He started to explain that she would not be going on the voyage, but he could find no words to do so gracefully; in cowardice he fell asleep, but after a while he half-woke and mumbled, “You were very funny tonight, Marama. You were really wonderful.”
WHEN THE DECISION to depart from Bora Bora was whispered from one village to the next, the island became a curious place, because no one admitted officially that the king was leaving. The High Priest continued to pay public deference to Tamatoa, and old Tupuna officiated at daily prayers to Oro. Young chiefs who had determined to join the expedition embraced wives who were obviously going to be left behind; but under this surface of indifference, all were preoccupied with one job: loading a canoe for an unknown voyage.
Particular care was given to food supplies. It was relatively easy to prepare food that was to be consumed on the voyage; it was dried in the sun and compacted into small bundles tied with ti leaves. What required special thought was the selection of roots and saplings for a new land. Experts sought taro roots that would produce the gray-blue tuber which made the best poi, and coconuts that came from the strongest trees, and breadfruit that did not grow too high but which did produce big heads rich in starch and glutinous sap. White-haired Tupuna spent three days selecting chickens that would yield meat and dogs that would bake well, for he constantly reminded his charges that they were heading for land that might be very spare, indeed.
Then came the day when departure could no longer be politely masked, for with a saw made from a large sea shell, Teroro boldly cut eleven feet from each of the canoe’s high sterns. “We cannot risk such high adornment on a long trip,” he explained.
“Auwe!” cried men and women along the shore. “The great canoe of Bora Bora is being desecrated.” Gently Teroro handed down the god-carved sterns, and priests bore them to the temple. The crowd watched while he used dried shark’s skin to smooth the ends of the truncated stern, and he kept his back to the watchers as he worked, for he was praying, “Wait-for-the-West-Wind, forgive me for this mutilation,” and out of his humiliation at having to cut down his own canoe, an obsessive rage was generated which was to make his departure from Bora Bora an event ever to be remembered in the islands.
His rage increased when he left his deformed canoe and went to his own hut, where he threw himself on the floor and hammered the pandanus mats. Marama came to sit with him and assured him: “When we have found a new home we will find big trees and we can make new pillars for our canoe.”
“No! They’ll remain as they are! A signal of our shame.”
“You talk like a boy,” the placid-faced woman chided.
“When I was a boy,” he corrected, “if anyone insulted me, I beat him on the head. But now I’m a man, and Havaiki insults me without risks.”
“Teroro,” his wife pleaded. “Look at it sensibly. What has Havaiki really done? They’ve invented a new god, and the world seems to prefer him. They haven’t …”
Teroro grasped his wife by the arm. “Haven’t you heard the whispers?” he asked bitterly. “When Tamatoa goes, who is to be the new king? Fat Tatai of Havaiki.”
Marama gasped. “Have they gone so far?” she asked.
“Yes!” Teroro snapped. “And do you know what they had the insolence to do? They proposed that I desert my brother and leave Bora Bora. I was to marry Tatai’s daughter … trade places with him!”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“It was only now that I figured it out,” he replied sheepishly. And as always, when he felt humiliated, he decided upon a plan of swift action. “Marama,” he said hurriedly, “go across the mountain and assemble all who have agreed to paddle the canoe.”
“What are you planning?” she asked suspiciously.
“To take West Wind for a trial, on the ocean. To see if the new stern works. Tell anyone who asks, that’s what we’re doing. But whisper to each man that he must also bring his best war club.”
“No, Teroro!”
“Do you want us to creep away, unavenged?”
“Yes. There’s no dishonor in that.”
“Not for a woman, perhaps,” Teroro said.
Marama considered what was involved, the possibility of death and the chance that Havaiki might send canoes in retaliation, thus ending escape to the north, but after she had considered for a long time she said, “Since men are what they are, Teroro, you ought not to go unavenged. May the gods protect you.”
