Daughter of the Reef (22 page)

“So now you put your faith in
tapu
. I remember how little that did for you when Tangled-net took you to the shelter. What you need is a strong man—”
 

Impatiently she interrupted. “Rimapoa, you are brave and clever. But that is not enough against a determined band of warriors. You can be all those things and proud besides, but it will do you no good when I am lying on the sand with my skull smashed by a club!” She paused to calm herself. “I am sorry, but the trader's arrival convinced me of that. It is the truth of things and we both must accept it.”
 

He locked his gaze with hers. Slowly the severe lines etched on his face by grief and anger softened. “What if the Arioi turn you away?”
 

“Then—then—” She faltered. She had been so sure of herself that she had not considered the possibility. If she failed in her quest, she doubted that the high chief would take her in. And now that she had seen Matopahu strutting in his finery, whispering about her to his brother, she could not stand the thought of remaining at court.
 

The answer came out before she could stop herself. “Then I will do as you asked,” she said in a rush. “I will take you as my
tane
. I will be your wife.”
 

“Ah, that is all I can hope for.” He took her in his arms and held her affectionately, seemingly oblivious to who might be watching.
 

For a moment the memories came back of the day when they had walked to the waterfall. One part of her wanted to give up the struggle, to go with the fisherman wherever he asked. “Rimapoa,” she said softly. “Let us accept that the gods will resolve this. They will decide whether the Arioi find me worthy.”
 

“Yes,” he said joyfully. “Yes, I understand. And I know what I must do now. I will bring an offering to the fisherman's
marae
that will make the priest's eyes bulge! The gods will hear my plea.”
 

And I must also pray
, she thought.
To Oro. To Oro-of-the-laid-down-spear. To show me that I know why I have come to Tahiti.

 

 

11

 

BESIDE the shore, in a clearing bordered by tall, thick-rooted
rata
trees, Tepua found a shrine where women prayed to their guardian spirits. She must make her offering here, she knew, for ordinary women were forbidden to approach the places that men held sacred.
 

The shrine was simple, a small heap of water-smoothed stones surrounded by a fence of short sticks. The modest offering table of lashed bamboo stood at shoulder height. This shrine was dwarfed by the
marae
complex behind it. From where she stood, Tepua could see only a few gray walls and thatched roofs, but earlier she had glimpsed the huge
ahu
of stone that was the main
marae's
heart. She sighed as she lifted her gifts, a few pieces of ripe fruit, and put them on the altar, beside other offerings of food and flowers.
 

She dared not presume to call on a great god directly; only a priest could do that. But she remembered how her protective spirit, Tapahi-roro-ariki, had comforted her in a dream. She wanted to call on her ancestress for help, but in this foreign place she did not feel the proper reverence.
 

Kneeling and closing her eyes, Tepua pictured the
marae
at home, its walls of weathered coral, its secret burial places beneath the paving stones. She shivered as she recalled the chants over the offerings, chants to draw the attention of the spirits:
Niu kura, niu taupe, niu toro
...
 

“Great ancestress,” she begged at last, “speak to Oro for me. Remind him whose daughter I am. Ask him to grant me his favor.” A sudden chill touched her and she knew the fear of the gods.
 

Tepua opened her eyes, rose, and walked humbly from the shrine. She realized how glad she was to be away from that place of spirits when she paused to cross a stream where it emptied into the lagoon. Here children were tossing
nono
fruits at each other, splashing and giggling. She wanted to throw her wrap aside and join them.
 

But something distracted her. When the children quieted for a moment, she heard drumming. The Arioi might be rehearsing, she realized. Pausing only to wash off the dust, she ran along the shoreline, following the sounds.
 

Soon she neared the huge open-walled building that she had seen from the canoe. Its thatched roof was loftier than that of the headman's grand dwelling. Its posts were the smoothed trunks of palm trees. Inside lay a raised platform for honored guests. In a corner, the drummers were practicing, and a few young dancers with them.
 

She saw other preparations under way. Workers carried a newly hewn plank to men who were repairing the wooden platform. She smelled the tang of sap and sawdust, mixed with the scent of dry grass scattered on the floor.
 

She did not enter, but went to a grove of breadfruit trees a short distance from the performance house. Here she thought she might dance to the drummers' beat without being seen. But her thoughts turned to Rimapoa, and she could not get started.
 

Where would he go when his time here ran out? He had spoken of seeking refuge with other chiefs, but had not mentioned any influential friends who might aid him.
I will help, somehow
, she vowed and then found herself able to focus on the drumming.
 

She began a slow dance, one that used graceful hand movements to tell stories. She started with the motion for
ori
—walking. With her upper arms held close to her body and elbows bent with palms facing up, she moved her hands up and down in the rhythm of someone striding along a trail.
 

I was walking
...
 

She lifted her arms high, with palms facing each other, forming the profile of a valley with her hands. Then she put her hands to her eyes, keeping her elbows up and extended to each side.
 

Up a valley. I saw
...
 

She dropped her fingertips onto her shoulders, so that her arms formed the outline of outspread wings.

A bird
...
 

“That is very good,” said a soft voice behind her.

Tepua, startled, turned toward the intruder. She saw a square face framed by flowing black hair, a yellow hibiscus blossom above one ear.
 

“I am Curling-leaf,” the young woman said pleasantly. She was short, stocky, and plain, but her laughing eyes gave life to her face. “I am a novice with the Arioi. And you have taken my favorite spot.”
 

“I did not know—”

“Please stay. The grove is large enough for two dancers and I would not mind having a companion.” Something about Curling-leaf reminded Tepua of Hard-mallet. The young Arioi novice was not as pretty, but her disposition seemed more cheerful.
 

