She remembered how homesick she had been during her first days in Tahiti. The sights and smells of the atoll had never been far from her mind. Now Tepua wanted to stop for a moment just to look around.
Glancing across the lagoon, its color pale as sand in the shallows, rich azure farther out, she studied distant islets. She and Maukiri, Ehi's daughter, had a favorite....
"Tepua!"
She turned, and her mood brightened at once. Here came Maukiri running along the sandy beach, sturdy brown legs flying. Tepua eagerly embraced her young cousin. "I was picking clams," Maukiri explained breathlessly. "Ehi just found me."
"Ah, it has been so long." Tepua stood back to look at her cousin, the broad face and full lips, the dark hair askew in the breeze. For decoration Maukiri wore tiny fern leaves thrust through the holes in her earlobes. A shade woven of a coconut frond kept the sun from her eyes.
"I prayed every day that the spirits would bring you back to me," said Maukiri, taking Tepua's arm and leading her along the narrow beach. "And now it will be just like before. We will go to our islet, where no one can find us. Stretch out in the shade and say whatever we please."
Tepua recalled the islet, the special motu, that she and Maukiri had claimed as their own. It was too small for a family to live on. Coral heads studded the surrounding waters, discouraging casual visitors from risking their canoes. But for one who knew how to get onto the tiny beach, it was a perfect refuge.
"The sun is getting hotter," said Maukiri. "We should go now, before someone finds work for us."
Tepua laughed. Maukiri was talking as if the two of them were still children. She glanced back toward Kohekapu's house.
"You have seen him?" Maukiri whispered, her expression suddenly solemn.
"Yes. He is resting now."
"And Natunatu?"
"Praying."
"Praying that her son will soon be chief," Maukiri answered harshly.
"Let's not talk about that now." Tepua and Natunatu had never gotten along. Tepua could not remember when she had last exchanged even a word of greeting with her father's second wife. But she held no grudge against Natunatu's son. Umia had been a growing youth when Tepua last saw him.
"Look," said Maukiri, pointing to a battered vaka, a single-hulled canoe with an outrigger float, that was drawn high up on the sand.
Tepua stared at the old canoe for a moment before she recognized it as one they had often used for paddling about the lagoon. "Have you gotten your brothers to tighten the seams yet?" she asked. Her people built their hulls from small planks, fitted edge to edge and sewn together with coconut fiber cord. After much use, the seams began to leak intolerably. She and Maukiri used to argue about who was to bail, waiting until the hull was half-filled with water before finally getting started.
"Come with me and find out," Maukiri answered in a teasing voice.
Tepua could not resist. Together, she and Maukiri pushed the small outrigger canoe into the warm, shallow water that covered the reef flat near shore. They waded a short way out over the soft bottom, then climbed into the vaka.
A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lagoon as the two young women began to paddle. They were past the reef flat now. Looking down into deep, clear water, Tepua saw gardens of branching coral, a swarm of striped fish, and a baby eel. Long, maroon sea cucumbers lay motionless on the bottom.
The hot sun felt good on her back after the chill of the morning's wind. The canoe rocked gently, stabilized by the long outrigger float that was attached by slender poles. Across the water, trees of other islets stood in clusters.
Tepua glanced back toward the shallows and saw a group of women gathering clams, shucking them quickly and tossing the thick, white shells onto a heap that rose out of the lagoon. Her mouth watered for a taste.
Then she noticed that her feet were getting wet again. "So your boat is as leaky as ever! "she complained as a thin layer of water began sloshing in the bottom of the canoe.
"Not as bad as before," Maukiri protested. "But since you are the honored visitor, I will bail today." They paused, halfway to their destination, while Maukiri scooped out some of the water with a coconut shell. Tepua sat watching for a moment. Then she sighed, picked up a second shell, and began to help.
At last they reached the channel they had long ago discovered, threading their way between coral heads that broke the surface with each gentle motion of the waves. Half the small motu was well shaded by palms and thorny-leaved fara trees. On the other half, a white sand beach glistened in the afternoon sunlight.
