Sister of the Sun

by Coleman, Clare;

  This second outsider seemed much younger than his companion. His eyes were gray-green, his face sunburned and peeling; a few wisps of reddish beard decorated his chin. She asked again for his name, and Kiore answered, "Nika."

  "Nika." This name came more easily to her tongue. "Nika, you do not need that weapon," she told him. Kiore said something in his own language, and his companion finally put the spear aside. But she could not induce Nika to come closer, so she turned her attention back to Kiore.

  She gestured at the sky and spoke. When he mastered that word, she taught him "paddle" and "mast," then started on parts of the body—the lips, the eyes. Eyes. She paused and cocked her head as she studied his. "Brown eyes," she said, pointing to her own. "Lagoon-water eyes!" she said, pointing to his face.

  He laughed and repeated what she had told him. What a pleasant expression he showed at times! He seemed willing to continue, though she sensed that he was still weary from his ordeal at sea. What could she teach him next? She could not help staring at the garments that fully covered his arms and legs and feet. If only she could reach across, touch the strange cloth, and feel what lay beneath.

  "Foot," she said, bending to touch her own, which was bare. She rose and waited to see how he would respond. He hesitated, finally sat on a thwart, and began to adjust his stiff foot covering. Tepua watched with curiosity as he pulled it free....

  "Foot," he repeated, but there remained a tube of cloth that started at his toes and ran up his leg. Why so many layers? In frustration, Tepua bit her lip as she thought of more questions she wished to ask him. What were the women of his people like? Did they also wear so much clothing? How long did it take to unwrap themselves? She stamped her heel, wishing she could find some quick way to make herself understood.

  Kiore began to take the initiative, sometimes speaking his own words as well. He pointed to his knee, gave his name for it, and then repeated hers. His hand slapped against his thigh and he made another foreign sound. Tepua lifted her mat skirt to point to her own thigh, and noticed his face redden again. From the side, Nika shouted something, and Tepua realized that the other sailor was finally taking an interest in the lesson.

  They continued awhile longer, until Kiore grew tired. He moved to a seat under a length of sailcloth rigged as a shade. Tepua watched him with regret. The lesson had been like a child's game, yet more fun than any she had played in a long while. "I will send fresh food," she promised, miming as she spoke to make herself clear. "The tahunga will look after you. Tomorrow we will talk again."

  Arriving on shore, Tepua ordered the guards to keep all her people away from the foreigners. As she glanced across the lagoon she saw canoes coming even as she spoke. A fleet of outriggers had arrived, all so packed with people that they were barely afloat. She sent the warriors out to hold them back.

  Then she went to see how Kohekapu was faring. Lately he had been too weak to say anything to her. Today, when she entered his house, she was pleased to hear him speaking.

  Natunatu sat at his side. Tepua made no attempt to greet the woman, for she knew she would get no response. "Daughter," said Kohekapu in a fragile voice when Tepua knelt close to him. "Tell me what you think of these outsiders. Yesterday, I heard whispers that they might be demons."

  "No, Father. They are just men from some far-off island. It is true that they wear strange garments and talk in a gabble. But they eat and drink and void water just as we do."

  "Are their bodies not covered with hair?"

  She realized that he was just repeating tales heard from travelers. Perhaps those travelers had never actually seen foreign men. "I do not know about their bodies," she confessed. "It is not easy for them to take off their clothing."

  "But the outsiders must bathe."

  "That is true. The tahunga insisted on it last night. But the men waited until moonset, so the tahunga saw nothing."

  "That is puzzling, daughter. Perhaps they have something to conceal."

  Tepua sighed. "These men follow customs we do not understand. Perhaps that is why they keep their bodies covered."

  He looked up at her with a skeptical frown.

  "Father, I wish you could see these sailors! After a short while you would not think them strange at all."

  "I am curious," he admitted. "If I had the strength, I would go to their boat."

  "Then I will tell you all about them—every new thing I learn."

  "That will be enough." He paused, still frowning. "Daughter, I ask you to be cautious about approaching these...men. Take Faka-ora's advice."

