She tilted her head back. Now the motions grew smoother. A warmth rose from her center, growing like a young tree and sending its line of strength up through her body. She shivered with the delicious sensation and gave herself to the dance.
At last she turned again toward the performance house. Her attention focused, not on the high chief and his retinue, but on the Arioi blacklegs, the man and the woman. Still dancing, she neared the building but saw no way to break through the crowd. Everyone was watching the performers within.
She needed to get through! Out of desperation, she thrust her head back and gave a loud wavering howl. Heads turned among the spectators. People scuttled aside for her, whispering and pulling their children with them.
Questions rippled through the crowd as people watched her advance. “Who is this dancer? What household does she come from?”
Gathering her breath, she let forth a series of short yells, each one rising higher than the next. “I am of the household of the shark—mothered by sharks—fathered by sharks,” she cried, her hips moving ever faster.
Her fever grew as she flung her head back and forth, her black hair lashing her shoulders. She heard her words as if another voice were speaking. “I am of the household of the canoe, mothered by canoes, fathered by canoes. I am of the household of the reef, mothered by coral, fathered by coral.”
As she stamped her way to the front a new word came from the mouths of the crowd. “Nevaneva,” they breathed. “Oro’s touch is on this woman.”
But Tepua knew that the fever came from the intensity of her dancing, not from the god. The rapture still had not taken her. Even as she heard the cries she felt the fire of her performance die down. In the faces of those watching, she saw doubt and disappointment appearing.
For a moment her attention shifted to the end of the platform. There she saw Matopahu turn with a smile to speak with the man beside him. Was he laughing at her poor efforts? she wondered. If so, she refused to accept his scorn.
Tepua shouted again, braying in defiance across the heads of the audience. Now she did not care if the god supported her or not. She sprang forward until she was dancing beneath the roof of the performance house, her gaze sweeping the faces of the chest-slappers as she spun past them. They had paused in their arm striking as well as their chanting, but took it up again, increasing the pace as if challenging her. Then Curling-leaf stood in front of her, urging her on with her own slaps and cries.
The dance itself possessed Tepua, sending her in with the other performers. As she whirled among them they turned with looks of astonishment. The others backed away from her, leaving a clear space in their midst. It no longer mattered where she was or who watched. She no longer saw anything clearly, only a dazzle of colors and shadows, the shimmer of lights and the dizzying sway of bodies.
Her arms and hips moved with a will beyond hers, harder and faster than she had ever danced. Her breath came in gasps, her strength drained into the demands of the dance until she thought she could give no more. Her legs quivered, threatened to collapse. A voice within her cried out for more, but her body, exhausted, could not give it.
Then something flared inside her, and a brightness came. It was the blazing orange red of fire, of sun, of war. As she danced on, her legs stopped trembling. They burned with a new strength, the power of a young god—Oro, who presided over war but loved peace, Oro-of-the-laid-down-spear, whose power let enemy sit down beside enemy. Then he was beside her, within her, surrounding her, his passion devouring all else...
Silence brought Tepua out of her trance. Hearing no drums, she staggered to a halt. Why had they stopped?
Feeling like a sleeper awakened, Tepua rubbed her eyes and stared at the circle of Arioi around her. The people in the audience were roaring with delight over her performance, pounding their thighs. She could read nothing on the players’ faces, painted and masked as they were.
Two chest-slappers, Curling-leaf and a young man, approached her. They hesitated, wonder and fear shining in their eyes. “My frenzy is gone,” Tepua said weakly, and leaned gratefully against them as they took her arms. Her head was spinning and her muscles ached. Cooling perspiration chilled her back.
They led her to the side of the hall where the female blackleg, Aitofa, stood watching her. The chiefess had come down from her perch! One tap on the shoulder, Tepua knew, would give her the chance she wanted. After a few ceremonial words, the ritual questions and answers, she would be accepted as a novice. Aitofa raised her hand...