Tepua helped her cousin pull the canoe ashore, then ran over the hot sand into the cool beneath the palms. Thirsty after her paddling, she picked up a green coconut that looked freshly fallen and shook it to listen for the water. It was a viavia, the best kind for drinking.
The sharp stake that she remembered still stood upright in the ground beneath the trees. With a practiced blow, Tepua rammed the coconut's husk onto the stake and started tearing away the thick, fibrous covering.
"That is something new," said Maukiri, when she caught up with her.
Tepua realized what she was doing and felt her face burn. In the past, she recalled, she had always prevailed on Maukiri to do the heavy work of opening coconuts. Tepua had insisted that a chief's daughter must save her strength for more delicate tasks. But in Tahiti, as servant to a chiefess of the Arioi, Tepua had husked enough coconuts— more than enough—to feed everyone on her atoll.
"And I see you are good at it!" Maukiri laughed and went searching for a drinking nut of her own. Tepua paused for a moment, then continued her work. What was the point of pretending she did not know how? With a blade of seashell that was kept conveniently beside the stake, Tepua cut through the "mouth" of the nut and began to drink.
She swallowed the cool, sweet liquid greedily. Even in Tahiti, the coconuts did not taste quite as rich as this one. Within the viavia, the soft, white meat had a special fragrance. Tepua held the drained nut in one hand, tapped it sharply about the middle with a rock, and broke it open. With her fingers she brought out the first tender morsel.
At last, thirst and hunger satisfied, the two young women stretched out on a shady part of the beach. "Now you will tell me everything," said Maukiri. "Everything about the men of Tahiti."
Tepua laughed. "They are like our men, of course, but a little fatter. You have seen Tahitian traders."
"I am not talking about looking at them! Surely you have a lover by now. Tell me what their hanihani is like."
Tepua pursed her lips. Maukiri had reminded her of an old sore point between them. When Tepua was younger, she had been kept from the love games that Maukiri and other young people enjoyed. Because of her noble station, Tepua's virginity had been protected by a chaperon—old Bone-needle—as well as by tapu.
"I do have someone...at least I did," said Tepua at last, recalling uncomfortably how she had listened, long ago, to Maukiri chatter about her first boyfriends. "He is called Matopahu. Brother of a high chief, and a great man of Tahiti."
"I hear some doubt in your voice."
"It is not so simple," said Tepua irritably. "He asked me to be his wife and I refused—until I can complete my service to the Arioi. He said he would wait, but now he grows impatient. Someone told me he has another vahine."
"Then you must find someone else," said Maukiri cheerfully.
"I can be happy without a man," Tepua retorted. "Remember how much practice I had."
"Maybe you can," said Maukiri. "But I remember how you used to talk about Paruru. When Bone-needle wasn't looking, you would waggle your hips when he passed, and see if he looked at you."
"I just spent ten days sailing with Paruru! I will be happy to see no more of him for a while."
"I think, cousin, that you are not telling me the truth. And I know for certain that now he does look at you."
Tepua rolled away in mock disgust. On the journey, her father's warrior had behaved toward her with formal aloofness, though she s
ensed his interest. And it was true that as a girl she had often thought about his dark, probing eyes and his capable fingers.
"Maukiri, I have heard enough about men. I want to ask you a serious question. Why do I see so many worried expressions? Almost no one seems happy to see me home."
Her cousin did not answer at once. Tepua turned and saw her lying on her belly, tracing patterns in the sand with her fingers. "It is because of the priest, Faka-ora, and all this talk of ghost voices," Maukiri said. "Faka-ora is telling people that a time of trial is at hand, and that Umia is not ready to lead our people through it."
"If my father recovers, then Umia will not have to."
"And what if we lose Kohekapu? Faka-ora says that the gods may have a new plan for us."
Tepua frowned, unwilling to admit to herself that the old man's spirit might depart. "I still do not see—"
"Ah, Tepua. There is certain to be a dispute now. Here is what some priests and elders are saying. You are the oldest living child of Kohekapu. Why should you not be our chief?"
