Daughter of the Reef (18 page)

Quickly he secured his catch and set sail, following the
tira
. Once he cleared the reef passage into the lagoon, he saw high, claw-shaped sails of other fishing craft, all converging on the same beach. What could be drawing them except word of the trader's arrival? This atoll man would do a good business today!
 

Rimapoa ran his outrigger onto the beach, tethering it to the bole of a coconut palm. Following the sound of the crowd, he hurried to the assembly ground, where everyone had gathered. Glancing down through the forest of tattooed legs, he glimpsed a large mat laid out with objects that flashed and shimmered in the sun.
 

The men in front crouched to inspect and handle the goods, letting Rimapoa see over their shoulders. He glimpsed fishhooks, and fine ones, too, made from sea-turtle shell or mother-of-pearl, shaped to spiral inward. Fish could not shake themselves free of them, yet a fisherman, with a deft twist, could pull off his catch and be ready to bait the hook again.
 

The
motu
man, wearing a necklace of dolphin teeth over his tattoo-bordered chest, squatted on his heels, his arms draped around his knees. He answered questions by grunting, and making gestures with his fingers, as if his customers did not really interest him. Rimapoa hung back, careful not to attract the trader's attention.
 

Tepua was right, he saw. The man would make a formidable opponent. He was well muscled, fierce looking, with strong features and an arrogant bearing. Often he slapped aside the hands of those who were too inquisitive, or growled in his version of Maohi speech. He made it clear that he would take
tapa
in trade for his goods, but not any foodstuffs.
 

A number of men ran home, returning with rolls of bark-cloth. Rimapoa recognized some of Tangled-net's relatives among them. Tangled-net, of course, was absent. As soon as he had learned that Tepua was under the headman's protection, he had gone into hiding. The man was a pig, Rimapoa thought, fit only for sacrifice to the meanest gods.
 

Rimapoa tried to put his anger aside. He hung about the edge of the crowd, listening to the talk. If the
motu
man truly had an interest in Tepua, he might say something in passing. But the visitor said nothing to reveal himself. Soon many men had either made their bargains or given up in disgust. Rimapoa felt conspicuous in the small remaining crowd. He did not like the cold glances that Tangled-net's relatives were casting at him.
 

He turned toward his boat, thinking he should leave before trouble started. But he had nothing to tell Tepua and the trader was still talking...
 

“This
tapa
is your family's work?” the
motu
man asked one of Tangled-net's uncles as he looked over the cloth that had been offered.
 

The uncle had a jovial face and a big belly, but his arms were thick with muscle and his eyes shrewd. “The women of our household make the finest
tapa
in the district,” he replied proudly. “Not even the headman's servants can pound cloth so evenly and bleach it so white. I want these six fishhooks for my bundle.” He pointed to a group he had set aside.
 

A glint awakened in the atoll man's eyes. He softened his voice so that Rimapoa had to strain to hear. “Yesterday I saw the headman's servants beating cloth. And I saw with them a skinny woman, not Maohi by her looks. Maybe she is distracting the others from their work. Maybe that is why their cloth is not so good.” He added the last part jokingly.
 

“I have heard about that woman,” said the uncle. “She is nobody. Just some
vahine
from one of your atolls.”
 

Rimapoa clenched his fist to keep from groaning aloud at the man's loose talk.

“She interests me,” said the trader. “For your
tapa
I will give the fishhooks you chose, and two others, if you tell me all you know about her. Even more, if you have her name and something of her ancestry.”
 

Rimapoa hissed through his teeth. The savage was offering a far better deal than he had given the other men. This knowledge was worth something to him!
 

But then Rimapoa realized that he had edged dangerously close to the trader. He crouched behind a knot of men, peering out between them as Tangled-net's uncle answered quietly, “I cannot talk here. Come to the large canoe shed just after dark.” He pointed to a place along the shore. When the trader nodded, the uncle handed over his cloth and picked up his fishhooks. After he had taken the first six, the trader brushed his hand away.
 

“The rest—later,” said the
motu
man with a cold smile.
 

As he hurried from the assembly ground Rimapoa felt his fingers curl with rage. This uncle was playing a dangerous game for the sake of his nephew. Who could say what the savage intended? He might hope to reap a large reward by bringing Tepua home. But what would happen if he learned how Tangled-net had treated her?
 

Rimapoa scowled as he went to untie his canoe. The uncle must be scheming to get rid of Tepua so that his nephew could return from hiding. But how he meant to arrange this, Rimapoa could not guess. Tonight he would have to risk listening at the canoe shed...
 

 

Just before sunset, Rimapoa squatted behind the bole of a coconut palm, peering at the outline of the shed against the sky. A long row of center posts supported an arched roof of thatch that nearly reached the ground. Beneath stood racks where boats were stored when not in use. Now, during the fishing season, the shed was nearly empty. Only one canoe remained.
 

Rimapoa knew that boat, a large heavy dugout. It was too ancient and cracked for open-ocean use and too clumsy for paddling about the lagoon. The old man who owned the ancient craft refused to give it up, saying that one day he would paddle it—when the gods called him to paradise.
 

Rimapoa turned for a moment toward the last glimmer of light along the shore. Then he heard quiet footsteps as five men approached the shed. He recognized the big-bellied uncle from his silhouette. Several of the uncle's companions were carrying war clubs.
 

The men all ducked under the thatched roof. Rimapoa, feeling alarmed, leaned against the rough bark of the palm. The voices were low, furtive. As twilight faded he scuttled closer, to hide behind another tree at the edge of the shed.
 

He heard the fishermen send one of their number to watch outside for the trader's approach. Hairs prickled on the back of Rimapoa's neck. This did not look like preparations for a friendly meeting.
 

