“No anchorage for ships,” Rasmussen was saying, with satisfaction. “Shallow—submerged reef—boulders—north winds would smash any vessel. That’s why I never touched the place when I had a schooner. Only possible when I got this plane.”
“There is a plateau,” I said, hardly suppressing my enthusiasm. “It is perfect.”
So entranced and absorbed had Rasmussen been by the sight of the larger island, that he seemed to have forgotten my purpose. My words brought him up sharply.
“I want you to put down,” I said. I think I repeated this several times, like a chanting child who has found a sweet. “I want to see it for myself.” My heart was swelling with hope, for I knew this was suitable land. I would fulfill my assignment for Mr. Trevor and Intra-Oceania Flights. I would have my payment.
“No,” said Captain Rasmussen.
“No?” I said incredulously. “What do you mean?”
We had eased around for another pass over the main island. Rasmussen gestured vaguely toward the window. “Surf’s runnin’—poundin’ hard—bad wind—we’d pile up.”
I looked below. “The sea is glass. It is perfect.”
“I don’t know,” Rasmussen mumbled. “There’s other things. It’s dangerous. There’s head-hunters—cannibals—”
“You said it was uninhabited,” I reminded him sternly.
“I forgot.”
I knew there were no cannibals in this area. Yet, I could not brand him a liar. I said, “I’ll take my chances, Captain. Please request Mr. Hapai to land. I shall only require an hour or two.”
Rasmussen remained strangely adamant. “I can’t do it,” he said weakly. “I’m responsible for you.”
“I am responsible for me,” I said firmly. “I have said this twice and I will say it a third time—if you continue to prevent me from seeing this island, I shall return tomorrow with someone more cooperative.”
Rasmussen stared at me for many seconds, and we could only hear the hammer of the monoplane’s two engines. His Nordic countenance, wrinkled and stubbled, was a portrait of consternation. Finally, almost without emotion, he said, “I should open the hatch an’ heave you in the ocean.”
I could not discern if he was jesting, but there was no humor in his face. “People know I am with you,” I said. “You would be guillotined for it.”
He glanced out of the window. “I don’t like this at all,” he said. “Why’d I ever get mixed up with you? If I go takin’ you down …” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “You’re causin’ me an awful lot of grief, Professor. I made my pledge never to bring no one to The Three Sirens.”
I felt the blood throb in my temples. So these lost islands were likely inhabited. To whom had Rasmussen made his pledge? What was Rasmussen shielding about the patch of land below? The mystery excited me as much as the potential airfield.
“Are you going to take me down?” I demanded.
“You’re givin’ me no choice,” said Rasmussen, with evident despair. “If I was you, I’d wear blinkers ashore. Look for your damn airstrip, an’ nothin’ more.”
“That is all I am interested in.”
“We’ll see,” said Rasmussen, enigmatically. He glanced at Hapai. “Let them know I’m comin’ down. Then retract—cut her slowly to sixty-five miles per hour—sea’s good enough to bring her in half a mile from the beach. I’ll untie the dinghy.”
As the seaplane turned, Rasmussen lifted himself from his seat with a sigh and went aft to the portside. Immediately, I took his place in the pilot’s compartment. Hapai had brought the flying boat back over the center of the main island. He came in low across what I made out to be a deep valley hidden in shadows. Unexpectedly, he rolled the plane, dipping the wings, once, twice, almost throwing me from my seat. Then he appeared to gun the plane upward, soaring over the volcanic crater, and easing around in the direction of the cliffs and beach.
The descent was rapid and even, and when we perched on the water offshore, Hapai left his place. I found him opening the main entrance hatch on the portside. After that, he helped Rasmussen move the dinghy free, and lower it into the water.
Rasmussen preceded me into the bobbing dinghy, and reached up to help me down beside him. He called to Hapai, “You stay put. We’ll be back in two hours. If we’re longer, I’ll have Paoti or Tom Courtney send someone.”
