Child of the Dawn

by Coleman, Clare;

  A sudden torrent of rain fell just as he raised his bow. Matopahu shot, but the arrow, caught by the downpour, plummeted, falling only a few paces ahead of him. Water streamed down his grim face as he gave way to the next member of his team.

  Tepua watched as the archers resolutely tried to continue despite the downpour. She knew that nothing short of a hurricane would stop them. This match had been repeated for generations, team positions passing from father to son. Someone must have given up his precious place to allow Matopahu to shoot.

  Yet for all their determination, the others on Putu-nui's team turned in a dismal round, easily outdistanced by their opponents. Each time that Fat-moon's archers planted an arrow beyond the best shot made by Putu-nui's team, his team scored. How many points, she wondered, could he gain in this single round? Perhaps enough to end the game.

  "It is over," said Uhi, gesturing toward the scorekeeper.

  "Nine!" came the shout from down the course.

  "Count again," Fat-moon demanded. But he was still a point short of victory.

  The weather proved fickle. Or perhaps, Tepua thought, the gods were having sport. In the next round, a gust of wind blew Fat-moon's arrow far off course. Matopahu's team scored three, and the other team's points were wiped out again. She began to shiver from the rain on her wet skin.

  "I know a comfortable place nearby," suggested Uhi, coming up behind her. "These games go on and on, sometimes for days. Why suffer when we can learn the outcome later?"

  The rain grew heavier. The archers' garments were soaked, plastered to their bodies. All the onlookers had moved under the trees. Tepua saw paint running in bizarre patterns on the faces and bodies of other Arioi, but somehow Uhi had kept dry. "I will stay here," she said firmly, not caring that water streamed down her cheeks or that her garland hung in ruins about her neck.

  Matopahu felt a burden of weariness as he approached the shooting platform once more. The game had gone on far too long. On this stormy afternoon darkness was closing in early. He could barely make out the distant flags behind the veil of rain.

  In the recent rounds he had lost track of the score. He was convinced that there could be no victor before dark. The contest would have to continue in the morning, and perhaps last another full day.

  All he could do now was hold off Fat-moon for one more round. Then the contest would certainly be postponed. He knelt, put his arrow to the bow, but the shaft slipped from his fingers and fell at his feet. Behind him he heard groans of despair. This was not a good way to begin.

  He felt numbness in his hands and recalled, with dread, the aha-tu curse that had bound him. But all that was gone. Nothing mystical was at work here, he told himself. Cold and rain had caused his fumbling. He flexed his fingers until the feeling returned. Even then he did not shoot. A premonition of defeat made him pause and collect his thoughts.

  What is the true purpose of this te'a game? he asked himself. It was not intended for the glory of men, though many made it so. This was the game of the gods, governed by rules they had set down long ago. It was to please the mighty ones that men played it.

  Matopahu thought of his own ancestors, whose spirits had long watched over his family. His brother had turned away from those protective spirits, Matopahu believed, putting his trust in gods who had no special interest in his affairs. That was the reason for Knotted-cord's downfall.

  "It is for you that I make this shot," Matopahu whispered, invoking the name of his great ancestor. "It is your name that I will teach to my sons—if I survive to have any." He felt a stiffening of tension in his arms and a rush of heat to his fingers. He took a deep breath.

  Then he drew back the string and released. In the gloom he could not see where the arrow went, but he heard a cry from behind him. To his astonishment, men left their places and began charging up the course. In the distance he saw the attendants vigorously waving their flags.

  "It is over," people shouted. Matopahu remained on the platform. He saw Fat-moon far up the course, pointing and arguing, then examining the arrow that stuck from the ground.

  Matopahu felt an odd shock go through him as he stepped down from the platform. Had he really won? As the cries rang down the course, the tense muscles in his face gave way to a grin.

  Still not quite believing that he had made the winning shot, he noticed that his companions were already carrying the traditional peace offering from the victors to the losers. As a token of consolation, each man must present a drinking coconut to a member of Fat-moon's team.

