At last Matopahu stood before the ruins of the ancient wall and tried to compose himself. These stones had been placed by men long dead. Bones of ancient priests and chiefs lay buried in the courtyard beyond. Their spirits still protected the marae. He could sense their presence in the shadows, in the rustling of old leaves, in the scent of decay.
His mouth went dry as he began to speak. In a hoarse voice, he intoned a prayer, asking permission to carry out the work he had planned. Sweat cooled on his back as he spoke, giving him a lingering chill.
The sensation, the priests said, was one that pleased the gods. Matopahu remembered it from nights he had spent in prayer upon the marae of his brother. He also recalled the great ceremony of weeding the courtyard. Stripped to the waist, he and a few privileged others had worked slowly down the marae from west to east, scraping the moss from the sacred paving stones. The priests, dressed in white loin-girdles, had sat aside while urging on the weeders with their chants.
It is marae weeding!
The pulling up of grass
And for the host of gods
The moss shall be scraped.
Matopahu sighed deeply. Those days were gone. The only marae he could enter now was this long-abandoned one. Cursed as he was, he did not know how the mana in the stones of this place would affect him. Even a momentary touch might kill a man who was out of favor with the gods.
He fell silent, listening, his muscles tensed against the impulse to reach for the stones. Overhead, wind rustled the branches. A voice seemed to whisper. Perhaps the spirits were answering his plea.
"Why?"
He strained to hear more, but the wind dropped and the leaves fell silent. Once again he chanted his prayer....
"Why do you disturb us, living man?" came the response. "We have been quiet for so long."
His lips moved, trembling. "I intend no harm—"
"So much time without prayers, without sacrifices," moaned the voice. "Why start again now? Why trouble the dead? "
With an effort, Matopahu gathered his wits and spoke. "I wish to restore this place so that the gods will return again." He wiped sweat from his upper lip as he listened to the reply.
"So much toil and thought, so much weariness." The voice made Matopahu drowsy. "Lie down among these stones," it urged. "Be one of us. We welcome you."
A sudden gust swept the ground, blowing aside dead leaves that lay on the old paving stones of the courtyard. Matopahu drew in his breath when he saw a long trench exposed, white bones showing in a burial crypt.
"Join us now," said the voice, and its tone became soothing. "Forget your hopeless plans. Give up a struggle that is already lost. Enjoy the peace that you deserve."
"Yes." Matopahu felt a heaviness of limb, a weariness of spirit. Since the death of his brother he had forced himself to go on, pretending that the curse was taking no toll. Yet every morning he had found it more difficult to rise and face daylight.
"We are waiting," said the voice. "Your bed is ready. Lie down with us. Lie down."
What the voice asked would be easy, he thought. He imagined the comforting dark earth, the warm covering of leaves. But he sensed that he must not touch the paving stones if he wished to find repose among the ancient dead. The stones were charged with mana, sacred power, that might destroy him before he reached the crypt.
As he gazed over the wall into the sacred courtyard, he saw how he could get to the grave-site. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the tumbled wall. Keeping to places where soil, branches, or debris covered the ancient pavement, he made his way into the center of the marae. Here and there an upright slab of stone rose starkly. He skirted these uprights with caution. They marked the places where great chiefs had come to pray. Only men who had inherited the right from their forebears dared approach them.
Ribs and a few long legbones lay waiting for him. As he stooped, the opening of the trench seemed to widen, as if inviting him in. "Welcome," said the voice. "At last you are ready to join us," whispered another. Invisible hands seemed to tug at him, pulling him down....
"Matopahu!"
Another voice, louder, came from a different direction. A woman's voice. Tepua's. What was she doing here? No women were allowed in this sacred place.
"Matopahu. Stop."
He had warned Tepua to keep away! Now her voice seemed to come from every direction. Why could she not leave him alone?
"Go back to your Arioi!" he shouted to the forest, though he could see no one. "Go back to your frenzied dancing!" He looked down at the bones and felt the comforting pull once more. Ghostly fingers tugged at him and he yielded, leaning over the crypt, wanting only to fall into the sleeping place that was prepared for him.
"Land-crab has beaten you!" Tepua's voice taunted him.
He bellowed his fury at the interruption. Losing his balance, he tumbled, arms flailing, into the crypt. His bare foot brushed something hard and charged with power. He shouted with dismay, for he had touched one of the sacred uprights. And now he felt the mana, more than he could bear....
A great light poured into Matopahu, flowing up his leg and into his body. He thrashed amid the loose bones, striving to break free. So many voices were demanding his attention that he could not tell what they were saying. He only knew that he was caught in the center of a struggle, the spirits of his ancestors and his living friends on one side, the dead of this place on the other.
With a shock he realized that the touch of the sacred marae stones was not the devastating force he had feared; instead, its power renewed his strength. His hands scrabbled in the dirt as he tried to pull himself up to the safety of the courtyard. But he had lost his contact with the upright, and his feeling of renewal faded. The earth seemed to be closing over him, cutting off his breath. He rolled, reached up, tried to find a purchase.
