She stamped her foot on the hard ground. Despite her anger, she felt the strong bond that had grown between them, forged by affection as well as necessity. “Do not blame everything on my birth! I have to refuse for another reason, and that is simple survival. My troubles will not end because one atoll trader was killed. Other men will come looking for me.”
“If anyone tries to take you, he will die. I will be the great blue shark that protects the royal child.”
“Oh, Rimapoa! Even a great shark will be worn down by many barracudas that circle him. I do not want you to spend your life fighting and fleeing.”
“And how will your life with the Arioi be any safer?”
“The Arioi are warriors as well as performers. You know that. They protect their members, and there are hundreds of them.”
“How can you be so certain about these people you have seen only once?”
“I talked to Hard-mallet and her friends. If I am accepted, I will live among the Arioi, inside one of their large compounds and away from the gaze of passersby. When I perform, I will always be masked or painted, and part of a large group. Even someone who knows my face will not recognize me.”
“There is still a risk.”
“Yes. But remember, Oro-the-peacekeeper watches over the Arioi. They have special immunities. Even when two chief’s are at war, one side dares not harm the Arioi of the other.”
“So now you put your faith in tapu. I remember how little that did for you when Tangled-net took you to the shelter. What you need is a strong man—”
Impatiently she interrupted. “Rimapoa, you are brave and clever. But that is not enough against a determined band of warriors. You can be all those things and proud besides, but it will do you no good when I am lying on the sand with my skull smashed by a club!” She paused to calm herself. “I am sorry, but the trader’s arrival convinced me of that. It is the truth of things and we both must accept it.”
He locked his gaze with hers. Slowly the severe lines etched on his face by grief and anger softened. “What if the Arioi turn you away?”
“Then—then—” She faltered. She had been so sure of herself that she had not considered the possibility. If she failed in her quest, she doubted that the high chief would take her in. And now that she had seen Matopahu strutting in his finery, whispering about her to his brother, she could not stand the thought of remaining at court.
The answer came out before she could stop herself. “Then I will do as you asked,” she said in a rush. “I will take you as my tane. I will be your wife.”
“Ah, that is all I can hope for.” He took her in his arms and held her affectionately, seemingly oblivious to who might be watching.
For a moment the memories came back of the day when they had walked to the waterfall. One part of her wanted to give up the struggle, to go with the fisherman wherever he asked. “Rimapoa,” she said softly. “Let us accept that the gods will resolve this. They will decide whether the Arioi find me worthy.”
“Yes,” he said joyfully. “Yes, I understand. And I know what I must do now. I will bring an offering to the fisherman’s marae that will make the priest’s eyes bulge! The gods will hear my plea.”
And I must also pray, she thought. To Oro. To Oro-of-the-laid-down-spear. To show me that I know why I have come to Tahiti.
11
BESIDE the shore, in a clearing bordered by tall, thick-rooted rata trees, Tepua found a shrine where women prayed to their guardian spirits. She must make her offering here, she knew, for ordinary women were forbidden to approach the places that men held sacred.
The shrine was simple, a small heap of water-smoothed stones surrounded by a fence of short sticks. The modest offering table of lashed bamboo stood at shoulder height. This shrine was dwarfed by the marae complex behind it. From where she stood, Tepua could see only a few gray walls and thatched roofs, but earlier she had glimpsed the huge ahu of stone that was the main marae’s heart. She sighed as she lifted her gifts, a few pieces of ripe fruit, and put them on the altar, beside other offerings of food and flowers.
She dared not presume to call on a great god directly; only a priest could do that. But she remembered how her protective spirit, Tapahi-roro-ariki, had comforted her in a dream. She wanted to call on her ancestress for help, but in this foreign place she did not feel the proper reverence.
Kneeling and closing her eyes, Tepua pictured the marae at home, its walls of weathered coral, its secret burial places beneath the paving stones. She shivered as she recalled the chants over the offerings, chants to draw the attention of the spirits: Niu kura, niu taupe, niu toro ...
“Great ancestress,” she begged at last, “speak to Oro for me. Remind him whose daughter I am. Ask him to grant me his favor.” A sudden chill touched her and she knew the fear of the gods.
Tepua opened her eyes, rose, and walked humbly from the shrine. She realized how glad she was to be away from that place of spirits when she paused to cross a stream where it emptied into the lagoon. Here children were tossing nono fruits at each other, splashing and giggling. She wanted to throw her wrap aside and join them.
But something distracted her. When the children quieted for a moment, she heard drumming. The Arioi might be rehearsing, she realized. Pausing only to wash off the dust, she ran along the shoreline, following the sounds.
Soon she neared the huge open-walled building that she had seen from the canoe. Its thatched roof was loftier than that of the headman’s grand dwelling. Its posts were the smoothed trunks of palm trees. Inside lay a raised platform for honored guests. In a corner, the drummers were practicing, and a few young dancers with them.
She saw other preparations under way. Workers carried a newly hewn plank to men who were repairing the wooden platform. She smelled the tang of sap and sawdust, mixed with the scent of dry grass scattered on the floor.
