“Even then.”
Precariously, Teroro made his way aft to consult with his brother, laying bare a wish that startled the king: “I cannot sail with Oro in this canoe. Let us throw him into the ocean.”
“A god!”
“I cannot sail with him.”
Tamatoa summoned old Tupuna, who struggled aft with difficulty and sat with the brothers. “Teroro wants to throw Oro into the ocean,” Tamatoa explained.
The thought was even more repulsive to the old man than it had been to the king, and he warned in powerful voice that such a thing had never been done. But Teroro was adamant: “We have suffered enough from Oro. My men cannot sail this canoe with such a burden.”
“If we were on land …” Tupuna protested.
“No!” the king said firmly. “It is impossible.”
But Teroro would not surrender. He shouted forward for Mato, who soon appeared. Tamatoa was grave and said, “Teroro wants to throw the god Oro into the ocean.”
“It must not be done!” Tupuna warned.
“Let Mato speak!” Teroro demanded.
“Teroro is right,” the stocky warrior said. “We have known only terror from this red god, deep, humiliating terror.”
“But he is a god!” Tupuna protested.
“We must not carry such poison to a new land,” Mato insisted.
Tupuna warned: “If you do such a thing, the winds will tear this canoe apart. The ocean will open to its depth and swallow us. Seaweed will grow in our hair.”
“I would rather be dead,” Mato shouted back, “than to install Oro in a new land.”
At this point Teroro faced Tupuna and cried, “You say Oro will punish us? I say this to Oro.” And he flung his head back, howling into the wind, “Oro, by your sacred pig, by your length of banana shoot, by the bodies of all men sacrificed to you, I condemn you and declare you nothing. I curse you and revile you and cast excrement in your face. Now strike me down. If you control the storm, raise your bloodstained hands and strike me down.”
He stood motionless as the others listened in horror, waiting. When nothing happened he fell to his knees and whispered, just loud enough for the others to hear, “But, gentle Tane, if you guide this canoe, and powerful Ta’aroa, if you control this storm, forgive me for what I have just said. Forgive me especially for what I am about to do. But I cannot go forward with Oro as a passenger in this canoe.”
He rose like a man in a dream, bowed low to his brother, and made dutiful obeisance to the priest. “Forgive me,” he said in a choking voice. “If in the next moment we are swept to death, forgive me.”
He stumbled forward in the storm, but when he reached the gods’ house itself he was powerless to open the rain-sodden door. Inherited fear of gods, plus what he remembered of his early training when it was hoped he would become a priest, rendered him incapable of action and he returned to the rear. “I cannot act without your approval, brother,” he confessed. “You are my king.”
Tamatoa cried, “We shall be lost if we destroy a god.”
Teroro fell on the platform and clutched his brother’s feet. “Command me to destroy this evil thing.”
“Don’t do it, Tamatoa!” his uncle warned.
In this moment of indecision, when the ultimate values of the canoe were laid open on the stormy deck, it was tough Mato who acted. He shouted, “King Tamatoa, if we take Oro with us, when you land you kill more people to show him gratitude, just in case it was he who brought us there. And once started, we will kill more, and more. You, Tupuna, you love gods, but we must save you from the temptation of growing to love this one!”
And he rushed to the gods’ house, uncovered the sennit-and-feather form of the avenging god and raised it high into the storm. “Go back to Havaiki where you came from!” he shouted. “We don’t want you. You’ve eaten our men. You’ve driven us from the home of our ancestors. Go away!” And with a vast sweep of his arm, Mato threw the god far out to sea.
But winds caught at the feathers and for an awful moment held the god aloft, so that it kept pace with the canoe. “Auwe!” shrieked the priest. “Auwe! See, Oro follows us!”
King Tamatoa, perceiving this miracle, fell to the platform in prayer, but Teroro, awakened from his indecision, grabbed a spear and with fury launched it at the god. It missed, but the shaft brushed the feathers and deflected the deity into the turbulent deep. Calmly, he turned to the prostrate king and said, “I have killed the god. You may do with me as you wish.”