  Putu-nui whooped and gave Matopahu such a hearty slap on the back that it nearly knocked him over.

  "Come," said the lesser chief, who could barely contain his glee. "You must make the offering to Fat-moon since yours was the winning arrow." He handed a coconut to Matopahu, who approached the leader of the losing team. Fat-moon glared at him, took the nut from his hands, and threw it in the mud.

  Matopahu stared in disbelief as rain mixed with the spilled coconut juice. Putu-nui gave an angry cry, clenching his fist about his bow. Players and spectators alike turned fearfully, eyeing the scene. Wars had started over such insults.

  Would Fat-moon and Putu-nui dare break the peace of the gods? Quickly Matopahu interposed himself between the two chiefs before they could confront each other. He turned to Fat-moon and tried to put an ingratiating expression on his face. "I regret," Matopahu said, "that the gift I offered you was not good enough. When you come to visit me in Tahiti, I will give you something far better."

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Putu-nui back off, as if the other chief were having second thoughts.

  Fat-moon sneered. "In Tahiti, you have nothing. Not a pig. Not even the dung of a pig."

  Matopahu refused to be baited. The stakes were too great. "I will have all that was taken from my brother," he answered quietly.

  "You have won an archery contest, not a war," Fat-moon retorted. "Do not talk of victories that are not yours."

  "Then I will say only that the gods are watching us. This is no time for ill will." He felt someone nudge his arm. It was one of Putu-nui's men. A coconut, among the largest he had ever seen, and already cut open for drinking, was thrust into his hands. He sent a silent prayer to the gods. To Fat-moon he said, "This one is suited for a great chief, is it not? Will you share it with a man who has nothing, only the strength in his arms and the spirit in his body?"

  Fat-moon gave no answer. Petulantly he let his gaze scan the crowd, as if he expected to find support for his bad temper. After all, no one alive had ever seen his team beaten. Matopahu sensed the tense feeling of everyone around him. It was unthinkable to break the peace of the gods.

  "You are the man who returned from the dead," said Fat-moon grudgingly. "Do not imagine that you will have another day like this one." He extended his hands, and Matopahu delivered the coconut. A chorus of cheers erupted.

  "Maeva ari'i rahi! Hail the high chief!" came relieved cries from every side.

  Matopahu repeated the shout. But as he looked at the faces around him he realized that his victory might be less than it seemed. He had proved his worth before the gods. What if Fat-moon kept him from enjoying the rewards?

  EIGHT

  As the cheers for the high chief died down, Tepua felt the rain stop. The cloud cover thinned, revealing a glow of sunset in the western sky. In the distance, she saw Matopahu being lifted to the shoulders of his teammates amid new cries of admiration from the crowd.

  For an instant she wanted to join the tumultuous throng and add her voice to theirs. How much like a young god he looked, raised up above the eyes of men. She watched the procession as it moved along the course, closer to where she was standing.

  With a proud toss of his head Matopahu flung back his hair, sending out a shower of raindrops. The people around him received these droplets with upturned faces, as if basking in his strength and good fortune. Tepua felt a flutter in her throat. The anguished man she had seen on the hillside was gone. This was the true Matopahu. />
  At his moment of triumph she could not stay away from him. She dashed from cover and lost her footing on the rain-slick ground. Someone caught her, helped her up, and then she was off again, trying to make her way through the people swarming about Matopahu.

  One of Fat-moon's guards gave her an ugly look. Another put out his arm to block her way. "No closer, woman!" he ordered.

  "Aue!" In frustration and anger, Tepua retreated. What was she thinking? Matopahu and his winning teammates were still wearing their sanctified garments. No women were allowed near them!

  She clenched her hands as the procession continued toward the archers' marae. She watched the new champion scanning the crowd, turning to admire one beauty after another, never once glancing at her. Later, when he bathed and changed his clothing, he could have all the women he wanted. Being Matopahu, he would probably want them all!

  Her joy at his victory drained away. She turned back, no longer caring to watch the tumultuous celebration. Thoughts of Uhi returned to her. The brash young Arioi was undoubtedly looking for her. If she wanted his attentions, she would not have to compete with every woman on the island.

