Daughter of the Reef (20 page)

Then Matopahu heard the conch trumpet blown, a resonant blast that made him look over his shoulder at the cluster of ceremonial buildings outside the courtyard. He saw two priests approaching, bringing with them the sacred god's house from its keeping place. The ark was of polished wood, a closed chest covered by an arched roof of thatch. The men carried the ark suspended between two poles, and made their way carefully through the gap in the low wall surrounding the courtyard.
 

The high priest took a step closer while the ark was placed on posts set up to receive it. Beside Ihetoa came a wizened old man dressed in a white waist sash and loincloth, his hands entirely blackened by tattoos. He was the god-handler, the one who actually opened the ark, unwrapped the sacred image from its scented bed of
tapa
and drew it forth. His hands carried so much
mana
, so much sacred power, that he could not feed himself, lest he make his food too dangerous for his stomach.
 

A hush settled over the attendants as the old man came forward and reached under the thatch of the ark. There was but one opening, a round hole sealed with a sacred, white cloth. The god-handler slipped an age-withered forearm inside to draw out the image. To Matopahu, what emerged in the old man's hands looked almost alive. He drew in his breath as he looked at the oblong shape covered with bright feathers, glowing in crimson like the heart of fire or the spilled blood of war.
 

The high priest lifted his arms and chanted, “Oro, greatest and most terrible of gods, take on the mantle of these sacred feathers. Oro, fly to us from your place in the misty heights. Enter now into your image, your body, that we may hear you speak.”
 

Matopahu's throat grew dry. The ruddy light of dawn shimmered on the feathered covering and a breeze stirred it gently. Suddenly Matopahu saw the god breathe and move. So bright was Oro that his eyes ached to look on him.
 

The acolytes and underpriests prostrated themselves before the image held aloft in the old man's hands. Matopahu cast himself down along with them.
 

He heard the high priest intone, “Oro, god of war and plenty, son of Ta'aroa and Hina-tu-atua, hear my plea. I beseech you to put away your wrath and offer us your wisdom.” The high priest chanted more words of praise to the god, then asked in a rising tone, “What can we expect in the coming season, O mighty one? Will the breadfruit bear in plenty? Or will the crop fail—as Matopahu warns us—leaving us with empty bellies?”
 

The chief's brother felt his lips trembling. He had not expected his own name to be mentioned. Now any blame for disturbing the god would clearly fall on himself. Nervously he watched the priest continue. Ihetoa leaned close to the image, as if to hear its answer, but did not dare touch it. A renewed moaning in the trees made Matopahu's shivering grow worse.
 

The high priest muttered and the moaning sound came again. Then Ihetoa was speaking, uttering words of gratitude and praise to Oro. The god-handler lowered the image and replaced it inside the ark. But what was the answer? Matopahu turned to his
taio
and saw only a puzzled frown.
 

Ihetoa's face betrayed nothing. He stood in silence, waiting until the god's house was taken away. Then he raised his arms and turned toward the
ahu
of the temple. “Here is what great Oro has said to me,” he intoned, his voice harsh in the cool, morning air. “These words are addressed directly to Matopahu. 'Have patience,' the god says. 'Do not try to be the first cock announcing the dawn. Remember what happens to the ones who crow too early.'” He lowered his arms, turned to the high chief's brother, his face displaying a faint smile of satisfaction.
 

“But that is no answer,” Matopahu protested as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Telling me to have patience. That settles nothing.”

“Then you have not understood it,” Ihetoa replied coldly. “Talk to your priestly friend and let him explain.” He turned, walking solemnly out of the courtyard. His assistants lifted the god's house and followed behind him.
 

Matopahu understood the meaning well enough. It meant that Ihetoa could continue to stall, refusing to announce that the people should take action. And Matopahu already knew, merely by observing the trees, that little remained of the current breadfruit crop. Unless an effort was made to preserve much of this, and the root crops as well, many people would go hungry in the coming season.
 

Matopahu wondered if Oro had really spoken. If he had, then perhaps the high priest had lost his ability to interpret the mysterious sounds that the gods made. In fury, he turned toward his
taio
.
 

