“Let us see what feathers we can find on the ground,” Rimapoa suggested when he saw her reluctance to use the bow. They began to search beneath the trees. “There is one,” he said, bending to pick up a long yellow tail feather in fine condition. “If we poke around under the chaff we may find others.”
Gradually, Tepua warmed to the hunt. So long as she was not harming the birds, she thought she was doing no wrong. After a time, their hands grew full. They stopped near the beach and heaped their treasure on a pile of dry leaves.
“I will make a basket for the feathers,” Tepua said, breaking off a young palm frond, slitting it down the midrib with her fingernail. While Rimapoa continued his search she sat in the shade of a fara tree and began work, interweaving the leaflets in a twilled pattern. When she finally closed off the bottom, the finished basket was narrow, long, and deep.
It was not until she stood up from her work and stretched her legs and back that she noticed the tapu sign just a few steps behind where she had been sitting. Rimapoa was just coming back along the shore. “The chief who raised that post has forgotten it by now,” he said in a bitter tone as he scooped the collected feathers into her basket.
If that was so, she wondered, then why did he look so frightened?
Rimapoa could not get rid of his fear. It was foolish, he kept telling himself. He was safe here on this island, far from priests, far from the marae where men were offered to the gods.
Yet he broke out into a cold sweat as a parakeet winged overhead, its plumage of crimson and blue shining.
Shadows. Shadows of divine ones who hunger for the flesh of men.
Tepua thought that everything he collected came from the ground. He had not shown her how accurately he could fling a stone, surprising a bird on its perch. He had no need for her bow and arrows, playthings of a noblewoman.
He wanted to be gone from this place, where the gods seemed to watch him from every side. Yet the feathers—the brilliant feathers. He could not turn away from them.
In Tahiti, he no longer had a home. His skills were of little use in waters that teemed with fishermen, but with these feathers he could get almost anything he wanted. He imagined presenting them to the high chief. In return he might receive far more than permission to live in the district. Perhaps he would get what no man of his class could hope to have—a parcel of coastal land, well planted and supplied with pigs. What would Tepua think of him then? How could she refuse to be his wife?
With this prospect in mind, he turned, stone in hand, toward the bushes. He threw silently and his aim proved true. His prey, a tropic bird, fluttered once, then lay still on the ground. He stripped scarlet feathers from the tail, held them against the sky, and saw how they danced like fire in his hands.
If these are the gods’ shadows, he asked himself, then what must the gods themselves be like? They must shine so fiercely that no man can look at them. Their vengeance must be terrible. When he began to tremble again, he clenched his fists until the shaking went away.
Rimapoa could not keep the fears from his mind. Each day they grew more intense, but he persisted in his hunting, and spoke nothing of this to Tepua. She might help him, in the end. He was not willing to tell her how.
There was a way to protect himself that Two-oars had spoken of. He could make himself so distasteful to the gods that they would turn away in repugnance.
It was to this end that Rimapoa had dug up a certain rare root that a shark fisherman had once told him about. He recalled now how he had found it, in a damp forest deep within a valley. After searching all morning, he had come on a shoot of pallid waxy green peeking out from the lusher undergrowth.
Probing eagerly with his digging stick, he had loosened the soil, lifted the entire plant, and cupped it in his hand. Once the dirt was brushed away, he saw that it was white and full, suggesting in its voluptuous curves the shape of a woman’s body...
Now, each day, when the sun rose and he felt strong, he put his plan away with disgust, for he could not bear doing such a thing to his beloved. Once or twice he nearly cast the pale root into the sea. But as each day wore on, and the calls of the birds echoed in his ears, the dark thoughts returned.
Oh, to be free of this terror, he thought. I know no other way. And it will not hurt her...
Tepua did not see where Rimapoa went on his own, but he continued to bring feathers long after she had given up searching under the trees. Every morning she assured him that they had gathered more than enough and asked him to leave the island. So far she had not been able to sway him.