“Go to your post,” the king mumbled, stricken with fear.
As Teroro moved forward upon the canoe whose burden of terror he had helped diminish, he felt his craft sweep into the storm with new vigor; the stays sang a sweeter song; and he could see from their smiles that his men were assured. But when he passed the gods’ house and recalled how powerless he had been at the vital moment, he looked across to where Mato sat, stubbornly paddling to keep the canoe right with the storm, and he wanted to clasp the man in brotherhood, but only Mato’s shoulders were free, and no man would dare touch another’s shoulders, for they were reserved for the personal god to perch on when he inspired a man with courage; so Teroro merely whispered into the storm, “You were the brave one, Mato,” and the sturdy paddler replied, “The canoe feels lighter.”
When Teroro recovered his post he found Tehani, the daughter of Oro, weeping. He knelt beside her and said, “You must try to forgive me, Tehani. I killed your father and now I have killed your god.” He took her by the hands and swore: “I will never offend you again.” The dazzling girl, storm upon her face, looked up. She was bereft of the very foundations of her being, and although she tried to speak she could say nothing; but from then on Teroro treated her with extra kindness.
It was at this moment, when the captains of the canoe were most agitated, that Tane and Ta’aroa conspired to present them with an omen that erased from all hearts memories of what had just happened. The rain came heavily for about fifteen minutes, followed by strong winds that blew clouds scudding ahead in darkness until the clouds parted and the fine stars of heaven were momentarily revealed.
Then it was that the wisdom of Tupuna in setting forth at dusk on the new day of the month became apparent, for there, rising in the eastern sky and with no bright moon in competition, sparkled the Seven Little Eyes. It was their first twilight appearance of the year, their reassuring return which proved that the world would continue for at least twelve more months. With what extraordinary joy the voyagers greeted the Little Eyes. From the grass house women came forth and filled their hearts with comfort. Those crew members who had to keep the canoe headed with the wind found new resilience in their tired muscles, and Teroro knew that he was on course.
Then, the miracle vouchsafed, Tane drew the clouds once more across the heavens and the storm continued, but contentment beyond measure settled upon the canoe, for it was at last apparent that the company moved in accordance with divine laws. How sweet the roar of the wind that bore them on, how consoling the motion of the waves that carried them into the unknown; how appropriate the world, how well ordered and secure the heavens. On the canoe, that daring and insignificant bundle of wood lashed together by sennit and men’s wills, all hearts were deep in peace, and the onwardness of their journey sang contentedly in all parts of the craft, so that when old Tupuna crawled back to his watching point abaft the gods’ house, he called softly to Teroro ahead, “The king is content. The omen proves that Oro was caught by Ta’aroa and conveyed safely to Havaiki. All is well.” And the canoe moved on.
The most critical part of any twenty-four-hour period came in the half hour just before dawn, for unless the navigator could catch a glimpse of some known star and thus check course he would have to proceed through an entire day with only the unreliable sun to steer by; for while it was true that master astronomers like Teroro and Tupuna could follow each movement of the sun and take from it their heading, they could not use it to determine their latitude. For that they depended upon the
stars; their sailing directions reminded them which stars culminated over which islands, and to pass the last moments of night without seeing any constellations was not only an omen of bad luck in the future, it was also proof of present difficulty, which, if it persisted for several days, might develop into catastrophe.
For example, after their first fleeting glimpse of the Seven Little Eyes, Teroro and his uncle had waited anxiously for Three-in-a-Row, which other astronomers then living in distant deserts had already named Orion’s Belt, for the sailing directions said that these stars hung over Nuku Hiva, their replenishment point. But Three-in-a-Row had not appeared during the night watch and Teroro had been unable to determine his latitude. Now the conspicuous stars were setting without having been seen, and the navigator was worried.
He had, however, observed on earlier trips that it was a peculiarity of bis ocean that in the last few minutes of morning twilight, some star, as if determined to aid mariners, pushed clouds aside and showed itself, and he thought there was still time for this to happen.