  "I am doing that."

  "Good. Then all will be well." He closed his eyes wearily.

  "Yes, all will be well," she agreed. As she watched her father slip into a doze, she hoped that his confidence was not misplaced.

  Several days passed. Each morning, Tepua went out early to see the sailors. Nika seemed unwilling to make much effort, however. He often sat alone in the bow and occupied himself shaping bits of wood with his gray-bladed knife. Kiore welcomed her visits, and when he grew stronger, she began going twice a day, despite the crowds that watched from shore.

  Whenever Kiore saw her coming, he took out a strange assembly and held it on his lap. The thing looked like many small squares of cloth, all cut to one size and stacked neatly together. He would turn aside the first sheets, then make marks on a fresh one with a sharpened quill. Every time he learned a new word, he made more marks in this thing he called his "puk." She understood that the marks helped him remember.

  Tepua's enjoyment of the visits was marred, however, by Nika's refusal to participate. The younger sailor merely sat and glared at her while she continued the lessons with his companion. Once in a while Kiore would turn his head and say something in his own language. It pleased her to hear Nika's few attempts at repeating her words. He spoke well, when he tried.

  On the fourth morning after the stranger's arrival, Tepua was greeted by an unexpected sight. When she walked out onto the beach, she saw another pahi floating beside the foreign vessel. She had given orders; now she turned angrily to her guards. "Who is out there?" she demanded.

  "It is Paruru. He is well."

  Paruru! Tepua scowled and called for her own pahi. How would the sailors react, she wondered, to a visit from the warrior who had killed their friend? And now that they had made spears...

  As her boat drew near, Tepua's apprehension eased. No weapons were in view on either side. Using signs and a few words, the kaito-nui appeared to be carrying on an amicable discussion—with Nika. Kiore, who had been the dead man's friend, sat to one side but watched intently.

  When Paruru saw her coming, he broke off. "Maeva ariki," he called to her.

  "Life to you," she responded coolly. She could not bring herself to say that she was pleased to see him back.

  Glancing again at the sailor, she noticed that Nika's expression of interest had faded. The conversation with Paruru appeared over.

  "Do you know what he asked me, Tepua-ariki?" the warrior said to her with a laugh. "He wanted to know if we are man-eaters—Pu-tahi."

  "Did he think we were preparing him to be baked? Maybe that explains his unfriendliness."

  "He wants to go ashore, my chief. That is all. He has been in this boat too many days."

  Tepua lifted her chin. "He will go ashore only when Faka-ora tells me it is safe."

  "I told him that, but he doesn't like the answer. Is there nothing we can do to make these men more comfortable?"

  "Send them delicacies, then. The best food we have. I can promise nothing else, but I am hoping. I, too, would like to have the sailors ashore." She stared at Paruru, trying to fathom his attempt to intervene. Did he wish to make amends for the third man's death?

  He seemed changed somehow. The recent events had left a mark on his face. He bore a haunted look, the expression of a man who desired something that was far beyond his grasp.

  That night Tepua had vague, unsettling dreams. Faint voices seemed to drift to her from acr
oss the lagoon. She half-woke, thinking the sounds real, then fell back into sleep.

  In the morning, when she went out for her visit to Kiore, she had servants carry several baskets to the pahi. To aid her lessons she had been using articles of various sorts—tools, plants, fishing gear. For today, the servants had collected coconuts—the very young, the drinking nut, the aged nut that was already sprouting. Each had a name that Kiore needed to learn, if only to be able to request the food that he wanted.

  Small waves rolled toward shore as the boatmen took her out. Above the foreign vessel, the high mast swayed slowly against a sky of unspoiled blue. She heard soft creaking of ropes and timbers as she approached.

  She was glad that Paruru had not put in an appearance this morning. Yesterday the sailors had seemed restless after his visit. Kiore had yawned often and cut the lesson short, making Tepua stamp her foot in irritation. There was so much to teach him!

