Sister of the Sun (26 page)

"Tepua, I cannot agree."

"Because you still doubt my leadership?"

"I am sorry to say it, but that is one reason. I worry about the sailor you sent to Piho Clan. Cone-shell was wrong for what he did to you, but he may be right about the foreigner."
 

"I thought that Nika was doing well."

"My uncle calls him a troublemaker."

"Does he say why?"

"He doesn't always confide in me. But I have spent enough time with my uncle to know when he is serious."

"Then I will find out for myself. But that should not be the reason that keeps you away."

"Tepua, you know that I have always lived with Varoa Clan. My friends and my foster parents are there."

"Yet you must leave if you ever want to be free of Cone-shell's power. How can you aspire to the chiefhood if you aren't willing to stand on your own? Your father was of Ahiku Clan. Your place is here."
 

He let out a long breath. "I cannot answer you now, sister. Perhaps you are right. But the mourning for our father has begun again. We must join the others."
 

 

By late afternoon a high bier had been erected near the family
marae
of Kohekapu. Paruru stood with many others, looking up at the remains of his chief. About the annointed body lay sweet-smelling ferns and fruits of
fara
to scent the air.
 

The wailing of the death chants continued, each mourner adding new praises to the account of Kohekapu's deeds. Paruru would not say so aloud, but Natunatu had shown herself to be gifted with words. Her dirge had been the longest by far, and the most touching. Now the day's mourning was coming to an end.
 

With dusk approaching, no one wished to linger in this place of spirits. The last speaker finished. After a final chant by the priests, almost everyone headed home. But for Paruru and a few others there remained one more duty.
 

By the time he reached Kohekapu's house, priests and a few people of high rank had gathered outside for the cleansing rite. The sleeping mats and other things that Kohekapu had touched during his illness would be burned. Paruru had seen many such ceremonies. He realized quickly that something was wrong here. The mats and other goods had not been carried out into the yard.
 

An elder turned to him, and Paruru saw the troubled look on his deeply lined face. "The priests say they must burn everything. The house, too."
 

"
Aue
!" Paruru realized what this meant. As was always done, diviners had sought the cause of the old chief's death. Sometimes they blamed sorcery, sometimes a punishment by the gods. Paruru did not know what signs the priests had discovered, only that they were ominous. He knew one reason why the gods might be angry....
 

The sun had just set, and the waning daylight did little to dispel the gloom beneath the trees. No one spoke. In the quiet air, the beating of waves against the reef seemed to grow louder. All attention focused on the uncovered doorway of Kohekapu's house.
 

The deep voice of a
tahunga
sounded from within. Then a flame sprang up and the
tahunga
rushed outside. Paruru heard the crackling of dry brush that had been used as kindling. He saw flames licking at the thatch above the doorway, then spreading higher.
 

The
tahunga
faced the house, continuing his chant as smoke streamed through the narrow openings in the walls and fire raced along the roof. The women began wailing again. How Paruru had come to despise that sound!
 

As the fire consumed the belongings of the chief, the sounds of mourning eased. Paruru saw, in the glow of the flames, expressions of relief on the onlookers' faces. They felt safe now, he thought. The evil had been cleansed. Kohekapu was gone, but no further harm could come to them.
 

Paruru felt no relief.

 

 

 

FOURTEEN

 

One evening, days after the cries of mourning had finally ceased, Tepua was sitting in her house listening to stories told by her newest attendant. The girl, a distant relation, had been raised on another atoll to the north and brought here recently by her father.
 

The new girl was a good storyteller. Everyone in the house had clustered around her to listen. Even Tepua was entranced, and had moved her stool so that she could see and hear as the tales unfolded. Wedges of burning copra provided a dim illumination, enough so that the storyteller's expressive hands could be seen. She finished one legend and began another. "Now I will tell our version of Maui's search for the sea slug," she began.
 

The sound of drumming interrupted, however, before Maui even started his adventure. All heads turned to listen to the beat. Even the storyteller could not compete against the insistent voice of the slit-log drum.
 

"The dancing begins," Tepua heard the servants whispering to each other. To the new girl, they said, "You will come with us tonight. If the
ariki
permits."
 

Tepua quickly gave her agreement. The phase of the moon, she knew, marked this as a special night. Ghosts would not walk; it was a safe time to be outside, a time for young men and women to enjoy each other's company.
 

The attendants ran off, leaving Tepua alone. As she sat, watching the lights burn low, she remembered similar evenings during her youth. Then, too, the servants had bubbled with excitement as they went out, leaving Tepua with her chaperon. How she had argued and complained, making her guardian groan with despair! Tepua had known well what the other girls were doing while she remained a prisoner. Had she not been the high chief's daughter, she would have been with the others—dancing, making love.
 

And now, here she was again, isolated by her high rank while others were free to celebrate under the lovers' moon. But this time there was a difference. She had no chaperon. No old woman was sitting here, telling her what to do....
 

The drumming grew louder. The hard
tok, tok
of the slit-log drum sounded a frenzied rhythm. The deeper boom of the skinhead-drum beat with the pulsing of her blood. Her feet were already moving to the music.
 

She knotted her fist. How could she stay inside while everyone else was dancing? She untied her red sash and flung off her fine skirt. Then she went to the servants' end of the house, where she found a coarsely made garment and wrapped it about her hips. Someone had discarded a wreath of beach vines. That would be good enough for her hair.
 

There was little she could do to disguise her face, or her height. She would have to keep to the shadows if she did not wish to be recognized. The air inside her house suddenly seemed heavy with fumes from the burning copra. She could not wait to get into the fresh air under the stars.
 

