The boy pulled the breadfruit from the fire and broke it in half. Its white, flaky meat was packed with sustenance; a little like bread in taste, a trifle like potato, better than either. The boy gave half of it to Uri. The dog circled around, sniffing longingly as he waited for his dinner to cool. The bananas popped from their skins while their juices bubbled in the heat. Deftly Mafatu slid them out of the fire, transferred them to a broad leaf that served as a plate. Then, unmindful of burned fingers, he fell upon the hot food. He was famished. It seemed that he had never been so hungry in his whole life, and for a time there was only the sound of his greedy munching. Never had food tasted so good!
He ate and ate, until his stomach could hold no more. Then a great weariness stole through his limbs. With a sigh of deep content he sank back upon the cool sand and closed his eyes. Uri snuggled close, warm and friendly against his side. Overhead, the plaited fronds of the palms formed a snug shelter. “Someday,” the boy thought drowsily, “I will make my roof watertight, but not yet.”
The tide was running out of the lagoon with the sunset in a whispering hum of sound, like the reassuring hush of a mother to her child. Mafatu lay there under his lean-to, relaxed in every nerve. He had fire, food, shelter. He had faced Moana, the Sea God. He had dared the sacred marae of the eaters-of-men, to win his spear. There was a new-found confidence singing in his heart. He had found a new belief in himself.
At peace with himself and his world, he slept.
CHAPTER FOUR
DRUMS
The very next morning Mafatu set about building his canoe. He had banked his fire the night before in the natural shelter of a cave and he resolved never to let the sparks die out. For it was altogether too difficult to make fire with the firestick, and it required too much time. In Hikueru, for that reason, the fires were always kept burning, and it was the special charge of the younger members of a family to see that fuel was ever at hand. Woe unto the small boy who let the family fires go out!
While his breakfast roasted in the coals, the boy cleared the brush away from the base of the great tamanu. There was no wood better for canoe building than this. It was tough, durable, yet buoyant in the water. Mafatu could fell his tree by fire and burn it out, too. Later he would grind an adze out of basalt for the finished work. The adze would take a long time, but he had made them often in Hikueru and he knew just how to go about it. The boy was beginning to realize that the hours he had spent fashioning utensils were to stand him now in good stead. Nets and knives and sharkline, implements and shell fishhooks—he knew how to make them all. How he had hated those tasks in Hikueru! He was quick and clever with his hands, and now he was grateful for the skill which was his.
The fire crackled and snapped about the base of the tamanu tree. When at length it had eaten well into the trunk, Mafatu climbed aloft and crept cautiously out upon a large branch that overhung the beach. Then taking firm hold of the branches above his head, he began to jump up and down. As the fire ate deeper into the trunk, the tree began to lean under the boy’s weight. With a snap and a crash it fell across the sand. As it fell, Mafatu leaped free of the branches, as nimbly as a cat.
“That’s enough for today, Uri,” he decided. “Tomorrow we’ll build our fires down the trunk and start burning it out. When the eaters-of-men come, we will be ready!”
In the meantime there were many other things to do: a fish trap of bamboo, a net of sennit, a fishhook, too, if only he could find some bone. And while the canoe was building, how could Mafatu get out to the distant reef to set his trap, unless first he made a raft of bamboo?
The boy decided that the raft was of first importance. He chose a score or more of fine bamboos as large around as his arm, felling them by fire; then he lashed them together with strips of purau bark, making a sturdy raft of two thicknesses. It would serve him well until his canoe should be finished.
As he worked, his mind returned again and again to the wild pig he was determined to kill. How could he go back to Hikueru without a boar’s-tooth necklace? Why, that necklace was almost as important as a canoe! For by that token men would know his strength and courage. When the day came that he should leave this high island, he would sail to the north and east. Somewhere in that quarter lay the Cloud of Islands, the great Tuamotu Archipelago which extends across a thousand miles of ocean and ten degrees of latitude. Within those reef-spiked channels floated Hikueru, his homeland. … There was no doubt in his mind that he would find it; for Maui, who had led him safe to this shore, would someday guide him home again. But first, Mafatu knew, he must prove himself worthy. Men should never again call him Mafatu, the Boy Who Was Afraid. And Tavana Nui should say with pride: “Here is my son, come home from the sea.”