  "Kiore!" she called as her pahi neared the foreign vaka. "Kiore, wake up." She watched his hanging bed for a sign of stirring. An arm came out, then drew back.

  "Why are you so slow this morning?" she demanded.

  At last, after repeated calls, she got him to come out. His hair was an unruly mess, poking like straw from beneath his cloth headdress. With a great show of weariness he leaned over his round water carrier and splashed his face. Then he sat on a thwart and gazed at her drowsily. "Maeva ariki," he said with no enthusiasm. His head tilted slightly to the side and his eyes fell half-closed.

  "Why are you so sleepy today?" Tepua asked. Then she remembered the sounds during the night. Perhaps the two men had sat up late swapping tales.

  She looked toward the stern and noticed some changes since yesterday. Containers had been moved around. Behind one that was open, a handful of glittering stones and a length of red-striped cloth lay on a thwart.

  Kiore rubbed his eyes. "Talk...later," he said with a grimace. He mimed going back to sleep.

  "Sleep," she said, and made the same signs. Only after he repeated the word several times, proving that he had learned it, was she content to leave him alone. With a feeling of annoyance she headed back to shore.

  As Tepua walked up the beach a thought struck her. Many days had passed since she and Maukiri had slipped away to Ata-ruru. With the sailors sleeping late, she had no other plans for this morning. The sky was clear, the air pleasantly cool. What better time for an excursion?

  Forgetting the dignity of the chiefhood, Tepua ran toward her house. "Maukiri!" she called, expecting to find her cousin inside. Maukiri had joined Tepua's household. When the servants reported her cousin gone, Tepua sent them to find her.

  Maukiri soon appeared. When she came inside, Tepua noticed a petulant expression on her cousin's face. Maukiri held something in her hand, but kept her fist closed.

  "I spent the night with my mother," Maukiri said in a hurt tone. "I told you I was going there. Why did you send servants rushing all over looking for me?"

  "One came back from your mother's house and said you were not there."

  "Because I went clam digging!"

  "Ah. Then you must have found something interesting." Tepua suddenly grabbed her cousin's wrist and tried to force open her fingers. As children they had often wrestled over small prizes, and Tepua had generally won. Now Maukiri fought harder than usual. Mats went flying, feet kicked thatched walls. It did not matter that Tepua was chief and Maukiri her attendant. They were sisters squabbling.

  "What is this, and where did you get it?" Tepua was breathing hard as she held up the trophy. It was rich yellow in hue and shaped like a large pearl. From the tiny hole that pierced it, she knew this was meant to be strung—as part of an earring or necklace.

  "I found it in a pearl shell," said Maukiri sullenly. She would not meet Tepua's gaze.

  "Or maybe in a foreigner's vaka!"

  "I did not go near the strangers."

  "Then who did go there? This pearl came from no shell." Tepua cupped the bead in her hand and brought it to where a tiny shaft of sunlight pierced the wall. The bead lit up with a glow that made her gasp.

  "It is very pretty," said Maukiri sourly. "Now I give it to you, ariki."

  Tepua tried to keep her voice firm. "I want to know how this precious thing came ashore."

  Maukiri did not answer, and Tepua repeated her question in a harsher tone. At last Maukiri blurted her reply. "The sailors were lonely! They were tired of being caged like pigs!"

  "So you did go."

  Now Maukiri raised her head and looked at Tepua slyly. "Do you know how long they had been without a woman?''

  She held up her fingers in the manner that the strangers used for counting. "That many days!" she said triumphantly after waggling her fingers up and down, up and down, up and down. Then, with a wicked grin, Maukiri threw herself back onto the rumpled mat behind her, spreading her legs as she tumbled.

  Tepua could not understand why tears came to her eyes. Never in her life had she been so angry with her cousin. "Faka-ora will have something to say about this," she said spitefully as she ducked out through the low doorway. The foreign bead felt hot in her hand, as if it were going to burn through her flesh.

  She was halfway to the priest's house before she realized that she could have sent someone after him. But it felt good to walk the path, crunching the gravel underfoot. The exercise helped ease her fury.

