Child of the Dawn (4 page)

Tepua did not stop to introduce these delicacies to Maukiri. Despite all that had happened she was hungry, especially after so many days of scanty rations while traveling. To her delight she found that the plantain was rich and smoky, of the ruddy mountain variety called
fe'i
. The breadfruit—so pleasant to the tooth—was perfectly baked. How had Land-crab managed, with so little apparent effort, to produce such a magnificent meal?
 

Tepua paused to look around. Following custom, the guests sat slightly apart from each other, men and women in separate parties. Each had his or her own place setting on a banana leaf, with cups of salt water and coconut sauce for dipping, fresh water for washing the fingers. Land-crab sat in a high place of honor, his four-legged stool elevating him above everyone else. Two servants knelt beside him, each feeding him in turn from a polished bowl. A man who claimed that his touch was sacred, Tepua noted sourly, did not feed himself—lest his hands overburden his stomach with
mana
.
 

She glanced at the other travelers from her atoll and saw beaming faces as they dipped into a meal far better than any chief at home could command. Her gaze turned to the servers, and she followed their path back to the gate....
 

The food had been prepared elsewhere, she realized. But where? Suddenly the morsel in her mouth grew as cold as a river stone.

The Arioi feast! Of course! The big ovens near the performance house had been baking a meal for the players. Now the performers were gone, scattered by Land-crab's treachery.
And this was their stolen meal
.
 

Tepua's throat tightened and she had to force herself to swallow. She looked at the rest of her portion and found that her appetite had fled. The others guests did not care. What did it mean to them that Land-crab had defied the peace of Oro, destroying the work of the god's servants?
 

Suddenly Tepua stood up. "Stay here," she managed to whisper to Maukiri. "Say that I'm unwell, if anyone asks." Then she ran out of the compound, to the shore, and along the stretch of gritty beach until she was alone.
 

"I will avenge this wrong," she shouted across the water, hoping that somehow Oro would hear her. "We will come back—all of us—and bring you the honor you deserve. Land-crab will suffer for his crimes."
 

 

 

 

TWO

 

Matopahu, brother of the deposed chief, dreamed that he stood in the sacred courtyard, under leafy, dark trees, shrouded by night. He knew this place of worship and sacrifice by the gleam of torchlight on damp paving stones, by the chill at the back of his neck from the breath of the gods....
 

In the flickering light, hands moved with a slow, menacing rhythm. Solemn chanting filled the air. Flame-lit figures of priests hovered over a body that lay on a wooden platform. The corpse's legs and feet were drawn up, the arms clasped about the shoulders.
 

A spike of ironwood had been driven through the crown of the head, another through the ears. The dead man's head was thrust back and the mouth cried out silently. It was the face of Knotted-cord, Matopahu's brother!
 

Now the eye of the dream moved closer, and Matopahu saw that the moving hands held sennit, the golden cord made from coconut-husk fiber. It was long, finely made sennit, anchored to the wood spike that protruded from the top of his brother's skull. With each hypnotic movement the hands drew it over the face, wrapping the forehead, binding the eyes, coiling down over the bridge of the nose. The cord wrapped around the spike that transfixed the ears. It wove back and forth, covering the features and making the head a faceless mask.
 

The low throb of the chant grew louder as the offering was made to the gods.

 

Here is your fish

O great Ta'aroa
 

Whose curse is death.

 

Here is your fish

Caught from the great waters....

 

With a gasp, Matopahu woke from the nightmare and found himself in his place of exile—on the shore of the island of Eimeo. He was soaked with sweat and huddled up on his side, his body so tightly curled that for an instant his muscles did not unlock. The dream's terror carried over into waking; a shudder went through him, suddenly freeing his legs. Then he heard a comforting voice beside him.
 

"
Aue!
You have had another bad dream."
 

Matopahu turned to see the plump face of his companion, Eye-to-heaven, who squatted beside him. Overhead hung the palm-leaf thatch of their simple shelter, and Matopahu could smell a fresh breeze from the sea. Bright sunlight danced on the water only a few steps away.
 