“I cannot prove him wrong,” whispered Eye-to-heaven. “At least he has not flatly denied your claim. He would not dare do that.”

“But how long must we keep this to ourselves?”

“Our friends—your supporters—are quietly taking precautions, though it will not be enough if a real famine strikes. For now we must be satisfied with that.”
 

“I will be satisfied,” answered Matopahu bitterly, “when Ihetoa is no longer my brother's high priest.”

 

A short time later Matopahu was walking along the wooded shore. His earlier weariness had vanished, driven off by his anger at the high priest, and he felt a need for exercise.
 

In the
marae
, which lay on the nearby spit of land that jutted into the lagoon, he had left the ceremonial garment that the attendants had provided. Now he wore a waistcloth and shoulder cape plaited from strips of hibiscus bark. Unwilling, at this early hour, to don the elaborate headdresses affected by nobles at his brother's court, he had wrapped his head with a turban, his only concession to vanity being a long plume fastened above his forehead. He walked barefoot, enjoying the feel of the sandy ground.
 

To walk here was a privilege that his brother no longer could enjoy, Matopahu thought with a wry smile. Since assuming his title, Knotted-cord was carried everywhere he went so that contact with the sacred personage might not accidentally sanctify a place used by commoners. Not long ago, the chief's bearer had stumbled, letting Knotted-cord's leg brush the outside of a noblewoman's dwelling. She had been forced to abandon the house, since it had been made sacred by the chief's touch. Matopahu shook his head at the thought of the owner's discomfiture, and dug his toes deeper into the sand.
 

Then, with a sigh, he turned, looking toward the fence of bamboo that surrounded the high chief's compound. Matopahu could see his brother's residence, with its high thatched roof and walls of canes set closely together. He assumed that Knotted-cord was still sleeping soundly within. Or perhaps not so soundly ...
 

The dispute over the famine prophecy was only the latest in a series of conflicts that had threatened the peace of the district. Though he did not encourage them, some men whispered of deposing Knotted-cord and making Matopahu their chief. Matopahu did not take these mutterings seriously. His brother's hold on the high office was too strong now. Soon, Matopahu expected, the men who had pushed him aside would act to remove him from the court as well. In all likelihood, he would be forced into exile. Perhaps that would be for the good of all ... except himself.
 

Matopahu's worried thoughts were interrupted by the soft
plunk
made by a canoe paddle. Turning, he was surprised to see an outrigger gliding across the still waters of the lagoon. He glanced at the weathered hull and low bow, with its flat bow board, recognizing the canoe as a fisherman's craft. The mast and sail had been taken down and stowed in the bottom.
 

A wiry bronzed man sat in the stern, handling the steering oar. Amidships a woman knelt, dipping a paddle. As she drew closer he studied her high forehead, large glistening eyes, and the note of determination in her face. She had a strange, exotic beauty, he thought. Then he laughed aloud as he recognized her. The dancer from the household of Pigs-run-out!
 

The canoe approached a stone jetty used by important visitors to dock. As soon as the two men who stood guard for the chief saw the battered outrigger canoe, they ran out, shouting and gesturing to warn it away. The man who steered the craft ignored them. The woman leaned forward and called, “We come seeking refuge. Does the high chief turn us back without a hearing?”
 

“I see no pigs or
tapa
in your canoe,” one guard said. “What can you offer for my help?”
 

“Among my people,” the woman retorted sharply, “a chief's hospitality is open to the poorest family of his island. I thought the same would hold here.”
 

“We, too, must eat,” the guard said, picking up a long spear and pointing it at the canoe.

“Then we must seek aid from better men!”

Matopahu scowled in shame for his brother's household. The guards had no right to ask for gifts. Quickly he walked toward them, emerging from the greenery so that he could be seen.
 

“Wait!” he cried just as the fisherman was about to paddle away. Matopahu saw the woman's eyes widen at his approach. Her lips parted, as if to speak his name, and her face reddened beneath the gold of her skin, but she kept silent. No, she had not forgotten him.
 

