When Matopahu had first heard about Tepua and Feet-out-of-water, he had laughed scornfully. Everyone knew that the old fool was useless to a woman. But gradually Matopahu’s feeling of helpless anger had grown. Now, as he thought about it, he imagined his would-be rival drowning in a huge vat of ava. Here was a fitting end for him!
Feet-out-of-water has nothing to lose, Matopahu reminded himself bitterly. The aging nobleman held chiefly titles but no power. He lived as he pleased on his large estate and paid no attention to what others said. If he wanted a motu woman as his consort, not even the high priest’s disapproval would stop him...
Abruptly Matopahu realized that the drumming had stopped and entertainment ended. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to rise first. He smiled, stood up, aware that he had become the center of attention. The crowd opened to let him pass.
“My good friend,” said River-dry as they walked back toward the underchief’s house. “There is a favor I would ask of you, a delicate matter. I have heard much about your remarkable god-voice. Of course, if you are weary ...”
The high chief’s brother was far from surprised at this request. It had become almost a ritual, repeated in one household after another. “I can promise nothing,” he said, giving his usual reply. “But the god has proved agreeable lately, as you may have heard.” He signaled to his taio, who had been traveling with him, helping to assure the people that the gods’ favors had been fully restored.
Eye-to-heaven continued to serve as interpreter of Matopahu’s pronouncements. Recently his task had proved easy, since the words had been surprisingly clear. Both men knew that something had changed. The spirit who seized Matopahu now was far different from the one of earlier days—the one who had warned of famine and of Ihetoa’s guilt.
It was not uncommon for one god to leave a man and be replaced by another. Yet Eye-to-heaven had begun to express his concern about this one. “The new voice worries me, taio,” he had said on several occasions. “I believe it speaks truthfully, but I sense a malicious streak. Be wary of letting it seize you too easily.” Matopahu saw that warning again in the priest’s expression as Eye to heaven joined him at the underchief’s doorway.
Only a small party of important men came with them into the house. The others remained outside, keeping a respectful distance. “I want only a single light,” Matopahu insisted. The smoky torches were taken away. The select audience took its place on the grass-strewn floor.
Matopahu sat on a thick pile of mats in the middle of the floor. Eye-to-heaven brought a candlenut taper and sat cross-legged beside him. “You may all chant softly, along with me,” said the priest, when everyone had settled.
The chant was simple, two lines repeated endlessly. Matopahu stared at the small sputtering light and tried to make himself comfortable. In earlier days he had never tried seeking the god-voice; it had always come to him when it chose. He had been happy when it left him alone.
Now his reputation as a prophet had spread throughout Tahiti. People from outlying settlements flocked to wherever he was in hope of hearing some new message. He had found a way to keep from disappointing them.
As he watched the blue-tinged flame he slowly began to relax. He put aside all his troubling thoughts and let the light draw him in. His breathing deepened and slowed.
Then a prickly sensation began at his nape and spread gradually down his back, taking a long time to reach the soles of his feet. His body began to feel so light that he thought it could be lifted by a puff of wind. Soon he could not feel the mats that lay under him. He seemed to float in the darkness, with only the small, bright center for company.
The chant droned in his ears. He no longer heard the words, only the repeating rhythms. In his mind, he spoke a chant of his own.
Come to me, spirit, I am waiting.
Come to me, in the darkness.
I long to hear your voice.
For a time he knew nothing, thought nothing. There was only the chill of emptiness about him. Then he felt a sudden disturbance. His left arm shuddered and a groan sounded. He sensed only dimly that something was being wrapped about his hand.
A sound emerged from a mouth, but the mouth was not his own. “Ahhh,” the voice said, in a strange and frightening tone. “Ahhh, I am here ... in the world of flesh.” Matopahu felt his shoulders twitch and his legs tremble. The light vanished, leaving him nothing to hold onto. Yet there were sounds...