"It was the same dream?" asked Eye-to-heaven, the stocky priest who had fled with him to exile after the overthrow of Knotted-cord. Eye-to-heaven was Matopahu's
taio
, his sworn friend, closer than a brother.
 

'The same," Matopahu groaned. Feeling his pounding heart slow, he crawled out into the shade beneath the needles of an ironwood tree. He sat up cautiously, waiting for his head to clear.
 

"I have slept too long," said Matopahu, glancing at the morning shadows. He stood up and gazed at the water, past the lagoon and foaming breakers, across empty open sea. From this side of the island of Eimeo, neighboring Tahiti lay out of sight. He was glad not to be facing in that direction. Every glimpse of the distant peaks brought back painful memories of what he had lost.
 

Matopahu was tall and powerfully built, a renowned warrior of the
ari'i
or chief's class. He had a handsome, strong-featured face, intense eyes, and
wavy
black hair that tumbled from beneath a ragged bark-cloth headband. Here in exile he possessed none of the fine garments or headpieces from his life at his brother's court. He wore a simple
maro
, a strip of bark-cloth wound about his narrow hips and between his legs. On this warm morning he did not bother to retrieve his only other garment, a tattered cape of bark-cloth that lay inside his shelter.
 

For a moment longer Matopahu stood listening to the quiet washing of waves against the pebbled shore. He had been living here for almost a month, ever since his brother's fall. In disguise he had made several forays home, but each time had found Land-crab firmly in control. Last night he had learned of the latest outrage....
 

He turned to his friend, who seemed wide-awake and full of energy. "You were up early. Have you heard more about the Arioi?"

It was Eye-to-heaven's habit to gather news every morning from fishermen and traders and share it with his friend. Today, however, he seemed to be holding something back. "Is there something else?" the
ari'i
persisted.
 

The priest sighed. "
My taio
, I do not know if this will bring you joy or pain. Tepua-mua has come back. She was seen near yesterday's fire."
 

"What happened to her?" Matopahu asked anxiously. "Where is she now?"

"Last night she was one of Land-crab's guests," the priest continued in a low voice. "He invited her entire party into his compound."
 

"Guest?" Matopahu stiffened in outrage. Why would she seek friendship with his greatest enemy?

"I do not understand that," said Eye-to-heaven. "But I do know that someone must talk to her and explain what has happened to you."
 

"It is better if she thinks me dead." Matopahu felt a stinging in his eyes and tried to blame it on a gust of wind. He had been expecting her return to Tahiti for a long time. Why did she have to appear
now
? Whatever Tepua had been to him no longer mattered. Land-crab's priests had ruined all his hopes. Again, in his mind, he heard the chanting from his dream, the words of the
aha-tu
prayer over his brother.
 

 

Take this fish

O great gods.

Take this fish

As your offering.

May all his family die

And none be spared.

 

Matopahu knew that the grim ritual from his dream had been carried out, his brother's corpse wrapped tightly in cord and given to the gods. The resulting curse fell on himself, the last of his line. Once, long ago, he had hoped that Tepua would be the mother of his children. Now Matopahu's own life was in grave danger. There certainly would be no children.
 

"I do have some encouraging news, my
taio
," said the priest. "This morning I did more than squat on my heels and trade banter with fishermen. I found Imo, the healer I have been looking for. He lives in a valley not far from here."
 

"And what will this
tahu'a
do for us?" Matopahu asked skeptically. For many days, Eye-to-heaven had been searching for a means of lifting the curse from Matopahu. Most people took this to be impossible, expecting that the
ari'i
would soon fall ill and die. Eye-to-heaven had refused to accept such gloomy views and had suggested prayers. But he needed a generous offering for the altar. He had asked that Matopahu provide ten fine pigs and as many white chickens—a difficult task for someone who possessed nothing.
 