Matopahu strode out onto the jetty. “Your greediness dishonors this household,” he scolded the men. “Stand aside, and hope that my brother does not put you to work grating coconuts.” He turned, beckoning to the couple in the outrigger. “
Manava
! You are weary. Please come ashore.”
 

Suddenly he remembered the woman's name—Tepua-mua. She rose halfway in her seat, apparently ready to accept his offer, but the man hesitated.
 

“I am the high chief's brother,” Matopahu explained to him. “I can promise you a welcome here. If you wish an audience with Knotted-cord, I will arrange everything. Tell me what drives you from the headman's protection.”
 

He glanced from the fisherman to Tepua. The man seemed about to reply, but she touched his arm and whispered something, then turned to Matopahu. “I cannot explain my situation simply,” she answered in a controlled voice. “It will be better if I speak directly to the high chief.”
 

Matopahu nodded, narrowing his eyes. He realized that she still simmered over his pretense of scorning her. What did that matter to him, when so many eager women were always at hand? Yet he felt an unexpected pleasure at seeing her again. “As you wish,” he answered. He signaled for the guards to help her climb ashore. Then he turned, leading his visitors up the path toward the compound.
 

Once inside, Matopahu left the new arrivals with one of his retainers. They would be lodged in a guest house until Knotted-cord was ready to see them. Matopahu hoped this matter, whatever it was, could be settled quickly and without ill-will. He counted Pigs-run-out as his friend.
 

As for the woman, he did not know what to make of her. At the underchief's house she had confided in him, but he doubted that she had revealed the full truth about herself. He had taken her for a noblewoman, a displaced princess from a distant atoll. But what was she doing with this fisherman, who seemed more companion than servant?
 

Matopahu strode past the various outbuildings, the cookhouses for men and for women, the storehouses for the chief's riches, and stopped at the high chief's own dwelling. He realized he had come at the proper moment when he heard a cry from within the house. “The high chief is coming out,” warned the herald's deep voice. “Stand back, stand back.”
 

Matopahu recalled, for a moment, how his brother had been as a youth. Not tall, but well formed, with limbs that were strong, yet smooth. Now, as Matopahu glanced up at the chief being carried out, he saw one who had attained the majesty of girth that was the mark of important men.
 

“Why is my food not ready?” Knotted-cord complained as he emerged, blinking, into sunlight. The pouting face, the whiny voice, the childish impatience; they were not characteristic of the brother Matopahu had once known. They had come upon the chief with indulgence and indolence.
 

Knotted-cord rode the back of a new bearer, a huge young man who was already beginning to perspire under the load. Matopahu felt a twinge of sympathy for the fellow, but his thoughts remained with the unexpected visitors. “Noble brother, may I beg a favor of you?” he asked.
 

“If you are quick. I see that the imbeciles are still fetching my bowls of
poi
.”
 

“A woman and a man have come to ask your help. Evidently it is something that Pigs-run-out could not handle. A matter requiring the high chief's wisdom—”
 

“There is my food! Next time have it ready when I come out!” The chief swatted his bearer as a signal to advance.

“Noble brother!” said Matopahu in a tone of annoyance.

“I will hold my usual audience this afternoon,” grumbled Knotted-cord, turning his fat neck only briefly to give his answer. “Expect no favors.”
 

 

After bathing, and rubbing himself with perfumed coconut oil, Matopahu put on a waist cloth of fresh white
tapa
, painted elegantly with crimson dye. About his neck, a servant tied a regal gorget made of feathers and cowrie shells. Shaped like a half circle hanging down, its shimmering border stuck out beyond his broad shoulders.
 

The servant took the headpiece outside before settling it on Matopahu's hair, for such a wide fan of feathers and plumes could not otherwise get through the doorway. The gorget was so large and stiff that Matopahu could not fold his arms, but had to clasp his hands behind him as he walked. He would have preferred his turban and a simple shell necklace, but he was the chief's brother and appearances had to be kept.