Kivi, the albatross, came and went on his mysterious errands, emerging out of blue space, vanishing into it again. At sundown, regularly, the white bird came wheeling and circling, to alight clumsily on the beach almost at Mafatu’s side, while Uri pranced about and greeted his friend after his own fashion. As for Uri, he was having the time of his life; for there were countless sea birds nesting along the shore to be chased and put to rout; and wild goats and pigs in the mountains to make life exciting enough for any dog.
Mafatu had discovered a mulberry tree. He stripped off the bark and removed the inner white lining. Then he wet the fiber and laid it upon a flat stone and set about beating it with a stick of wood. The fiber spread and grew thinner under the persistent beating. The boy added another strip, wet it, and beat it into the first one; then another and another. Soon he had a yard of “cloth” to serve as a pareu. It was soft and white, and now at last he was clothed.
“Before I go home I will make a dye of ava and paint a fine design on my pareu,” the boy promised himself. “I must not go back ill-clothed and empty-handed. Men must know that I have conquered the sea, and made the land serve me as well.”
The days passed in a multitude of tasks that kept Mafatu busy from dawn till dark. His lean-to grew into a three-sided house with bamboo walls and a thatch of palm leaves. The fourth wall was open to the breezes of the lagoon. It was a trim little house and he was proud of it. A roll of woven mats lay on the floor; there was a shelf in the wall with three bowls cut from coconut shells; bone fishhooks dangled from a peg; there was a coil of tough sennit, many feet long; an extra pareu of tapa waterproofed with gum of the artu tree, for wet weather. All day long the wind played through the openings in the bamboo walls and at night lizards scurried through the thatch with soft rustlings.
One morning, wandering far down the beach, Mafatu came upon a sheltered cove. His heart gave a leap of joy; for there, white-gleaming in the sun, was all that remained of the skeleton of a whale. It might not have meant very much to you or to me; but to Mafatu it meant knives and fishhooks galore, splintered bone for darts and spears, a shoulder blade for an ax. It was a veritable treasure trove. The boy leaped up and down in his excitement. “Uri!” he shouted. “We’re rich! Come—help me drag these bones home!”
His hands seemed all thumbs in his eagerness; he tied as many bones as he could manage into two bundles. One bundle he shouldered himself. The other Uri dragged behind him. And thus they returned to the campsite, weary, but filled with elation. Even the dog seemed to have some understanding of what this discovery meant; or if not, he was at least infected with his master’s high spirits. He leaped about like a sportive puppy, yapping until he was hoarse.
Now began the long process of grinding the knife and the ax. Hour after long hour, squatting before a slab of basalt, Mafatu worked and worked, until his hands were raw and blistered and the sweat ran down into his eyes. The knife emerged first, since that was the most imperative. Its blade was ten inches long, its handle a knob of joint. It was sharp enough to cut the fronds of coconut trees, to slice off the end of a green nut. Ai, but it was a splendid knife! All Mafatu’s skill went into it. It would be a fine weapon as well, the boy thought grimly, as he ground it down to a sharp point. Some sea robber had been bre
aking into his bamboo trap and he was going to find out who the culprit was! Probably that old hammerhead shark who was always cruising around. … Just as if he owned the lagoon!
Fishing with a line took too long when you were working against time. Mafatu could not afford to have his trap robbed. Twice it had been broken into, the stout bamboos crushed and the contents eaten. It was the work either or a shark of or an octopus. That was certain. No other fish was strong enough to snap the tough bamboo.
Mafatu’s mouth was set in a grim line as he worked away on his knife. That old hammerhead—undoubtedly he was the thief! Mafatu had come to recognize him; for every day when the boy went out with his trap, that shark, larger than all the others, was circling around, wary and watchful. The other sharks seemed to treat the hammerhead with deference.
Hunger alone drove Mafatu out to the reef to set his trap. He knew that if he was to maintain strength to accomplish all that lay ahead he must have fish to add to his diet of fruit. But often as he set his trap far out by the barrier reef, the hammerhead would approach, roll over slightly in passing, and the cold gleam of its eye filled Mafatu with dread and anger.
