The Great Taboo

CHAPTER XVIII.

TU-​KI­LA-​KI­LA PLAYS A CARD.

Be­fore the French­man could car­ry out his plan, how­ev­er, he was him­self the re­cip­ient of the high hon­or of a vis­it from his su­pe­ri­or god and chief, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

Ev­ery day and all day long, save on a few rare oc­ca­sions when spe­cial du­ties ab­solved him, the cus­tom and re­li­gion of the is­landers pre­scribed that their supreme in­car­nate de­ity should keep watch and ward with­out ces­sa­tion over the great spread­ing banyan-​tree that over­shad­owed with its dark boughs his tem­ple-​palace. High god as he was held to be, and all-​pow­er­ful with­in the lim­its of his own strict taboos, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was yet as rigid­ly bound with­in those iron laws of cus­tom and re­li­gious us­age as the mean­est and poor­est of his sub­ject wor­ship­pers. From sun­rise to sun­set, and far on in­to the night, the Pil­lar of Heav­en was com­pelled to prowl up and down, with spear in hand and tom­ahawk at side, as Fe­lix had so of­ten seen him, be­fore the sa­cred trunk, of which he ap­peared to be in some mys­te­ri­ous way the ap­point­ed guardian. His very pow­er, it seemed, was in­ti­mate­ly bound up with the per­for­mance of that cease­less and irk­some du­ty; he was a god in whose hands the lives of his peo­ple were but as dust in the bal­ance; but he re­mained so on­ly on the oner­ous con­di­tion of pac­ing to and fro, like a sen­try, for­ev­er be­fore the still more holy and ven­er­able ob­ject he was cho­sen to pro­tect from at­tack or in­jury. Had he failed in his task, had he slum­bered at his post, all god though he might be, his peo­ple them­selves would have risen in a body and torn him limb from limb be­fore their an­ces­tral fetich as a sac­ri­le­gious pre­tender.

At cer­tain times and sea­sons, how­ev­er, as for ex­am­ple at all high feasts and fes­ti­vals, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la had respite for a while from this con­stant tread­mill of me­chan­ical di­vin­ity. When­ev­er the moon was at the half-​quar­ter, or the plan­ets were in lucky con­junc­tions, or a red glow lit up the sky by night, or the sa­cred sac­ri­fi­cial fires of hu­man flesh were light­ed, then Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la could lay aside his tom­ahawk and spear, and be­come for a while as the is­landers, his fel­lows, were. At oth­er times, too, when he went out in state to vis­it the less­er deities of his court, the King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter made a solemn taboo be­fore He left his home, which pro­tect­ed the sa­cred tree from ag­gres­sion dur­ing its guardian's ab­sence. Then Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, shad­ed by his di­vine um­brel­la, and pre­ced­ed by the noise of the holy tom-​toms, could go like a monarch over all parts of his realm, giv­ing such or­ders as he pleased (with­in the lim­its of cus­tom) to his in­fe­ri­or of­fi­cers. It was in this way that he now paid his vis­it to M. Jules Pey­ron, King of the Birds. And he did so for what to him were am­ply suf­fi­cient rea­sons.

It had not es­caped Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's keen eye, as he paced among the skele­tons in his yard that morn­ing, that Fe­lix Thurstan, the King of the Rain, had tak­en his way open­ly to­ward the French­man's quar­ters. He felt pret­ty sure, there­fore, that Fe­lix had by this time learned an­oth­er white man was liv­ing on the is­land; and he thought it an omi­nous fact that the new-​com­er should make his way to­ward his fel­low-​Eu­ro­pean's hut on the very first morn­ing when the law of taboo ren­dered such a vis­it pos­si­ble. The sav­age is al­ways by na­ture sus­pi­cious; and Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la had grounds enough of his own for sus­pi­cion in this par­tic­ular in­stance. The two white men were sure­ly brew­ing mis­chief to­geth­er for the Lord of Heav­en and Earth, the Il­lu­min­er of the Glow­ing Light of the Sun; he must make haste and see what plan they were con­coct­ing against the sa­cred tree and the per­son of its rep­re­sen­ta­tive, the King of Plants and of the Host of Heav­en.