What a different man he had become on Fenua Ura. She wished to have the sea-loving Rimapoa back again. As soon as they left Tahiti, she had started to view him in a new light. Her dream of serving Oro had not changed. Yet she had begun to think that one day, when her past was long forgotten, she might give up the Arioi—for Rimapoa, if he still wanted her.
Why was he acting so strangely now? she kept asking herself. Simply being off the sea could not explain it. This once-lusty fisherman had stopped caressing her, or even speaking words of affection. And why had he asked her to take care of her fingernails, letting them grow long?
Her feeling that she did not belong on Fenua Ura constantly troubled her. She sensed the need to tread lightly, to be careful not to disturb anything that lived here. The moist shade beneath the trees and the scents of the overhanging flowers brought her no joy. Even the bright lagoon had lost its attraction.
Finally, one afternoon, Rimapoa emerged from the brush and announced that their task was done. He dropped the closed basket at her feet, but cautioned her not to open it. “The sight of so many sacred feathers will burn your eyes,” he warned."Let us eat well today and leave at dawn.”
Alone here, she and Rimapoa had grown lax in following the food tapus. They cooked in the same oven, though Tepua always used one side and he the other. Now she glanced over at their shallow pit and saw that the fire, lit earlier, had burned down. The hot stones were ready.
Under a pile of coconut leaves lay two parrotfish he had speared last night. As she was wrapping them to be baked she noticed Rimapoa grinding something on a flat stone. He scooped a yellow-white paste onto a strand of fara leaf and came with it to the oven.
“Ginger,” he said. “We’ve no more coconut sauce.”
Tepua nodded, remembering the assortment of roots he had brought along with his other supplies. She had grown fond of the tangy Tahitian ginger. This time the color looked a bit odd, she thought, but she spread some over her fish while he took care of his own.
When it was time to eat, he carried his portion aside, as he always did. But today he seemed to put an unusually large space between them, turning his back to her.
She glanced at him where he crouched, melding into the shadows of late afternoon, and frowned. She could think only of leaving, of the relief she would feel when they were back on the sea.
Hungry now, Tepua unwrapped her fish and tasted it. She had used all the ginger that Rimapoa had given her, and now she enjoyed its sweet tanginess. But she noticed a tart aftertaste and wondered if the root had gotten too old.
She had almost finished eating when she felt a prickling sensation on her lips. She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. A wave of heat rolled through her, making her pulse jump and her head swim. She tried to get up, found herself unsteady on her feet, and sank back to her knees.
Fish poisoning!
“Rimapoa!” she tried to call, though the words came out in a hoarse gasp. “Do not eat yours.” But she knew her warning was too late. Her hands and arms were stinging and prickling as if she had been lying on them. The feeling spread rapidly over her body, making every area of skin intensely sensitive.
What she had to do now was break open a coconut and drink its milk. That was the way she had been taught to counter such a poison, but she could not summon the will to stand up. Instead, she rubbed at her twitching thighs, letting her fingers travel higher. The sensation between her legs, when
she accidentally touched herself, was so delicious that she forgot everything else.
Suddenly she caught herself. This was not fish poisoning. She had been stricken once as a child and remembered the experience. Now she felt no nausea, just an odd fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Rimapoa!” she called again. Why didn’t he come? Why did he stay crouched in the shadows, like something waiting for its prey? She fell forward on her hands and knees, gasping as a surge of ovenlike heat passed through her. This time it did not ebb as before, but withdrew to glowing knots in her breasts and an intense throbbing between her legs.
He came forward at last. She lifted her head to look at him. He seemed to shimmer, glowing with a red halo. She fell back on her rump, feeling suddenly light-headed. Everything she glanced at now had red halos.
But Rimapoa’s mood remained serious. Why had the spice not affected him? Perhaps, while he sat apart, he had not eaten his fish at all! A part of her shrieked an alarm, but the sound was forgotten in the rush of her arousal.