She did not enter, but went to a grove of breadfruit trees a short distance from the performance house. Here she thought she might dance to the drummers’ beat without being seen. But her thoughts turned to Rimapoa, and she could not get started.
Where would he go when his time here ran out? He had spoken of seeking refuge with other chiefs, but had not mentioned any influential friends who might aid him. I will help, somehow, she vowed and then found herself able to focus on the drumming.
She began a slow dance, one that used graceful hand movements to tell stories. She started with the motion for ori—walking. With her upper arms held close to her body and elbows bent with palms facing up, she moved her hands up and down in the rhythm of someone striding along a trail.
I was walking ...
She lifted her arms high, with palms facing each other, forming the profile of a valley with her hands. Then she put her hands to her eyes, keeping her elbows up and extended to each side.
Up a valley. I saw ...
She dropped her fingertips onto her shoulders, so that her arms formed the outline of outspread wings.
A bird ...
“That is very good,” said a soft voice behind her.
Tepua, startled, turned toward the intruder. She saw a square face framed by flowing black hair, a yellow hibiscus blossom above one ear.
“I am Curling-leaf,” the young woman said pleasantly. She was short, stocky, and plain, but her laughing eyes gave life to her face. “I am a novice with the Arioi. And you have taken my favorite spot.”
“I did not know—”
“Please stay. The grove is large enough for two dancers and I would not mind having a companion.” Something about Curling-leaf reminded Tepua of Hard-mallet. The young Arioi novice was not as pretty, but her disposition seemed more cheerful.
Tepua introduced herself, but said nothing of where she had come from. “So you are a po’o, a chest-slapper,” she said. “Then you are the first Arioi I have met.” Tepua knew that Curling-leaf held a provisional grade, one that must be passed before reaching the lowest regular rank of the order.
“I have been
a po’o for some time.”
“Even so, you are far ahead of me,” said Tepua, trying not to show her envy.
Curling-leaf sighed. “Outsiders always think that my life must be wonderful. Let me tell you what it is really like.”
Tepua did not want to be discouraged before she had even begun, but politeness and curiosity made her listen to the other woman’s experiences. For three years, Curling-leaf had been a servant in the house of the Arioi lodge chiefess. All this time she had been preparing herself for promotion to the rank of Pointed-thorn, the order’s lowest grade.
“I did not know it could take that long,” said Tepua in a discouraged voice.
“There are so many chants to memorize, dances to practice, skills to develop,” Curling-leaf explained. “But even though I am finally ready, I have another problem that holds me back.”
“Yes?” Tepua sensed her new friend’s reluctance to continue.
“This may not trouble you at all,” said Curling-leaf. “Do you know that a member must provide a feast each time she advances a grade in the Arioi?”
Tepua frowned, puzzled.
“I am sorry to confess,” the novice continued, her gaze now on the ground, “that my family cannot help me. My father and uncles are good men, but they have no land of their own. Providing my feast would be a great hardship for them.”
Embarrassed by this admission, Tepua almost wished she had not pressed for an answer. At the same time she wondered angrily why no one had bothered to explain this to her. “My kin cannot help me either,” Tepua whispered, touching Curling-leaf’s hand in a gesture of sympathy.
“But do not worry, my new friend,” the novice answered. “You are pretty enough to find an admirer. Some important man often comes forward when one of our female members is ready to advance. And, of course, she returns the gift in other ways.”
So that is what they all expect of me! That is what everyone has assumed! Tepua felt her face burning as she considered the implications. But why should she concern herself over it now? She would be happy enough just to become a novice, even if she never went beyond that.
She turned her thoughts to Curling-leaf’s situation, wondering if this young woman had spurned the attentions of her admirers. Perhaps that was not the reason. Curling-leaf had a pleasant disposition, but her plain features might not appeal to many men. “Despite all you tell me,” said Tepua, “I am determined to try.”
“Then I will pray for your success,” said Curling-leaf. “And if you do find a place among us, I will be your friend. But I don’t think that practicing your dancing will help you. I have watched many candidates who danced well, only to be found unworthy because they did not give themselves completely to Oro.”
Tepua shut her eyes and leaned her head back against a tree. She remembered how she had lost herself in dance, feeling the fire of divine strength run through her. She believed that Oro had seized her then, though she had certainly not spent any time practicing her art. If she had faith in the god, perhaps he would come to her again.
“Then I will do as you say, Curling-leaf,” she answered softly, though the decision made her uneasy. “I will work no more at this. I will accept what skills I have and pray for Oro to inspire me.” And if the god fails me, then Rimapoa will win after all.
As the evening of the Arioi performance approached, Tepua’s apprehension grew. By then she had talked to other novices, finding some who disagreed with Curling-leaf’s advice. “It would not hurt,” said one girl, “to dress yourself properly so the god will know how eager you are to please him.”
Following the novices’ instructions, Tepua made a scarlet paint for her face from the juice of mati berries crushed with tou leaves. She combed out her hair until it glistened in the late-afternoon sunlight, then put on a headdress woven from bright yellow ti leaves. Over her wrap, she tied a girdle made from the same leaves as her headdress. Then she anointed herself with a dab of pomade, coconut oil scented with sandalwood dust.