My mind held on the curious pair of names—Paoti—Tom Courtney—provocative because of their juxtaposition, although one was obviously Polynesian and the other sounded Anglo-Saxon, despite the fact that Courtney is of French derivation. Before I could remark upon this oddity, Rasmussen gruffly ordered me to take up a paddle and go to work.
Even with the smoothness of the sea, the exertion of rowing—combined with the discomfort of the almost airless, muggy afternoon, unrelieved by any stir of breeze—had me soaked through with perspiration by the time we had made the beach. The stretch of sandy beach, the crags behind, met us in silence. When I alighted, it was as if I had stepped on the earth of Eden the fourth day after Genesis. (Forgive my eloquence, Dr. Hayden, but this was how I felt.)
After Rasmussen had secured the craft, he lost no time. “It’ll take a half-hour’s stiff climb, if we keep movin’, to reach your god plateau.”
I was at his heels as he led the way to a narrow, winding footpath that ascended gradually along the slope of a cliff. “Are there people here?” I wanted to know. “Who are Paoti and Courtney?”
“Don’t go wastin’ your breath,” growled Rasmussen, ” ‘cause you’ll be needin’ it.”
Lest I weary you with the details of my adventure, Dr. Hayden, I will be as concise as possible about our climb to the plateau. The path was not steep, but constantly rising, and the rock walls on either side hoarded the stifling heat of the early day and was suffocating. Because I called a halt, several times, to ease the stitch in my side, our ascension took nearly three-quarters of an hour. In that period, Rasmussen uttered not one word to me. His lined, burned face was grim, and he turned aside my inquiries with cross grumbles and snarls.
At last, the rock formations reached the summit of a broad boulder, which led to verdant hillocks, and these slowly merged into the long, level plateau.
“Here you are,” were the first words Rasmussen had spoken in all this while. “What you goin’ to do now?”
“Examine it.”
I went deeper across the plateau, estimating its length and width, judging its evenness, studying the vegetation, testing the consistency of the soil, attentive even to the direction of the winds. I did all that Mr. Trevor had instructed me to do. It was during my absorbed examination—we could have been on this plain no longer than an hour, and I was on my hands and knees testing the grass and topsoil—that I first heard the voices. I lifted my head with surprise to realize that Rasmussen was not behind me. I quickly cast about, and then I saw him and saw that he was not alone.
I leaped to my feet. I could make out that Rasmussen was in the company of two towering, lean, fair-skinned native males, one carrying a short stone adze. As far as I could judge, from my distance, and with Rasmussen blocking a full view, both native men were naked. They were in stances of repose, listening, as Rasmussen spoke to them, gesticulating broadly. Once, he half pivoted, to indicate me, and when I mistook this as an invitation to approach them, Rasmussen quickly waved me to remain where I stood. The conversation, out of earshot, went on for perhaps another five minutes, and then suddenly the three of them came toward me.
As they advanced, I could make out the features of the two native men, and I could see that one was possibly Polynesian while the other was definitely Caucasian, although both were of the same color. They were each naked, head to toe, except for one concession to modesty. Both men wore white pubic bags—like the medieval codpieces—around their genitals, loosely held up by thin coconut fiber strands around their waists. I must confess I was disconcerted, for though I had seen these supporters in Melanesia some years ago, they are no longer the fashion
in civilized Polynesia, where Western trousers or native kilts are favored. I had the impression that these men, or whomever they represented, were adhering to the old ways and had been untouched by modern influences.
“Professor Easterday,” Rasmussen was saying, “these gentlemen were huntin’ near here when they saw my signal an’ came up to meet us. This is Mr. Thomas Courtney, an American who is an honorary member of the Sirens tribe. And this is Moreturi, oldest son of Paoti Wright, Chief of the tribe.”
Courtney offered his hand and I shook it. Moreturi did not offer his hand, but only a forbidding aspect.
A brief smile was on Courtney’s face, no doubt at the astonishment unsuppressed upon my own. I asked myself then, and for a short time later, what a naked American, garmented in such a fashion, was doing on an island called The Three Sirens, which existed on no map? Even as the puzzle teased me, I could definitely distinguish the two men now.
