Daughter of the Reef

by Coleman, Clare;

  Rain pattered down, a rain colder than the sea. She thought about the fate of the doomed. As a noblewoman it was her right to enter the paradise of Paparangi and dwell with the other favored souls. But what if the gods had found her impious? They might send her to the place of darkness and suffering instead. No, that was not possible, she told herself. She, who had served as ceremonial maiden-to-the-gods, would surely be accepted in Paparangi. Thinking so, she lost her will to keep struggling.

  When the sea lifted her, she rarely bothered to open her eyes. The coming paradise seemed to surround her. Yet once in a while, as she rose to the surface, she noticed the water growing calmer. She saw clouds starting to disperse, the sky brightening. And something unexpected—long and dark—was bobbing on the swells. A canoe?

  Hastily she spoke a prayer to her guardian spirit, and then she began to swim. She lost sight of her target, halted in panic, turned to scan the waves. “Tapahi-roro-ariki,” she called again. Still she saw nothing but churning water.

  Then suddenly, a short way off, she spotted what appeared to be a drifting wreck. She threw herself after it. Her hand reached out and she felt something solid.

  She clawed at the wood, dug in with her nails as this new hope revived her. She pulled the wet hair from her eyes and tipped her head back to get a better view of what she had found. The single-hull craft was empty. Capsized. She flung one arm over the upturned bottom, tried to heave herself atop it. The craft only rocked, dumping her back in the sea. Frantically she grabbed on again and clung with both hands, determined not to let the wreck get away.

  When she had caught her breath, she inspected the boat, moving hand over hand along its side. She found no obvious damage to the single hull, which was made of small planks sewn tightly together. The long outrigger float, attached by flexible poles, also appeared sound. If she could right the craft and bail it, Tepua thought, she might survive. If a paddle remained lashed inside, she would have some hope of reaching land.

  But how to turn the boat over? Watching from shore, she had seen vessels capsized by sudden winds. What the boatmen often did was stand on the outrigger of an overturned canoe, shoving it down and under. Then, once the craft righted, they would rock it violently, slopping enough water out so that they could climb in and bail.

  Tepua had never done this, but saw how it might work. Balancing on the outrigger, she curled up with her knees beneath her chest. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her legs. The outrigger went down, but it came right back up again, pitching her off. The second time, her feet slipped off too soon. The outrigger surged up, smacking her on the rump. She rubbed the bruise and kept trying.

  The rain had stopped. An edge of sun peeked from behind the clouds. But the canoe remained upside down. She began to think that the canoe was just too big for her to right by herself, the outrigger too buoyant to go under. She thought about breaking or cutting the outrigger loose, but she had no knife, and she doubted that the water-filled hull would float without its outrigger.

  With anger fueling her effort, she made one more try, kicking down as hard as she could to sink the outrigger. She went down with it, gave it one more shove with the soles of her feet, then surfaced, gasping. She was sure she had lost once again when she saw the water frothing and the hull still spinning. Then the outrigger shot up on the side away from her. The canoe wallowed in the swells, its bare, wet mast pointed at the sky!

  Crying and laughing at the same time, Tepua laid her arms over the sunken splashboard. She looked within the flooded hull to see if any supplies remained. A sack of netting lashed to a thwart held large gourds—water bottles—though by now salt water had probably seeped into them. Beneath the gourds lay a pile of coconuts. All the paddles were gone.

  Tepua’s grief welled up again as she realized that this craft had belonged to her wedding party. How many people had been lost to the storm? She could only hope that some larger canoes had rescued the passengers from this one.

  For now she had to put aside her worries about kin and friends. Her throat burned with salt and thirst. She glanced again at the large gourds, and prayed that one still held fresh water.

  With trepidation she began to rock the canoe, fearing she would accidentally overturn it once again. But now that the canoe floated upright, the outrigger made it steady. In fact the whole craft was so stable that she found it difficult to rock. After spending a short time fighting with the swamped boat, Tepua finally pulled herself in over the side and sat in the water that remained.