"I am going for a walk," she told the guards outside. The men were so busy gazing longingly down the beach that they merely grunted their assent. She hurried past them, hearing the drums grow louder, feeling her feet picking up the steps of the dance.
 

She did not seek a partner, but kept to the edge of the crowd, stopping under the shadow of an overhanging ironwood tree. The drummers were so close now that she could feel each beat as if her own skin were being struck.
 

Her hips began swaying of their own accord, keeping time to the wild beat, while her arms and hands made graceful figures in the air. She breathed deeply, catching scents of flowers and perfumed oil from the other dancers. And behind the sweetness lay other scents—musky hints of growing desire.
 

Tepua watched the other dancers, many close to her own age. In the light of the low crescent moon she saw faces aglow with excitement. Perspiration gleamed on backs and thighs and chests. Now and again an exhausted dancer would stagger to a halt, then extend a hand to his or her partner. Then the couple would hurry off to find a quiet nest for themselves.
 

Tepua was content, for now, just to abandon herself to the music. In Tahiti she had grown used to dancing every day, practicing her skills for the Arioi performances. Long before that she had danced among her own people—but never with a partner, and never out of sight of her chaperons.
 

She knew that she might find Kiore here. The sailor was back from the islet he had visited during the time of mourning. On his return yesterday she had greeted him coolly and sent him off with White-sea. She had not cared to hear him talk excitedly of canoe-masters' lore.
 

Now she kept looking here and there among the dancers, expecting to see him. The words he had said once—that he wanted no woman but Tepua—meant nothing now. She could not blame him for seeking other company.
 

The drumming continued as Tepua advanced slowly along the beach. The dancers were fewer here, all moving with the grace of long practice. Even from a distance she thought she would recognize Kiore. Perhaps he had already found his companion for the night.
 

At last she was alone, far from the crowd, dancing on wet sand by the water's edge. Alone? No. Someone was watching her from the shadows! She stopped, picked up a clamshell, and tossed it at the figure that leaned motionless against a palm tree.
 

"
Aue
!" came the cry. "You have good aim."
 

Recognizing Kiore's voice, she laughed and picked up another shell. "On my island," she said, "we dance under the lovers' moon. We do not stand and watch."
 

"Then I will dance," he said, coming out into the pale light.

Tepua felt a new pitch of excitement as she started again. Before this, she had not really felt part of the festivities. She had been like Kiore, watching, envying the others. Now, with the sailor so close to her, her body seemed to be moving only for him. Her limbs felt weightless. Her hips swung as easily as leaves in the wind.
 

Kiore began in his own strange way, yet she found his steps appealing. She saw grace in his movements, foreign though they were. His chest glistened with sweat as he kept up his pace.
 

Out in the open, she knew she was far too conspicuous. Yet, for a time, she kept on. Her breathing came faster. Kiore's steps grew wilder. The drumbeat possessed her and would not let go.
 

At last, panting for breath, she halted and reached for his hand as she had seen other girls do. She tugged at him to follow, leading him away from the music. "Do not mistake me for the chief," she told him quietly. "Tepua is asleep in her house."
 

He turned to study her, lifting his hand to gently brush her cheek. "Then what do I call you? You must have a name."

She thought of the vines running down toward the water. "Beach-pea."

He laughed and pressed his nose to hers. The feeling was delicious, but she pulled away. "We must go somewhere else." She had not thought ahead this far. Under the trees lay many outrigger canoes; there was no reason she could not borrow one. With Kiore's eager help, she dragged a
vaka
over the sand.
 

The wind had dropped. The surface of the lagoon was perfectly still, moonlight reaching the shallow bottom. She could scarcely see where air ended and water began.
 

Leaving shore, Tepua glimpsed fish that did not stir as the canoe floated over them. The undersea gardens of coral seemed close enough to touch. Behind her she heard the rhythmic dip and stroke of Kiore's paddle.
 

She hesitated before telling him which way she was heading. Never had Tepua gone to Ata-ruru with anyone but Maukiri. She had an unspoken agreement with her cousin that this special islet was theirs alone. But what better place to take Kiore? Tepua thought of soft sand beneath the palms, of shrubs that offered shelter from the breeze.
 

They crossed the lagoon slowly, as if in a dream. She fell silent awhile, hearing only the sound of paddles stroking and water parting before the bow. She watched the glimmer of tiny ripples, then turned her gaze upward.
 

Overhead, star clusters glittered. Tepua called out their names, and sometimes Kiore told her the names his own people used. For a while Tepua put aside her paddle and moved back in the canoe until she could lean against the warmth of Kiore's chest. They whispered stories to each other, tales heard long ago.
 

The night was vast and timeless. Tepua felt no need to hurry. The sky and water belonged only to her and Kiore. The islet ahead was also theirs; it would wait as long as they wanted.
 

Dipping and stroking and resting as they chose, they crossed the placid water. At last, under the setting moon, she found the secret channels that led to the islet's beach. The canoe came in to shore, and suddenly Tepua emerged from her reverie. She felt awake now and filled with desire. As soon as the canoe was beached, she raced off, heading for the trees. "This way!" she called to him.
 

She picked up several large palm fronds and made a simple bed on the sand. Then she flung her skirt aside, lay down, and waited for him to join her. He seemed startled by her sudden directness, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he tumbled down beside her.
 

"How many layers?" she asked him playfully, tugging at the garment that coveted him from his waist to his legs.

"Only one," he promised. And finally, there were none.

For a time it was enough just to hold each other. "We are alike," she said softly, "in a way I did not see until I found you tonight. We are both strangers here. This is not your home, nor is it mine any longer."
 

He sighed, and pressed her face against the heat of his chest. "Home," he replied. "It is very far."