Daughter of the Reef

by Coleman, Clare;

  “There will be effects, both good and bad, I agree. Everyone will know whom we are mocking.”

  Tepua struggled to explain her feelings, which pulled her in two directions. “It is not the man himself, I would mock, but what other people wish to make of him. They are pushing him into something he does not really want.”

  Aitofa smiled grimly. “Do not think that you alone have had these thoughts. As it happens, Head-lifted and I talked some time ago about this. We spoke of presenting a comedy to poke fun at our noble friend. After all, that is what we Arioi are expected to do. But the Ripening Celebration attracts visitors from other districts and even from other islands. We did not want to air our problems before strangers.”

  Tepua felt vaguely relieved. “Then later, perhaps.”

  “No,” said Aitofa. “We cannot keep your playlet a secret now. Too many people have seen it, and they will talk. If we do not put on a finished play at the first opportunity, then everyone will believe that we Arioi have lost our keen edge, that we are afraid of important people. Now you have forced our hand.”

  Tepua looked down. The thought of how Matopahu might take this made her deeply uneasy. She knew that she had been moved by spite more than by any interest in politics. Yet she truly believed that Matopahu’s life would be destroyed if he gained the high chief’s office.

  “What do you say, my rash novice? Do you wish now that you had chosen a more innocent subject?”

  She lifted her head and answered hoarsely, “That is not the Arioi way.”

  “Good. Then do not be surprised when you see our players tossing bowls of poi.”

  The breadfruit grew fat on the trees as preparations for the performances went forward. The experienced players took the skit and transformed it into a masterpiece of comedy. Even Tepua burst out in gales of laughter when she saw the rehearsals.

  Whenever she met Feet-out-of-water, Tepua tried to amuse him by imitating portions of the Arioi play. The nobleman did not call her often, for he had begun to suffer from an illness that even abstention from ava did not cure. Sometimes when she arrived, she found him in good spirits. At other times, when he seemed gloomy, she did her best to cheer him.

  Meanwhile she kept hearing of Matopahu’s exploits, not only in the high chief’s district but in other parts of the island. Matopahu’s pronouncements continued to win him renown. Men from outlying areas were seen almost daily carrying gifts to leave at his house.

  People spoke of these exploits in admiring voices. When Tepua heard such talk, she focused her thoughts on the festivities to come. After the comedy was presented, some of these admirers might have second thoughts!

  The time of celebration was almost at hand. Visitors began arriving from all over Tahiti, and from other islands as well. Every day Tepua saw new canoes drawn up on the beach. It had occurred to her that the guests might include motu people.

  Atoll traders visited Knotted-cord on occasion, but so far she had avoided them by staying close to Aitofa’s compound. This time she could not hide; on the night of the performance, she would have to stand with the other novices.

  The risk of being seen began to worry her even more than how Matopahu would react to the play. She had known, when she joined the players, that some time she must face this. Now she wondered if she had put too much trust in the ability of the Arioi to protect her.

  Every day she nervously searched the beach. Among polished hulls bearing upright bow- and stern-posts, she feared she might find the simpler but more seaworthy double-ended craft from her own islands. She found none.

  Preparations grew feverish as the night of the performance approached. Tapa mallets clattered all day. Drums and nose flutes sounded as the Arioi practiced dance and pantomime. Tepua stood in the line of chest-slappers, swaying and chanting, never missing a beat.

  At last the moment came when she found herself in costume, sitting with the other novices beneath the roof of the great performance house. She blinked, gazing up at the firelight reflecting from the timbers of the theater, listening to the roar of the bonfire. Then she turned to watch the festivities begin.

  “The high chief!” came the cry, booming across the heads of the audience as Knotted-cord swooped into the performance house on the shoulders of his bearer. His face glowed with satisfaction as he was carried to his seat. Tepua wondered if he had been informed about the comedy to come. Perhaps he was eagerly awaiting the ridicule that would be heaped on his brother.

  Next the royal family and favorites arrived. Missing from this privileged group, of course, was Ihetoa. The dismissed high priest would not wish to be seen now, in the depths of his disgrace.