But it isn't so easy to make haste when all your move­ments are im­ped­ed and ham­pered by end­less taboos and a minute­ly an­noy­ing rit­ual. Be­fore Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la could get him­self un­der way, sa­cred um­brel­la, tom-​toms, and all, it was nec­es­sary for the King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter to make taboo on an elab­orate scale with their re­spec­tive el­ements; and so by the time the high god had reached M. Jules Pey­ron's gar­den, Fe­lix Thurstan had al­ready some time since re­turned to Muriel's hut and his own quar­ters.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la ap­proached the King of the Birds, amid loud clap­ping of hands, with con­sid­er­able haugh­ti­ness. To say the truth, there was no love lost be­tween the can­ni­bal god and his Eu­ro­pean sub­or­di­nate. The sav­age, puffed up as he was in his own con­ceit, had nev­er­the­less al­ways an un­com­fort­able sense that, in his heart of hearts, the im­pas­sive French­man had but a low opin­ion of him. So he in­vari­ably tried to make up by the solem­ni­ty of his man­ner and the loud­ness of his as­ser­tions for any tri­fling scep­ti­cism that might pos­si­bly ex­ist in the mind of his fol­low­er.

On this par­tic­ular oc­ca­sion, as he reached the French­man's plot, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la stepped for­ward across the white taboo-​line with a sus­pi­cious and peer­ing eye. “The King of the Rain has been here,” he said, in a pompous tone, as the French­man rose and salut­ed him cer­emo­ni­ous­ly. “Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's eyes are sharp. They nev­er sleep. The sun is his sight. He be­holds all things. You can­not hide aught in heav­en or earth from the knowl­edge of him that dwells in heav­en. I look down up­on land and sea, and spy out all that takes place or is planned in them. I am very holy and very cru­el. I see all earth and I drink the blood of all men. The King of the Rain has come this morn­ing to vis­it the King of the Birds. Where is he now? What has your di­vin­ity done with him?”

He spoke from un­der the shel­ter­ing cov­er of his veiled um­brel­la. The French­man looked back at him with as lit­tle love as Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la him­self would have dis­played had his face been vis­ible. “Yes, you are a very great god,” he an­swered, in the con­ven­tion­al tone of Poly­ne­sian adu­la­tion, with just a faint un­der-​cur­rent of irony run­ning through his ac­cent as he spoke. “You say the truth. You do, in­deed, know all things. What need for me, then, to tell you, whose eye is the sun, that my broth­er, the King of the Rain, has been here and gone again? You know it your­self. Your eye has looked up­on it. My broth­er was in­deed with me. He con­sult­ed me as to the show­ers I should need from his clouds for the birds, my sub­jects.”

“And where is he gone now?” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la asked, with­out at­tempt­ing to con­ceal the dis­plea­sure in his tone, for he more than half sus­pect­ed the French­man of a sac­ri­le­gious and mon­strous de­sign of chaffing him.

The King of the Birds bowed low once more. “Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's glance is keen­er than my hawk's,” he an­swered, with the ac­cus­tomed Poly­ne­sian im­agery. “He sees over the land with a glance, like my par­rots, and over the sea with sharp sight, like my al­ba­tross­es. He knows where my broth­er, the King of the Rain, has gone. For me, who am the least among all the gods, I sit here on my perch and blink like a crow. I do not know these things. They are too high and too deep for me.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la did not like the turn the con­ver­sa­tion was tak­ing. Be­fore his own at­ten­dants such hints, in­deed, were al­most dan­ger­ous. Once let the sav­age be­gin to doubt, and the Moral Or­der goes with a crash im­me­di­ate­ly. Be­sides, he must know what these white men had been talk­ing about. “Fire and Wa­ter,” he said in a loud voice, turn­ing round to his two chief satel­lites, “go far down the path, and beat the tom-​toms. Fence off with flood and flame the airy height where the King of the Birds lives; fence it off from all pro­fane in­tru­sion. I wish to con­fer in se­cret with this god, my broth­er. When we gods talk to­geth­er, it is not well that oth­ers should hear our con­verse. Make a great Taboo. I, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, my­self have said it.”

Fire and Wa­ter, bow­ing low, backed down the path, beat­ing tom-​toms as they went, and left the sav­age and the French­man alone to­geth­er.

