The Great Taboo

CHAPTER XXV.

TU-​KI­LA-​KI­LA STRIKES.

And yet, when all was said and done, knowl­edge of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's se­cret didn't seem to bring Fe­lix and Muriel much near­er a so­lu­tion of their own great prob­lems than they had been from the be­gin­ning. In spite of all Methuse­lah had told them, they were as far off as ev­er from se­cur­ing their es­cape, or even from the chance of sight­ing an En­glish steam­er.

This last was still the main hope and ex­pec­ta­tion of all three Eu­ro­peans. M. Pey­ron, who was a bit of a math­emati­cian, had ac­cu­rate­ly cal­cu­lat­ed the time, from what Fe­lix told him, when the Aus­tralasian would pass again on her next home­ward voy­age; and, when that time ar­rived, it was their unit­ed in­ten­tion to watch night and day for the faintest glim­mer of her lights, or the faintest wreath of her smoke on the far east­ern hori­zon. They had ven­tured to con­fide their de­sign to all three of their Shad­ows; and the Shad­ows, at­tached by the kind­ness to which they were so lit­tle ac­cus­tomed among their own peo­ple, had in ev­ery case agreed to as­sist them with the ca­noe, if oc­ca­sion served them. So for a time the two doomed vic­tims sub­sid­ed in­to their ac­cus­tomed calm of min­gled hope and de­spair, wait­ing pa­tient­ly for the ex­pect­ed ar­rival of the much-​longed-​for Aus­tralasian.

If she took that course once, why not a sec­ond time? And if ev­er she hove in sight, might they not hope, af­ter all, to sig­nal to her with their rude­ly con­struct­ed he­li­ograph, and stop her?

As for Methuse­lah's se­cret, there was on­ly one way, Fe­lix thought, in which it could now prove of any use to them. When the ac­tu­al day of their doom drew nigh, he might, per­haps, be tempt­ed to try the fate which Nathaniel Cross, of Sun­der­land, had suc­cess­ful­ly court­ed. That might gain them at least a lit­tle respite. Though even so he hard­ly knew what good it could do him to be el­evat­ed for a while in­to the chief god of the is­land. It might not even avail him to save Muriel's life; for he did not doubt that when the aw­ful day it­self had ac­tu­al­ly come the na­tives would do their best to kill her in spite of him, un­less he an­tic­ipat­ed them by ful­fill­ing his own ter­ri­ble, yet mer­ci­ful, promise.

Week af­ter week went by--month af­ter month passed--and the date when the Aus­tralasian might rea­son­ably be ex­pect­ed to reap­pear drew near­er and near­er. They wait­ed and trem­bled. At last, a few days be­fore the time M. Pey­ron had cal­cu­lat­ed, as Fe­lix was sit­ting un­der the big shady tree in his gar­den one morn­ing, while Muriel, now worn out with hope de­ferred, lay with­in her hut alone with Mali, a sound of tom-​toms and beat­en palms was heard on the hill-​path. The na­tives around fell on their faces or fled. It an­nounced the speedy ap­proach of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

By this time both the cast­aways had grown com­par­ative­ly ac­cus­tomed to that hideous noise, and to the hate­ful pres­ence which it pre­ced­ed and her­ald­ed. A dozen tem­ple at­ten­dants tripped on ei­ther side down the hill­path, to guard him, clap­ping their hands in a bar­bar­ic mea­sure as they went; Fire and Wa­ter, in the midst, sup­port­ed and flanked the di­vine um­brel­la. Fe­lix rose from his seat with very lit­tle cer­emo­ny, in­deed, as the great god crossed the white taboo-​line of his precincts, fol­lowed on­ly be­yond the lim­it by Fire and Wa­ter.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was in his most in­so­lent vein. He glanced around with a hor­rid light of tri­umph danc­ing vis­ibly in his eyes. It was clear he had come, in­tent up­on some grand the­atri­cal _coup_. He meant to take the white-​faced stranger by sur­prise this time. “Good-​morn­ing, O King of the Rain,” he ex­claimed, in a loud voice and with bois­ter­ous fa­mil­iar­ity. “How do you like your out­look now? Things are get­ting on. Things are get­ting on. The end of your rule is draw­ing very near, isn't it? Be­fore long I must make the sea­sons change. I must make my sun turn. I must twist round my sky. And then, I shall need a new Ko­rong in­stead of you, O pale-​faced one!”

Fe­lix looked back at him with­out mov­ing a mus­cle.

“I am well,” he an­swered short­ly, re­strain­ing his anger. “The year turns round whether you will or not. You are right that the sun will soon be­gin to move south­ward on its path again. But many things may hap­pen to all of us mean­while. _I_ am not afraid of you.”