His fingers found something—a sapling, sprouting amid the stones. He recognized it as a young rata tree, sacred to the gods of this place. He fought the terrible pressure that was holding him down, struggled to free his legs until, at last, they moved....
And then, gasping, he hauled himself out from the crypt and onto the exposed pavement of the courtyard. The voices kept screaming at him while he struggled to push them aside. To protect himself, he pressed his palms and his cheek against the paving stones. Though not as powerful as the upright, these smaller stones also held mana, and radiated warmth as if they were living flesh. He took a deep breath. The gods had not abandoned him after all!
At last he got shakily to his feet and looked down at himself. He was filthy, coated with dirt and bits of decayed leaf. He must wash again, he knew, but first he had to seal the abode of the dead. Hastily he pushed whatever debris he could find—leaves, soil, loose rocks—to cover the bones. Gradually the voices grew quieter until he was hearing nothing but distant birdcalls from the forest.
After another bath, Matopahu returned to the task that he had almost abandoned. Repeating his pleas to the gods, he crouched by the low, tumbled wall. Now he had no more fears of touching the ancient stones. He felt only a tingle when he handled those that bordered the sacred courtyard.
Slowly moving along the boundary of the marae, he plucked ferns from crevices, pulled away vines, uprooted small bushes. Then he began replacing the rocks that had fallen.
The repeated acts of kneeling, bending, and lifting grew painful. It was not possible, he knew, to rebuild the wall exactly as it had been. Craftsmen had labored for months, carefully choosing smooth surfaces for the facing, and neatly fitting stone against stone. Yet he felt pride as he looked back at how much he had done.
At last, when only a few rays of sunlight were slanting through the branches, Matopahu heard the welcome voice of Eye-to-heaven. He left his labor, heading for his campsite outside the rata grove. The priest had set down his basket of provisions and sat waiting.
"Is there news from Tahiti?" Matopahu asked, as he did every time his friend appeared.
"None," said the priest sadly.
"And...Tepua." Matopahu grimaced as he remembered her fleeing down the trail.
"You frightened and angered her. If that was your purpose, you succeeded well."
"I was trying to protect her," he answered moodily. Suddenly remembering something, he turned with puzzlement to his friend. "It is strange. I thought I heard her voice this morning, calling me."
"I assure you that she was not here. I visited the Arioi this morning. She was busy practicing her dancing."
Matopahu felt a surge of envy. "Which you enjoyed watching!"
"My friend, if you insist on driving her away, there will be plenty of others pursuing her." The priest sighed. "I will not be one of them."
"And I can do nothing but talk to her from a distance...as if she were my sister. She wants everything to be as before. If she had been sensible long ago, we would now have a son!"
"And he would be afflicted, as you are." The priest's expression darkened. "You are strong, my taio. You can fight this curse of Land-crab's priests. But a young child?"
Matopahu stared at Eye-to-heaven. As much as he loathed admitting it, his taio was right. No one would want to see this affliction touch a child. The boy would quickly grow pale and weak as death crept near.
"Let us argue no more," said Matopahu. "If you wish to help me, try to soothe Tepua. But make sure she doesn't come here again until I finish my work."
"I will try," said the priest, who turned to eye the food basket. "And now, after a day of work, I think you must be hungry."
The men headed for the stream, washing off the day's accumulated perspiration and dirt. Returning to the campsite, the priest emptied his basket, laying out the meal on banana leaves. Matopahu opened a coconut for his friend and another for himself. In congenial silence, they ate and drank.
Later, as the shadows deepened, they built a fire to keep off the chill. "Tomorrow is a crucial day," said the priest. "A day of grave risk. I must be with you."
"Why? I will be doing nothing more than what I did today."
Eye-to-heaven raised his eyebrows. "Still clearing the path? I thought you would be done by now."
"Clearing the path? I finished that yesterday."
The priest gasped and clutched his friend's arm. "I do not understand. I thought I made it clear—"
"I stepped into the marae this morning. And see—I am alive. Did you want me to waste a whole day waiting for you?"
The priest slumped back against a tree. "Aue! I will not ask you what happened. If you are safe, that is enough."
Remembering his struggle among the bones of the marae, Matopahu was glad that Eye-to-heaven did not ask more questions. He still shivered at the memory, and quickly he turned his thoughts elsewhere. "I came across something interesting this morning," Matopahu remarked. "Our friend Fat-moon was practicing archery."
'That is nothing new."
"But a match is planned. Soon."
"That is also no surprise."
"You do not see this opportunity as I do," said Matopahu, patiently. "Let's wait a few days, and then I will explain it."
Those days passed. Matopahu found that his progress was slower than he had expected. He finished restoring one short wall and one long wall of the enclosure, so that he was halfway around the courtyard. His muscles grew accustomed to the work. Every morning he rose before dawn, and did not stop until night had almost fallen.
At last the entire wall was complete. The ari'i stepped over it and entered the courtyard, studying what remained to be done. At one narrow end of the rectangle stood the ahu, a low stone platform. This was the most sacred part of the marae, the place where gods descended to witness the ceremonies.