Moreturi was the younger, no more than thirty years of age, and possibly an inch shy of six feet in height. We know that Polynesians are light-skinned enough to tan, but he appeared to be a dark white man who had tanned. His hair was black and wavy, but his entire body was devoid of any hair at all. His face was broader and more handsome, with its straight and correct features, than Courtney’s face. All that indicated “native” was the slight slant of his eyes and fullness of his lips. His chest was powerful, his bicep muscles enormous, all tapering down sharply to slender hips and legs.
Courtney was, as I have said, the older of the pair. I should guess nearly forty years of age, but of superb condition and physique. I estimated him to be six feet two inches in height, with sandy, uncombed hair not recently barbered. His face was longer, more angular than that of his Polynesian friend, with deep-set brown eyes, a nose that appeared to have once been broken and imperfectly set, narrower lips and wider mouth. He was the leaner of the two, but rangy and also muscular, with moderate hair on his chest and legs.
My descriptions of these persons may not be completely accurate, for all this I observed in short seconds, and only supplemented later when there was darkness and scrutiny was more difficult.
I was aware that Courtney was addressing me. “Captain Rasmussen is, in effect, our ambassador and lifeline to the outside world. He has, as best he could, told us something of you, Professor, and of your assignment for Intra-Oceanic Flights.” His voice was low, well-modulated, and his speech cultivated, indicating that he was an educated man. “You are the first stranger to come here since my own arrival, several years ago. The chief and villagers will be quite concerned. Strangers are held tabu.”
“You are an American, not one of them,” I said boldly. “Why are you tolerated?”
“I came by accident,” said Courtney, “I remained by the grace of the Chief. Now I am one of them. No one else would be welcomed. The privacy of the village and islands is holy.”
“I saw no village when we flew over the islands,” I said.
Courtney nodded. “That’s right, you saw no village. But it exists, and there is a population of over two hundred, the survivors of both white and brown forebears.”
“Descendants of the Bounty mutineers?” I inquired.
“No. This all came about quite differently. There is no time for further explanation. I think it would be wise, Professor Easterday, if you left here at once and forgot that you ever laid eyes upon us or the islands. The fact is, your arrival has imperiled the entire population. If your disappearance did not endanger Captain Rasmussen’s position in Tahiti, I am sure Moreturi would not let you leave at all. As it is, you can depart unharmed.”
Unnerved though I was, I determined to stand my ground. The speech was less ominous coming from an American turned native than from a Polynesian. “This plateau is a perfect airstrip,” I said. “It is my duty to report it to Canberra.”
Moreturi stirred, but Courtney touched his arm without looking at him. “Professor Easterday,” Courtney said softly, “you have no idea what you are doing. This seemingly inaccessible, rarely visited island, uninhabited to the eye, has remained impervious to outsiders—the corruptions of modern civilization—since 1796, when the present village was built and the present culture begun.”
I think, Dr. Hayden, it was his use of the word “culture” that first put my mind on anthropology, and your request of a decade ago. However, my conscious mind was still on Mr. Trevor.
“It is my job,” I said.
“Have you considered what your job will lead to?” Courtney asked. “Your associates in Canberra will send surveyors. They will approve of the terrain. Your friends will then seek permission of an outside government that owns Polynesian colonies or holds mandates. They will appeal to France, Great Britain, New Zealand, the United States, and other nations who possess islands and bases in the Pacific. What will be the result of their inquiries? Consternation. If no outside power is even aware that this minor island exists, how can they claim it? No discoverer ever waded ashore. I shall have to fight the cause of these people in some international court, to prove their independence. Suppose I even win my case? All will still be lost, for the Sirens would have become a romantic public cause. Its present society could not be preserved. And suppose I lose my case, and some foreign government is awarded claim to this place? The French, let us say. What will happen then? The French administrators and petty bureaucrats will come, followed by your business friends with their freighters. They will unload their bulldozers and prefabricated buildings and drunken laborers. And when the field is ready, the commercial airplanes will fly in and leave daily with their jabbering, gawking tourists. The island will be a public terminal. What do you suppose will happen to the Sirens tribe?”
