It came up on the opposite side, between the canoe's hull and the outrigger float, thrashing and churning. With a quiver of the beating tail, it writhed over the float, then dove once again.
Eye-to-heaven plunged his hand into the sea, trying to free the line, but Matopahu saw that he was too late. The cord was hopelessly tangled about the canoe. Now if the albacore turned back, it might throw the hook and escape.
The fine fish...lost! Were the gods punishing Matopahu for daring to rise above his fate? The thought blazed into anger. This araroa was his!
With a roar that startled Eye-to-heaven, Matopahu grabbed the fish-club. With a quick look for lurking sharks, he flung himself out of the canoe and over the outrigger toward the struggling fish. Opening his eyelids underwater, he ignored the salt sting in his eyes and grabbed the line that was snaking past. Wrapping it around his fist, he gave a heave, yanking the albacore toward him.
The albacore thrashed, beating the sea into foam with its stiff crescent-shaped tail. Its long pectoral fins spread out like wings and the gills pumped wildly as he hauled it closer. The fish mouth opened and closed, showing the small but thorn-sharp teeth in the bony jaw.
He lifted the fish-club and struck down at its head. Water cushioned the blow and he only knocked off a few scales. Raising his head from the water for a quick gasp, he aimed the club once more. The albacore shuddered and went rigid briefly before it began thrashing again.
Spines raked Matopahu's wrist, drawing blood. The pain and the fish's refusal to die unleashed his fury and he struck again and again at the silvery head, the round staring eyes, the snapping jaws. The sea swirled in red as the fish-club became a weapon of war. He was no longer striking just at the albacore, but at a foe who sought his death....
A hand fastened on his upraised arm and held against his struggles to jerk free. Suddenly Matopahu was no longer on the battlefield, but immersed again in the sea. The enemy before him was just a fish, now quivering helplessly, its head bruised and discolored by the beating.
Matopahu looked up and saw Eye-to-heaven's face, now solemn. A mixture of pride and shame flushed Matopahu's face as he flung back his brine-soaked hair.
"Enough, my friend," Eye-to-heaven said quietly, still leaning far out of the canoe and bracing himself on the outrigger to hold Matopahu's arm. 'The araroa is yours."
The great albacore gave one last shudder and grew still, starting to sink. Matopahu helped Eye-to-heaven wrestle it into the canoe. When the ari'i hauled himself aboard, he stared down at his prize. The fish's size made it a worthy catch indeed. If only he had not disfigured the head.
Eye-to-heaven sensed his thoughts. "A few blemishes do not ruin a fish like this! We are not offering it at the marae. We are going to eat it." With a cry of triumph he picked up his paddle and headed in.
When they carried the huge albacore ashore, Matopahu saw a crowd of men watching. "We have plenty to share," he called out, still feeling the flush of victory.
"That is your fish. Eat it and grow strong," said a young man who seemed to speak for the others.
Matopahu knew there was no point in arguing. He had previously tried to share his catches. People thought him so tainted by his brother's disgrace that they would not eat anything he had touched. Eye-to-heaven, protected by prayers, remained his only companion. Today, at least, there would be one more.
Soon Eye-to-heaven crouched over the small round pit that they used for cooking. He uncovered some buried coals preserved from the previous fire, brought dry coconut fiber for tinder, and got a new blaze started. He added wood and old coconut shells for fuel. While the heavy black stones within the pit grew hot, he busied himself cutting up the fish into chunks and wrapping them in hibiscus leaves. Matopahu joined him, turning his thoughts from his troubles to the meal he would soon be enjoying.
"The stones are ready," said Eye-to-heaven after a while. When the packets of fish had been placed between the stones, and the oven covered with layers of palm leaf, Matopahu went off to hunt for fallen coconuts. The chief of this district had forbidden him to climb trees, but allowed him to take anything he found on the ground.
Most fallen nuts had already been ruined by coconut crabs, which cracked them open with huge claws and left empty shells behind. Whenever Matopahu did spot an oblong husk that looked freshly fallen, he thumped the greenish-brown side to see if it was rotten. Now and again he found one worth keeping.