Reds and violets of sunset streaked the sky as she finally made her way toward the performance house. People had started to gather, most taking seats outside the open walls of the building. Beneath the thatched roof of the great theater two bonfires crackled, lighting the mats hung from the expanse of the single rear wall and reflecting off the huge, polished pillars that supported the roofbeams.
The leaping bonfires and glow of candlenut tapers made the night outside seem darker. Tepua stood apart from the crowd massing around the building. The light dazzled and dismayed her. The theater was huge and she had never danced before such a large crowd. If Oro called her, she wondered how she could even make her way through the throng of people.
A sharp prickle started at the back of her neck as the drumming began. The milling crowd moved aside, forming a lane for a troupe of musicians and players who strode toward the performance house. One man pounded a drum so tall that it had to be carried before him on the backs of two assistants. Tepua felt its bass beat through her toes as he passed. Other men tapped double-ended drums slung over their shoulders by straps, or hollowed-out logs with slits cut at the top. These log drums gave out a tok, tok like the sound of tapa mallets, but much sharper and louder.
The onlookers arranged themselves, sitting on the ground outside the theater and looking in past its open walls to the area where the performers would dance. The more privileged classes had seating inside, on the scented grass laid out on the floor. The stools on the viewing platform remained empty.
Tepua heard a court herald shout in his strong bass voice above the clamor of the crowd: “The high chief is coming. He flies to the house of the players. Clear the sky, clear the earth so that there may be no hesitation in his flight. Give way, the high chief comes!”
The sound of running footsteps blended into the sound of the drums. Knotted-cord, dressed magnificently in streaming robes of tapa, seemed to swoop down upon the crowd. His headdress was shaped like a frigate bird with lifted wings. The chief was carried so rapidly on the shoulders of his bearer that Tepua thought the bird might rise from his head and fly off.
With gasps and sighs, the people parted for their ruler. Behind Knotted-cord came his chief wife, lesser wives, relatives and favorites, all riding the shoulders of husky men. The party was arrayed in cowries, feathers, mother-of-pearl, and long lengths of the finest dyed and painted tapa cloth. Matopahu was among them, wearing a feather-fan headdress, but Tepua chose not to look at him.
She wished that he had stayed away. But why did it matter? she asked herself. His opinions meant nothing tonight. The Arioi would be the ones who judged her.
She watched Knotted-cord’s bearer lift the chief to the highest stool on the platform. In quick succession, the other notables were announced and took their lesser seats.
“Make way for the chief’s of our lodge! Make way for the blacklegs.” At this cry, a man and a woman appeared at opposite sides of the performance house. Both wore the honored red loin girdle and elaborate flower crowns. Tepua knew that these were not the Arioi leaders she had watched with Hoihoi, but chief’s of a larger and far more famous lodge.
The two blacklegs launched into a high-kneed prance. They advanced toward each other with a strutting motion that made everyone in the crowd laugh and cheer. The man threw his head back and roared at the audience. “Ha-ha! It is I, Head-lifted, chief comedian of this lodge. I am here to entertain you with my troupe. My mountain is the highest, my cape seaward the most beautiful, my river the freshest. It is I, chief Arioi of the district where coconuts fall like rain.”
The woman, who declared her name to be Aitofa, made a similar speech. Then the two blacklegs pranced toward the platform and took their seats on the remaining stools.
As the formalities continued Tepua’s impatience grew. She feared half the night would pass before anyone began to dance. She felt foolish standing at the edge of the crowd, her face painted and her body decked out in yellow. People kept glancing at her as if expecting something marvelo
us to happen. Did they want her to disrupt the ceremonies? she wondered. Perhaps they were hoping that Oro might seize her now.
She stepped farther back as the players began to perform. The crowd roared with laughter at their antics, but Tepua did not. She felt a chill, and wished she had brought something warm to wrap around herself. Even the sight of a friendly face might help. She looked for Curling-leaf among the chest-slappers at the side of the hall, but could not find her.
And then, when she was not expecting it, the drumbeat quickened. The chest-slappers arranged themselves about the perimeter of the stage area. At a signal from the first in line, each began flapping the left arm, while slapping the upper chest with the right hand.
The painted and masked performers took their places and started to dance. Tepua watched the swirl of bright costumes, and was amazed at the skill of the best Arioi, the grace and speed of their movements.
She knew she was being dazzled by the thudding of the drum and the glare of the lights. But she had not come to gape, like the other spectators. Forcing herself to turn from the spectacle, she looked out into the moonlit landscape.
She could still hear the drumbeat, but her legs and arms felt heavy, refusing to start the dance. Who was she to challenge the Arioi on their own ground?
Facing away from the performers, into the darkness, she willed herself to move, her hips to start following the rhythm. The motions did not feel right. Her body was stiff and slow. Anyone looking at her would know she was not inspired.
Do not think, she told herself. Dance. Just dance.
As she continued, her muscles slowly warmed and her movements became lighter, faster. She flung back her head, rolling her hips easily. The undulation came up her legs, through her belly, her chest, and out along her arms. It felt good. She did it again, faster, freeing her muscles from the lock put on them by fear.
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