So, toward midafternoon two days before the intended departure for Nuku Hiva, and while a good wind blew from the west, promising a later storm of some dimensions, thirty determined paddlers, plus the steersman Hiro and the navigator Teroro, set forth from Bora Bora to test their canoe. It moved sedately across the light green waters of the lagoon and stoutly into the dark waters of the outer ocean, already whipped by the wind into sturdy waves. The canoe moved back and forth in speed tests, then hoisted sail and darted into a long leg down wind. When it had left the lee of the island Teroro asked, “Are we agreed?”
“We are,” Mato said, pulling his war club into position.
“To Havaiki!” Teroro shouted to the steersman, and West Wind tore into the waves and its paddlers strained as darkness fell over the impartial sea.
For generations out of mind Bora Bora had been known among the islands as the land of the muffled paddles, for since it was the smallest of the major islands, its men were required to practice added caution. Now, with the dying moon not yet risen, they paused to wrap their paddle handles in tapa, so that they could creep silently, leaving barely a ripple on the sea, toward the hallowed landing of Oro, where only a few weeks before they had been so deeply humiliated.
Gently, gently, the double canoe was beached before any outlook spotted it, and thirty resolute men, leaving two to guard the canoe, slipped into the night toward the village where fat Tatai, the intended king of Bora Bora, slept. The avengers had almost reached the village when a dog barked, causing a woman to cry, “Who’s stealing breadfruit?” She sounded an alarm, but before effective action could be taken, Teroro and his men had fallen upon the village and were seeking out all who had insulted them, and most particularly fat Tatai, the nominated king.
It was Teroro who led the avengers to Tatai’s compound. There he and shark-faced Pa swept into the main hut, smashing and crashing all they encountered. A girl’s voice, soft and petulant, whispered, “He is not here, Teroro!”
Then she screamed in pain, for Pa’s great club struck her, and from the floor she whimpered, “He is not here.”
Pa was about to crush her skull when Teroro pulled him away and with his left hand dragged her to safety. From a flare set ablaze by the frugal woman who was determined to protect her breadfruit, Teroro saw that Tehani was naked except for a hastily grabbed skirt which she held before her, and he rediscovered her spectacular beauty. From a distance came his brother’s voice: “Don’t you know any young girl?” and on the impulse of the moment he brought Tehani’s face to his and rasped, “Will you go north with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder.”
“Broken?”
“No.”
“Wait for me at the canoe.” He thrust her toward the shore and then caught her again, muttering, “We have come to kill your father. Do you still want to go?”
“I’ll wait at the canoe,” she said.
Now he heard Mato shout, “We’ve found him!”
“Save him for me,” Teroro pleaded, swinging his club, but when he reached the prostrate figure of Tatai he saw that Pa had already killed him. Grabbing a handful of thatch from a roof he spread it about the dead man’s head. “The new king of Bora Bora!” he cried derisively.
“To the canoe!” the steersman shouted.
“Not before we destroy this place!” Teroro cried, and grabbing from the woman’s hand the brand by which she was inspecting her breadfruit, he swept it along the thatch of a nearby house; the rising wind ripped the flames al
ong, and soon the sacred channel of Oro and the environs of his temple were ablaze. In this light, the men of Bora Bora retreated.
At the canoe a battle raged, only prompt reinforcement saved the craft, for one of the guardians was already dead and the other was badly wounded. As the Bora Borans drove back the attackers and leaped into the truncated canoe, Tehani ran from a clump of palms, crying, “Teroro! Teroro!”
“Traitor!” the defeated Havaiki warriors cried, already inventing an explanation that would excuse their defeat. They launched their spears and in their frustration would have killed her, except that Teroro left the canoe, leaped into the surf, and ran back to rescue her.
“We are in danger!” the steersman warned, standing the canoe out into the channel.
But Teroro continued running until he intercepted the girl and swept her into his arms. Then, dodging spears, he dashed for the beach and into the surf. He might not have made the canoe, except that Mato dived into the channel and took the girl, whose shoulder was so damaged that she could not swim. Together they lifted her into the canoe and set their course for Bora Bora, but before they had left the shadow of Havaiki, Teroro said to the girl, “We found your father.”