  Under her weight, the canoe tipped away from the outrigger, its splashboard almost level with the sea. She tried bailing with cupped hands, but for every handful of brine she tossed out, the waves slopped another in.

  Frustrated and weary, she stopped. A scrape on her arm stung, leaking blood into the water. She looked at it, alarmed. Blood in the sea would soon bring sharks. To remain long like this could only bring death.

  But how was she to get the boat bailed? Again she eyed the gourds. If the water inside wasn’t drinkable, then she could break one open and use it as a scoop. With stiff fingers she undid the netting and selected a gourd that felt half-empty when she shook it. She pulled out the sticky plug and tipped the gourd, letting a few drops onto her tongue.

  She tasted salt, but perhaps that was just from her skin. She let a bit more dribble into her mouth, and then drank the rest greedily. Slightly brackish, perhaps, but it would sustain her.

  Then she smashed the end of the empty container against a hard edge of the splashboard until she opened a hole in the gourd. With a few more blows she was able to fashion it into a crude bailing scoop.

  The sun brightened, giving a blue tinge to the water. The sea, calmed now, lapped gently at the sides of the boat. Only an occasional wave splashed in. Working with the gourd, Tepua began to feel that she might actually be throwing more water out than was coming in. Wiping her brow, she kept going, even though her arm ached and weariness made her dizzy.

  Gradually the canoe began to rise as Tepua gained more freeboard. Finally the flood within dwindled to a few annoying puddles. With a huge sigh, she fell back in the canoe.

  Only then, when she felt something sharp against her back, did she remember the tangle of cord about her waist. She reached back to find a few sticks of broken bamboo, the remnants of the bridal platform, still tied to her. Tossing these aside, she lay down with her head pillowed on the remaining gourds, her torn bark-cloth robe spread over her. She told herself she would rest for only a few moments.

  Tepua woke, half-immersed in brine, her arms and legs stinging. The boat shuddered as something bumped it. She sat up with a start and a cry. She had no idea how long she had slept. Her shadow stretched out of the canoe, far across the water.

  Angrily she groped for her makeshift bailer and began once again. Boats such as these, with so many seams, leaked constantly. She knew that; why had she let herself fall asleep?

  “Fool!” she said aloud. “Stupid child!” She flung bilge water in an arc over the side. Another bump shook the boat, jarring Tepua from her rage.

  This time she saw a shape passing the hull, a high dorsal fin. She froze in her bailing, then started once more in a frenzy. The shark was as long as a man was tall. She knew why it had come.

  Blood from her cuts, mingling with the seawater, had seeped through the hull. Even a trace could draw sharks over great distances. She was fortunate that only one had found her.

  Scooping water out as fast as she could, she kept a close watch on her enemy. This was not a great blue or a roaming tiger shark. It swam with stiff, rapid tail beats, speeding back and forth just beneath the surface, the blue and silver of its sides flashing with each turn.

  The tail was a full crescent, like a waning moon. Its shape mimicked the tail of an albacore or bonito, the fastest fish in the sea. Only one shark had such a tail, or the speed and power to prey on those fish. All Tepua’s people knew the mako.

  She summoned what reserves of strength she still had.
If she released her guard, she thought that the shark would ram the hull with enough force to pitch her into the water. Now it seemed just to be testing her defenses. It flicked into a turn, slicing by the canoe and giving Tepua a glance from its large round eyes. No white or color showed in those eyes. They were entirely dead black.

  Tepua sat upright in the half-bailed boat. She reached for her coconut-fiber cord, now lying waterlogged under her feet. She took a length between her hands, forming a loop.

  A warning in her head spoke with the voice of Bone-needle. If you meddle in the realm of priests, you will be punished for it.

  “But there are no priests with me now,” Tepua cried aloud. She set her teeth. She had hesitated when the storm struck her bridal canoe. When she might have found a way to soothe the gods, she had let Bone-needle dissuade her. For that advice, perhaps the old woman herself now lay within a shark’s belly.