Finally the ari'i returned to the campsite with his last load of coconuts. He saw Eye-to-heaven sitting with a stranger, a wizened elder with a wisp of gray beard and tattoos over most of his body. Beside the stranger lay a bunch of ripe bananas—his contribution to the meal. Here at last was Imo, the mysterious healer whom the priest put so much faith in.
The tahu'a greeted Matopahu with a suspicious gaze. Does he also think of me as already dead? the ari'i wondered darkly. Yet Imo was an expert at removing evil influences. Matopahu wanted to know how his friend had found this man, and what he expected to learn from him, but he sensed there would be no talk until after the meal.
The men opened the oven, took their portions aside, and ate silently. The fish was excellent, thought Matopahu, though he had only seawater in a coconut shell for sauce. The bananas would have been better had they been cooked, but he did not complain.
After the meal the men buried their leavings deep within a thicket, since anything in intimate contact with a person might be used against him in sorcery. "I must be more careful than most people," the healer said. "I have enemies everywhere. When I help someone, I often anger someone else."
At last the three took seats by the shore. A comforting breeze rattled the fronds of the nearby palm trees.
"I am familiar with your woes," said Imo to Matopahu. He nodded his head gravely and stroked his small, sparse beard. "Your father was a great chief. It does not please me to see what has happened to his sons."
"Have you ever known the aha-tu curse to be lifted?" asked Matopahu uneasily.
Imo paused to glance at Eye-to-heaven, then stroked his beard again. "It is something for the gods to decide."
"Then it is possible?" asked the ari'i.
The healer gave a faint smile. "I can promise nothing. But you are a strong young man. If you follow my instructions—"
"It will not be easy to get the chickens and pigs—"
"Pigs?" Imo glanced again at Eye-to-heaven and then turned back to the ari 'i. "Do not think that you can merely bring an offering and sit watching while priests chant prayers. You will gain nothing that way."
"Nothing? But—"
Eye-to-heaven looked surprised. "I thought I had a way to help you, my friend, but Imo's plan is far better. You will need a strong infusion of mana to free yourself from this curse, and he offers a way."
Matopahu listened with widened eyes as the tahu'a described a source of spiritual power. Imo knew of an ancient shrine, long neglected, that lay high in the hills. He wanted Matopahu to restore this marae, cleaning out the weeds and debris, resetting the stones. Then he must learn the consecration ritual and carry it out flawlessly in a night-long vigil.
"There is great mana in that place," said Imo, speaking of the sacred power. "If you fulfill your duties, the gods will surely hear you. They may even grant your plea."
"But there is a risk," cautioned Eye-to-heaven. "Remember how ancient this marae is. Few men would dare touch such sacred stones—"
"Can I be worse off than I am now?" Matopahu asked with a forced laugh.
The tahu'a only looked at him and did not answer.
THREE
Noon had almost arrived by the time Tepua's canoe brought the atoll travelers into Matavai Bay. Her warrior captain continued to plead with her as they headed across the vast expanse of water toward a crescent-shaped shore. "How will I explain this change of plans to your brother?" he kept asking.
"Don't start worrying until you see how I am greeted," she replied. "If the other Arioi are safe, then you'll know that you can leave
me here."
"I saw no great welcome when I brought your companions yesterday," he reminded her.
Tepua felt deeply troubled over the turn of events, but held to her resolve. "We are friendly with the ruling chief of this district," she explained. "We have performed for him often. If he sent no welcoming party, it was only because the visit was unexpected."
She tried to take cheer from the pleasant scene, enjoying the warm sunlight on her face and the gentle rocking of the canoe. Yesterday's clouds had blown away, leaving only azure sky above the island's tall central peaks. In stark black and green, the mountains rose over folds of spur ridges and deep valleys. Her gaze followed the verdant tumble of the land from hills down to the coastal plain.
Everything would be different now, she knew. The life she had looked forward to resuming was gone. Yet the discomfort of her exile would be small compared with what others had to suffer.