  Another man’s popularity had taken an upsurge. Tepua could not help watching the arrival of Matopahu, resplendent in a tall black-and-red headdress and feather cape. He rode his human mount with evident enjoyment, waving to the crowd while the applause swelled around him. Yet his expression seemed forced, and she sensed a darker mood behind the gaiety. Perhaps he, too, knew what was to come.

  With a burst of thigh-pounding applause, Matopahu was installed on a high seat near Knotted-cord. He sat regally, keeping up his confident appearance. But when the crowd’s attention turned to something else, she saw a gloomy look appear. Then she noticed him send a searching glance around the theater, as if looking for someone he could not find.

  Tepua turned away. She had painted herself thoroughly, and had draped herself with garlands and necklaces in a style she did not normally use. Matopahu—or anyone else—would have difficulty recognizing her tonight.

  The time came for arrival of the Arioi. Aitofa and Head-lifted, howling and cock-strutting across the open floor, made the ritual greeting, casting the braided coconut leaf at the high chief’s feet. Now, Tepua thought, the introductions would begin as each noble guest appeared and recited his or her lineage. She forgot her other worries when she realized that she had not gone today to look at the visitors’ canoes.

  The introductions began with Maohi high chiefs. As the genealogical recitations droned on, Tepua sighed softly to herself. So many noble families, not only from Tahiti, but from all the neighboring high islands!

  She had fallen into a daze, staring at the firelight, when the crier’s voice abruptly changed its tone. “Here is the welcome to noble guests, who come to us in their seaworthy canoes. Here is the greeting to far travelers. Here is the welcome we offer to the chiefess Hoatu and her consort, Ro’onui.”

  Tepua instantly ducked behind Pecking-bird. She was trembling so that she barely registered the names that had been cried. But she had seen enough. Nobles from the coral islands had come, people who might recognize her. Tepua had heard of this visiting chiefess, who ruled an atoll not far from her own. She raised her head enough to see past Pecking-bird’s shoulder.

  The motu chiefess was arrayed in a regal headdress, a high wicker cylinder covered with iridescent green pigeon and parakeet feathers, decorated with shark’s teeth and pearls. She wore finely woven garments of white hibiscus bark, fringed at the edges. The man beside her wore a simpler headdress. She stared at him, openmouthed, as she took in his familiar face. Rongonui!

  She realized that the crier, unable to pronounce the nasal “ng” sound, had garbled her brother’s name. As she watched the guests take their seats she continued to marvel. Rongonui had seemed so young when she left home, and did not look much different now. Yet her brother had become consort to chiefess Hoatu!

  Tepua stared at the woman, who seemed notably older than Rongonui. Tepua could not fault her for her choice. Hoatu could have her pick of men, so why not take one in his prime?

  As the pair came forward the firelight shone on their faces. The chiefess appeared calm, with the serene dignity of one who accepted homage as her right. Yet Tepua could see a hidden ferocity in her high-boned cheeks and the sculpted flair of her nostrils. She was a sturdy woman, with plenty of strength to put behind a spear thrust. If Hoatu’s tribe went to war, Tepua could easily imagine this woman standing in
the forefront of her warriors.

  Beside her walked Rongonui. He was as tall as their father, his arms and torso thick with muscle. His eyes were the most striking part of his oval face. Black-lashed, they seemed to have been drawn in charcoal on his bronzed skin. His gaze was the same as Tepua remembered it—measuring, challenging, but she noted a new element, a sense of smoldering resentment. How different it must be for him to live always in the shadow of power.

  She barely listened as first Hoatu and then Rongonui recited their lineages. How she wanted to run to her brother and ask what had happened at home. But she could not go to him. Not now ... not even at the end of the night’s festivities. He must never learn of her presence here.

  Tepua was caught in such a fever of longing and despair that she wondered if she would be able to concentrate on her performance. Soon the novices were getting to their feet around her and forming the line of chest-slappers that made a living boundary to the Arioi stage. Hurriedly she found her place.

