Sister of the Sun (3 page)

At last, thirst and hunger satisfied, the two young women stretched out on a shady part of the beach. "Now you will tell me everything," said Maukiri. "Everything about the men of Tahiti."
 

Tepua laughed. "They are like our men, of course, but a little fatter. You have seen Tahitian traders."

"I am not talking about
looking
at them! Surely you have a lover by now. Tell me what their
hanihani
is like."
 

Tepua pursed her lips. Maukiri had reminded her of an old sore point between them. When Tepua was younger, she had been kept from the love games that Maukiri and other young people enjoyed. Because of her noble station, Tepua's virginity had been protected by a chaperon—old Bone-needle—as well as by
tapu
.
 

"I do have someone...at least I did," said Tepua at last, recalling uncomfortably how she had listened, long ago, to Maukiri chatter about her first boyfriends. "He is called Matopahu. Brother of a high chief, and a great man of Tahiti."
 

"I hear some doubt in your voice."

"It is not so simple," said Tepua irritably. "He asked me to be his wife and I refused—until I can complete my service to the Arioi. He said he would wait, but now he grows impatient. Someone told me he has another
vahine
."
 

"Then you must find someone else," said Maukiri cheerfully.

"I can be happy without a man," Tepua retorted. "Remember how much practice I had."

"Maybe you can," said Maukiri. "But I remember how you used to talk about Paruru. When Bone-needle wasn't looking, you would waggle your hips when he passed, and see if he looked at you."
 

"I just spent ten days sailing with Paruru! I will be happy to see no more of him for a while."

"I think, cousin, that you are not telling me the truth. And I know for certain that now he
does
look at you."
 

Tepua rolled away in mock disgust. On the journey, her father's warrior had behaved toward her with formal aloofness, though she sensed his interest. And it was true that as a girl she had often thought about his dark, probing eyes and his capable fingers.
 

"Maukiri, I have heard enough about men. I want to ask you a serious question. Why do I see so many worried expressions? Almost no one seems happy to see me home."
 

Her cousin did not answer at once. Tepua turned and saw her lying on her belly, tracing patterns in the sand with her fingers. "It is because of the priest, Faka-ora, and all this talk of ghost voices," Maukiri said. "Faka-ora is telling people that a time of trial is at hand, and that Umia is not ready to lead our people through it."
 

"If my father recovers, then Umia will not have to."

"And what if we lose Kohekapu? Faka-ora says that the gods may have a new plan for us."

Tepua frowned, unwilling to admit to herself that the old man's spirit might depart. "I still do not see—"

"Ah, Tepua. There is certain to be a dispute now. Here is what some priests and elders are saying. You are the oldest living child of Kohekapu. Why should
you
not be our chief?"
 

 

 

 

TWO

 

When Tepua and Maukiri returned, late in the day, they found that Ehi had prepared a welcoming feast. Outside Ehi's house, steam and aromas of cooking food rose from the
umu
, the shallow, circular pit oven. Beneath a covering of coconut leaf matting, fire-heated stones were baking the delicacies. The smells were tempting, but Tepua felt a gnawing in her stomach that dulled her appetite.
 

She looked around at the small group of guests and realized that all were close kin to her, all women of Ahiku Clan. These women came forward at once and greeted her warmly. Tepua thought she understood now why other islanders had not welcomed her return. A dispute over the ruling succession could throw the entire atoll into turmoil. Everyone expected Natunatu's son to follow Kohekapu. Tepua's arrival could only cause trouble.
 

"Come, daughter, to your honored place," said Ehi, after Tepua had pressed noses with all the guests. Ehi led her to mats, woven of
fara
leaves, that were spread on the sandy ground. Maukiri brought a coconut shell full of water and spilled some onto Tepua's hands for washing. Then two girls bent over the steaming oven and began uncovering the food.
 

