapon and he closed his fingers around it.
 

Releasing his stone, he rose in a cloud of bubbles, his body upright, his hands Taised over his head. As he neared the surface he remembered to pull the weapon out of sight. His head and shoulders broke the surface, and then he felt acute pain shooting through his body. He could scarcely see and barely had strength to keep his head afloat.
 

For a time he knew only the pain that filled him. At first he feared this was his punishment for touching the foreign thing. Then he recognized the diver's agony, though it had never afflicted him so severely. The suffering would end soon, he knew, and then all would be well.
 

Slowly, his senses returned. At last he could look toward shore, and was relieved to see that his dive had attracted no attention. He began to swim at a moderate pace, preserving his strength. His destination lay a good way down the beach.
 

When he staggered out of the water, Paruru felt weak in all his limbs. Exhausted as he was, he remembered to be careful with the thunder-club. It had erupted when the man pointed it skyward. Paruru held it low, pointed toward the ground.
 

His swim had brought him to an isolated and rocky shore, a place he had chosen for privacy. A dense stand of
mikimiki
bushes reached almost to the water and screened the interior from view. He crawled under the low-hanging branches and emerged in a shadowy forest. As arranged, the priest named Lost-the-wind stood waiting for him.
 

Lost-the-wind was younger and stouter than his superior, Faka-ora. Paruru had found him far easier to deal with than the older priest. Lost-the-wind had agreed to dispel whatever evil might adhere to the weapon, and to the
kaito-nui
for touching it. Now, as Paruru stood before him, the priest lifted a coconut shell filled with seawater. He sprinkled its contents, first onto the warrior and then onto the object he held.
 

After Lost-the-wind recited a long prayer, he led Paruru to a crude shelter, a thatched roof on four poles that was screened by bushes and young trees. Around the shelter,
tapu
signs made of coconut fronds had been tied to branches, to warn off anyone who came by.
 

"Stay here," the priest said, signaling for Paruru to go in under the roof. "I have left food and drink. Do not come out for three days. If all is well after that, you are safe."
 

Paruru went meekly into the shelter. He gently placed the weapon on a mat and seated himself beside it. Drinking nuts lay waiting for him, but he did not want anything just yet. "The arrangements are pleasing," he said in acknowledgment of the priest's efforts. He would make return gifts later, of course.
 

"Then I go," said the priest.

Paruru sighed, resigning himself to three days of solitude. His curiosity about the rest of the outsiders' goods would have to wait. But he had what might prove to be the most important item.
 

For a time he did nothing but stare at the mysterious weapon. Much of it was made of polished wood, broad at the back, long and slender in front. The part that resembled hollow bamboo was made of something he did not recognize. Its color was gray as a stormy sea, its surface smooth and cool.
 

If this was not wood, then he assumed it must be a kind of foreign stone. Paruru bent his head down so that he could look in through the hollow end, which flared slightly. What a marvel! He wondered how long the carver had worked on it.
 

More important was learning how to use the weapon. He had thought, at first, that merely pointing the hollow end in a certain way would make the noise. Now, with sudden bravado, he seized the thunder-club and pointed it above the trees.
 

No blast!

Only faintly disappointed, he turned his attention to the strange parts near the center of the weapon. Perspiration ran down his chest as he imagined the noise erupting again. Yet it had not seemed to hurt the black-haired sailor. It was Paruru's spear that had brought the man down!
 

Slowly he let his fingers explore the puzzling mechanism. One part resembled a bird's head on a long and sinuous neck. Below this hung a long, narrow tooth. He poked and prodded, discovering eventually that the bird's head could move. He had to exert some force to pull it back a short way, and suddenly it slipped from his fingers. The beak sprang down and struck a tiny bowl. Sparks flew...

He yelped in surprise. The weapon sailed across the floor of his shelter. But still there was no blast of thunder.

He began to laugh at himself for his fear. Retrieving the thing, he held it once more on his lap. There was a secret here, one that would take patience to discover. This time he forced himself to watch carefully as he pulled back the head and let the beak strike. Once more, sparks jumped in the bowl.
 

Despite his surprise, he managed to hold on to the weapon. He produced sparks several times, but that was all he could achieve. Something was lacking, and only the foreigners could tell him what it was.
 

He lay back and wondered how he could get the answer.

 

 

 

FIVE

 

The next morning Tepua stirred at dawn. This was a quiet time, when the only sound was the distant roar of waves pounding the reef. She sat up in the gloom, waking in the house that had just been built for her. Using material brought from every part of the atoll—rafters, cord, sheets of thatching—the structure had been hastily erected. Compared with the open, airy Tahitian houses, it felt low and cramped. But the furnishings were the best her people could offer—mats, fine baskets, stools of polished wood. In the air Tepua smelled the tang of drying leaves and the subtler scents of the building's lashed, wooden framework.
 

Her attendants still lay sleeping in a row, one stretched out beside the other. Tepua could sleep no longer, not on this morning. Her thoughts turned to the welcome news brought last night by the
tahunga
. Under his treatment the foreigners showed signs of improving. She had hope now that their gods would relent and take away their sickness.
 

Eager to see how the strangers were faring, Tepua rushed outside before her yawning servants could rouse themselves. On the expanse of coral sand in front of her doorway, her paddlers also lay asleep. They jumped up from their mats when they heard her approaching and raced to launch her
pahi
.