“Wait, you!” the boy threatened darkly, shaking his fist at the ma’o. “Wait until I have my knife! You will not be so brave then, Ma’o. You will run away when you see it flash.”
But the morning that the knife was finished, Mafatu did not feel so brave as he would have liked. He hoped he would never see the hammerhead again. Paddling out to the distant reef, he glanced down from time to time at the long-bladed knife where it hung about his neck by a cord of sennit. It wasn’t, after all, such a formidable weapon. It was only a knife made by a boy from a whale’s rib.
Uri sat on the edge of the raft, sniffing at the wind. Mafatu always took his dog along, for Uri howled unmercifully if he were left behind. And Mafatu had come to rely upon the companionship of the little yellow dog. The boy talked with the animal as if he were another person, consulting with him, arguing, playing when there was time for play. They were very close, these two.
This morning as they approached the spot where the fish trap was anchored, Mafatu saw the polished dorsal of the hated hammerhead circling slowly in the water. It was like a triangle of black basalt, making a little furrow in the water as it passed.
“Aiá, Ma’o!” the boy shouted roughly, trying to bolster up his courage. “I have my knife today, see! Coward who robs traps—catch your own fish!”
The hammerhead approached the raft in leisurely fashion; it rolled over slightly, and its gaping jaws seemed to curve in a yawning grin. Uri ran to the edge of the raft, barking furiously; the hair on the dog’s neck stood up in a bristling ridge. The shark, unconcerned, moved away. Then with a whip of its powerful tail it rushed at the bamboo fish trap and seized it in its jaws. Mafatu was struck dumb. The hammerhead shook the trap as a terrier might shake a rat. The boy watched, fascinated, unable to make a move. He saw the muscles work in the fish’s neck as the great tail thrashed the water to fury. The trap splintered into bits, while the fish within escaped only to vanish into the shark’s mouth. Mafatu was filled with impotent rage. The hours he had spent making that trap— But all he could do was shout threats at his enemy.
Uri was running from one side of the raft to the other, furious with excitement. A large wave sheeted across the reef. At that second the dog’s shift in weight tipped the raft at a perilous angle. With a helpless yelp, Uri slid off into the water. Mafatu sprang to catch him but he was too late.
Instantly the hammerhead whipped about. The wave slewed the raft away. Uri, swimming frantically, tried to regain it. There was desperation in the brown eyes—the puzzled eyes so faithful and true. Mafatu strained forward. His dog. His companion. … The hammerhead was moving in slowly. A mighty rage stormed through the boy. He gripped his knife. Then he was over the side in a clean-curving dive.
Mafatu came up under his enemy. The shark spun about. Its rough hide scraped the flesh from the boy’s shoulder. In that instant Mafatu stabbed. Deep, deep into the white belly. There was a terrific impact. Water lashed to foam. Stunned, gasping, the boy fought for life and air.
It seemed that he would never reach the surface. Aué, his lungs would burst! . . . At last his head broke water. Putting his face to the surface, he saw the great shark turn over, fathoms deep. Blood flowed from the wound in its belly. Instantly gray shapes rushed in—other sharks, tearing the wounded hammerhead to pieces.
Uri—where was he? Mafatu saw his dog then. Uri was trying to pull himself up on the raft. Mafatu seized him by the scruff and dragged him up to safety. Then he caught his dog to him and hugged him close, talking to him foolishly. Uri yelped for joy and licked his master’s cheek.
It wasn’t until Mafatu reached shore that he realized what he had done. He had killed the ma’o with his own hand, with naught but a bone knife. He could never have done it for himself. Fear would have robbed his arm of all strength. He had done it for Uri, his dog. And he felt suddenly humble with gratitude.
Now the adze was completed. Thus the canoe, too, was beginning to take finished shape. It was fifteen feet long, three feet deep, and scarcely a foot wide. Often as he worked, the boy would pause to stand off and admire his craft. It was a beautiful canoe! How proud his father would be. … Alas that it was such slow work.