Tepua introduced herself, but said nothing of where she had come from. “So you are a
po'o
, a chest-slapper,” she said. “Then you are the first Arioi I have met.” Tepua knew that Curling-leaf held a provisional grade, one that must be passed before reaching the lowest regular rank of the order.
 

“I have been a
po'o
for some time.”
 

“Even so, you are far ahead of me,” said Tepua, trying not to show her envy.

Curling-leaf sighed. “Outsiders always think that my life must be wonderful. Let me tell you what it is really like.”

Tepua did not want to be discouraged before she had even begun, but politeness and curiosity made her listen to the other woman's experiences. For three years, Curling-leaf had been a servant in the house of the Arioi lodge chiefess. All this time she had been preparing herself for promotion to the rank of Pointed-thorn, the order's lowest grade.
 

“I did not know it could take that long,” said Tepua in a discouraged voice.

“There are so many chants to memorize, dances to practice, skills to develop,” Curling-leaf explained. “But even though I am finally ready, I have another problem that holds me back.”
 

“Yes?” Tepua sensed her new friend's reluctance to continue.

“This may not trouble you at all,” said Curling-leaf. “Do you know that a member must provide a feast each time she advances a grade in the Arioi?”
 

Tepua frowned, puzzled.

“I am sorry to confess,” the novice continued, her gaze now on the ground, “that my family cannot help me. My father and uncles are good men, but they have no land of their own. Providing my feast would be a great hardship for them.”
 

Embarrassed by this admission, Tepua almost wished she had not pressed for an answer. At the same time she wondered angrily why no one had bothered to explain this to her. “My kin cannot help me either,” Tepua whispered, touching Curling-leaf's hand in a gesture of sympathy.
 

“But do not worry, my new friend,” the novice answered. “You are pretty enough to find an admirer. Some important man often comes forward when one of our female members is ready to advance. And, of course, she returns the gift in other ways.”
 

So that is what they all expect of me! That is what everyone has assumed
! Tepua felt her face burning as she considered the implications. But why should she concern herself over it now? She would be happy enough just to become a novice, even if she never went beyond that.
 

She turned her thoughts to Curling-leaf's situation, wondering if this young woman had spurned the attentions of her admirers. Perhaps that was not the reason. Curling-leaf had a pleasant disposition, but her plain features might not appeal to many men. “Despite all you tell me,” said Tepua, “I am determined to try.”
 

“Then I will pray for your success,” said Curling-leaf. “And if you do find a place among us, I will be your friend. But I don't think that practicing your dancing will help you. I have watched many candidates who danced well, only to be found unworthy because they did not give themselves completely to Oro.”
 

Tepua shut her eyes and leaned her head back against a tree. She remembered how she had lost herself in dance, feeling the fire of divine strength run through her. She believed that Oro had seized her then, though she had certainly not spent any time practicing her art. If she had faith in the god, perhaps he would come to her again.
 

“Then I will do as you say, Curling-leaf,” she answered softly, though the decision made her uneasy. “I will work no more at this. I will accept what skills I have and pray for Oro to inspire me.”
And if the god fails me, then Rimapoa will win after all.

As the evening of the Arioi performance approached, Tepua's apprehension grew. By then she had talked to other novices, finding some who disagreed with Curling-leaf's advice. “It would not hurt,” said one girl, “to dress yourself properly so the god will know how eager you are to please him.”
 

Following the novices' instructions, Tepua made a scarlet paint for her face from the juice of
mati
berries crushed with
tou
leaves. She combed out her hair until it glistened in the late-afternoon sunlight, then put on a headdress woven from bright yellow
ti
leaves. Over her wrap, she tied a girdle made from the same leaves as her headdress. Then she anointed herself with a dab of pomade, coconut oil scented with sandalwood dust.
 

Reds and violets of sunset streaked the sky as she finally made her way toward the performance house. People had started to gather, most taking seats outside the open walls of the building. Beneath the thatched roof of the great theater two bonfires crackled, lighting the mats hung from the expanse of the single rear wall and reflecting off the huge, polished pillars that supported the roofbeams.
 

The leaping bonfires and glow of candlenut tapers made the night outside seem darker. Tepua stood apart from the crowd massing around the building. The light dazzled and dismayed her. The theater was huge and she had never danced before such a large crowd. If Oro called her, she wondered how she could even make her way through the throng of people.
 

A sharp prickle started at the back of her neck as the drumming began. The milling crowd moved aside, forming a lane for a troupe of musicians and players who strode toward the performance house. One man pounded a drum so tall that it had to be carried before him on the backs of two assistants. Tepua felt its bass beat through her toes as he passed. Other men tapped double-ended drums slung over their shoulders by straps, or hollowed-out logs with slits cut at the top. These log drums gave out a
tok, tok
like the sound of
tapa
mallets, but much sharper and louder.
 

The onlookers arranged themselves, sitting on the ground outside the theater and looking in past its open walls to the area where the performers would dance. The more privileged classes had seating inside, on the scented grass laid out on the floor. The stools on the viewing platform remained empty.
 

Tepua heard a court herald shout in his strong bass voice above the clamor of the crowd: “The high chief is coming. He flies to the house of the players. Clear the sky, clear the earth so that there may be no hesitation in his flight. Give way, the high chief comes!”
 

The sound of running footsteps blended into the sound of the drums. Knotted-cord, dressed magnificently in streaming robes of
tapa
, seemed to swoop down upon the crowd. His headdress was shaped like a frigate bird with lifted wings. The chief was carried so rapidly on the shoulders of his bearer that Tepua thought the bird might rise from his head and fly off.