This feast was for women only. Here, as in Tahiti, men and women cooked and ate in separate groups. Tepua watched silently as the food was brought to her place—a large piece of steaming fish, a pile of clams, baked taro root, cakes made from fruit of the
fara
. She had eaten lightly on the long sea journey. Now she should be famished, yet her stomach felt cold and tight.
 

The customary silence reigned as each guest tore into the generous meal. Tepua tried to do justice to the fare, but had to force herself to swallow each morsel. She could not get Maukiri's words out of her mind.
 

She began to wonder, angrily, whether Paruru had deceived her. On his arrival in Tahiti he had said only that her father wanted to speak to her before he died. The warrior had mentioned nothing about the chiefhood.
 

Perhaps the priests had misled her, she thought. Long ago they had told her that she must give way to her younger brother. She had accepted that decision, agreeing to marry a chief of another island. But the marriage had not taken place. And now the priests seemed to be changing their minds....
 

Tepua looked up, seeing the tangle of atoll forest that surrounded Ehi's house. Despite all her treasured memories, this island was no longer her home. But the trees seemed so close on all sides, the shadows so deep. In those shadows, the spirits of her ancestors lingered, watching over their people. The spirits might not let her go back to Tahiti.
 

At last the meal was done, guests packing leftovers in baskets to carry home. Nearly everyone hurried off, anxious to reach their own houses before dark. Ehi's old mother and two daughters remained—Maukiri as well as Maukiri's married sister, slender Roki. Soon Roki's young and portly husband, Adze-falling, arrived from a meal with his companions.
 

"I have eaten well, and now I am sleepy," Adze-falling announced. His wife looked at him scornfully. Evidently she had hoped he would keep her awake.
 

Maukiri readied a copra candle—chunks of dried coconut strung on a stick. She blew on some hot embers preserved from the fire until the first piece of copra began to burn. With this as their source of light, the people of Ehi's household moved into the dark interior of the dwelling.

On such occasions as a homecoming, there would usually be singing and storytelling late into the night. Tepua sensed a less festive mood this evening. Now that the guests were gone, Ehi's expression had become thoughtful, even worried. "We must talk," she said in a low voice.
 

Adze-falling yawned loudly.

"This concerns Ahiku Clan," said Ehi sharply to her daughter's husband. "If
you
want to sleep, that is no matter."
 

"Sleep now so that later you will have some life in you," Roki added, giving him a playful slap.

Maukiri laughed, and Ehi whispered a rebuke. "You youngsters think about nothing but
hanihani
! We have serious things to discuss."
 

The women gathered about the copra light and sat in a circle, facing each other. Tepua, guessing what was to come, wished she could retreat into the darkness.
 

"I want to warn you all," said Ehi. "We must watch out for Natunatu. She is dangerous. She knows how to get rid of people who stand in her way."
 

Maukiri, her mood turning suddenly solemn, gave a dismayed cry of "
Aue
!"
 

"It is true," said Ehi. "We must be certain she cannot use sorcery against Tepua. Every morning, Maukiri, you will check Tepua's sleeping mat for fallen hairs, and dispose of them properly." Ehi held up a small, leaf-wrapped packet. "I have saved the leavings from Tepua's meal. Tomorrow, Roki, you will go with your husband and drown this in the sea. And Tepua, from now on you will take no meals with anyone but me."
 

Tepua protested. "I have no wish to anger Natunatu. I came only for a visit. Are we to believe idle talk? If the high priest and his friends have plans for me, then why do they say nothing to my face?"
 

"I know Faka-ora well," replied Ehi. "He is cautious. He will continue to consult the spirits until he has a confirming sign. Meanwhile it is up to us to protect you."
 

"I do not want to be chief. Umia is next—"
 

"That is not for you to decide," replied Ehi harshly. "Daughter," she added in a softer tone. "You must listen to the ancestors. They will tell you what to do."
 

 

In the morning, when the others rose early to bathe and to begin the work of the day, Tepua feigned sleep and remained on her mat. "Let her rest," said Ehi. "She has crossed a wide sea to come back to us."
 