  Faka-ora was sitting beneath a tall pukatea tree outside his modest thatched house. He was plaiting coconut fronds in a manner that only priests knew, shaping them into small bundles for use in ceremonies. "Tepua-ariki!" he said with surprise. "Let me bring you a seat."

  She declined his offer, and perched on a fallen log instead. She thrust out her hand to show him the bead. "All our caution was for nothing," she complained. "Women have been out to the foreign vaka. They have taken away gifts."

  "But how? Were there no guards?"

  Tepua paused. She had almost forgotten that she had ordered sentries to stand on the beach during the night as well as the daytime. By their firelight, the guards should have seen any intruders. "Paruru must have an answer...."

  "Ah, Tepua," said the priest in a conciliatory tone. "Do not be too harsh on your people. Men sometimes fall asleep on a long night watch.''

  "But what can we do now? Are we not still at risk?"

  "The strangers have recovered well," said the priest. "I no longer think their gods' ill favor clings to them. I am far more concerned about the goods their boat carries."

  Again, Tepua showed him the bead.

  "Yes, but that is a small thing," he said, "and I see no harm in it. I have heard reports of strange tools and weapons and cloth. We must be far more careful in how we deal with those."

  "Then is it safe to let the men ashore?"

  "It will be difficult to keep them out there much longer...now that they have found some friends." Faka-ora gave her a knowing glance. "Unless, of course, you wish to do away with the strangers."

  Tepua drew in her breath.

  "No, I did not think that was your intention." A look of concern crossed his wrinkled face. "We will have to watch the men carefully. Since there are only two of them, that should be easy. But they have brought many things, and some may prove dangerous. It is important to control what happens to the foreign goods."

  "Yes, I see that now."

  "Remain cautious. I advise you to touch nothing on then-vessel until I have been there."

  "I will send for you," she promised. They spoke awhile longer before she headed back to the lagoon.

  As soon as she got past the trees that blocked her view of the water, Tepua knew that something unexpected had happened. She heard shouts, and saw a seething mass of canoes surrounding the foreign vaka. "Aue!" she cried as she raced toward the commotion.

  The onlookers had abandoned all caution. Evidently word of last night's foray had spread. She saw people actually boarding the strangers' vessel. Faka-ora's warnings had been in vain!

  And what
of the guards? As Tepua glanced about furiously, the captain rushed up to her."Forgive me, ariki,'' he said. "There were so many canoes, all filled with women. We could not stop them all...."

  Sounds came across the water—the splashing of paddles, the banging of canoe hulls, the chatter of people who had found a new amusement. Close to the outsiders' boat she saw bright patches of color and shiny objects held high. More foreign gifts? She heard shrieks and splashes as children dove from the strangers' bow and came up to clamber aboard again.

  In the center of it all stood Nika beside a tall drumlike container. With one hand he reached out for pearl shells that were thrust at him for inspection. With the other he tried to keep the lid on his treasures. Kiore appeared to want an end to the commotion, signing and shouting at the people surrounding him, trying to get them to leave the boat. Yet his companion kept inspecting the pearl shells, returning most of them, keeping a few, dipping into his drum for gifts in exchange.

  What a change had come over Nika. Clearly he had lost his fear of islanders—at least of those who carried no weapons. But she could not tolerate what he was doing.

  Tepua called orders to her men. She sent someone for the priest, others to her pahi. Her herald blew the conch trumpet, sending a long blast in the direction of the crowd. The revelers froze at the sound, then turned and scrambled to get away.

  Tepua boarded her pahi, which moved swiftly forward, chasing the smaller canoes from its path. A few holdouts remained by the foreign boat, and Tepua saw the glitter of pearl shells in their hands as they clamored for Nika's attention. A second blast on the conch shell finally put them to flight.

  As she neared the strangers' vessel Tepua saw that the small canoes were not going far. The paddlers halted, evidently waiting for a chance to return to the fray. The people in the canoes looked sullen and resentful, like youngsters who had been refused a favorite food.