The Great Taboo

CHAPTER XXIX.

VIC­TO­RY--AND AF­TER?

The great god had wound­ed him. But not to the heart. Fe­lix, as good luck would have it, hap­pened to be wear­ing buck­led braces. He had worn them on board, and, like the rest of his cos­tume, had, of course, nev­er since been able to dis­card them. They stood him in good stead now. The buck­le caught the very point of the bone-​tipped spear, and broke the force of the blow, as the great god lunged for­ward. The wound was but a graze, and Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's light shaft snapped short in the mid­dle.

Mad­der and wilder than ev­er, the sav­age pitched it away, yelling, rushed for­ward with a fierce curse on his an­gry tongue, and flung him­self, tooth and nail, on his as­ton­ished op­po­nent.

The sud­den­ness of the on­slaught al­most took the En­glish­man's breath away. By this time, how­ev­er, Fe­lix had pulled to­geth­er his ideas and tak­en in the sit­ua­tion. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was at­tack­ing him now with his heavy stone axe. He must par­ry those dead­ly blows. He must be alert, but watch­ful. He must put him­self in a pos­ture of de­fence at once. Above all, he must keep cool and have his wits about him.

If he could but have drawn his knife, he would have stood a bet­ter chance in that hand-​to-​hand con­flict. But there was no time now for such tac­tics as those. Be­sides, even in close fight with a blood­thirsty sav­age, an En­glish gen­tle­man's sense of fair play nev­er for one mo­ment deserts him. Fe­lix felt, if they were to fight it out face to face for their lives, they should fight at least on a per­fect equal­ity. Steel against stone was a mean ad­van­tage. Par­ry­ing Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's first des­per­ate blow with the haft of his own hatch­et, he leaped aside half a sec­ond to gain breath and strength. Then he rushed on, and dealt one dead­ly down­stroke with the pon­der­ous weapon.

For a minute or two they closed, in per­fect­ly sav­age sin­gle com­bat. Fire and Wa­ter, ob­ser­vant and im­par­tial, stood by like sec­onds to see the god him­self de­cide the is­sue, which of the two com­bat­ants should be his liv­ing rep­re­sen­ta­tive. The con­test was brief but very hard-​fought. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, in­spired with the last fren­zy of de­spair, rushed wild­ly on his op­po­nent with hands and fists, and teeth and nails, deal­ing his blows in blind fury, right and left, and seek­ing on­ly to sell his life as dear­ly as pos­si­ble. In this last ex­trem­ity, his very su­per­sti­tions told against him. Ev­ery­thing seemed to show his hour had come. The par­rot's bite--the omen of his own blood that stained the dust of earth--Ula's treach­ery--the chance by which the Ko­rong had learned the Great Taboo--Fe­lix's ac­ci­den­tal or prov­iden­tial suc­cess in break­ing off the bough--the length of time he him­self had held the di­vine hon­ors--the prob­abil­ity that the god would by this time be­gin to pre­fer a new and stronger rep­re­sen­ta­tive--all these things alike com­bined to fire the drunk and mad­dened sav­age with the en­er­gy of de­spair. He fell up­on his en­emy like a tiger up­on an ele­phant. He fought with his tom­ahawk and his feet and his whole lithe body; he foamed at the mouth with im­po­tent rage; he spent his force on the air in the ex­trem­ity of his pas­sion.

Fe­lix, on the oth­er hand, sobered by pain, and nerved by the fixed con­scious­ness that Muriel's safe­ty now de­pend­ed ab­so­lute­ly on his per­fect cool­ness, fought with the calm skill of a prac­tised fencer. Hap­pi­ly he had learned the gen­tle art of thrust and par­ry years be­fore in Eng­land; and though both weapon and op­po­nent were here so dif­fer­ent, the les­son of quick­ness and calm watch­ful­ness he had gained in that civ­ilized school stood him in good stead, even now, un­der such ad­verse cir­cum­stances. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, get­ting spent, drew back for a sec­ond at last, and pant­ed for breath. That faint breath­ing-​space of a mo­ment's du­ra­tion sealed his fate. Seiz­ing his chance with con­sum­mate skill, Fe­lix closed up­on the breath­less mon­ster, and brought down the heavy stone ham­mer point blank up­on the cen­tre of his crash­ing skull. The weapon drove home. It cleft a great red gash in the can­ni­bal's head. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la reeled and fell. There was an in­finites­imal pause of si­lence and sus­pense. Then a great shout went up from all round to heav­en, “He has killed him! He has killed him! We have a new-​made god! Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la is dead! Long live Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la!”

Fe­lix drew back for a mo­ment, pant­ing and breath­less, and wiped his wet brow with his sleeve, his brain all whirling. At his feet, the sav­age lay stretched, like a log. Fe­lix gazed at the blood-​be­spat­tered face re­morse­ful­ly. It is an aw­ful thing, even in a just quar­rel, to feel that you have re­al­ly tak­en a hu­man life! The re­spon­si­bil­ity is enough to ap­pall the bravest of us. He stooped down and ex­am­ined the pros­trate body with solemn rev­er­ence. Blood was flow­ing in tor­rents from the wound­ed head. But Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was dead--stone-​dead for­ev­er.