  But she was not ready for Uhi. Hoping to find how her cousin had fared, she made her way toward the women's archery range. The people she passed asked for news, and she had to proclaim Matopahu's victory again and again.

  At last she found Maukiri and embraced her as if they had been separated for weeks. "What is the trouble now?" her cousin asked, peering at her in surprise. "Your man is a hero. You should be happy!"

  "He has overcome his curse. Of course, I am glad for him."

  "Then why..."

  Tepua bit her lip and could not answer. It was not reasonable, she knew, to begrudge a man his pleasure. If he wanted other women, why shouldn't he have them?

  "Tepua, what are you thinking? He will celebrate his victory, as a man must, but he will not forget you."

  "Perhaps..."

  Maukiri rolled her eyes in mock dismay. "What does it matter if he has a few others? A man is like the plank of a canoe, the more seasoned the better!"

  "And you have seasoned enough planks to build the whole canoe!" Tepua glared at her cousin, but admitted to herself that she envied her light and easy affections. Whatever joy she had had from Matopahu inevitably turned to suffering. For too long she had given him all her thoughts and feelings. If she could break free, take an interest in someone else, even Uhi...

  Maukiri took her hand. "Do not fret about Matopahu. Just enjoy yourself here. I am." She gave a deep, appreciative sniff. "Oooh! I smell the feast cooking. It makes me hungry."

  Feeling the rumbles in her own stomach, she let Maukiri lead her, following the crowds, descending the slippery path to the assembly ground. Tepua looked up to see the first star shining in a patch of rose-and-gray sky between the clouds. Below, fires were blazing, welcoming the guests to their repast. She wondered if she could follow Maukiri's advice. At least she could try to enjoy the meal.

  Shortly, after a few incantations, the cooks opened the ovens and distributed steaming bundles of fowl, fish, breadfruit, and bananas. Carrying her portions in a simple coconut-frond basket, Tepua passed the high, thatched roofs where the foremost guests dined on pork, albacore, and other delicacies. She happened to catch sight of Pehu-pehu, whose stool sat at the extreme edge of the sheltered area, almost outside. This was not the first time that she had noticed how the Blackleg isolated herself during mealtime. Eating apart from others was considered good manners, as well as protection against sorcery, but this woman carried it to extremes.

  Tepua was too hungry now to wonder about the Blackleg's behavior. She joined the Arioi of lower rank who had places outside the shelters. Squatting on her heels, she saw firelight glimmer on coconut cups filled with sauces, on white chunks of fish, on glistening banana leaves.

  Fat-moon was certainly not stingy, Tepua admitted to herself as she ate. At last the well-fed guests yawned, patted their stomachs, and looked for places to sleep. Temporary palm-leaf huts had been put up for the lesser visitors. These accommodations were no better than those on the motu, but she was too weary to complain. She stretched out on a mat and quickly fell asleep....

  Boom-boom-boom. Tepua's eyes opened, but she was not really awake. She rolled over on her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand. Boom. Moonlight lit the sand outside the shelter. Faint shadows flitted across the ground. Feet ran by. Boom-boom-boom. She poked her head out and saw people hurrying toward the assembly ground.

  In the clear sky hung a moon just past fullness, a moon that always brought men and women together. Half the night was over. She knew that no one who could stagger, walk, or crawl would be sleeping through the rest.

  Tepua refused to stay here alone while everyone else was dancing. She wound her new bark-cloth wrap around her, repaired the garland she had worn earlier, and found a flower to put behind her ear.

  When had she last danced under such a moon? No, that was too long ago, and far off; she refused to think about it. Now her feet suddenly felt light as she hastened toward the beat of the drum. She breathed in the rich night air, full of scents from blossoms and sweet ferns. Around her she heard snatches of conversation in excited, high-pitched voices.