In his days as brother of the high chief, the
ari'i
could have gone to any man of substance, asked for whatever he needed, and had his request granted at once. He would have been obliged, of course, to return a similar favor eventually. Now, because of the curse, people scorned him as a living corpse. Why waste good pigs, they said openly, on a man who is doomed?
 

"I think this Imo can help us," Eye-to-heaven insisted. "I have invited him to join us for a meal."

"He will eat with us?" Matopahu said in surprise. Most men viewed him as so tainted by his curse that they shunned all forms of contact.
 

"He is protected by his tattoos and his rituals," the priest answered. "He has no qualms about joining us. But we need something worthy to offer such a man." With these words Eye-to-heaven gestured subtly toward a ball of line that lay behind him. Matopahu understood. It was unwise to speak directly of fishing before setting out, lest some spirit overhear and warn the fish away.
 

As much as Matopahu enjoyed his friend's company, the effects of the nightmare made him hesitate. Perhaps Eye-to-heaven would fare better alone. He met the priest's gaze, but the words he felt he should say would not come.
 

"Let us get moving," said Eye-to-heaven, looking at him steadily. "I hear your stomach growling." The
ari'i
saw that his friend had obtained several young red mullet for bait. The priest picked up the green palm-leaf basket that held the fish.
 

Matopahu felt an odd tightness in his chest at his friend's loyalty. He lifted his head. If Eye-to-heaven needed him, he would go. He took the fish club and line, then followed his companion along the shore to his beached outrigger canoe.
 

During the month of exile, Eye-to-heaven had proved his friendship time and again. Formerly high priest to Matopahu's brother, Eye-to-heaven seemed to be enjoying his new rootless existence, free from the duties of the priesthood.
 

After the overthrow of Knotted-cord, the two men had sought refuge in several districts. No chief had welcomed them to his household. But Eye-to-heaven had a relative in this district of Eimeo who grudgingly gave them permission to fish his waters and sleep on his land. Matopahu had known he would find no better hospitality elsewhere, and so had settled here until he could find some way out of his predicament. If there
was
a way out...

Matopahu's outrigger canoe already had some equipment in the bottom—stone sinkers, paddles, extra fishhooks, and a shell knife. The men added what they were carrying, then carried the vessel down the beach and into the shallows. Wading into deeper water, the two climbed aboard.
 

The day was calm, with little offshore current—good conditions for deep-line fishing. Small waves were breaking against the barrier reef, making a long line of whitecaps that paralleled the shore. Both men paddled the canoe out through a pass, into blue-black water that was only mildly choppy.
 

Feeling more cheerful, Matopahu scanned the sea, noting several fishing canoes in a cluster. The men aboard were working one of the well-known albacore "holes," where such fish could most easily be caught. Because the exiles were not permitted to approach these places, their task was doubly hard.
 

The restriction did not seem to bother the priest. "I like the look of the water over there," said Eye-to-heaven. He dug his paddle deep, sending the light craft arrowing across the swell. Soon both men set aside their paddles. With a shell knife, Eye-to-heaven sliced open a pair of mullet. Laying a fillet on each side of the barbless hook, he tied these on with thin fishline, leaving the tails to dangle invitingly behind.
 

Using a fisherman's hitch, he attached a stone sinker and more pieces of fish, as chum, to the line. Then he dropped the baited hook overboard. As he let out line from the inside of the ball, he measured its length against his arm. When the right number of lengths had gone out, he stopped and made a knot for reference.
 

"See how you fare," he said, handing the line to Matopahu. The
ari'i
was surprised at this offer. Was the priest trying to prove the gods had not all turned away from his friend? Matopahu hesitated, but Eye-to-heaven put the line into his hand. Then both men intoned prayers for success.
 

With his right hand, Matopahu gave an upward jerk to release the special knot that held both chum and sinker to the hook. He felt the tension in the line slacken as the hook came free. The warm sun on his back and a fresh sea breeze in his face relaxed Matopahu as he moved the line to attract fish. Noticing that the canoe was starting to drift, he picked up his paddle in his left hand, braced the shaft under his left shoulder, and began to stroke gently against the weak current.