He heard a frenzied whispering, then a firm and familiar voice speaking aloud. “O spirit who favors us by your presence,” said Eye-to-heaven. “I beg you answer one question.”
“Who—who asks it?” The god-voice rasped and squeaked.
“A worthy man. The noble chief who calls himself River-dry.”
“River-dry? I—do not know him.”
“He is here with us, spirit. He is eager to please you.”
“To please me—he must be generous. I—crave the things of the living. Let this River-dry bring offerings. Have—Matopahu—take them in my name.”
“You will have gifts, wise spirit,” said River-dry. “I have rolls of scented cloth already waiting for you.”
“And a woman. Yes. This is what I crave tonight.”
“Any woman you please,” the underchief answered quickly.
Matopahu scarcely heeded what was said. He had no part in this now. All he could do was listen. “Then ask. Ask your question,” said the god-voice.
The underchief seemed to have trouble getting out his words. “I—I would like to know, gracious spirit. About my first child. Will it be a son or a daughter?”
“Ahhh,” the god-voice squeaked. “Here we have a wise question. Here we have no simple answer. Why is that? Why is the outcome so confused?” The voice began to click and squawk and gabble. Matopahu knew his limbs were thrashing, but he felt nothing, suspended as he was in another place. Then clear words came again. “Twins! That is what you have coming. A boy and a girl. I cannot say which will be first from the womb.”
“That—that is a fine prophecy,” River-dry answered.
“And all I can tell you,” the god-voice squeaked. “I have worked up a hunger. Bring me the woman now. Wait. Bring me two. I will choose. I want—both your sisters.”
Matopahu heard a hiss of indrawn breath. It was customary, he knew in his dreamy haze, for the guest to be entertained by the wife or consort of the host. The host’s sisters, on the other hand, must be treated as chastely as if they were the guest’s own kin. But now it was a god speaking, not a man, and no one could refuse the demands. The women would feel honored to be called.
“Uh ... as you wish, noble spirit,” replied River-dry.
Later, toward dawn, Matopahu woke and felt the warmth of the women, one on each side of him. What a pity, he thought, that he could not remember the pleasure they had given his body. That had been for the god and the god alone.
He stretched, feeling the stiffness and aches that always followed these visitations. He quietly rose and went out, glad to feel a fresh breeze on his face. “You are up early, my taio,” came the voice of Eye-to-heaven, who was already outside.
“Come. Let us walk,” said Matopahu. The shore lay just ahead and the tide was low. In the growing light he watched small waves lap the exposed beach. “All went well last night, I trust. I cannot remember much.”
“River-dry and his family will have something to talk about for a while.”
“But you are not pleased, my taio. I hear it in your voice.” Matopahu waded a short distance out, letting the cool water swirl around his feet.
“I am thinking that I would like to go back to the simple life of a priest. I have had enough of being an honored guest night after night, traveling from one nobleman’s house to another.”
“Yes, it is tiring,” said Matopahu. “But we have our obligations. It is important to restore the people’s confidence in their gods—and in their high priests.” He did not add that he still keenly enjoyed being the focus of attention. At hom
e, he was constantly overshadowed by his brother.
“You know I cannot desert you,” said the priest. “It is not only a matter of our friendship. What would people think? To leave you would mean breaking up all the good work we have done.”
“Then let us continue this tour for a time, my friend. Maybe you will come to think differently.”
“No, I will not change, my taio,” the priest answered with a sigh. “You are the changed one. You let men’s whispers fill you with ambition. You do not discourage the rumors.”
Matopahu smiled. “I say nothing.”
“But men try to guess your thoughts. As do I. What will happen if someone dares ask your god the question that all wish asked?”
“If I will be chief?” Matopahu laughed coldly. “To that question, I can only hope that the god will answer in riddles. It is your job to be sure no one asks. That is one reason I need you with me.”
“Then I will stay, my taio, but I urge you to reconsider what you are doing.”