She looked at Rimapoa’s sweat-shined chest, taut belly, and narrow waist. She felt a hunger that added to the heaviness in her breasts and the wet heat between her thighs. She desired him. It did not matter what he had fed her. She needed him inside her, pumping...
She could wait no longer. Rising, first on her knees, then in a crouch, she lurched forward, knocking him over. She climbed atop him, dragging her breasts hard against his chest. “I want you,” she said harshly. She ground her hips against his. His eyes were slitted. Specks of red seemed to dance in his pupils.
Suddenly he embraced her, held her tightly to him, so tightly that she almost wished to be free. “I did not know what it would do to you,” he whispered. “I did not think it would be so strong.”
“It does not matter. Later I will be angry, not now. Now all I care about is this.” She clawed at his loincloth, tore it away, and wiggled onto the hardness that emerged from beneath. She arched her spine, straining her head back, quivering.
“Quickly,” she said, and moaned when the tip of his manhood slipped between engorged petals. “I want to feel every part of you.”
He slid in, growing stiffer as she clutched him to her. She felt explosions of pleasure that merged into pain. And then, when he was as far in as he could go, she wrenched him over so that he was on top and she below. Drawing up her legs, she grabbed his buttocks and writhed against him. Her nails moved up his spine, over the bumps of his ribs.
Everything was crimson. His skin, the sand beneath, even the canopy of leaves had a fiery haze. The red was in her, making her wild and demanding. The red was in her fingertips as they traveled up his back, clenched, and drew down again, her nails cutting him.
She thrust against him harder, only faintly hearing his cries as he drove into her. In her frenzy, she clutched and clawed him until her hands grew wet and slippery with his blood. And then her release came, sending her body into uncontrollable shudders and jerks and her mind down into darkness.
Sprawled on sticks and leaves that pressed against her back, Tepua woke and saw the light of early morning. She rolled over, groaning at the stiffness in her limbs and the buzzing in her head. The memory of what had happened came to her as if from a dream. Then she glanced at her fingers and saw dried blood beneath torn and jagged nails.
With a rush of revulsion, she staggered to her feet and headed for the lagoon. She felt tainted and befouled, as if she had been taken again by Tangled-net. All she wanted was the clean embrace of the water.
Then a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over her and she fell. She vomited, lay panting, trying to gather strength to rise again. She could only hold herself up on her hands, her hair tumbling down over her face.
Rimapoa.
And then he was beside her, pulling her against him,
brushing aside her hair, giving her a sip of cool water to take away the taste of bile...
She wrenched from his grip, spilling the water.
“Tiare,” he said, extending his hands to her, his face stricken with grief and guilt. “Forgive me. I did not know it would have such an effect on you. I only thought it would make you—passionate—”
“Passionate?” She shrieked the word in his face. “How frenzied must a woman be to please you?”
Eyes shimmering with a strange triumph, he stood up, turned around, and showed her his back. It looked as if he had been lashed with the barb of a stingray. Blood-encrusted gashes ran from the tops of his shoulders to his waist.
Tepua had seen men who were scratched by their lovers, but this lay beyond her experience. The marks were not of love but of madness. And he had insisted that she let her nails grow!
“Why?” she asked again, her voice breaking. “I needed no—sorcerer’s potion. I was glad to—wanted—to give you pleasure.”
“It was not pleasure I needed last night,” said the fisherman in a strange cold voice. He turned to her, his eyes feverish. “I have escaped the priests. They cannot take me now. The gods will hate the taste of me. I am safe. The fear is gone. I am finally free of it. Do you understand? I am free!”
Tepua could only stare at him, blank with incomprehension.
“Ah, tiare. On your island, they do not offer up the ‘two-legged fish’. That’s why you are so puzzled. Our priests will not take a man who bears scars inflicted by a woman. They say he is not fit for the gods.” The fisherman swallowed. “So now, tiare, my only fear is that I have hurt you.”