  Quickly Tepua looped the string about her hands. She wrapped the cord so that one strand lay across each of her palms. With the middle finger of the right hand, she picked up the strand crossing her palm and then drew her hands apart, forming the beginning of the figure. Quickly she worked, not even watching as the image took shape, for her fingers knew the art far better than her eyes.

  And then the first figure was complete. By the looping and crossing and knotting of string, she had created between her hands the form of the mako. She held it up between trembling fingers and thrust it at her enemy. She rolled her eyes to the sky and chanted:

  “Father of Sharks, I have made you between my hands. Give me strength to fight the hunger of your son. Send him to the bonito. Send him to the albacore.”

  The mako shot forward, ramming the canoe and biting at the planks. Claw like teeth curled from its lower jaw in rows, their tips slanting back into the mouth. Some were needle thin and long as a man’s finger.

  Tepua braced herself against the thwarts and sides of the craft. Anger and fear ripped her voice as she cried, “Mother of Sharks, I hold you between my hands. Make me your daughter. Give me your teeth, your belly, your anger, or else I die, Mother of Sharks!”

  And as she held the figure aloft she felt a hot rush of strength come through her. Yes, it was magic, it was a gift, it transformed her insides from those of a woman to those of a shark, and she no longer felt weak with fear. With an abrupt motion of her hands, she brought her palms together, crushing the figure in the way she wished to crush her enemy. The mako jerked in the water as if it had felt the blow. The shark backed off, but remained close by, swimming in tight circles.

  Tepua was not finished. The gods had not yet shown her how to destroy her foe. She pulled her hands apart again, intending to try another figure, but then something unexpected happened. A few strings became tangled. As she tried to pull the cord tight the shape distorted. Within the strings she suddenly caught a vision of a real shark, its nose arched back against its tail.

  Then the mako charged the canoe again and the image disappeared. She cast off the string, snatched up a broken length of bamboo that had been tied to her. As the mako struck she thrust her makeshift dagger hard and deep into the shark’s nostril, twisting fiercely.

  The mako snapped its jaws, the rows of curled teeth just missing her hand. It writhed, jumped, then seized the splashboard of the canoe. Tepua threw herself back toward the outrigger. For an instant she thought the shark’s weight would overturn the boat. Then, with a splintering sound, the splashboard split lengthwise and the mako toppled back into the water.

  Tepua crouched, breathing rapidly, astonished that the canoe remained afloat. The shark dived out of sight, giving her a moment to recover. She turned to see what damage it had done. The splashboard must have been cracked previously, for now it had split along its entire length, shedding a long spear like piece that trailed in the water. Tepua seized the splintered section with shaking hands and twisted it, tearing it off.

  The canoe had less freeboard now, but she had gained a weapon against the mako. And the shark itself had given it to her! She laughed aloud, then steadied herself, letting her racing heart slow. Carefully she tore a strip of bark-cloth from her robe and wrapped it around the middle of her makeshift spear for a better handhold.

  Chanting an appeal to Tapahi-roro-ariki, she watched the mako as it surfaced, zigzagged away, then came back. One nostril was torn, leaking blood. She knew she probably could not kill the shark with only a bamboo dagger and a short spear. She had seen fishermen club and stab at sharks repeatedly. Even after one seemed long dead, it could suddenly thrash or bite. All she wanted was to keep the shark from taking her.

  And then she remembered what the string figure had shown her, how the shark’s nose had been tied to its tail.

  With one hand still hefting the spear, she gathered up her fiber cord. It was slender but strong. Strong enough? She would soon know. She took the loop of string and wedged one end between two jagged splinters at the tip of her makeshift spear.

  She hesitated, wondering if she could really do what she had planned. As if the mako sensed her hesitation, it made another run at the boat. Tepua dropped her spear, grabbed a heavy coconut from the sack, and flung it at the shark’s snout. The mako seemed briefly stunned as the coconut splashed harmlessly into the water beside it. She pitched another, hitting the shark at the same sensitive spot.