She thought of the people of Matopahu's district, the unfortunate new subjects of Land-crab. These people had long enjoyed the presence of their Arioi lodge, one of the best known in all the islands. Now who would perform the great legends and teach the ways of worshiping Oro? The religious ceremonies would grow lifeless, reduced to the cryptic mut-terings of priests. Soon the gods would turn away.
No. Tepua was not willing to abandon the good people her troupe had served for so long. She had already heard suggestions that her lodge seek a new district willing to give it a permanent home. She would oppose that move if there was any hope of returning to Matopahu's ancestral lands.
As for Matopahu himself...She clenched her jaw with frustration. He had vanished into exile. Somehow she would have to find him.
At last Tepua's canoe approached the shore. On the gently sloping beach, Aitofa, the chiefess of the women's lodge, stood waiting with a few companions from Wind-driving Lodge. Wearing a fresh cape and a garland of flowers, Aitofa looked her former self again. "You see," Tepua said with satisfaction to her atoll captain. "All is well here. Go on to Porapora and do not worry about me."
She turned to Maukiri, who was gazing with a furrowed brow at the beach ahead. "Cousin, you can go to Porapora, and then home if you want," she whispered. "Perhaps Tahiti is not for you after all." Maukiri, however, clutched Tepua's hand and insisted that she would stay with her.
The warrior captain accompanied the women ashore and looked about in all directions, as if expecting an imminent attack. Yet the scene appeared peaceful, with children playing at the edge of the water and fishermen mending their nets under the dangling needles of ironwood trees. The warrior peered into the shadows and walked close to a hut that stood above the black sand beach. Then, seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he listened while Aitofa informed him that this district was ruled by the great chief, Tutaha i Tarahoi, who had offered her Arioi his hospitality.
"I will bring your brother news of your safe arrival," the guard captain said finally to Tepua. She shouted words of parting as he returned to the double-hulled canoe. Then, with an unsettled Maukiri beside her, she walked along the shore of the district that would be their temporary home.
On every side lay signs of prosperity. The feathery tops of coconut palms arched out over the water. In the breadfruit groves, fat yellow globes hung in clusters of twos or threes, some so high that a pole could not reach them. Outrigger canoes in great numbers were pulled up on the beach. Highborn men swaggered about, wrapped in voluminous cloaks of tapa, the excellent bark-cloth used for Tahitian garments.
With a glance at Maukiri, Tepua turned to Aitofa. "I had hoped that my cousin—"
"I understand," the chiefess interrupted. "There is a place for her, if she is willing to work. We left most of our attendants behind."
Maukiri brightened. "I can stay with the troupe?"
"Yours will not be an easy life," Tepua warned her. Attendants took care of most tedious chores, leaving the players free to practice or to simply amuse themselves. Maukiri might find the demands too heavy. But for now, her cousin had no alternative.
Aitofa hailed a passing novice and sent Maukiri with her to find the other attendants. Then the chiefess, who held the coveted Blackleg rank, the foremost in the Arioi hierarchy, led Tepua on a walk along the beach.
Tepua felt that she owed much to this woman. On several occasions, Aitofa had stood up for her against Head-lifted, the chief of the men's lodge. She had accepted Tepua as a novice in the troupe despite his objections. Later, when Tepua made a foolish mistake, Aitofa had protected her from dismissal. Now Tepua looked at her for guidance through the trials ahead.
"Our position is difficult," Aitofa confided as they went. "You and I must talk, but not here. Do you know the path up Taharaa Hill?"
Tepua turned to gaze at one of the most striking features of the shoreline. Taharaa Hill jutted out into the water, its steep face of red clay rising to a crest sparsely covered with trees. "I have been up the trail," Tepua said, recalling earlier visits.
"Good. Then meet me at the top. When the sun is over there." She gestured at a point about halfway down the sky. "But do not tell anyone where you are going."
They continued along the beach, soon reaching the guest houses that the host chief, Tutaha, had set aside for his visitors. Two rows of neatly thatched dwellings, some with cane walls and some fully open to the breeze, stood in a breadfruit grove. A brook nearby flowed quietly into the lagoon. A huge, gnarled ironwood tree grew by the shore, its needles hissing softly as they tossed in the wind.
