Sister of the Sun (18 page)

Gloom surrounded her, and she thought for a moment that dusk had come. Had she dozed that long? And why was she sprawled on old leaves instead of on a comfortable mat? Around her, thick stands of trees screened out all but a few glimmers of sunlight.
 

She jumped up in fright, suddenly realizing what Cone-shell had done. Someone had taken her to the forested interior of his islet. There was not even a sign of habitation here.
 

She drew in her breath when she saw shapes standing beyond the nearest trees. Yes, there was a sign of human presence in this deserted place. While blood began to pound in her ears she crept closer, until she could clearly see the arrangement of coral blocks and the majestic
pukatea
trees shading them. The site was overgrown, but the ruins of a
marae
still stood here.
 

A small pile of skulls in the shadows made her stagger back. This was a place of spirits, a place where ancient ghosts of Varoa Clan lingered. It did not matter how she had come here; she wanted only to find the brightness and open air of the shore.
 

Behind her, through the forest, she heard the faint pounding of waves on the outer reef. She turned in the opposite direction, heading for the lagoon, but met small uprooted trees blocking the way. Twisted roots and sharp broken branches made every step treacherous. In her haste, she stumbled, scoring her ankle painfully. Another stick snapped against her skin, cutting her calf.
 

Nothing here looked familiar. She had never seen so dense an atoll forest. Where people lived, fallen wood did not remain in heaps, but was gathered for heating the ovens. This area looked as if no one had walked on it for many seasons.
 

The thought made her blood pound even harder. Had she somehow wandered onto forbidden land? She plunged on through the damp, steamy undergrowth until swampy ground stopped her. Insects swarmed about her face and arms as she hastily retreated. None of this made sense. She wondered if she could still be on Varoa's main islet.
 

Where were the friendly waters of the lagoon? Around her she saw shadowed trunks blocking her way, entangling vines, stray chunks of coral that shifted underfoot. She ducked low, crawling beneath the angling bare branches of old hibiscus trees.
 

She reached a dense stand of
fara
, where aerial roots descending from each tree formed a barrier she could not cross. She bypassed the
fara
, to enter a pleasant corridor under piney ironwood trees where nothing grew from the needle-covered ground. But the corridor took her in the wrong direction and she had to turn back.
 

Arms and legs scratched and bleeding, she stumbled through another swamp, then past young coconut trees that barely reached her waist. She tore her way through another wall of vines, and then, with a cry of joy, glimpsed bright, calm water. In another moment she was down the slope and out onto the glittering beach. She turned around, shouting to anyone who might hear her, but nobody came.
 

Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she surveyed the unfamiliar scene. She was surely no longer on Cone-shell's
motu
. Where were the houses, the canoes, the people? Looking across the lagoon, she could not even see the other islets that were visible from Cone-shell's shore.
 

Refusing to believe her senses, she ran along the beach, shouting, expecting to hear an answering call or to reach a settlement. Then the beach ended in a tangle of
mikimiki
, and she was forced to splash through the shallows.
 

She turned back to run in the opposite direction. All too quickly she reached the other end of the
motu
. From here she could just make out, in the far distance, a few tops of palm trees marking another islet of the coral ring. But that other
motu
was hopelessly out of reach for someone without a canoe. Even if she had the strength to swim that far, she dared not try with so many scratches on her body. The sharks would catch up with her long before she got across.
 

She fell down on the damp beach and buried her face in her hands. Now she understood where she had been taken. This was an isolated
motu
, a haunted place once inhabited by Varoa Clan, but long abandoned. It sat alone in a corner of the atoll that people rarely visited.
 

How had Cone-shell managed this? Two-eels had undoubtedly succumbed to the
kava
as well, leaving her guards with no leader. She pictured her confused men still waiting outside a guesthouse, believing that she lay within under a
tahunga's
care.
 

She had badly misjudged Varoa's chief. He was not planning to wait until she made an obvious misstep. He would try to seize the chiefhood for Umia
now
, while her brother could still be controlled. Perhaps, in trying to woo Umia, she had even strengthened Cone-shell's resolve.
 

Tepua groaned softly. She was trapped where no one would find her. Cone-shell could leave her here as long as he wished.

 

 

 

TEN

 

From the
motu
beach, Tepua glanced at the sun, already far down the sky. Her throat felt dry, her stomach empty, but her first thoughts were not of drink or food. She dreaded the oncoming night. She would be alone here, with only the light of the waning moon for company. This would be a night when spirits walked the land.
 

The ghosts were already alive in her imagination— vengeful phantoms who ripped apart and devoured anyone they caught. She needed a shelter; even a crude one might offer some protection. Better still would be a fire.
 

Tepua closed her eyes and recalled all the times she had seen fire kindled. It was a duty usually performed by men. Even in her unhappy days as a servant, long ago, she had never carried out this demanding task, although she knew how.
 

She needed to make a rubbing stick or "fire plow" and a grooved bed of dry wood, and she had do this without proper tools. Looking about her at broken shells, she tossed aside many that had been worn smooth by water and sand. At last she cracked a clamshell between two pieces of coral and obtained a sharp, if ragged, edge.
 

To find wood meant going inland, but the thought of returning to the dimly lit forest made her tremble. Instead she ran along the beach until she finally spotted a
kahaia
close to shore, its branches sweeping the ground. After a brief prayer she bent underneath, catching a faint perfume from the clusters of white flowers. She snapped off a stick for the fire plow and put it aside. That was the easy part.
 

Searching beneath the leaves, she found a branch that had partially broken from the tree and died. This was just what she needed for the bed. All she had to do was extend the split until the branch broke in half lengthwise.
 