TWO
When Tepua and Maukiri returned, late in the day, they found that Ehi had prepared a welcoming feast. Outside Ehi's house, steam and aromas of cooking food rose from the umu, the shallow, circular pit oven. Beneath a covering of coconut leaf matting, fire-heated stones were baking the delicacies. The smells were tempting, but Tepua felt a gnawing in her stomach that dulled her appetite.
She looked around at the small group of guests and realized that all were close kin to her, all women of Ahiku Clan. These women came forward at once and greeted her warmly. Tepua thought she understood now why other islanders had not welcomed her return. A dispute over the ruling succession could throw the entire atoll into turmoil. Everyone expected Natunatu's son to follow Kohekapu. Tepua's arrival could only cause trouble.
"Come, daughter, to your honored place," said Ehi, after Tepua had pressed noses with all the guests. Ehi led her to mats, woven of fara leaves, that were spread on the sandy ground. Maukiri brought a coconut shell full of water and spilled some onto Tepua's hands for washing. Then two girls bent over the steaming oven and began uncovering the food.
This feast was for women only. Here, as in Tahiti, men and women cooked and ate in separate groups. Tepua watched silently as the food was brought to her place—a large piece of steaming fish, a pile of clams, baked taro root, cakes made from fruit of the fara. She had eaten lightly on the long sea journey. Now she should be famished, yet her stomach felt cold and tight.
The customary silence reigned as each guest tore into the generous meal. Tepua tried to do justice to the fare, but had to force herself to swallow each morsel. She could not get Maukiri's words out of her mind.
She began to wonder, angrily, whether Paruru had deceived her. On his arrival in Tahiti he had said only that her father wanted to speak to her before he died. The warrior had mentioned nothing about the chiefhood.
Perhaps the priests had misled her, she thought. Long ago they had told her that she must give way to her younger brother. She had accepted that decision, agreeing to marry a chief of another island. But the marriage had not taken place. And now the priests seemed to be changing their minds....
Tepua looked up, seeing the tangle of atoll forest that surrounded Ehi's house. Despite all her treasured memories, this island was no longer her home. But the trees seemed so close on all sides, the shadows so deep. In those shadows, the spirits of her ancestors lingered, watching over their people. The spirits might not let her go back to Tahiti.
At last the meal was done, guests packing leftovers in baskets to carry home. Nearly everyone hurried off, anxious to reach their own houses before dark. Ehi's old mother and two daughters remained—Maukiri as well as Maukiri's married sister, slender Roki. Soon Roki's young and portly husband, Adze-falling, arrived from a meal with his companions.
"I have eaten well, and now I am sleepy," Adze-falling announced. His wife looked at him scornfully. Evidently she had hoped he would keep her awake.
Maukiri readied a copra candle—chunks of dried coconut strung on a stick. She blew on some hot embers preserved from the fire until the first piece of copra began to burn. With this as their source of light, the people of Ehi's household moved into the dark interior of the dwelling.
On such occasions as a homecoming, there would usually be singing and storytelling late into the night. Tepua sensed a less festive mood this evening. Now that the guests were gone, Ehi's expression had become thoughtful, even worried. "We must talk," she said in a low voice.
Adze-falling yawned loudly.
"This concerns Ahiku Clan," said Ehi sharply to her daughter's husband. "If you want to sleep, that is no matter."
"Sleep now so that later you will have some life in you," Roki added, giving him a playful slap.
Maukiri laughed, and Ehi whispered a rebuke. "You youngsters think about nothing but hanihani! We have serious things to discuss."
The women gathered about the copra light and sat in a circle, facing each other. Tepua, guessing what was to come, wished she could retreat into the darkness.
"I want to warn you all," said Ehi. "We must watch out for Natunatu. She is dangerous. She knows how to get rid of people who stand in her way."
Maukiri, her mood turning suddenly solemn, gave a dismayed cry of "Aue!"
"It is true," said Ehi. "We must be certain she cannot use sorcery against Tepua. Every morning, Maukiri, you will check Tepua's sleeping mat for fallen hairs, and dispose of them properly." Ehi held up a small, leaf-wrapped packet. "I have saved the leavings from Tepua's meal. Tomorrow, Roki, you will go with your husband and drown this in the sea. And Tepua, from now on you will take no meals with anyone but me."