  Fires of coconut shells and dry palm fronds were blazing, but the moon cast as much light as anyone needed. All over the assembly ground, people had gathered in clusters to dance. Above the drumming sounded the sweet, high tones of the nose flute. Tepua stopped in a small clearing and looked around, wondering if she would find Maukiri or Curling-leaf....

  "There you are, my elusive beauty." She frowned as she heard Uhi's voice behind her. "Landing you will take the patience of a fisherman!"

  She turned, and her frown began to vanish. In the moonlight the young Arioi looked taller, more impressive than she remembered. His chest gleamed with coconut oil. When he approached, she saw that he had woven shiny crimson seeds into his hair and topped it all with a fine display of feathers.

  Pleased and flattered by his appearance, Tepua did not resist when his warm hand closed on hers and he began to lead her toward a group of local Arioi. She had seen some of these men and women perform; they were among the best dancers of Eimeo.

  The performers were in couples, face-to-face, dancing brilliantly. The men clapped their knees together with blurring speed. They lunged and stamped, the firelight glowing on their tattooed calves and thighs. They moved with inhuman grace and energy, springing from the ground in impossibly high leaps.

  The women glided back and forth so lightly that they did not seem to move on legs, but floated like ghosts or goddesses. Their hips rotated smoothly; their hands wove entrancing patterns against the moonlight.

  Tepua watched, torn between a longing to join in and a feeling that, good as she was, she had not reached their level. Even if Oro seized her...

  No. She had no intention of losing herself to divine frenzy now. She wondered if she could pray that the god not take her.

  Uhi pulled insistently at her hand.

  "We need not get so close to those people," she protested.

  "Do not be modest," he answered. "I have heard a few things about you, Tepua-mua."

  She was startled to hear her name, for she certainly had not given it to him.

  "Everyone knows how you danced for Chipped-rock Lodge," he added. "My friends are eager to welcome you."

  For my inspired dancing? Or because I defied First-to-crow? Tepua had no chance to ask. The powerful drumming and the haunting trill of the flute were getting into her.

  Uhi lifted his arms and began to dance, his feet treading the rhythm against the sandy ground. His arms swayed, his fingers stroked the air, his hands clenched, swelling the muscles in his arms and shoulders. A shudder of excitement went through Tepua. She found herself swaying with the rhythm of the drum.

  Willing, now, to display herself for his friends, she turned from Uhi, rolling her hips and keeping time with her fingers. But she refused to get close
to him, gliding away whenever he tried to approach her.

  "You are a sly, twisting eel of a woman," he shouted at her. "But I will have you anyway."

  Uhi redoubled the energy of his dance. His eyes, hot with desire, were fixed on her. She felt her own response, a pulse of warm excitement shooting down her belly into the nest between her legs.

  A deep voice called from the crowd, "Uhi! You brag that you can spear any fish on the reef. How about that one?"

  Matopahu became a distant flutter on the edge of Tepua's thoughts as she watched the young Arioi flaunt his strength and agility. She let her eyes rove down his body, marveling at the way his stomach muscles rippled above the low-slung band of his loincloth.

  If anyone seized her tonight, he would not be Oro. Unless the god was hiding within the body of this handsome young Arioi....

  She laughed invitingly, threw back her head, and extended her arms to Uhi. From half-closed eyes, she watched delight break over his face.

  "Now I have you, wild little fish," he crowed, dancing closer. The intoxicating aroma of his scent wafted around her.

  While the other guests slept off the huge meal, Matopahu went out alone for a walk along the shoreline. He listened to the restless rumble of waves washing over the reef and felt the cool, wet sand between his toes. A sense of triumph still clung to him. The victory was his, despite the ugly scene afterward.

  But Fat-moon's words still echoed. "You have won an archery contest, not a war." Now Matopahu knew he would be a welcome guest at the houses of many chiefs. Whether anyone would agree to help him, he could not say.

  And what of Tepua? He stared into the clear, moonlit water, barely noticing the tiny fish in the shallows. He pictured Tepua's face at the moment he had flung her away from him—her look of bewilderment and hurt. She had not understood that he was only protecting her. What would his victory mean if she was lost to him now?