  For a brief time she was able to lose herself in the rhythmic beat of chants and songs. The Arioi performed a dance symbolizing the graceful beauty of the breadfruit tree. Then came another dance and then it was time for her comedy.

  Rongonui’s arrival had nearly made Tepua forget about Matopahu. She cast a glance at Knotted-cord’s brother and imagined that she saw him narrow his eyes. Hastily she looked away. She could not think about him now. Her mind was too full of thoughts about her family.

  The play began with the chorus chanting “praises” for the new high chief. Each compliment carried its barb, and soon laughter from the audience almost drowned out the words.

  Then the “high chief bound his right hand with a gaily painted cloth and began to stride about, miming his proclamations. For this scene, the Arioi used no props. But when the “subjects” dipped their little fingers into their imaginary bowls, Tepua could almost see the long, gooey strands. Soon pandemonium reigned, with bowls flying and imaginary poi getting smeared everywhere.

  Knotted-cord roared so hard that Tepua thought his high stool might tip over. Matopahu wore a faintly embarrassed grin, but Tepua saw his hands fiercely gripping the underside of his seat. She felt a moment of pity and wondered if she might have found a subtler way to handle the subject.

  At last the play ended in a flourish as the subjects rebelled, dumped poi on their troublesome ruler, and pantomimed tossing him over a cliff. The audience broke into a rumble of thigh pounding as the players bowed. It took a long time for Knotted-cord to stop laughing, and Matopahu’s rigid smile seemed carved on his face.

  The festivities continued, but Tepua began to think that the high point had been her satire. From Knotted-cord’s reaction, he would probably want the skit done at each Arioi performance for the rest of the season. She assumed that the Arioi would be glad to oblige. Poor Matopahu!

  Her gaze turned back to her brother. She waited impatiently for the end of the evening’s celebration, yet at the same time she dreaded that moment. If she went to Rongonui, would he recognize her? And what would happen when Rongonui sent word to their father that she still lived? He would insist that she come home, and then he would learn of her defilement. She gazed at the Arioi around her. She did not know if they would defend her from the wishes of her own family.

  The celebration ended for the night. The chest-slappers began to file from the hall. Tepua saw her brother rise, his profile clear against the dying flames of the bonfire. Had he sorrowed over losing her? she wondered.

  Rongonui turned, staring her way, as if he could see her, though she knew that she blended into the crowd. Perhaps he sensed something.

  Curling-leaf tugged Tepua’s hand impatiently. The novices were leaving. Tepua thought of going with them—to hide like a rat under a leaf.

  Her decision to conceal herself from the trader had been easy, but now it was her brother who stood here. How could she know if she would ever see him again, or anyone else from her family? Suddenly she broke Curling-leaf’s grip. She cut through the milling throng toward her brother, crying out to him in the atoll tongue.

  The scuffling and muttering of the crowd ceased at the sound of her shouts. Rongonui turned, raising his brows in confusion, even fright. “Who speaks with the voice of my lost sister?” he challenged.

  The costume and the face paint! Tepua spat on her wrist, scrubbed her forehead, then her cheek. As the paint wore away, Rongonui’s expression turned to one of astonishment.

  “Tepua-mua?” He came down from the platform.

  “Yes, my brother. I survived the storm and drifted here, to Tahiti.”

  Rongonui opened his arms and Tepua flung herself into his embrace. “So many tears have been shed for you, so many prayers spoken,” he said. “Why did you not send word that you were safe?”

  “I had no way to reach you. I did not even know if any of my kin had survived.”

  “But our traders come here often,” he answered, in a tone of rebuke. “And yes, we certainly did survive. We kept most of our canoes from capsizing, and lost no one but you. I thank the gods that the squall was brief.” Rongonui grasped her shoulders and held her away from him, studying her keenly. She became aware that others were watching, especially those still seated on the platform. The high chief cleared his throat.

  Her brother turned to Knotted-cord. “You have been a gracious host, noble high chief. This is a gift I did not expect. It gives me great happiness.”

  Knotted-cord leaned forward on his perch, glancing first at Tepua and then at Rongonui. “This woman is your sister?”

  “Yes. We had thought her dead, but I see that you have kept her safe. For that, my father Kohekapu will be greatly pleased.”