“Three-in-a-Row will appear there,” Tupuna announced confidently, but Teroro wondered if the night’s strong wind might not have blown the canoe rather farther north than his uncle suspected.
“Maybe they will be closer to that cloud,” Teroro suggested.
The difference of opinion was not to be resolved, for clouds continued to streak out of the west to meet the sun rising on the other side of the ocean. On this day dawn was neither inspiring nor refreshing, for the sun straggled reluctantly up behind many layers of cloud, half illuminated the ocean with dull gray and proved to the voyagers that they did not know where they were.
Teroro and Tupuna, having accomplished all they could, fell into immediate sleep in the stormy daylight; and it was then that the latter’s wife, wizened, red-eyed old Teura, paid for her passage. She climbed out of the grass house, splattered sea water over her wrinkled face, rubbed her bleary eyes, threw her head back and started studying the omens. In nearly two thirds of a century of living with the gods, she had unraveled many of their tricky ways. Now she watched how Ta’aroa moved the waves, how the spume rose, how the tips fell away and in what manner they tumbled back into the troughs. She marked the color of the sea and the construction of the basic swells that underlay the more conspicuous waves.
At midmorning she saw a land bird, possibly from Bora Bora itself, winging its way out to sea, and from its flight she was able to determine the bird’s estimate of how long the storm would continue, and it confirmed her own. A bit of bark, washed out to sea days before from Havaiki, was of particular interest to the old woman, for it proved that the ocean had a northerly set, which was not apparent from the wind, which blew more toward the northeast.
But most of all the rheumy-eyed old seer studied the sun, for although it was well masked behind layers of cloud, her practiced eye could mark its motion. “Star men like Tupuna and Teroro don’t think much of the sun,” she snorted, but when she placed her observations of its course beside the deductions she had made from earlier omens she concluded: “Those men don’t know where they are! We’re far to the north of our course!”
But what Teura particularly appreciated were those unexpected messages from the gods which meant so much to the knowing. For example, an albatross, not large and of no possible importance as food, happened to fly past the canoe and she saw with gratification that he kept to the left, or Ta’aroa’s side, and since the albatross was known to be a creature of that god’s, this was a refreshing omen; but when the bird insisted upon returning to the canoe, also from the left side, and finally perched on the mast of Ta’aroa, the coincidence could no longer be termed an omen. It was a definite message that the god of the oceans had personally sent to an old woman who had long honored him, and Teura looked at the sea with new love, and sang:
“O, Ta’aroa, god of the boundless deep,
Ta’aroa of the mighty waves
And the troughs that lead down to blackness,
We place our canoe in your hands,
In your hands we place our lives.”
Contentedly, the old woman gathered her many omens, and they were all good. The men of her canoe might be lost, and the stars remain hidden, and the storm continue, but Ta’aroa was with them and all was well.
In the late afternoon, Tupuna and Teroro, before resuming their duties, came aft to find out from Teura where they were, and she advised them that they rode much farther north than even Teroro had suspected.
“No,” the men reasoned. “We’ve been to Nuku Hiva. Directions don’t call for a turn yet.”
“Head for the pit from which Three-in-a-Row climbs,” she warned with stubborn finality, “or you’ll miss Nuku Hiva.”
“You wait till the stars come out,” Teroro challenged. “You’ll see we’re on course.”
Teura would not argue. For her any problem was simple: either the gods spoke or they didn’t, and if they did, it was useless to try to explain to someone else how the message was delivered. “We are far to the north,” she snapped. “Turn.”
“But how can we know?” Teroro pleaded.
“The gods said so,” she muttered and went to bed.
When she was gone, the two men reviewed her various omens, but the only one upon which they were willing to place much reliance was the albatross. “You can’t have a much better omen than an albatross,” Tupuna reasoned.
“If Ta’aroa is with us,” Teroro concluded, “we must be on the right course.”