She replied, “I know.”
The return trip was one of intense excitement, marked by psychological relief at having struck a blow at Havaiki and at the just punishment of a stranger who had presumed to rule Bora Bora. And there was the ironic joy of knowing that before Havaiki could retaliate—if indeed they ever dared try—all involved would be on the open sea, far from Bora Bora.
But above all, there was great animal joy in realizing that during the strike at Havaiki, the promised storm had actually formed and that it now blew with real force, for although the unexpected strength of the westerly made the journey back to Bora Bora difficult, it also meant that the one essential requirement for a long journey to the north was at hand.
“This storm will blow for days!” Teroro assured his men.
At daybreak it became possible to turn and run before the wind safely into the lagoon, and as they reached its protection Teroro drilled his men in the story they must tell: “We took West Wind for a trial. The storm came up. We saw we couldn’t get back. So we laid over in the channel at Havaiki.” He repeated the sequence and added, “In this storm no one from Havaiki would dare come here with the true story.”
“What about the girl?” Pa asked.
Everyone looked at Tehani, huddling wet in the hull, and it was immediately apparent, especially to Tehani, that the simplest solution to the difficulty she presented would be to knock her on the head and throw her into the storm. Pa was ready to do this, but Teroro stopped him.
“She’s my girl,” he said bluntly. “We’ll take her to my house.”
“She’ll betray us.”
“She won’t. We’ll say that while we were in the channel I went ashore to get her for the journey north.”
“Do you intend taking her?” Mato asked.
“Yes. She’s my girl.”
“What about your wife Marama?”
“She can’t bear children. She can’t go.”
“This one will betray us!” Pa warned.
Teroro reached down into the hull and pulled Tehani to her feet. Thrusting his face into hers he said, “Until we leave Bora Bora you will speak to no one about this night. No one.”
“I understand,” she said, sinking back into the canoe.
“It is you I will take north,” Teroro promised her.
As the canoe neared shore, Mato cried, “What a storm! We went all the way to Havaiki.”
Of all the listeners, only Marama knew the full significance of this statement: that some great revenge had been carried out. Swiftly she counted the canoe and saw that the young chief Tami had been lost. “Where is Tami?” she called.
“He was lost reefing sail in the storm,” Pa lied.
A man called, “Why did you go all the way to Havaiki?”
Pa answered, “Teroro went to fetch the girl he will take north with him.”
From the bottom of the hull, where she had lain hidden, Tehani slowly rose, and it was in this way, with the west wind of the storm beating in her face, that Marama learned she would not be accompanying Teroro to the north. No sound escaped her lips. She stood in the wind with both hands pressed against her sides, her hair whipping about her shoulders, her great placid face, handsome as a moon on the thirteenth night, staring at the stranger in the canoe.
She thought: “A man is dead. Some dreadful event has occurred that will contaminate the islands for years. Brave stupid men like my husband have gained their revenge, for what it matters. And a young stranger takes my place in the canoe.” Patiently she studied the newcomer and thought: “She is beautiful and her body is well formed. Perhaps she can have children. Perhaps it’s better.” But then she looked at Teroro, and her heart broke.
Hiding her tears she turned to go home, but her degradation was not completed, for her husband called, “Marama!” She returned to the canoe and he said, “Take Tehani home,” and Marama reached down and took the girl’s hand and led her home.
In its second night the storm rose to an intensity that quite precluded any departure on the day planned, and as the winds howled, those responsible for the voyage had a few last hours free for dreaming. The visions of Teroro were agitated, and toward dawn he saw two women standing by West Wind, and the canoe had no mast on which to hang its sail. He awoke in fright, shook his head vigorously, and realized that the two women were merely Marama and Tehani and their standing by the canoe signified only that each wanted to go north with him, so he wakened Marama, explaining, “The king will allow only one woman to go, Marama, and he insisted that I take a younger.”