In a clearing near the Arioi house, Tepua sat with a group of other novices watching Pecking-bird and her friends improvise a skit. Preparing these little comedies was part of their training. There was to be a competition, judged by high-ranking Arioi, to select the best performance.
Pecking-bird, holding an imaginary chief’s staff, sat stiffly on a rock. “Fishermen, what is taking you so long?” she asked, looking down haughtily, her voice pitched low to imitate a man’s.
In front of her, three young women pretended to struggle with a net. So far, no one in the small audience was laughing at her playlet.
“Fishermen, I am hungry,” said Pecking-bird. “And you are slow!”
“This will fill your belly, noble chief,” said one of the mock fishermen. The others mimed lifting a huge fish from the net. Still, nobody laughed.
In exasperation, Pecking-bird turned her back on the players and sat down in the shade beside the onlookers. “Let me see who can do better,” she challenged.
Tepua felt her muscles tensing. While she watched Pecking-bird’s group, ideas for her own playlet had continued to grow. Ever since her discussion with Feet-out-of-water, she had wondered how to bring her thoughts into the open. She did not know what the other novices would say, but now she wanted to find out. “Let me try,” she answered.
“I am already laughing,” said Pecking-bird.
Tepua ignored her. She picked up a wooden bowl, a prop that someone had left on the ground. “Curling-leaf, will you join me?” She held out the bowl.
“What—what am I supposed to do with it?” Curling-leaf took the bowl but remained seated.
“Imagine that it is filled with poi,” said Tepua. “And pretend to eat.”
“And what about you?”
Tepua assumed her own regal pose and forced her voice into the lower registers. “I am the high chief.”
Peking-bird gave a shrill cry of scorn.
“But I am no ordinary high chief,” Tepua continued. “You have all heard of me, I am Rooster-crows-too-early-gets-head-lopped-off.” She saw a few smiles, but now she hesitated. What she wanted to do next would raise eyebrows, might even be viewed as sacrilegious. Yet the Arioi, by turning things around, seemed to get away with the most outrageous buffoonery.
“What makes me special is this.” She picked up a piece of bark-cloth and wrapped it around her hand. She heard indrawn breaths as the audience recognized the sign of the god-possessed. She hoped that they would also notice that she wasn’t exactly imitating the behavior of a god-seized prophet, for she had made a point of wrapping the cloth about her right hand instead of the left.
Abruptly she adopted a different voice, one that quavered and squeaked. “I am not only the chief. I am an oracle, too.” Several novices gaped at this pronouncement. “And what I say is for all of you to hear. This is what the divine ones demand of you. You must give up your old habits. From now on, when you eat poi, you must do it with one eye closed.”
“That is silly.” Curling-leaf squinted at Tepua, trying to keep one eye shut as she dipped into her imaginary poi.
“It is supposed to be,” Tepua whispered. A few in the audience were giggling while others looked on with puzzlement.
Tepua raised her wrapped hand again. “There is more, my obedient ones,” she said in her squeaky voice. “When you eat your poi, not only must you close one eye, but you may use only your crooked little finger. At the same time, you must stand on one foot.”
Curling-leaf made a show of trying to follow orders, dipping into the bowl with her little finger while balancing awkwardly on one leg.
“Now you are supposed to look doubtful and question the interpretation of my words,” whispered Tepua.
Curling-leaf giggled. “Can this truly be what the gods expect of us?” she asked. “I must consult the high priest.”
“I am the chief and the oracle,” Tepua intoned. “I am so filled with mana that I do not have to listen to any priest. Do as you were ordered.”
“I think I know what this is about,” said Curling-leaf, with a sly look.
Tepua felt her face redden. She puffed herself up to look indignant.’ ’How dare you speak out of turn? And where are the gifts you promised? Bring me pigs and tapa, you son of a sea snail!”
“Enough!” cried Pecking-bird. “I will watch no more. We are novices. We cannot poke fun at great men.”