As he spoke, he drew his knife, and opened the blade, un­os­ten­ta­tious­ly, but firm­ly. If the worst were re­al­ly com­ing now, soon­er than he ex­pect­ed, he would at least not for­get his promise to Muriel.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la smiled a hate­ful and omi­nous smile. “I am a great god,” he said, calm­ly, strik­ing an at­ti­tude as was his wont. “Hear how my peo­ple clap their hands in my hon­or! I or­der all things. I dis­pose the course of na­ture in heav­en and earth. If I look at a co­coa-​nut tree, it dies; if I glance at a bread-​fruit, it with­ers away. We will see be­fore long whether or not you are afraid of me. Mean­while, O Ko­rong, I have come to claim my dues at your hands. Pre­pare for your fate. To-​mor­row the Queen of the Clouds must be sealed my bride. Fetch her out, that I may speak with her. I have come to tell her so.”

It was a thun­der­bolt from a clear sky, and it fell with ter­ri­ble ef­fect on Fe­lix. For a mo­ment the knife trem­bled in his grasp with an al­most ir­re­sistible im­pulse. He could hard­ly re­strain him­self, as he heard those hor­ri­ble, in­cred­ible words, and saw the loath­some smirk on the speak­er's face by which they were ac­com­pa­nied, from leap­ing then and there at the sav­age's throat, and plung­ing his blade to the haft in­to the vile crea­ture's body. But by a vi­olent ef­fort he mas­tered his in­dig­na­tion and wrath for the present. Plant­ing him­self full in front of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, and block­ing the way to the door of that sa­cred En­glish girl's hut--oh, how hor­ri­ble it was to him even to think of her pu­ri­ty be­ing con­tam­inat­ed by the vile neigh­bor­hood, for one minute, of that loath­some mon­ster! He looked full in­to the wretch's face, and an­swered very dis­tinct­ly, in low, slow tones, “If you dare to take one step to­ward the place where that la­dy now rests, if you dare to move your foot one inch near­er, if you dare to ask to see her face again, I will plunge the knife hilt-​deep in­to your vile heart, and kill you where you stand with­out one sec­ond's de­lib­er­ation. Now you hear my words and you know what I mean. My weapon is keen­er and fiercer than any you Poly­ne­sians ev­er saw. Re­peat those words once more, and by all that's true and holy, be­fore they're out of your mouth I leap up­on you and stab you.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la drew back in sud­den sur­prise. He was un­ac­cus­tomed to be so beard­ed in his own sa­cred is­land. “Well, I shall claim her to-​mor­row,” he fal­tered out, tak­en aback by Fe­lix's un­ex­pect­ed en­er­gy. He paused for a sec­ond, then he went on more slow­ly: “To-​mor­row I will come with all my peo­ple to claim my bride. This af­ter­noon they will bring her mats of grass and neck­lets of nau­tilus shell to deck her for her wed­ding, as be­comes Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's cho­sen one. The young maids of Boupari will adorn her for her lord, in the ac­cus­tomed dress of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's wives. They will clap their hands; they will sing the mar­riage song. Then ear­ly in the morn­ing I will come to fetch her--and woe to him who strives to pre­vent me!”

Fe­lix looked at him long, with a fixed and dogged look.

“What has made you think of this dev­il­ry?” he asked at last, still grasp­ing his knife hard, and half un­de­cid­ed whether or not to use it. “You have in­vent­ed all these ideas. You have no claim, even in the hor­rid cus­toms of your sav­age coun­try, to de­mand such a sac­ri­fice.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la laughed loud, a laugh of tri­umphant and dis­cor­dant mer­ri­ment. “Ha, ha!” he cried, “you do not un­der­stand our cus­toms, and will you teach _me_, the very high god, the guardian of the laws and prac­tices of Boupari? You know noth­ing; you are as a lit­tle child. I am ab­so­lute wis­dom. With ev­ery Ko­rong, this is al­ways our rule. Till the moon is full, on the last month be­fore we of­fer up the sac­ri­fice, the Queen of the Clouds dwells apart with her Shad­ow in her own new tem­ple. So our fa­thers de­creed it. But at the full of the moon, when the day has come, the us­age is that Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, the very high god, con­fers up­on her the hon­or of mak­ing her his bride. It is a mighty hon­or. The feast is great. Blood flows like wa­ter. For sev­en days and nights, then, she lives with Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la in his sa­cred abode, the thresh­old of Heav­en; she eats of hu­man flesh; she tastes hu­man blood; she drinks abun­dant­ly of the di­vine ka­va. At the end of that time, in ac­cor­dance with the cus­tom of our fa­thers, those great dead gods, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la per­forms the high act of sac­ri­fice. He puts on his mask of the face of a shark, for he is holy and cru­el; he brings forth the Queen of the Clouds be­fore the eyes of all his peo­ple, at­tired in her wed­ding robes, and made drunk with ka­va. Then he gash­es her with knives; he of­fers her up to Heav­en that ac­cept­ed her; and the King of the Rain he of­fers af­ter her; and all the peo­ple eat of their flesh, Ko­rong! and drink of their blood, so that the body of gods and god­dess­es may dwell with­in all of them. And when all is done, the high god choos­es a new king and queen at his will (for he is a mighty god), who rule for six moons more, and then are of­fered up, at the end, in like fash­ion.”