“I understand,” she said dully.
“It isn’t that I’ve grown tired of you,” he whispered.
“Tupuna explained,” she replied.
“You understand how it is?” he pleaded.
“I understand that I have given you no children.”
“You’ve been a good wife, Marama, but the king …”
He fell asleep, but before the birds had wakened, he dreamed again and saw his canoe with no mast, and this time the two women spoke, Marama in a deep voice crying, “I am Tane!” and Tehani singing in a lilting voice, “I am Ta’aroa!”
Teroro woke trembling and cried, “Why should the gods speak to me on such a night?” And for a long time he tried to decipher the dream, for he knew that before a voyage each dream meant something, but he could not find the key. So he rose in the gray light of dawn, while winds howled and drove rain across the island, and hurried, almost naked, to the hut of old Tupuna.
“What did such a dream mean?” he pleaded.
“Did the voices sound like those of gods?” the bearded old man queried.
“No, they were women’s voices, and yet Tane’s was deep as it should be, and Ta’aroa’s was high and piercing like his voice in a storm.”
The old priest sat gathering his wisdom and listened to the roaring wind that must take them on their way. Finally he announced: “It is very clear, Teroro. Tane and Ta’aroa speak most forcefully when they speak in the wind. You must obey them.”
“What do they want me to do?”
“There was no mast in your dream canoe, and no sail?”
“None.”
“Then it’s simple. The gods wish you to take down your single mast and to raise instead two masts, one in each hull.”
It was such an obvious explanation that Teroro laughed. “I’ve seen canoes like that. One came to Nuku Hiva from the south.”
“It’s natural,” Tupuna explained. “When Tane, who rules the land, and Ta’aroa, who rules the sea, speak to a navigator in unison, they must be referring to the element that they rule together, the wind. They want you to erect two sails so that you can catch the wind better.”
“I will do so,” Teroro said, and forthwith he called his men together, and even though depar
ture could not be far off, he ripped down the mast, found a matching tree, and erected one in the right hull, which he named Tane, and the other in the left, which he called Ta’aroa. Then he lashed each with sennit shrouds, so that by nightfall a man could climb to the top of either and not tear it loose. It would have been unthinkable for a navigator not to obey the gods.
On the third night of the storm it was the king’s turn to dream, and he witnessed a fearful sight: two planets in the western sky at sunset, fighting with the sun and pushing it from the sky, whereupon one moved anxiously east and west, while the other roamed north and south. This dream was so ominous that the king summoned his uncle immediately and lay facing him in dead of night, imploring counsel.
“Does it mean that we are doomed?” Tamatoa asked in distress.
“Which of the wandering stars went searching east and west?” Tupuna inquired.
“The great star of evening.”
“And they were both searching?”
“Like a dog combing the beach or a woman seeking a lost tapa.”
“This is not a good omen,” Tupuna said gravely.
“Could it mean …” the king began, but the concept was too foreboding to be put into words.
“Failure?” Tupuna asked bluntly. “You think it means that our canoe will wander north and south, east and west, until we perish?”
“Yes,” Tamatoa answered weakly.
“It cannot mean that,” Tupuna said consolingly, “for Tane and Ta’aroa themselves spoke to Teroro last night, and he governs the canoe.”
The king was not relieved, for he confided: “My other thought is just as bad.”
“What is it?” the old man asked.
“I wonder if the two stars do not represent Tane and Ta’aroa, and the thing they are looking for is Oro. I wonder if they acknowledge Oro as supreme and do not want to go in our canoe unless he goes along?” He dropped his head and muttered, “Uncle, I am sick with fear that we are doing something wrong.”
“No,” Tupuna assured him, “I’ve studied every omen. There is no indication of failure. Remember that Tane and Ta’aroa brought us significant advice, the need for two masts. Would they trifle with us?”
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