As soon as they were gone, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la laid aside his um­brel­la with a pos­itive sigh of re­lief. Now his fel­low-​coun­try­men were well out of the way, his man­ner al­tered in a trice, as if by mag­ic. Bar­bar­ian as he was, he was quite as­tute enough to guess that Eu­ro­peans cared noth­ing in their hearts for all his mum­bo-​jum­bo. He be­lieved in it him­self, but they did not, and their very un­be­lief made him re­spect and fear them.

“Now that we two are alone,” he said, glanc­ing care­less­ly around him, “we two who are gods, and know the world well--we two who see ev­ery­thing in heav­en or earth--there is no need for con­ceal­ment--we may talk as plain­ly as we will with one an­oth­er. Come, tell me the truth! The new white man has seen you?”

“He has seen me, yes, cer­tain­ly,” the French­man ad­mit­ted, tak­ing a keen look deep in­to the sav­age's cun­ning eyes.

“Does he speak your lan­guage--the lan­guage of birds?” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la asked once more, with in­sin­uat­ing cun­ning. “I have heard that the sail­ing gods are of many lan­guages. Are you and he of one speech or two? Aliens, or coun­try­men?”

“He speaks my lan­guage as he speaks Poly­ne­sian,” the French­man replied, keep­ing his eye firm­ly fixed on his doubt­ful guest, “but it is not his own. He has a tongue apart--the tongue of an is­land not far from my coun­try, which we call Eng­land.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la drew near­er, and dropped his voice to a con­fi­den­tial whis­per. “Has he seen the Soul of all dead par­rots?” he asked, with keen in­ter­est in his voice. “The par­rot that knows Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's se­cret? That one over there--the old, the very sa­cred one?”

M. Pey­ron gazed round his aviary care­less­ly. “Oh, that one,” he an­swered, with a ca­su­al glance at Methuse­lah, as though one par­rot or an­oth­er were much the same to him. “Yes, I think he saw it. I point­ed it out to him, in fact, as the old­est and strangest of all my sub­jects.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's coun­te­nance fell. “Did he hear it speak?” he asked, in ev­ident alarm. “Did it tell him the sto­ry of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's se­cret?”

“No, it didn't speak,” the French­man an­swered. “It sel­dom does now. It is very old. And if it did, I don't sup­pose the King of the Rain would have un­der­stood one word of it. Look here, great god, al­lay your fears. You're a ter­ri­ble cow­ard. I ex­pect the re­al fact about the par­rot is this: it is the last of its own race; it speaks the lan­guage of some tribe of men who once in­hab­it­ed these is­lands, but are now ex­tinct. No hu­man be­ing at present alive, most prob­ably, knows one word of that for­got­ten lan­guage.”

“You think not?” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la asked, a lit­tle re­lieved.

“I am the King of the Birds, and I know the voic­es of my sub­jects by heart; I as­sure you it is as I say,” M. Pey­ron an­swered, draw­ing him­self up solemn­ly.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la looked askance, with some­thing very close­ly ap­proach­ing a wink in his left eye. “We two are both gods,” he said, with a tinge of irony in his tone. “We know what that means.... _I_ do not feel so cer­tain.”

He stood close by the par­rot with itch­ing fin­gers. “It is very, very old,” he went on to him­self, mus­ing­ly. “It can't live long. And then--none but Boupari men will know the se­cret.”

As he spoke he dart­ed a strange glance of ha­tred to­ward the un­con­scious bird, the in­no­cent repos­ito­ry, as he firm­ly be­lieved, of the se­cret that doomed him. The French­man had turned his back for a mo­ment now, to fetch out a stool. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, cast­ing a quick, sus­pi­cious eye to the right and left, took a step near­er. The par­rot sat mum­bling on its perch, inar­tic­ulate­ly, putting its head on one side, and blink­ing its half-​blind­ed eyes in the bright trop­ical sun­shine. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la paused ir­res­olute be­fore its face for a sec­ond. If he on­ly dared--one wring of the neck--one pinch of his fin­ger and thumb al­most!--and all would be over. But he dared not! he dared not! Your sav­age is over­awed by the blind ter­rors of taboo. His pre­de­ces­sor, some el­der Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la of for­got­ten days, had laid a great charm up­on that par­rot's life. Who­ev­er hurt it was to die an aw­ful death of un­speak­able tor­ment. The King of the Birds had spe­cial charge to guard it. If even the Can­ni­bal God him­self wrought it harm, who could tell what judg­ment might fall up­on him forth­with, what ter­ri­ble vengeance the dead Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la might wreak up­on him in his ghost­ly anger? And that dead Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was his own Soul! His own Soul might flare up with­in him in some mys­tic way and burn him to ash­es.

