There was a long pause in the darkness and Teroro looked down at the slim body of his wife, curled against the mast. He wondered what she would say to this problem, but she was not like Marama; she had no ideas. So he wrestled with the alternatives alone and felt irritated when Tupuna pressed him: “Can you recall a constant wind of such duration?”
“No,” Teroro snapped, and the two men parted.
But toward dawn of the fifth day, when it seemed probable that no stars would show, Tupuna became frightened: “We must drop the sails. We don’t know where we are.”
He insisted upon a conference with the king and Teura, which produced three voices against Teroro, for it was obvious that the canoe was lost and that to persevere blindly without some confirmation from the stars would be folly. But Teroro could not accept this reasoning.
“Of course we’re lost,” he confessed. “But Ta’aroa sent his bird to us in the storm, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” they had to agree.
“This isn’t an ordinary storm,” he argued. “This is an unheard-of gale sent to the canoe of Bora Bora. From the oldest days, what has been the name of our canoe?”
“But we are lost!” the king reasoned.
“We were lost from the moment we set forth,” Teroro cried.
“No!” Tamatoa cried, refusing to be enticed by his brother’s rhetoric. “We were headed for Nuku Hiva. For fresh water and new supplies.”
“And to listen once more to the sailing chants,” Tupuna added cautiously.
“We must lie to,” the king announced firmly. “Then, when we catch a glimpse of Three-in-a-Row, we will know where Nuku Hiva is.”
It was under this pressure that Teroro broached his bold plan. He spoke quietly and without gestures, saying, “I am not lost, brother, because I am riding with the desires of Ta’aroa. I am heading with a great storm, and I am content to ride that storm.”
“Do you know how to get to Nuku Hiva?”
Teroro looked at each of his companions and replied, “If we are concerned only with Nuku Hiva, I am lost. If we are going to Nuku Hiva only to get additional food and water, I am lost. But in all sense, brother, do we need to go to Nuku Hiva?”
He waited for these strong words to sink into the hearts of his seafaring companions, and he saw that he had used words they understood. Before anyone could speak he added, “What is there for us in Nuku Hiva? To get water we have to fight with those who live there, and some of us will be killed. Do we need water? To get food we must take great risks, and if we are captured, we are cooked alive and eaten. Do we need food? Hasn’t Ta’aroa sent us fresh fish in abundance? Have we not disciplined ourselves as men have never done before so that each eats only a shred each day? Brother Tamatoa, if the storm is with us, what extra things do we need?”
Tamatoa resisted his brother’s eloquence and asked, “Then you are lost. You can’t take us to Nuku Hiva?”
“I cannot take you to Nuku Hiva, but I can take you to the north.”
As if in support of his bold plan, a sudden force of wind ripped across the waves and spilled into the sails, whipping the canoe along in a burst of speed. Spray leaped, and dawn, still blotting out the stars and all certain knowledge, came upon the men of Bora Bora.
“We are alone on the sea,” Teroro said solemnly. “We are engaged in a special voyage, and if it takes us past Nuku Hiva, then I say good, for we are doubtless being sped by the gods on some great mission. Brother, I beg you, let us keep the sails aloft.”
The king would not present this dangerous request to the opinion of the group, for he knew that the old people, Tupuna and Teura, would insist upon caution, and he suspected that perhaps now was a time when caution was not required. Weighing all possibilities, he sided with his brother and said, “We should get some sleep.”
So for two more nights, the sixth and seventh of the voyage, the canoe sped on, safe in the mighty arms of Ta’aroa, and in those somber, critical days, all eyes were kept on the left mast, for it was obvious that not the man Teroro but the god Ta’aroa was in command of this canoe. And then, on the late afternoon of the seventh day, red-eyed Teura spotted an omen. On the left side of the canoe came five dolphin, a propitious number in itself, followed by an albatross of some size. The creatures of Ta’aroa had come to celebrate the deliverance of this canoe from the storm, but before Teura could alert her companions to this fine intelligence, an event of transcendent importance occurred. A shark appeared not far from the canoe and followed it lazily for a moment, trying to catch Teura’s attention, and when she saw it her heart cried with joy, for this great blue beast of the sea had long been her personal god; and now, while the others were blind with their work, it swam along the left side of the canoe, its blue head above the waves.