  Hearing these words gave Tepua a chill. Soon she might have to confess that she had not been cared for as well as her brother assumed. If she could somehow avoid that ...

  Knotted-cord puffed himself up. “She wished to enter the Arioi. I recognized her worthiness and aided her.”

  “My family is honored to receive your help.”

  Knotted-cord flicked his elegantly carved fan. “It may be,” he said cautiously, “that a few fools disregarded your sister’s rank. You can be certain that they will be more careful after this.”

  With that, the high chief grunted an order to his bearer and waited to be lifted from his seat. Suddenly he turned to Matopahu, who was staring with evident astonishment at the scene. “I trust you enjoyed the entertainment, noble brother,” Knotted-cord said with a parting laugh as the bearer lifted him.

  Hoatu, the chiefess, took Tepua into her own embrace and spoke to her in the atoll tongue. “I am glad to find you alive, Tepua-mua, after hearing so much about your family’s grief. When we take you back with us, I will order a great feast. All your kin will come—”

  Tepua stiffened. “Let us talk of that later.”

  “Then join us in our guest house,” said Hoatu. “I wish to get to know the sister of my husband.”

  Tepua glanced again at Matopahu, who had scorned his bearers to remain on his stool. Clearly he had heard the conversation between Rongonui and the high chief. Now Matopahu looked bewildered. Did it please or dismay him that his guess about her ancestry had proved true? And how badly had the play stung him? She wanted to run to him, to say something that might heal the breach between them... With a sigh, she turned away, to go with her brother.

  “I will visit with you, but I must sleep in my own quarters,” Tepua said at last as she walked with Rongonui outside the performance house. Servants carrying palm-rib torches lit the way to the high chief’s compound. “I am still bound by the rules of my lodge.”

  “You should stay with us,” said her brother, brushing back a strand of wavy hair that fell over his face. “One of our family should not debase herself by capering with Tahitian players. You will be returning home now, so you may as well tell your troupe leader that you are resigning.”

  Tepua spun around to face her brother. The black-lashed eyes were cold. “
That is not my plan,” she answered.

  He grasped her arm. “There is no question. You are Kohekapu’s daughter, and that is what he expects of you. You must forget this Arioi nonsense and return to your sacred duties until another marriage can be arranged.”

  “Rongonui,” said Hoatu sharply. “We are in Tahiti now, where we have no authority. Let us not offend our hosts by quarreling.”

  “You would let her defy her father’s wishes? I think I know already why she refuses to return. She cannot have stayed so long among these dissolute Tahitians without taking a lover.” Rongonui pulled Tepua to him, stared down at her with a hard gaze. “Have you been corrupted by these eaters of poi? Have you lost your purity?”

  Tepua tried to tear herself free from him.

  “So I am right.” He gripped her so hard that she nearly cried out from pain. She gasped, then stamped down, grinding her heel on his bare toe. Rongonui let go and she pulled away.

  Hoatu interposed herself between the two. “My husband and his sister will not fight,” she said calmly. “Rongonui, you disgrace yourself.”

  “Will you stand by while she destroys the reputation of my family?” Tepua’s brother hissed. For the moment the chiefess gave no answer.

  Just ahead stood the guest house, where servants were bringing in candlenut tapers. Others carried coconuts freshly opened for drinking, and bowls filled with fruit. Hoatu waved the servants out as soon as they had delivered the refreshments.

  The chiefess seated herself on the highest stool. Tepua saw her brother’s resentful expression as he took another seat. “You leave me with a problem, Tepua,” said Hoatu. “It is true that your father will expect you to come back to him.”

  “I have not joined the Arioi for frivolous reasons,” Tepua answered in a firm voice. “The god Oro seized me. Everyone saw that I was inspired. To tear me away from here—from the path I have chosen—would risk angering Oro.”

  “How do I know that?” asked her brother bitterly.

  “Do not answer spitefully, my young husband,” chided Hoatu. “I understand something of Tahitian customs. The Arioi would not have taken her in if they had not seen her in a state of nevaneva.”