Tepua protested. "I have no wish to anger Natunatu. I came only for a visit. Are we to believe idle talk? If the high priest and his friends have plans for me, then why do they say nothing to my face?"
"I know Faka-ora well," replied Ehi. "He is cautious. He will continue to consult the spirits until he has a confirming sign. Meanwhile it is up to us to protect you."
"I do not want to be chief. Umia is next—"
"That is not for you to decide," replied Ehi harshly. "Daughter," she added in a softer tone. "You must listen to the ancestors. They will tell you what to do."
In the morning, when the others rose early to bathe and to begin the work of the day, Tepua feigned sleep and remained on her mat. "Let her rest," said Ehi. "She has crossed a wide sea to come back to us."
Even Ehi's old mother shuffled out through the low doorway. At last Tepua was alone.
She had decided what to do now, though the prospect troubled her. She still could hear, from long ago, her attendant Bone-needle's voice warning her not to meddle in the realm of priests. Tepua had a rare gift and she was determined to use it.
Adults as well as children played with loops of string, making patterns on their fingers. The figures illustrated everyday objects or favorite tales. But for Tepua this art was far more important—it sometimes brought visions of distant or future events.
Now she looked around the interior of the house, which was lit by sunlight streaming through openings in the thatch. Small utensils—coconut cups, a wooden dish, a coral pounder for fara fruit—lay neatly stacked at the base of the wall. Higher up, where rolled mats hung, she found a dangling length of sennit, coconut fiber cord. It was already knotted into a loop.
This was probably a cord that Maukiri used for playing string games. But Tepua's use would not be a game. Through it, the gods might reveal to her secrets that even priests could not obtain.
After taking a glance at the doorway to see that no one was watching, Tepua looped the cord about her fingers. Kneeling, she intoned a prayer, asking for aid from her guardian spirit, Tapahi-roro-ariki, the great chiefess of long ago. Finally Tepua sat and held the loop between her hands.
She began with the ordinary play, making the shapes of an eel, a warbler, a turtle. Gradually she let her thoughts run free so
that her fingers moved the strings of their own accord. She began to slip into a daze, losing track of her surroundings, aware of nothing but the tiny world before her.
Her fingers continued to work. The loops kept forming, sliding through each other. The strings crossed and re-crossed. Now, a whisper said. Now the vision may come. Yet Tepua saw only her fingers and the cord.
She forced herself to keep at it, ignoring the weariness, the heaviness of her arms, the soreness of skin. An answer had never come easily. She watched the strings until she could watch no more. Then, with a cry of despair, she fell forward on the mat. The spirits must be angry with her, for they would not show her anything of what was to come.
She dozed, woke late in the morning, and went out for a bath in the lagoon. A group of Varoa women, people from Natunatu's clan, passed her on the beach; they barely responded to her greeting cry, "May you have life!"
Of course they were angry at her. They had long waited for the son of their clan to take the chiefhood. Tepua bit her lip as she recalled old alliances among the family groups of the atoll. In case of a dispute, Rongo Clan would probably side with Varoa. The conflicts of long ago, settled when her father took Natunatu as his wife, were now on the verge of erupting again.
Tepua gazed out across the lagoon, in the direction of far-off Tahiti. What if she took a canoe now and slipped away before the trouble here grew worse? What a pleasant prospect! But she would not get far before Kohekapu sent a fleet to bring her back.
Even so, a brief escape was still possible. She waded out from shore, feeling the fine sand between her toes and warm water swirling about her knees. Here the underwater reef flat sloped gently, reaching at last a sudden drop-off. She plunged in, swimming angrily, taking out her frustration on the water. She barely noticed the sting of saltwater against the coral cuts that still marked her legs.
In the far distance she saw her little islet, the one called Ata-ruru or "Dense-shade," after a legendary dwelling. If she swam to the place, she thought, then perhaps no one would know where she had gone. Without a canoe missing, they might not even think to look for her there!
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