When the hull had been hollowed out, it must be smoothed off with the adze and caulked with artu gum. Then a mast must be made of pukatea, straight and true; a sail woven from pandanus. And there was rigging to be made of sennit, tough and strong as wire. The craft would have been finished sooner if only there were not so many things to interfere. Every day, for example, Mafatu climbed the plateau to his lookout. He had not missed one day since he arrived at the island. He knew that when the eaters-of-men came they would sail by day; they would have to beat against the prevailing wind. It would take them many hours to come from Smoking Island. Mafatu would be able to see them from his lookout long before they arrived. If only he could be ready before they came! He must, he must! But that trip up the mountain every day took so much precious time. His canoe would have been finished days ago, but for that.
“Today I will not go,” the boy thought, as his adze whirred and chipped. “It takes too long.”
Then he sighed and laid down the adze. Caution was the better part of wisdom. He picked up his shining spear with its new shaft and turned toward the trail that led to the high plateau. Uri leaped ahead, his nose keen-pointed to the ground.
This day as Mafatu climbed the rough trail through the jungle, he was preoccupied, lost in his thoughts. His mind was not in this business at all: he was thinking about the rigging of his canoe, planning how he could strengthen it here, tighten it there. Some instinct of danger must have made him pause, warning him to beware. There it was—just a rustle in the undergrowth. Scarcely louder than an insect’s hum. The boy drew up tense and listening. Uri had dashed off on some wild-goose chase of his own. The boy stood rooted, alert. He saw it then: a wild boar with lowered head. Eyes red with hate. The flash of its wicked tusks.
The animal pawed the ground suddenly. Its grunting snort broke the stillness. Mafatu knew a blind impulse to turn and run. Then he drew a deep breath and shouted out a challenge: “Puaa viri! Wild pig! I, Mafatu, have come to kill you!”
The boar charged. Over the ground it tore. Foam flew back from its tusks. The boy braced himself. He met the charge with a perfectly timed thrust of the spear. The boar impaled itself, shoulder-deep, upon the spearhead.
Mafatu was thrown off balance, sent spinning headlong. Over and over he rolled. He leaped to his feet in a panic, defenseless. But the boar toppled, gave a convulsive shudder, lay still.
Mafatu was struck dumb. He had killed a wild pig! For a second he could not grasp the wonderful truth of it. Then he leaped wildly into the air, shouting: “Aué te aué! I have killed the puaa! Do you hear me, Tavana Nui? I, your son, have killed a boar! Ho! Ha!”
Uri came leaping out of the ju
ngle and barked himself hoarse at sight of the pig.
“A fine one you are!” Mafatu joked at his dog. “Where were you when I needed you? Off chasing butterflies, that’s you! Was it for this I saved you from the teeth of the ma’o? I’ve a mind not to give you one mouthful of puaa.”
Uri hung his head and dropped his tail, then brightened as Mafatu laughed joyously. “Foolish one! Here—drag your share.”
The boy made a rude sled of bamboo and loaded the heavy animal onto it. Then he hitched a stout liana about Uri’s neck and the dog threw his weight into the task. The two started home in triumph with their burden, Mafatu singing at the top of his lungs a lusty song of blood and battle. He was all Polynesian now, charged with the ancient fierceness of his race. Victory coursed like fire through his veins. There was nothing he would not have dared! Nothing he feared! Aiá, but life was good!
When they reached the campsite, Mafatu built up a roaring fire and set a pile of stones to heat. While the stones were heating, the boy cleaned the pig at the water’s edge, then stuffed its empty belly with succulent ti leaves and red bananas. When at last the oven stones were white and smoking, Mafatu dragged the pig back to the fire and rolled it upon the hot umu. Then he covered it with layer upon layer of plantain leaves—dozens of them—to hold in the steam and to allow the pork to cook through slowly. Uri leaped about, sniffing at the delicious odors, barking his delight. Pork! After weeks of fish and fish and fish, how good it would taste! Besides, fish was not good for dogs. Too many bones. Kivi, no meat eater, looked on calmly, wondering what all this disturbance was about; the bird was content with a coconut that Mafatu split open for him, that he might join in the feast.
Mafatu’s mouth fairly watered in anticipation. But even as he settled back to await the feast, his hands were busy: the sun gleamed brightly on the curving tusks that already he was making into a necklace. They formed almost a complete circle and were as white as bleached coral. Aué! How men’s tongues would chatter when they saw this fine necklace! Even Grandfather’s had been no finer.
Call It Courage Page 4