From the grass house old Teura stuck out her head and snapped, “I’ve noticed that Ta’aroa stays with a canoe only as long as its men keep it on course. Turn.”
That night it could not be proved that Teura was either right or wrong, for no stars appeared, neither in the darkness of midnight nor in the anxious dawn, and Teroro steered solely by running directly before the wind, with only a small section of sail out, trusting that the storm was steady and not blowing in circles.
On the third starless night, when the canoe could have been in real danger, Teroro reached a major decision. While consulting with Tupuna he said, “We’ve got to believe that the storm is blowing true.”
“Arrival of the albatross is best proof of that,” Tupuna pointed out.
“Then I think we’d better take full advantage of it.”
“You intend hoisting the sails to the peak?”
“Yes. If it is the gods who are sending us, we ought to go forward as fast as we can.”
When they presented their proposal to King Tamatoa, he showed his disturbance over the lack of stars and pointed out that the night crew’s estimate of position did not jibe with that of the old woman, but he also appreciated the good sense of his brother’s proposal. “I am much impressed by that albatross,” Tamatoa reasoned. “Teura confided one fact to me that she didn’t tell you. When the bird came back the second time to land on the mast of Ta’aroa, it landed with its left foot extended.”
The astronomers whistled, for this was a most propitious omen, since it confirmed the leftness of the bird’s intentions and its peculiar inclination toward the mast of Ta’aroa. “I can only conclude,” the king reasoned, “that Ta’aroa, for some reason of his own, has sent us this unusual storm. I agree with Teroro. Hoist the sails.”
So Teroro sent Mato and Pa up the masts, and in complete darkness, while the canoe was already speeding forward into deep swells, the two young chiefs lashed fast the sturdy matting sails and with shouts of accomplishment slid down and began to play out the sails until they trapped the wind and whipped the canoe forward. Through the rest of the night and into the third disappointing dawn the canoe raced ahead on a course no man knew, for King Tamatoa realized that there came a time on any voyage when a man and his canoe had to trust the gods and to run forward, satisfied that the sails had been well set and the course adhered to whenever possible; but when all precautions failed to disclose known marks, it was obligatory to ride the storm.
At daylight, gnawed by uncert
ainty, the men went to sleep and old Teura came forth to gather omens. A white-bellied petrel wheeled in the sky but said nothing. Fishermen forward caught bonito, which helped conserve food but told nothing about position, and several fine squalls deposited calabashes full of sweet water trapped by the sails.
At noon when Teura advised the king that things were going well, he shrewdly asked, “Any omens of position?”
“None,” she replied.
“How is the ocean running?”
“No signs of land, no islands ahead, the storm will blow for five more days.” In such brief report she summed up two thousand years of study by her ancestors, and had she been required to explain why she knew that there was no land ahead, she would have been unable to do so. But there was none, and of this she was absolutely certain.
“Has the albatross returned?” the king asked anxiously.
“No omens,” she repeated.
It was now seven days since the storm had risen on the night of Bora Bora’s revenge against Havaiki, and three complete days that the canoe had been at sea, but true to Teura’s prediction and to the amazement of all, the gale continued, and when the evening watch took over, Teura and the king wondered if the sails should not be lowered, for there were not going to be any stars that night, either. But in the consultation Teroro said, “I am convinced we are going forward,” and since there was no one with superior knowledge to contradict him, Tamatoa asked, “You are willing to keep the sails aloft tonight?”
“We must,” Teroro said. And through that starless night and into the starless dawn, he ran with the storm, insisting upon this because of his canoe’s name. More than a century ago a wise man had named the predecessor of the predecessor of this canoe Wait-for-the-West-Wind because he had found that when Bora Borans went forth driven by the western hurricane, they went well. And until the stars had a chance to prove the contrary, Teroro was willing to abide by this ancient wisdom.
He was somewhat shaken however on the fifth night when Tupuna crept up to the prow and whispered, “I have never known a storm from the west to blow so long. We are entering the ninth night. It surely must have veered.”
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