Matopahu was grateful that this ahu was small and simple. When a marae was built in a prominent place, visible to all who passed by, the chief who owned it might raise a great stepped pyramid. Such a monument could never be restored by a man working alone.
Making a close inspection, Matopahu saw to his delight that the ahu here was almost intact. He had only to remove the ferns that sprouted between the cracks, and pull away the vines. The courtyard itself required more work. Many pavement stones had tilted or lifted and needed to be reset. The uprights, the standing slabs, he resolved not to touch again. Perhaps they leaned a bit, but they were deeply rooted. Their mana, he thought, would keep them firmly in place for ages to come.
He drew in his breath. Smoothing the pavement would be his biggest job, requiring him to dig holes so that each stone would lie level with the others. Eye-to-heaven had brought him simple tools—clamshells and digging sticks. With a new determination, he went to get them.
When that day ended, Matopahu looked at the small corner of finished work and wiped the sweat from his face. If this was as much as he could do...No, he told himself. Tomorrow he would go faster, better. The archery contest was coming soon....
And late one afternoon, when Eye-to-heaven arrived, Matopahu proudly showed him his work. The marae was restored.
"You astonish me, taio," said the priest.
"Tonight you will teach me the prayer of reconsecration," the ari'i insisted. "And tomorrow I will gather the offerings."
The night of his vigil had finally come. Wearing only a maro, Matopahu sat alone on the chilly pavement and listened to the wind. The moon was up, but only a glimmer of light penetrated the branches overhead. The upright stone before him was no more than a shadow, slightly darker than the rest.
He tried not to think about ghosts. He had sealed up the bones of the dead, but spirits were not always bound to them. In one hand he carried a protective tuft of red feathers. In the other he held a palm leaf that had been folded and knotted in a special way by Eye-to-heaven. Matopahu was depending on these talismans, and prayer, to shield him from harm.
Once again he began the droning chant, focusing all his attention on the words. He had no room for error. Everything must be done perfectly, or the plea would fail.
He addressed the principal god of this marae, the ancestor of the people who had lived here long ago. Those people had foolishly neglected their protector; perhaps they had all died. Now Matopahu would set matters right.
Spirits and messengers
Arise and run
To the god who once dwelled here.
Say to him
Your home is renewed
Your marae is weeded and handsome.
Bid him to come again.
To these kneeling stones.
When the chant was done, Matopahu rested, but he dared not close his eyes, what would the god say if his supplicant fell asleep in the middle of a vigil? The air grew cooler, but he did not mind the discomfort. It would keep him alert, help him avoid a mistake when his chanting began anew.
Yet he could not stop his thoughts from wandering, especially to memories of Tepua. He remembered when he had first seen her—a mere servant in the house of an underchief, an atoll girl whose claims of high birth were scorned in Tahiti. He could recall every word she had spoken to him that night, of her longing for home, of her hopes for joining the Arioi. He remembered, too, how the scent of her had made his head swim, and how the look in her eyes had haunted him for days afterward.
Not until months later had he learned the full story of her mishap, of the wave that had swept her from a voyaging canoe and left her to drown, of the gods who had helped her survive. Those gods had sent her to Tahiti for Matopahu's sake, he believed. Though he did not know their names, he called on them now as well.
Arise and run
O messengers.
Summon the god of this marae
And through him the thousands of gods,
The gods of the atolls
The gods of the heights.
Something stirred. He drew in his breath and tried to control his shivering. A glimmer showed on the pavement ahead and he did not think this was moonlight. A faint noise came, like the whisper of wind through high grass. He felt as if hands were passing over him.
Something more powerful than anything i
n the marae had arrived. The air around him thickened, pressing close, like moist air before a storm. The noise became a drone. The glimmer grew brighter.
Matopahu clutched his talismans. He tried to recite an incantation, but his lips were numb. An invisible touch passed over his body, probing, stroking.... He wanted to cry out.
And then it was gone. The light became only moonlight again. The only sound was the wind.
Yet he felt changed, renewed, strengthened. His mouth fell open in wonder as he realized that a god had come to him. Perhaps the curse was not completely lifted. Perhaps he could not free himself by a single task. What he had been granted was enough strength to continue his struggle, and the hope that someday he would succeed.
Matopahu raised his voice once more, praising the high one who had aided him. The night was far from over, but now he did not feel the chill. Determined to keep his vigil until morning, he settled himself on the hard stone.
SIX
Several mornings after her visit to Matopahu, Tepua was wakened early by cries throughout the encampment. She had slept fitfully again, and her eyes felt red from weeping. She tried to shut Matopahu's angry words out of her memory, but they still echoed. Groggily, unwillingly, she wrapped her cape around her shoulders and crawled out of the palm-leaf lean-to.
She blinked, wondering why everyone was up so early. Overhead, the last stars were fading. A damp, chill wind came through the forest and ruffled her cape.
"All of us are going to the main island," said Curling-leaf excitedly.
"Today?" Tepua asked, frowning as she recalled her painful encounter there with Matopahu.
"Chipped-rock Lodge has finally invited us. We must prepare."
"So suddenly! I thought they had forgotten us." For many days no word had been spoken about the Arioi lodge that had brought her troupe to this islet.
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