“Are you lost, Teura?” it inquired softly.
“Yes, Mano,” she replied, “we are lost.”
“Are you searching for Nuku Hiva?” the shark asked.
“Yes. I have said that it was …”
“You will not see Nuku Hiva,” the great blue shark advised. “It is far to the south.”
“What shall we do, Mano?”
“Tonight there will be stars, Teura,” the shark whispered. “All the stars that you require.”
In perfect contentment the old woman closed her tired red eyes. “I have waited for you for many days,” she said softly. “But I did not feel completely lost, Mano, for I knew you must be watching us.”
“I’ve been following,” the shark said. “Your men were brave, Teura, to keep the sails aloft like that.”
Teura opened her eyes and smiled at the shark. “I am ashamed to tell you that I argued against it.”
“We all make mistakes,” the blue beast said, “but you are on the right course. You’ll see when the stars come out.” And with this consoling assurance, he turned away from the canoe.
“There’s a shark out there!” a sailor cried. “Is that a good omen, Teura?”
“Tamatoa,” the old woman said quietly, “tonight there will be stars.” And as she spoke two land birds with brown-tipped wings flew purposefully toward the south and Tamatoa saw them and asked, “Does that mean that our land is far to the south?”
“We shall never see it, Tamatoa, for we are safe on a new heading.”
“Are you sure?”
“You will see when the stars come out.”
With what excited apprehension Tupuna and Teroro waited for the dusk. They knew that when the Seven Little Eyes peeked above the eastern horizon, the canoe’s course would be apparent; and when Three-in-a-Row appeared, they could deduce where Nuku Hiva lay. With what apprehension they waited.
Exactly as Teura had predicted, toward dusk the clouds disappeared and the evening sun came out. As it sank, a tremendous exhilaration filled the canoe, for trailing the sun was the bright star of evening, visible even in twilight and soon accompanied by a second wandering star of great brilliance, and like the two gods on whom the canoe depended, the stars marched grandly toward the rim of the ocean and vanished in their appointed pits of heaven.
On the platform old Tupuna called all passengers to silence as he threw back his white head and intoned a prayer: “Oh, Tane, in our preoccupation with the storm of your brother Ta’aroa we have not thought of you as often as we should. Forgive us, benevolent Tane, for we have been fighting to stay alive. Now that the heavens are restored to remind us of your all-seeing kindness, we implore you to look with favor upon us. Great Tane, light the heavens that we may see. Great Tane, show us the way.” And all prayed to Tane and felt his benevolence descend upon them from the nearer heavens.
Then, as darkness deepened over the still heaving ocean, and as the winds died momentarily from the gallant outstretched sails, the stars began to appear; first the mighty golden stars of the south, those warm familiar beacons that showed the way to Tahiti, followed by the cold blue stars of the north, scintillating in their accustomed places and competing with the quarter moon. As each star took its
position, its friends in the canoe greeted it with cries of recognition, and an assurance that had been absent for many days returned.
The critical stars had not yet risen, so that in spite of their joy, men could not suppress the questions that often assailed voyagers: “What if we have sailed away from heavens we knew? What if the Little Eyes do not rise here?” Then slowly and uncertainly, for they were not brilliant stars, the sacred group arose, precisely where it should have been, climbing up out of its appropriate pit.
“The Little Eyes are still with us!” Tupuna shouted, and the king raised his head to offer a prayer to the guardians of the world, the core around which the heavens were built.
The astronomers then met to read the signs, and they concluded that the storm had blown fairly steadily from the west, but apparently there had been, as Teura had guessed, a definite drift of the sea northward, for the Little Eyes were going to culminate much higher in the heavens than would be proper were the canoe on course to Nuku Hiva; but to say specifically how serious the drift had been, the navigators would have to wait until Three-in-a-Row appeared, which would not be for another two hours.