She wedged the sharp shell into the gap and hammered it with another piece of wood, slowly splitting the rest of the branch. Twigs rattled above, dropping small green berries down on her head. At last, with a snap, a section of her branch broke free. The split portion was short, but she thought it would serve.
 

Returning to the beach, she used a sharp piece of coral to cut away the exposed pith, leaving a lengthwise groove. To finish the plow itself she sharpened the thinner stick. Now all she needed was dry kindling and firewood.
 

Looking around at the dampness of the forest, she immediately felt disheartened. The old coconut husks on the ground were soaked from recent rains and would prove useless for tinder. On an exposed part of the beach she collected dry ironwood needles and hoped they would do.
 

Finally she gathered fuel for her fire, fallen coconuts for food, and palm fronds to use in a shelter. By now the sunlight was almost gone. Standing on the beach, she took up the fire plow and began a chant she had heard many times.
 

Hika, hika tau ahi
!
 

She put the end of the bed-stick under her foot and rubbed the plow's point along the groove. Again and again she stroked, repeating the chant, until she could smell the scent of heated wood. A few specks of smoldering wood dust collected at the end of the groove; quickly she dumped these onto the tinder, which she had spread on a leaf.
 

Mau tutu, mau rangaranga
!
 

She fell to the ground, blowing gently, expecting to hear the welcome crackle of flames. She waited, then began shaking the tinder impatiently. No fire!
 

With a sigh, she stood again, resuming the work and the song. Her back ached from the unaccustomed posture, but she kept at it, until the air was filled with the scent of smoldering wood. Once more, she attempted to set the tinder alight....
 

No matter how often she tried, however, she could not produce the tiniest glimmer of flame. "The spirits of this place are against me!" she cried as she angrily tossed the sticks aside. The short twilight had already begun. She barely had time left for building a shelter.
 

She jammed a forked stick into the ground and dropped another stick in the fork to serve as a simple ridgepole. Against this pole she leaned several mature coconut fronds, as she had seen fishermen do, producing a thin wall that fluttered in the gathering breeze. She threw a few other fronds over them, tied everything in place with lengths of beach vine, and crawled inside.
 

Her mouth was dry, her throat parched. In her haste to finish the other tasks, she had not stopped to open the coconuts. Now, in darkness and without tools, she could do nothing to help herself. Within the tiny space of the shelter she curled up in a ball and tried not to think about ghosts or thirst.
 

 

In time the moon rose, but Tepua did not care to look out at it. She saw glimmers of light against the palm-frond walls and wished she could sleep. She wanted to believe that no harm could come to her within the shelter.
 

But the forest refused to be silent. Every gust of wind made the leaves rattle. She heard other sounds that she could not explain. Creaking branches? Birdcalls? Hermit crabs scuttling over twigs?
 

There were chants for warding off spirits, and she recited every one she knew. Unwillingly she recalled the
marae
in the woods, its coral slabs blackened by age. Restless spirits of the dead dwelled among the bones that lay hidden there.
 

She felt perspiration forming on her face and back. When the wind picked up, seeping through the walls, the moisture grew cold and made her shiver. Cone-shell had even taken her cloak, leaving her only the mat skirt for clothing.
 

All she had was this flimsy shelter for protection. How the ghosts would shriek their laughter when they came to swoop down on her! She imagined wild tangles of hair streaming behind their blue-black faces, and long teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
 

"Tapahi-roro-ariki!" she cried, calling on the ancestress who had protected her for so long. "What am I to do?"

She listened for an answer. The wind dropped suddenly and all she could hear was the soft lapping of waves nearby and the distant thundering of the reef. A voice seemed to speak to her, but at first she was not sure that she understood.
 

"Be defiant, daughter," she thought the voice said. Tepua squirmed in the narrow confines and tried to listen again.

Then she saw Tapahi-roro-ariki as her ancestress must have looked when she ruled long ago. She was a tall fierce woman, her loins bound with the
maro kura
, her head adorned by the high headdress of tropic bird feathers. One hand clenched the shaft of her double-ended spear; the other gripped the handle of a polished ironwood club.
 

Tapahi-roro-ariki, Head-cleaving Chief, was the name she had taken. She had been the first to unite the atoll's quarreling clans. Many skulls were broken by her war club, but in the end she brought peace and ruled wisely.
 

Tapahi-roro-ariki would not have tolerated a sea slug like Cone-shell. As for the ghosts of Varoa—she would have laughed in their long-toothed faces.
 

Now the voice that Tepua had heard seemed to speak again. "You are Kohekapu's daughter," whispered the waves lapping in the lagoon. "You are
ariki
. Have no fear," boomed the breakers on the reef. She thought of the coconuts she had gathered, the sweet milk, the soft meat within.
 

With a cry of defiance against Cone-shell and all his clan, Tepua pushed her way out of the shelter and stood on the beach. Raising herself to her full height, she turned toward the center of the island."Here I am, ghosts of Varoa Clan,'' she shouted, watching the shadows in the moonlight. "Here I stand—Tepua-mua-ariki. Come to me if you dare."
 

From the woods she heard an answering flurry of creaking and flapping, and her heart almost burst from fright. But it was only the wind that had risen again, bringing the scent of the sea. She was hearing the natural sounds of the forest.
 

With a sudden fury, she picked up a coconut and battered it against a splintered log. A sharp stub of branch sticking out served as her husking stick. When the end of the nut was exposed, she cut open the "mouth" with a sliver of coral, put the cool, soothing liquid to her lips, and began to drink.....
 

 

In the morning, Tepua saw two canoes approaching the island. Unsurprised, she did not stand and call to the boats. Instead, she finished eating the meat of the clams she had gathered, then hastily buried the leavings. She perched herself high on a log, sat erect with her chin held high, and waited to be found.