And yet--sup­pose this hate­ful new-​com­er, the King of the Rain, whom he had him­self made Ko­rong on pur­pose to get rid of him the more eas­ily, and so had el­evat­ed in­to his own worst po­ten­tial en­emy--sup­pose this new-​com­er, the King of the Rain, were by chance to speak that oth­er di­alect of the bird-​lan­guage, which the King of the Birds him­self knew not, but which the par­rot had learned from his old mas­ter, the an­cient Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la of oth­er days, and in which the bird still re­cit­ed the se­cret of the sa­cred tree and the Death of the Great God--ah, then he might still have to fight hard for his di­vin­ity. He gazed an­gri­ly at the bird. Methuse­lah blinked, and put his head on one side, and looked crafti­ly askance at him. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la hat­ed it, that in­so­lent crea­ture. Was he not a god, and should he be thus beard­ed in his own is­land by a mere Soul of dead birds, a poor, wretched par­rot? But the curse! What might not that por­tend? Ah, well, he would risk it. Glanc­ing around him once more to the right and left, to make sure that no­body was look­ing, the cun­ning sav­age put forth his hand stealthi­ly, and tried with a friend­ly ca­ress to seize the par­rot.

In a mo­ment, be­fore he had time to know what was hap­pen­ing, Methuse­lah--sleepy old dotard as he seemed--had woke up at once to a sense of dan­ger. Turn­ing sud­den­ly round up­on the sleek, ca­ress­ing hand, he dart­ed his beak with a vi­cious peck at his as­sailant, and bit the di­vine fin­ger of the Pil­lar of Heav­en as care­less­ly as he would have bit­ten any child on Boupari. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, thun­der-​struck, drew back his arm with a start of sur­prise and a loud cry of pain. The bird had wound­ed him. He shook his hand and stamped. Blood was drop­ping on the ground from the man-​god's fin­ger. He hard­ly knew what strange evil this omen of harm might por­tend for the world. The Soul of all dead par­rots had car­ried out the curse, and had drawn red drops from the sa­cred veins of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

One must be a sav­age one's self, and su­per­sti­tious at that, ful­ly to un­der­stand the aw­ful sig­nif­icance of this dead­ly oc­cur­rence. To draw blood from a god, and, above all, to let that blood fall up­on the dust of the ground, is the very worst luck--too aw­ful for the hu­man mind to con­tem­plate.

At the same mo­ment, the par­rot, awak­ened by the un­ex­pect­ed at­tack, threw back its head on its perch, and, laugh­ing loud and long to it­self in its own harsh way, be­gan to pour forth a whole vol­ley of oaths in a gut­tural lan­guage, of which nei­ther Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la nor the French­man un­der­stood one syl­la­ble. And at the same mo­ment, too, M. Pey­ron him­self, re­called from the door of his hut by Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's sharp cry of pain and by his liege sub­ject's vol­uble flow of loud speech and laugh­ter, ran up all agog to know what was the mat­ter.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, with an ef­fort, tried to hide in his robe his wound­ed fin­ger. But the French­man caught at the mean­ing of the whole scene at once, and in­ter­posed him­self hasti­ly be­tween the par­rot and its as­sailant. “_He!_ my Methuse­lah,” he cried, in French, stroking the ex­ul­tant bird with his hand, and smooth­ing its ruf­fled feath­ers, “did he try to choke you, then? Did he try to get over you? That was a brave bird! You did well, _mon ami_, to bite him!... No, no, Life of the World, and Mea­sur­er of the Sun's Course,” he went on, in Poly­ne­sian, “you shall not go near him. Keep your dis­tance, I beg of you. You may be a high god--though you were a scurvy wretch enough, don't you rec­ol­lect, when you were on­ly Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi--but I know your tricks. Hands off from my birds, say I. A curse is on the head of the Soul of dead par­rots. You tried to hurt him, and see how the curse has worked it­self out! The blood of the great god, the Pil­lar of Heav­en, has stained the gray dust of the is­land of Boupari.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la stood suck­ing his fin­ger, and look­ing the very pic­ture of the most sav­age sheep­ish­ness.