  In fury, the shark snapped, and tried to swallow the offending coconut in one gulp. The hard shell caught in the back of its jaws, wedging the mouth open. The fish began to writhe and shake its head to dislodge the object. Tepua had only a few moments...

  She aimed low, at the wounded nostril. With all her weight, she thrust the spear, driving it into the shark’s nose to break out through the skin at the other side of its head. The spear point carried the cord with it, threading it through the hole. The pinned mako thrashed and snapped, wrenching the splinter spear around in her hands. Sweating and panting, she braced herself against a thwart.

  The shark rested briefly, turning one eye toward her. She knew from its cold gaze that it would not give up. Biting her lip, Tepua leaned out of the boat. One end of her cord loop trailed from the nostril, while the other came out through the wound on the side of the mako’s head. She grabbed the first end and then the other, finally yanking her spear free.

  The mako went crazy, writhing and twisting until it bent back on itself, its crescent tail close to its snout. Tepua saw her chance to do what the vision had showed her. Deftly she slipped both loops of the fiber cord over the high tail fin. The loops caught, strained, and held. The mako’s body formed a ring, tethered nose to tail. The shark struggled helplessly, unable to bite through the cord or thrash free.

  Hastily she used her spear to poke the ring of angry mako as far as possible from the boat. At any moment the cord might break or other sharks might arrive, drawn by blood scent or the splashing.

  Another glance at the mako surprised her. The shark was sinking! Now she remembered fishermen saying that a shark needed to swim to stay afloat. And this one could do nothing now but chew its own tail. Triumphantly she praised the spirit of her ancestress, then turned to bailing out the canoe.

  Making a paddle was her next task, for without one Tepua would only drift helplessly. Now that her cord was gone, she needed a new source of lashings. Surveying her few possessions, she turned to the netting that held the gourds. The cords appeared strong enough, but she had no hope of unknotting them. She would have to cut away the unwanted parts, wasting more than she saved. And without the protective net, she would risk losing her drinking water and food if the boat capsized again.

  Finding no other choice, she took her bamboo dagger, washed off the shark’s blood, and set to cutting apart the net. Then she laid her short spear and her bailing gourd together. The bailer was squat and bowl-shaped. With a little cutting and trimming, it could serve as a paddle blade.

  Using her edge of sharp, hard bamboo, she worked the softer material of the gourd. She cut away the rim to make the bowl shallow
er, then filed two notches each at the top and bottom. Across the width of her short spear she also scored two grooves, being careful not to weaken the shaft.

  Finally she bound the gourd paddle blade to the shaft by fitting cord into the notches of both parts. She examined her work with misgivings. The shaft was too long and the blade too bowl-shaped, but it would serve. And she could also still use it as a bailer.

  A chill in the wind made her glance toward the horizon. The sun was only a half disk, the rest melting into the sea. Soon the light would be gone. She wrapped the remains of her bark-cloth robe about her, knelt at the stern, and tried the blade. The paddle was awkward but workable. Slowly she began to dip and stroke, turning the prow to the setting sun.

  West. Other islands lay in that direction. Other islands with strange names and unfamiliar people. She felt a surge of fright and homesickness, telling her to turn the canoe and paddle eastward toward her own island.

  No. She knew that she could not fight the current that was bearing her westward. She would only waste her strength in the attempt. Her best chance was to paddle with the current, and then pull away from it when she came within sight of land.

  Tepua settled into a rhythm of paddling, switching her strokes from one side to the other to keep the boat on course. As daylight diminished she squinted up, trying to sight any stars that might be following the sun down across the violet arc of sky.

  She knew that navigators steered by knowing where certain stars fell below the horizon. Though she had rarely sailed at night, those few times remained vivid in her memory. She recalled the gnarled fingers of a canoe master pointing at the night sky, his voice speaking of stars that followed each other down certain paths. When one dropped into its pit below the sky, the steersman would watch the next. In that way he would always have a guiding star over the bow.