As he spoke, the fe­ro­cious light that gleamed in the sav­age's eye made Fe­lix pos­itive­ly mad with anger. But he an­swered noth­ing di­rect­ly. “Is this so?” he asked, turn­ing for con­fir­ma­tion to Fire and Wa­ter. “Is it the cus­tom of Boupari that Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la should wed the Queen of the Clouds sev­en days be­fore the date ap­point­ed for her sac­ri­fice?”

The King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter, tried guardians of the eti­quette of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's court, made an­swer at once with one ac­cord, “It is so, O King of the Rain. Your lips have said it. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la speaks the solemn truth. He is a very great god. Such is the cus­tom of Boupari.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la laughed his tri­umph in harsh, sav­age out­bursts.

But Fe­lix drew back for a sec­ond, ir­res­olute. At last he stood face to face with the ab­so­lute need for im­me­di­ate ac­tion. Now was al­most the mo­ment when he must re­deem his ter­ri­ble promise to Muriel. And yet, even so, there was still one chance of life, one respite left. The mys­tic yel­low bough on the sa­cred banyan! the Great Taboo! the wa­ger of bat­tle with Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la! Quick as light­ning it all came up in his ex­cit­ed brain. Time af­ter time, since he heard Methuse­lah's strange mes­sage from the grave, had he passed Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's tem­ple en­clo­sure and looked up with vague awe at that sa­cred par­asite that grew so con­spic­uous­ly in a fork of the branch­es. It was easy to se­cure it, if no man guard­ed. There still re­mained one night. In that one short night he must do his best--and worst. If all then failed, he must die him­self with Muriel!

For two sec­onds he hes­itat­ed. It was hate­ful even to tem­po­rize with so hideous a propo­si­tion. But for Muriel's sake, for her dear life's sake, he must meet these sav­ages with guile for guile. “If it be, in­deed, the cus­tom of Boupari,” he an­swered back, with pale and trem­bling lips, “and if I, one man, am pow­er­less to pre­vent it, I will give your mes­sage, my­self, to the Queen of the Clouds, and you may send, as you say, your wed­ding dec­ora­tions. But come what will--mark this--you shall not see her your­self to-​day. You shall not speak to her. There I draw a line--so, with my stick in the dust, if you try to ad­vance one step be­yond, I stab you to the heart. Wait till to-​mor­row to take your prey. Give me one more night. Great god as you are, if you are wise, you will not drive an an­gry man to ut­ter des­per­ation.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la looked with a sus­pi­cious side glance at the gleam­ing steel blade Fe­lix still fin­gered tremu­lous­ly. Though Boupari was one of those rare and iso­lat­ed small is­lands un­vis­it­ed as yet by Eu­ro­pean trade, he had, nev­er­the­less, heard enough of the sail­ing gods to know that their skill was deep and their weapons very dan­ger­ous. It would be fool­ish to pro­voke this man to wrath too soon. To-​mor­row, when taboo was re­moved, and all was free li­cense, he would come when he willed and take his bride, backed up by the full force of his as­sem­bled peo­ple. Mean­while, why pro­voke a broth­er god too far? Af­ter all, in a lit­tle more than a week from now the pale-​faced Ko­rong would be eat­en and di­gest­ed!

“Very well,” he said, sulk­ily, but still with the sullen light of re­venge gleam­ing bright in his eye. “Take my mes­sage to the queen. You may be my her­ald. Tell her what hon­or is in store for her--to be first the wife and then the meat of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la! She is a very fair wom­an. I like her well. I have longed for her for months. To­mor­row, at the ear­ly dawn, by the break of day, I will come with all my peo­ple and take her home by main force to me.”

He looked at Fe­lix and scowled, an an­gry scowl of re­venge. Then, as he turned and walked away, un­der cov­er of the great um­brel­la, with its dan­gling pen­dants on ei­ther side, the tem­ple at­ten­dants clapped their hands in uni­son. Fire and Wa­ter marched slow and held the um­brel­la over him. As he dis­ap­peared in the dis­tance, and the sound of his tom-​toms grew dim on the hills, Toko, the Shad­ow, who had lain flat, trem­bling, on his face in the hut while the god was speak­ing, came out and looked anx­ious­ly and fear­ful­ly af­ter him.

“The time is ripe,” he said, in a very low voice to Fe­lix. “A Ko­rong may strike. All the peo­ple of Boupari mur­mur among them­selves. They say this fel­low has held the spir­it of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la with­in him­self too long. He wax­es in­so­lent. They think it is high time the great God of Heav­en should find be­fore long some oth­er flesh­ly taber­na­cle.”