So the three plotters waited, and when Three-in-a-Row was well up into the heavens it became self-evident that the canoe was far, far north of the course to Nuku Hiva and was thus committed to an unknown ocean with no opportunity to replenish stores. It was therefore a solemn group that went aft to report to the king: “The storm has carried us even more swiftly than Teroro imagined.”
The king’s face showed his distress. “Are we lost?”
Uncle Tupuna replied, “We are far from Nuku Hiva and will see no land we know.”
“Then we are lost?” the king pressed.
“No, nephew, we are not,” Tupuna said carefully. “It is true that we have been carried into far regions, but they are not off our course. We seek lands which lie beneath the Seven Little Eyes, and we are nearer to them tonight than we had a right to expect. If we do not eat too much …”
Even though Tamatoa had given permission to keep the sails aloft, and even though he had known that the canoe thus ran the risk of missing Nuku Hiva, he had nevertheless hoped that they would stumble upon that known island, and perhaps find it congenial, and possibly establish homes there. Now he was committed to the greater journey, and he was fearful.
“We could still alter course and find Nuku Hiva,” he suggested.
Teroro remained silent and allowed old Tupuna to carry the argument: “No, we are well on our way.”
“But to where?”
Tupuna repeated the only chant he had ever memorized for sailing to the north. In effect it said: “Keep the canoe headed with the storm until the winds cease completely. Then turn into the dead sea where bones rot with heat and no wind blows. Paddle to the new star, and when winds strike from the east, ride with them westward until land beneath the Seven Little Eyes is found.”
The king, himself an adequate astronomer, pointed due north and asked, “Then the lands we seek are there?”
“Yes,” Tupuna agreed.
“But we go this way?” and he pointed eastward, where the winds of the dying storm were driving them.
“Yes.”
The course seemed so improbable, to head for a promised land by fleeing it, that the king cried, “Can we be sure that this is the way?”
“No,” the old man confessed, “we cannot be sure.”
“Then why …”
“Because the only knowledge we have says that this is the way to do it.”
The king, ever mindful of the fact that fifty-seven people were in his care, grasped Tupuna by the shoulders and asked bluntly, “What do you honestly think about the land that is supposed to be under the Little Eyes?”
The old man replied, “I think that many canoes have left these waters, some blown by storms, others like us in exile, and no man has ever returned. Whether these canoes reached land or not, we do not know. But some man, with a vision of what might be, composed that chant.”
“Then we are sailing with a dream for our guide?” Tamatoa asked.
“Yes,” the priest answered.
Gloom was not allowed to capture the canoe, for the reappearance of the stars had excited the paddlers and the women, so that even while the astronomers were consulting, shark-faced Pa had handed his paddle to another and had grabbed a length of tapa which he had wrapped around his shoulders, masking his head. Now imitating a very fat man, he pranced up and down the platform, shouting, “Who am I?”
“He’s the headless king of Bora Bora!” Mato cried.
“Look at fat Tatai coming to be our king, with his head knocked off!”
In wild burlesque, Pa ridiculed the coronation of the headless would-be king. Paddlers stopped and began to beat rhythms on the canoe, and a woman produced a little drum with a high, almost metallic sound, and the night’s revelry was launched.
“What is this new dance?” Tamatoa inquired.
“I’ve never seen it before,” Tupuna replied.
“Do you know what he’s doing?” the king asked Teroro.
“Yes,” the younger man said hesitantly. “Pa is … Well, Tamatoa, some of us heard that fat Tatai was to be king after we left … and …”
Tamatoa looked at the headless dancer and asked, “So you sneaked over to Havaiki … some of you …”
“Yes.”
“And now Tatai has no head.”
“Well … yes. You see, we felt …”
“You could have ruined the entire voyage, couldn’t you?”
“We could have, but we figured that Tatai’s village wouldn’t come over to Bora Bora very soon …”
“Why not?”
“Well, when we left there wasn’t any village.”