Or at great fools? “Pecking-bird, I always thought that the Arioi were supposed to do just that,” Tepua retorted. “If you do not like my skit, work on your own, and we will see whose is better.” She stalked off, and was glad to see Curling-leaf coming with her.
For their rehearsals, the two found another clearing, farther from the Arioi house. After a day, other girls came. With more players, Tepua began to embellish the little production. Yet she kept worrying about how Aitofa would react to it.
At times she considered asking the chiefess if hers was an acceptable mode of satire. But what if Aitofa told her to stop? If Tepua did not ask permission first, then later she could not be accused of disobedience.
Days passed as the senior Arioi prepared for a major performance for the coming Ripening-of-the-year celebration. The novices continued to work at their own comedies, often giving up their afternoon sleep to practice. The time for the competition finally arrived.
Early one morning a nervous troupe of novices, men and women, assembled inside the Arioi house. Both blacklegs, Aitofa and Head-lifted, sat with other high-ranking Arioi on the viewing platform. Tepua watched the judges, seeing several yawning or with sleepy expressions. They would rather still be dozing on their mats, she realized. Perhaps they did not care how much time the novices had spent preparing for this.
Head-lifted clapped his hands and called for the first group to start. A small troupe of men began a pantomime on canoe building that brought peals of laughter from every side. The first man swung an imaginary stone adze at an imaginary log, grimacing with astonishment as the tool rebounded from the hard wood. When he tried swinging again, the invisible head flew from his adze and struck another player, whose silent reaction of pain as he clutched his belly made the audience roar. Though they used no props, the skill and timing of the mimes let the audience almost see the misbehaving tools that kept dogging their efforts to build the canoe. Tepua could not help but admit to herself that this skit was far better than her own.
When Curling-leaf glanced at her, Tepua merely smiled. But each group that came on seemed almost as good as the first. At last it was Tepua’s turn.
With straw stuffed under her wrap to pad her belly, the “high chief took her place on a stool in the center of the stage. She studied the dour faces of the judges. The comedies so far had been amusing, but none had touched on politics. Perhaps she was about to break some rule that everyone else understood...
Tepua swallowed once, and began. “I am the high chief. I am Rooster-crows-too-early-gets-head-lopped off.” Not a single smile. She tried to ignore her audience an
d focus on the performance.
As the chief’s pronouncements became more bizarre, and the action with poi bowls more frenzied, the onlookers began to warm to it. In the final scene, the players started a mad scramble to depose the demanding high chief. Tepua saw Aitofa’s lips twitch, and even noticed several judges giving vent to subdued laughter. But Tepua had seen their responses to the other comedies. Hers ranked near the bottom. She tried not to show her dismay as she led her players off.
Tepua was not surprised when Aitofa called her late that afternoon. She still felt stung by her defeat, although she did not begrudge the “canoe builders” their victory. They were expert mimes, almost as good as seasoned players. But Pecking-bird’s silly piece on fishing had also been declared a winner.
Aitofa sat on her stool, staring at Tepua with an expression that she could not interpret.
“I hope that our performance gave no offense,” Tepua said hastily. “I did not mean to be irreverent.”
Aitofa raised an eyebrow. “I give you credit for daring, if nothing else. I cannot remember when a novice last took on such a dangerous subject.”
“Then—you are not angry?”
“I did not say that. I will tell you, however, that Head-lifted and I have spent some time discussing your skit.”
“We should all forget it,” said Tepua sadly. “Compared with the others—”
“It showed poorly. That is correct. You have much more to learn before you can amuse an audience. Yet your performance was not entirely without merit. The piece had a satirical bite that I found refreshing.”
Tepua’s eyes widened.
“With work, it might be made into a worthy comedy.”
“To be shown?”
“Yes. To the people.”
Tepua felt a sudden panic. She had started this, after all, with a hope that the senior Arioi might follow her lead. Now that it seemed possible, why did she wish to stop it? “But—if it is presented—”
Daughter of the Reef Page 29