The houses were deserted. Tepua heard drumming in the distance. 'The other dancers are practicing," Aitofa explained. "We have to keep Tutaha amused if we want to stay. I hope you have lost none of your skills."
"So do I," said Tepua. At one time she had been hailed as the best dancer in the troupe. Now, after so much time away, she felt stiff and awkward. She glanced down at her body.
The atoll garments she wore, of finely plaited pandanus-leaf matting, had served her well on the voyage, but were not suited to Tahiti. Aitofa seemed to understand. She beckoned Tepua inside one of the houses and handed her a length of painted bark-cloth.
Putting the mat skirt and cape aside, Tepua wrapped herself in the tapa cloth. The feel of the soft and pliant material against her skin made an immediate difference. She was almost a Tahitian again. The sound of drumming began to call her.
"Go," said Aitofa. Tepua happily raced out to plait a garland of beach vines and flowers. When she heard the pounding of the music, she could almost forget the difficulties ahead.
From afar, Aitofa saw the stocky figure of Head-lifted, the men's-lodge chief, coming from the direction of Tut-aha's compound. As he drew closer she saw that his face was severe, his body taut with anger. "Our host will not keep us here long," Head-lifted told her. "And we have nowhere else to go. This is what your scheming has brought us!"
"I have heard enough accusations from you," Aitofa replied. He had agreed to perform the satire that angered the usurper, but now seemed to be trying to push all responsibility for the outcome onto her.
"We could have been more subtle," he went on. "We could have waited awhile before ridiculing the man."
"That is not the Arioi way."
"And what kind of Arioi can we be now?" he retorted.
Aitofa stood up to him. "We have a task ahead of us—a message to spread. We will perform the same satire for Tutaha, and for any other chief who invites us to his district. Before we are done, Land-crab will be the laughingstock of Tahiti."
"That is what we will not do," he answered.
"The troupe thinks otherwise. Have you forgotten that a lodge chief can be replaced?"
Head-lifted's face was livid. The veins in his neck stood out as he glared at her. "Do not speak words you will regret, Aitofa. This is not my command. Our host, Tutaha i Tarahoi, forbids us to perform any satire. We will stick to the classical legends or find ourselves all in the lagoon."
Then Tutaha needs to be mocked as well, Aitofa thought. Yet what could she do?
It would be folly to insult one's host or go against his wishes. Her plans would have to wait.
In midafternoon, Tepua took a steep trail, heading up the flank of Taharaa Hill. She had obeyed Aitofa's instructions, slipping away without telling anyone her plans. As she walked, she kept looking back to make sure that no one was following her.
The climb was exhausting, an ascent over trails worn deeply into the red clay of the hillside. She did not know why Aitofa had insisted on such a distant place for the meeting. Perhaps there were more enemies down below than she realized.
At last, when she reached the top, she gazed on a vast panorama of water and land. Her old fear of heights had never left her, but the view of Matavai Bay was so commanding that she stood firm. A sheer drop lay below her. To the right stretched open sea. To the left, the coastline was cut deeply, curving in a great arc. On the gleaming waters of the bay she saw outrigger canoes that appeared no larger than a fingernail, their tiny sails stretching before the breeze.
Tepua sat quietly for a time and contemplated the view. Then she heard footsteps, turned, and saw Aitofa coming up the wooded trail. "Now we are free to talk," the Blackleg said, slightly out of breath, as she gazed at the scene below. "From here, Tutaha and Head-lifted and all the other men who trouble us are like tiny crabs on the beach."
"More worries?" Tepua frowned.
"Look at all this," said Aitofa. "The bay and the land around it are all under Tutaha's control. We dare not anger such a powerful chief."
"But what have we done to him?"
"Nothing. Yet. But we have been warned." Aitofa explained the restrictions that Tutaha had imposed on the visitors.
"Does this mean that he supports Land-crab?" Tepua asked when she heard that the satire had been banned.
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