In the light of the quarter moon King Tamatoa looked at his daring young brother, and there was much that he would have said, but the sound of ancient drumming stifled his logical thoughts, and with a stirring leap he whirled forward to where Pa was dancing and entered into the ritual dance of the kings of Bora Bora. Like a boy, he gestured and postured and told forgotten stories, until toward the end he grabbed Pa’s tapa and threw it over his head and did the now popular dance of the headless king from Havaiki. When the drums had reached a crescendo he threw off the tapa, stood very straight in the night wind, and exulted: “We did not go like cowards! I, the king, was afraid to strike at those evil worms, those faces of excrement, those vile and awful dead fish of the stinking lagoon. I was afraid to endanger the coming voyage. But Pa here was not afraid. And Mato was not afraid. And my brother …” In gratitude Tamatoa looked aft to where Teroro stood in darkness. The king did not finish his sentence. With demonic energy he leaped into a dance of victory, shouting, “I dance in honor of brave men! Let’s have the celebration you were denied!” And he ordered extra rations of food to be broken out, and more drums, and all the water anyone wanted.
Like children careless of the dawn, they reveled through the night, got drunk on laughter, and feasted on food that should have been conserved. It was a wild, wonderful night of victory, and each half hour someone shouted, “Pa! Do the dance of the headless king!” Then, one by one, in savage triumph, they rose and screamed classic island insults at the vanquished.
“Havaiki is the strong scent of spoiled meat!”
“The worthless trash of Havaiki take pleasure in their shame.”
“Fat Tatai trembles in fear. The hair on his head trembles. He crawls away and hides like a hen in a secret place.”
“The warriors of Havaiki are the froth of water, boys playing with mud balls.”
Teroro, succumbing to the excitement, shouted, “Fat Tatai is a sneaking little dog, excrement of excrement.” But as his voice shrieked in the wind, he happened to look forward to where beautiful Tehani huddled against the masts, weeping as her father was reviled. Then he also saw Mato, from the left hull, touch the girl’s hand.
Mato said, “This is the way of victory. You must forgive us.” From the r
ear new voices rose with foul invective, and the drums beat on.
In the rainy dawn, of course, King Tamatoa took gloomy stock of what the celebration had cost and for a moment he thought: “We are children. We discover we’re lost and half an hour later we eat enough food for a week.” Contritely, he issued stringent orders that what had been wasted must be made up by austere rationing. “Even though we have plenty of water,” he warned, “each must drink only a cupful a day.”
So, with the remnants of the tempest at their back and with victory in their hearts, the voyagers sailed eastward for the ninth night, and the tenth, and the fifteenth. Their swift canoe, fleetest large craft that ever up to then had plied the oceans of the world, averaged two hundred miles a day, better than eight miles an hour, day after day. They sailed more than halfway to the lands where Aztecs were building mighty temples, and well onto the approaches of the northern land where Cheyennes and Apaches built nothing. In the direction they were then headed they could encounter no land until they struck the continent itself; but before that happened they would have perished of thirst and starvation in the doldrums. Nevertheless, they carried on, according to Teroro’s plan. There was fear each dawn when the sun rose; there was momentary joy each night when the stars reappeared to tell their progress; for day was the enemy, crowded with uncertainty and the hourly acknowledgment of their forlorn position; but night was consolation and the spiritual assurance of known stars, and the waxing of the fat moon through its many stages, and the soft cries of birds at dusk. How tremendous an experience this was, at the end of a long day which had provided only the unstable sun, to watch the return of night and to discover, there in the west where the sun went down, the evening star and its wandering companion, and out of the vastness to see the Little Eyes come peeping with their message: “You are coming closer to the land we guard.” How marvelous, how marvelous the night!
AS THE CANOE REACHED EASTWARD and the storm abated, the daily routine became more settled. Each dawn the six slaves stopped bailing and cleaned out the canoe, while farmers moved among the animals and fed them, giving the pigs and dogs fish caught in the early hours, plus some mashed sweet potatoes and fresh water trapped in the sails. The chickens got dried coconut and a fish to pick at, but if they lagged in eating, a slim, dark object darted out from among the freight and grabbed the food away, unseen by the slaves, for as on all such trips, some rats had stowed aboard, and if the voyage turned out badly, they would be the last to die … would indeed sustain themselves for many drifting days on those who had already perished.
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