Even Ehi's old mother shuffled out through the low doorway. At last Tepua was alone.

She had decided what to do now, though the prospect troubled her. She still could hear, from long ago, her attendant Bone-needle's voice warning her not to meddle in the realm of priests. Tepua had a rare gift and she was determined to use it.
 

Adults as well as children played with loops of string, making patterns on their fingers. The figures illustrated everyday objects or favorite tales. But for Tepua this art was far more important—it sometimes brought visions of distant or future events.
 

Now she looked around the interior of the house, which was lit by sunlight streaming through openings in the thatch. Small utensils—coconut cups, a wooden dish, a coral pounder for fara fruit—lay neatly stacked at the base of the wall. Higher up, where rolled mats hung, she found a dangling length of sennit, coconut fiber cord. It was already knotted into a loop.
 

This was probably a cord that Maukiri used for playing string games. But Tepua's use would not be a game. Through it, the gods might reveal to her secrets that even priests could not obtain.
 

After taking a glance at the doorway to see that no one was watching, Tepua looped the cord about her fingers. Kneeling, she intoned a prayer, asking for aid from her guardian spirit, Tapahi-roro-ariki, the great chiefess of long ago. Finally Tepua sat and held the loop between her hands.
 

She began with the ordinary play, making the shapes of an eel, a warbler, a turtle. Gradually she let her thoughts run free so that her fingers moved the strings of their own accord. She began to slip into a daze, losing track of her surroundings, aware of nothing but the tiny world before her.
 

Her fingers continued to work. The loops kept forming, sliding through each other. The strings crossed and re-crossed.
Now
, a whisper said.
Now the vision may come
. Yet Tepua saw only her fingers and the cord.
 

She forced herself to keep at it, ignoring the weariness, the heaviness of her arms, the soreness of skin. An answer had never come easily. She watched the strings until she could watch no more. Then, with a cry of despair, she fell forward on the mat. The spirits must be angry with her, for they would not show her anything of what was to come.
 

She dozed, woke late in the morning, and went out for a bath in the lagoon. A group of Varoa women, people from Natunatu's clan, passed her on the beach; they barely responded to her greeting cry, "May you have life!"
 

Of course they were angry at her. They had long waited for the son of their clan to take the chiefhood. Tepua bit her lip as she recalled old alliances among the family groups of the atoll. In case of a dispute, Rongo Clan would probably side with Varoa. The conflicts of long ago, settled when her father took Natunatu as his wife, were now on the verge of erupting again.
 

Tepua gazed out across the lagoon, in the direction of far-off Tahiti. What if she took a canoe now and slipped away before the trouble here grew worse? What a pleasant prospect! But she would not get far before Kohekapu sent a fleet to bring her back.
 

Even so, a brief escape was still possible. She waded out from shore, feeling the fine sand between her toes and warm water swirling about her knees. Here the underwater reef flat sloped gently, reaching at last a sudden drop-off. She plunged in, swimming angrily, taking out her frustration on the water. She barely noticed the sting of saltwater against the coral cuts that still marked her legs.
 

In the far distance she saw her little islet, the one called Ata-ruru or "Dense-shade," after a legendary dwelling. If she swam to the place, she thought, then perhaps no one would know where she had gone. Without a canoe missing, they might not even think to look for her there!
 

The water slid by, helping her forget her turmoil. Vaguely she thought of sharks, but she did not consider them a threat to her now. The dangerous ones usually stayed near the pass to the sea.
 

The motions of swimming became as repetitive as the game of string figures had been. Once more she felt herself slipping into a daze. Lulled by the rhythm of stroking and the feel of the water sliding past, she grew less and less aware of her surroundings.
 

Then she seemed to hear a distant murmur of voices. She glimpsed a circle of human figures, men wearing tall feathers in their hair. They were priests squatting together in the sacred precincts of the
marae
.