Suddenly another hand caught Aitofa’s forearm. The chiefess turned with annoyance to the stocky man who had come up beside her. He was the other blackleg, the leader of the Arioi men. “Why do you stop me, Head-lifted?” asked the woman.
“Do not be too hasty in judging this dancer,” he answered.
“Have you any doubt that she was possessed by the god?”
“I see only that under her red paint and yellow leaves she is a foreigner. Who can say what savage spirit entered her tonight?”
“Perhaps you have doubts, but I have none. Seldom have any of us witnessed such a performance. The women’s troupe needs another strong player.”
“Then choose a Maohi woman,” the red-girdled chief replied. “Someone who will not embarrass us.”
“Show me a Maohi woman with the same promise!”
Suddenly a young player rushed up to the arguing pair. “Noble leaders, excuse my interruption,” he said. “The high chief is growing impatient. He wishes the show to continue.”
“Then we will finish the discussion later,” Aitofa said coldly to Head-lifted. She made a quick motion to the two novices who were still holding Tepua. “Put her over there.”
And then Aitofa was gone, leaving Tepua to stumble between the two chest-slappers to a seat in the dry grass beside the platform. Curling-leaf gave her a few words of encouragement. Then the novices ran back to their places at the edge of the hall.
Tepua closed her eyes briefly, still catching her breath, then slowly looked around. Close by, on one of the high stools, sat Matopahu, watching her. He gave her a wink. He spoke, but the drummers, starting again, drowned out his words.
The Arioi had given her no answer! And now she could not put Matopahu from her mind. She stole another quick glance at him, the well-formed limbs, the handsome, arrogant face beneath the black-and-white fan-feathered headdress.
Perhaps she had misjudged him, she thought. Perhaps he did wish her well tonight. But she could not go to him and hear what he had to say. No. She must sit here, where Aitofa had put her, and endure the rest of the entertainment.
It was going to be a long night.
12
WHEN Tepua woke, she stared for a moment at the cane walls of an unfamiliar house. She remembered only hazily how she had come here after the performance. The dance. She blinked as she pushed herself up, feeling soreness now in every joint and muscle.
“Tepua ...” called a soft voice from behind her. She turned and saw Curling-leaf standing at the doorway. Tepua could read nothing from her expression. The novice probably did not know what decision the lodge chief’s had finally made.
Tepua touched her face, felt the dried paint, and realized that she had forgotten to wash it off.
“Come with me to bathe,” said Curling-leaf. “When you are done, Aitofa will see you.”
They left the compound, coming soon to a stream that ran through a pleasant breadfruit grove. No one else was bathing. “The others were here long ago,” Curling-leaf explained. “You slept late. Aitofa told us to let you rest.”
“I am already showing bad habits,” Tepua muttered as she hastily washed, then went to meet Aitofa in the spacious house that stood in the middle of the compound.
Aitofa sat, like other chiefs, on a four-legged bow-bottomed stool. Tepua had paid little attention to the blackleg’s appearance during the nighttime revels. Now she saw a tall, handsome woman, someone undoubtedly of a noble family. Aitofa’s features were strong, too severe t
o be beautiful. Squint-lines showed at the corners of her eyes.
Her short hair was decked by a simple wreath of flowers. About her shoulders, and drawn across her small breasts, she wore a finely plaited shoulder cape. Aitofa crossed her arms and studied Tepua with an expression that made the latter feel like a promising but annoying child.
“How many Arioi performances had you seen before deciding to dance among us?”
Tepua hesitated. “One, noble chiefess. Two, if you count the beginning of last night’s show.”
Aitofa threw back her head and laughed. “One! By Oro’s navel, you are more reckless than I had thought. What are your reasons for seeking to join the Arioi?”
“The god possessed me last night. Is that not enough?”
“The god has his will, but we of flesh have ours. Sometimes the two conflict, and a person who enters the society regrets it later.”