“More than hurt!” she said in a voice of fury. “You were not sure what would happen to me! Yet you risked it, and gave me no warning. That is far worse than any pain.” Shakily, she tried again to stand. This time, strengthened by her anger, she was able to walk to the lagoon. She waded in and fell to her knees in the transparent water. The lagoon was pure. Its gentle touch would cleanse her.
For a long while she lay stretched out in the shallow water. Bright fish flitted about her legs. Under her, the soft sand made a comfortable bed. Best of all, when she let the water lap over her ears, it cut off the sounds that had begun to torment her—the endless cries of the birds. She scrubbed her fingertips again and again until they were free of Rimapoa’s blood.
At last she stood up, staring with sudden detachment at the man who sat on the beach, his head down on his crossed forearms. Now she knew the real reason he had brought her on this journey. Not to gather feathers, as he had claimed. Not for hanihani either. Not even for a last attempt at wooing her from Aitofa. “Why did you need me at all?” she asked him. “Why not simply scrape your back with coral?”
He lifted his head, but stared in another direction. “The priests can detect trickery,” he answered in a tone of despair. “They have secret ways.”
“If you had explained—” She cut herself off. What man would admit to his fears? What man would beg his vahine to pretend a frenzy that he could not arouse in her? Knowing this, she still could not excuse him.
She gathered her wrap about her and began to walk away. “Wait,” he called hoarsely. “I have something more to say. Yes, I admit that I mistreated you! It was not an easy thing to do. But do not forget how you rewarded me for taking you away from your enemies—abandoning me to go off with your Arioi. Do not look down on me, motu princess. We two are fish that feed on the same shoal.”
She turned her back on him and stumbled toward the shelter.
“Listen!” he cried, coming up behind her. “Yesterday I felt the gods all around me, so close that I could scarcely breathe. I heard their hearts beating, their stomachs churning with hunger. For me. For my soul. Please understand, tiare.”
She stopped, turned to stare at him. He seemed a pitiful figure, covered with salt and dust, unable to meet her gaze. Yes, she did understand his terrors. He could not help but be affected by this place, with its aura of sacredness and its god shadows in every tree. She had tried to convince him to leave long ago, but perhaps she had not tried hard enough.
He came closer, reaching o
ut to touch her hand. She flinched, like an animal withdrawing from something it knows not to trust. She saw the pain in his eyes as his fingers fell away.
“So you are afraid of me now,” he said with a groan.
“I bear part of the blame for this,” she admitted softly. “I am sorry. We must leave here. Now. Before anything else happens to us.”
“The canoe is ready to be launched. I am taking only some water and coconuts ... and the basket.”
The basket. A shiver came over her at the thought. She realized that she no longer wanted anything to do with the treasure that she and Rimapoa had gathered. Let him have it. Let him have it all. She blinked back her tears as she followed him to the coral-strewn shore.
15
WEARY from days of sailing, Rimapoa neared the familiar coastline of Knotted-cord’s district. Ahead, jutting out into the water, lay the forested spit of land where the great marae stood. His journey was almost at its end.
He sadly turned his gaze to Tepua, who sat in the bow facing away from him. She was leaving him now. He did not know when he might see her again.
She had forgiven him, she said. Yet they had slept apart every night since leaving Fenua Ura. And she wanted nothing to do with the treasure they had gathered.
Slowly, reluctantly, he brought the canoe in to a thickly wooded shore. “Tiare,” he said, trying to explain himself once more, as she got out and waded through shallows to the rocky beach. “Remember this. It was for your sake that I took so many feathers. So I could provide for you if you ever chose to leave the Arioi. And if you need me, I will still be here to help.”
Waves lapping gently at her feet, she glanced at him briefly. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and her eyes glistened, but then she shook her head and turned away. He wanted to jump out of the boat and run after her, but he knew that she would only resist his embrace. She must have time, he thought, time to heal her hurt. Then, perhaps, she would truly forgive him.
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