“They will no longer be savages. They will become civilized, enjoy improvement and progress, become part of the living world. Is that so bad?”
Courtney turned to Moreturi. “You heard the Professor, my friend. Is that so bad?”
“We will not permit it,” said Moreturi in perfect English.
I fear that I gaped at him.
“You see, they are not savages,” said Courtney. “In fact, they have more to offer your so-called civilization than you have to offer them. But if your exploiters and commercial drummers appear, they are lost to us forever. Why is it so important for you to destroy them, Professor? What are you getting out of it? Are you a part of that Canberra company?”
“No. I am merely a merchant, and my vocation has made me a student of the South Seas. I have affection for all these people, and their ancestral ways. Nevertheless, I know they cannot continue to hide from progress.”
“Then progress is your motive? Or is it money?”
“A man must live, Mr. Courtney.”
“Yes,” Courtney said, slowly, “I suppose that is so. You must have your pieces of silver, in the name of progress, and a most remarkable, a most wonderful tiny culture must die.”
I could no longer repress my curiosity. “You keep praising these people. What is so remarkable about them?”
“Their mode of life,” said Courtney. “It is like none on earth. Compared to the way you and I have lived, this life is near perfect.”
“I’d like to see for myself,” I said. “Show me the village.”
Moreturi turned to Courtney. “Paoti Wright will not allow it.”
Courtney agreed, and addressed me. “It is impossible. I cannot speak for your safety if I take you there. You must accept my word that the preservation of these people is more important than any money you may earn from that syndicate. You must go back with Captain Rasmussen and keep your silence.”
“Suppose I do go back now,” I said. “How do you know you can trust me? What if I speak of this to Canberra—or to others?”
Courtney was quiet a moment. “I cannot say you will suffer more than a bad conscience. Yet, I cannot guarantee that alone. You have met the Captain’s copilot, Richard Hapai? He is one of us, one of the Sirens. If you break the tribal tabu, ruin his people, then i
t is possible that he, or one of his kin, may one day hunt you out, and kill you. This is not a threat. I am in no position to mete out revenge by vendetta. This is only a practical warning derived from my knowledge of these people. I mention the possibility.” “I am not afraid,” I said. “I will leave now—” “And make your report on The Three Sirens to Canberra?” “Yes. You have not convinced me that I should not, Mr. Courtney. You have tried to lull me with words—a remarkable culture, a wonderful people, something incredible and different—and I say those are empty words. You will not take me to the village to see for myself. You will not tell me precisely what you mean. You have not given me a single reason why the Sirens tribe should survive in its present primitive state.”
“And if I did tell you the truth—at least some of it—would you believe what I tell you?” “I think so.”
“Would you refrain from reporting to the Canberra syndicate?” “I do not know,” I said, truthfully. “I might. It depends upon what you tell me.” Courtney glanced at Moreturi. “What do you think, my friend?” Moreturi nodded. “It is necessary to speak the truth.” “Very well,” said Courtney. He faced Rasmussen, who had been listening all this while. “Captain, I propose we return to the beach. You can get Hapai to come from the plane and bring us food. We will build a fire, and we will eat, and I will spend an hour or two informing our visitor of what goes on here.”
“Why all that kinda nonsense?” demanded Rasmussen. “I don’t trust the Professor. I say lemme leave him here for good. You can put him with the criminals an’—”
“No, I don’t like that,” said Courtney. “It’s not fair to him, and it wouldn’t be fair to you. I can’t take the risk, Captain. It’ll endanger your life—Hapai’s, too—and in the end the authorities might find out what happened to Professor Easterday. No, I prefer it to be handled on the basis of reason. I’ll take my chances on the Professor’s basic decency.”
I liked Courtney after that.
The Three Sirens Page 3