Tepua had thought she might be asked such a question. She had resolved to be frank about her hopes, but tell no more than Matopahu knew about her past. “I came from a good family on my island,” she said. “But my ancestry means nothing to people here. With the Arioi, perhaps I can regain something of what I have lost... And protection from my enemies, should they ever seek to find me.”
Aitofa nodded. “I give you credit for thinking about your decision. But perhaps you have not considered everything.”
“I thought I knew—” Tepua began.
“By the scared navel, they all think they know,” said Aitofa in another burst of laughter. “You intrigue me, though, motu daughter. It is fortunate that you do, or else I would have given in to Head-lifted and thrown you out on your pretty little bottom.” She held up one warning finger as Tepua opened her mouth to protest. “Now listen, and answer the questions that I put to you.”
Tepua stiffened her spine, eyeing Aitofa warily. Amid the mixture of spice and generosity in the lodge leader, she sensed a tinge of ruthlessness that had probably served to propel her to this high position.
“There is one rule,” said Aitofa, “that we enforce without exception. Though every initiate knows it, some women refuse to believe it until the truth falls upon them. Do you know which one I mean?”
“About—children?”
“We Arioi women have none.”
“Yes.”
“And not because we give up men. No. That would be too harsh a price for membership. But tell me this. What happens if a noblewoman of your island conceives the child of a commoner?”
Tepua answered without hesitation. “The child is done away with. Before it can draw breath. The family will not let it live.”
“Then I need not explain to you how we Arioi remain childless.”
Tepua swallowed. “You need not. Even so, I feel sorry for a woman who grows a child and then must destroy it. How much better if the child did not start at all. I thought the Arioi had ways—”
“One can make prayers to spirits, of course. And the sorcerers offer a few remedies, but none are certain. There are also ways of pleasure that do not require a man to spill his seed within you.”
“Will I be taught these things?”
“You will.”
“Then I will not conceive a child.”
Aitofa looked away, her eyes becoming distant. “How clear this one is, shimmering like the mother-of-pearl of her island.” Tepua heard her whisper.
“Is that all you wish to tell me?”
“That is only the first part,” said Aitofa. “If you join us, you will start as a chest-slapper. Discard any notions of performing before a crowd as you did last night.”
“I thought I had the talent—”
“Perhaps you do, but you first need the discipline and the knowledge to use it. Remember that we perform as a group. Each dancer is but one leaf on the tree. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Finally, let me remind you that a novice must serve in the household of a high-ranking Arioi. And we do not believe in assigning only light tasks. The character of a young woman is improved, we think, by husking coconuts, digging in the garden, carrying firewood.”
“I was a servant in the household of Pigs-run-out,” Tepua answered firmly.
“Good. If you join us, you may look back fondly on that time. I ask you to think carefully about this. Head-lifted has convinced me to go slowly in your case. I urge you to speak to the novices you see around my house. Then come back and tell me your decision.”
“And if it is yes, will you accept me?”
“I have prayed for guidance. Let us hope the gods lead us both in the same direction.” Aitofa dismissed her with a curt gesture.
Tepua, her head swimming, went out into the courtyard. Part of her rebelled against Aitofa’s imperious manner, the chilly voice, the tattooed fingers crooked at her as if she were a child. Yet how could she give up this chance? Oro had called her! She already knew how she would choose.
She found Rimapoa near his canoe, on the shore beside the fisherman’s communal house. Behind him, water lapped quietly at the black sand beach. “I watched you dance,” he said moodily as he repaired his lines. “I offered a fine pair of albacore at the fisherman’s marae, hoping that the god would turn you away. Instead—”
“My acceptance is not certain yet,” Tepua said softly, wishing she could find some way to ease his pain.
“It will be.” He turned from his work to study her face. “I hear a new note in your voice, and I see how your eyes shine.”
Tepua sighed. “Yes. I believe the Arioi will take me in. It is your problem that worries me now. When your month here is over—”
“Ah, but the spirits did hear my plea. Though they would not keep you from the Arioi, they granted me another favor.” He gazed at her with a satisfied expression.