The shed remained dark. No torches were lit. Rimapoa strained to hear the voices, and realized that the men were arguing.

“Let the
motu
man take away this troublesome
vahine
,” the uncle was saying. “That will be best for us. We should even offer to help him catch her.”
 

“Catching her will be easy,” another voice said with a laugh. “We just wait until she visits the fish stealer.”

Rimapoa knotted his fists as a third voice joined in. This younger man had a reputation for being reckless and cruel. And coldly clever. “Uncle,” the young fisherman said, “you still have not listened to me. I agree that we must get rid of the
motu
woman, but your way is too risky. Sending her back to her island would not be wise.”
 

“And why not? When she is gone, Tangled-net can come home.”

“But, Uncle, I am certain mat this woman is of high birth—among her own people. For what other reason would the trader take such interest in her?”
 

“Tangled-net said she told great lies about herself.”

“Forgive my presumption, honored uncle, but Tangled-net is not the most truthful of my brothers. Suppose this Tepua has the ancestry she claimed, and was maiden of the temple as well. If the savage takes her home, her kin will say mat someone here defiled her.”
 

Mutters broke out among them. Then the uncle said, “She will be killed for her carelessness. Good.”

“Uncle, is your brain made of fermented breadfruit mash? Her family will not rest at that. They will want revenge.”

“They may refuse to trade with us, that is all. We can find other sources of pearl-shell fishhooks.”

“Fishhooks?” The younger man laughed. “They will paddle into our lagoon at night and creep into our houses. You will wake up with a fish spear sticking through your great belly.”
 

The uncle grumbled and fumed, but the younger man's voice rose above his. “Listen,” he hissed fiercely. “The one thing these atoll people understand is revenge. If the trader takes the woman away, they will come back after us, and our family will be destroyed.”
 

Rimapoa's mood darkened further. He sensed where the argument was heading.

“Then what would you do, my arrogant sage?” Tangled-net's uncle asked resentfully.

“Club the
motu
man and feed his body to the sharks. And the same for the woman, of course. Before she can cause more trouble.”
 

A chill ran down Rimapoa's back. Tepua was safe now, so long as she stayed in the headman's compound. But as soon as she went outside ... He shook off the grim thought and tried to hear what else the plotters would say.
 

“Getting rid of the trader will not be easy,” Tangled-net's uncle grumbled. “He has the bearing of a warrior and eyes that miss little. Do you think he will not be on his guard, if he comes at all?”
 

“We are five,” said someone else, “and he is one.”

“But his cries will be heard. This trader has the headman's protection during his visit. If we are found out—”

“Listen,” said the young man again. “I will tell you what to do. See that old dugout on the rack? What would happen if it slipped off and fell on a man?”
 

“It will not fall,” snorted Tangled-net's uncle, but Rimapoa heard murmurs of agreement and admiration for the young man's cleverness.
 

“The rack has been here for many seasons,” said the young man. “Perhaps the poles are cracked or the lashings loose. If someone were sitting just to the side there, the dugout might crush him before he could even cry out. And we have the bait to lure the man!”
 

Rimapoa began to shiver. Had these men no idea of what they were planning? To kill a man here would soil the canoe shed and anger the gods, ruining the fishing for everyone. There had to be a safer way to deal with the trader.
 

Tangled-net's uncle at once raised a similar objection, but the young instigator brushed his warning aside. “The gods care nothing for the death of a
motu
savage,” he said scornfully. “And we can always have a priest purify the canoe shed afterward, just in case.”
 

More muttering followed, and then a general agreement. As the plotters began their preparations Rimapoa beat his fist soundlessly against the tree. Perhaps he should try to warn off the trader or alert the headman.
 

The trader meant nothing to him. He wanted only to do what was best for Tepua. But if these men murdered once and got away with it, they would not hesitate to try again. He did not see how anyone could protect her.
 

He trembled, sweating. His hand crept to the shell-bladed knife stuck through the knotting of his loincloth. No. He would have no chance against five such ruthless men. They already hated him. Given the slightest excuse, they would kill him as eagerly as they would their other chosen victims. But if he helped the trader, then Tepua might be taken away...
 

He shook his head, unable to decide. Tepua's life would be in danger whether or not the trader was killed. Still struggling with this dilemma, he heard footsteps approaching, and realized that he had deliberated too long.
 

Now he saw two men, one carrying a torch of bundled coconut-leaf ribs, approaching the rear of the shed where he crouched. The trader, he realized, had turned cautious, bringing an escort. Rimapoa stood up, aware that he had no choice now but to greet the stranger. He signaled for caution. “I must warn you,” he whispered.
 

The
motu
man charged forward and grabbed Rimapoa tightly by the arm. Then the fisherman felt a spear point pressing through the thin cape over his back and knew that the bodyguard had slipped behind him. “I am not your enemy—” The sharp point pressed harder before he could explain.
 

“I will hold on to you, in case of trouble,” said the trader. “Say nothing.”

At that moment Tangled-net's uncle and the rest of the plotters emerged from the canoe house. “Who is this man?” the trader demanded as the others arrived.
 

A hand grabbed his chin, jerked his face toward the torchlight. “Rimapoa the fish stealer. A thief and a breaker of
tapu
. He is also the man who sleeps with that woman you are so curious about.”
 

“Him!” The
motu
man gasped with astonishment. “Then she is not the one I seek. A chief's daughter was lost at sea, but such a maiden would not take up with one of your fishermen.” The last words were spoken with the deepest contempt.
 

“Lies!” Rimapoa answered, no longer caring if the savage met his doom here. The man knew nothing about Tepua. Perhaps someday she would happily become a fisherman's
vahine
—Rimapoa's woman. “Tangled-net is the one who took her,” he shouted. “Against her will! Do not blame me for his evil work.”