“Must I guess?” she asked cautiously. How volatile he could be, swinging from sullen anger to joy with the swiftness of a child.
“No. Listen. Recently a local fisherman fell from a big fishing canoe and drowned. This morning the other men asked me to take his place in the boat until his son returns to claim it. I will be able to stay beyond the time that the high chief gave me.”
“Then I am glad,” she said, taking his hand, seeking the familiar warmth. “You will be safe here. And I know you would like to fish from a tira again.”
“And you may change your mind about the Arioi,” he said. “After you stay with them a time, and learn how they treat you.” He offered her his other hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “So you see, I have not given up my hopes.”
“I do see,” she answered with a laugh. And I will prove you wrong. But now, watching his roguish grin, she could not be angry at his persistence.
Two days later, under the high roof of the Arioi performance house, the women of the lodge assembled in rows. Tepua, standing alone before them, could see by their tattoos that these Arioi ranked from novice all the way up to grades just below blackleg. Aitofa, the only blackleg in the lodge, stood at the front of the group.
Tepua scanned their faces, some beautiful, some plain, some young, some approaching middle age. She had asked these women about their lives, as Aitofa suggested, but she knew her questions had been far too few. Now Aitofa stared intently at her. Her eyes spoke to Tepua, saying that if she wished to change her mind, she might still do it now. No. Tepua met the blackleg’s gaze. She would not retreat.
“Here is our candidate,” Aitofa said, turning to the women beside her. “And here is what she must pledge.” She glanced again at Tepua before starting the ritual questions.
The candidate drew in her breath. Just a few words now, and all would be changed for her. Her skin prickled as she realized that she was entering a world she knew far too little about. She had been a chief’s daughter and a servant, and now she would be less than a servant. Yet through talent and hard work she might become so much more...
“Our new novice must obey her leaders without question or hesitation,” boomed Aitofa’s voice. “That is the firs
t pledge. Does she agree?”
Tepua struggled to answer. “I do,” she said in a breathy whisper. When Aitofa scowled and cupped her hand behind her ear, Tepua repeated herself in a firmer voice. “I will obey.”
“And she must dedicate herself to studying the history, chants, songs, and dances of our order.”
“I will.”
“She must uphold the ideals of the society by embracing youthfulness in all its aspects. She must strive for physical perfection and grace of movement.”
“I will.”
“She must never show cowardice, or refuse to fight. We Arioi women learn the skills of war and serve alongside the men if war should come to our district.”
“Yes,” Tepua said, remembering her skills with bow and spear. She had exercised for sport at home, but she knew she could learn to fight.
“And last, she must swear to remain childless, so long as she is one of us.”
Tepua straightened her shoulders. This was the most difficult answer, and yet she was prepared to make it. “I agree.”
Then Aitofa raised her hand, and gave the ritual words that Tepua knew must come. “Manau, manau, haere mai! You are one of us, come here.”
Tepua stepped forward, her chin lifted, her pulse quickening. A sharp tap, almost a blow, fell upon her shoulder.
“Then welcome, blessed of Oro,” chanted Aitofa. “I invest you with the maro pipi, the girdle of the pea vine.” Another woman, heavily tattooed with scroll designs from shoulders to hands, brought the novice’s girdle to the blackleg. The ritual sash had been woven from fresh vines, dark pods showing amid the bright green leaves.
Tepua lifted her arms as Aitofa bound the sash around her waist. The other women broke into a chorus of songs and clapping, welcoming the new novice among them.
“It is done. Oro is pleased,” Aitofa concluded. “And now we feast in honor of our new novice.” The women filed out to the clearing beside the performance house, where places had been set—broad plantain leaves spaced neatly on the ground.
Tepua had not expected this. She glanced at the nearby sheltered cooking pit and saw servants already parceling out steamed plantains and yams, baked fowl and taro greens. She stepped closer and saw a huge fish, an albacore, that had just been unwrapped from its covering of fragrant leaves.
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