Hot tears of re­lief welled up in­to Fe­lix's eyes. He touched the body cau­tious­ly with a rev­er­ent hand. No life. No mo­tion.

Just as he did so, the wom­an Ula came for­ward, bare-​limbed and beau­ti­ful, all tri­umph in her walk, a proud, in­sen­si­tive sav­age. One sec­ond she gazed at the great corpse dis­dain­ful­ly. Then she lift­ed her dain­ty foot, and gave it a con­temp­tu­ous kick. “The body of Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi,” she said, with a ges­ture of ha­tred. “He had a bad heart. We will cook it and eat it.” Next turn­ing to Fe­lix, “Oh, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la,” she cried, clap­ping her hands three times and bow­ing low to the ground, “you are a very great god. We will serve you and salute you. Am not I, Ula, one of your wives, your meat? Do with me as you will. Toko, you are hence­forth the great god's Shad­ow!”

Fe­lix gazed at the beau­ti­ful, heart­less crea­ture, all hor­ri­fied. Even on Boupari, that can­ni­bal is­land, he was hard­ly pre­pared for quite so low a depth of sav­age in­sen­si­bil­ity. But all the peo­ple around, now a hun­dred or more, stand­ing naked be­fore their new god, took up the shout in con­cert. “The body of Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi,” they cried. “A car­rion corpse! The god has de­sert­ed it. The great soul of the world has en­tered the heart of the white-​faced stranger from the disk of the sun; the King of the Rain; the great Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la. We will cook and eat the body of Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi. He was a bad man. He is a worn-​out shell. Noth­ing re­mains of him now. The great god has left him.”

They clapped their hands in a set mea­sure as they re­cit­ed this hymn. The King of Fire re­treat­ed in­to the tem­ple. Ula stood by, and whis­pered low with Toko. There was a cer­emo­ni­al pause of some fif­teen min­utes. Present­ly, from the in­ner re­cess­es of the tem­ple it­self, a low noise is­sued forth as of a ris­ing wind. For some sec­onds it buzzed and hummed, dron­ing­ly. But at the very first note of that holy sound Ula dropped her lover's hand, as one drops a red-​hot coal, and dart­ed wild­ly off at full speed, like some fright­ened wild beast, in­to the thick jun­gle. Ev­ery oth­er wom­an near be­gan to rush away with equal­ly in­stan­ta­neous signs of haste and fear. The men, on the oth­er hand, erect and naked, with their hands on their fore­heads, crossed the taboo-​line at once. It was the sum­mons to all who had been ini­ti­at­ed at the mys­ter­ies--the sa­cred bull-​roar­er was call­ing the as­sem­bly of the men of Boupari.

For sev­er­al min­utes it buzzed and droned, that mys­tic im­ple­ment, grow­ing loud­er and loud­er, till it roared like thun­der. One af­ter an­oth­er, the men of the is­land rushed in as if mad or in flight for their lives be­fore some fierce beast pur­su­ing them. They ran up, pant­ing, and drip­ping with sweat; their hands clapped to their fore­heads; their eyes start­ing wild­ly from their star­ing sock­ets; torn and bleed­ing and lac­er­at­ed by the thorns and branch­es of the jun­gle, for each man ran straight across coun­try from the spot where he lay asleep, in the di­rec­tion of the sound, and nev­er paused or drew breath, for dear life's sake, till he stood be­side the corpse of the dead Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.

And ev­ery mo­ment the cry pealed loud­er and loud­er still. “Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi, is dead, praise Heav­en! The King of the Rain has slain him, and is now the true Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la!”

Fe­lix bent ir­res­olute over the fall­en sav­age's blood­stained corpse. What next was ex­pect­ed of him he hard­ly knew or cared. His one de­sire now was to re­turn to Muriel--to Muriel, whom he had res­cued from some­thing worse than death at the hate­ful hands of that ac­cursed crea­ture who lay breath­less for­ev­er on the ground be­side him.

Some­body came up just then, and seized his hand warm­ly. Fe­lix looked up with a start. It was their friend, the French­man. “Ah, my cap­tain, you have done well,” M. Pey­ron cried, ad­mir­ing him. “What courage! What cool­ness! What pluck! What sol­dier­ship! I couldn't see all. But I was in at the death! And oh, _mon Dieu_, how I ad­mired and en­vied you!”

By this time the bull-​roar­er had ceased to bel­low among the rocks. The King of Fire stood forth. In his hands he held a length of bam­boo-​stick with a light­ed coal in it. “Bring wood and palm-​leaves,” he said, in a tone of com­mand. “Let me light my­self up, that I may blaze be­fore Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.”

He turned and bowed thrice very low be­fore Fe­lix. “The ac­cept­ed of Heav­en,” he cried, hold­ing his hands above him. “The very high god! The King of all Things! He sends down his show­ers up­on our crops and our fields. He caus­es his sun to shine bright­ly over us. He makes our pigs and our slaves bring forth their in­crease. All we are but his meat. We, his peo­ple, praise him.”

And all the men of Boupari, naked and bleed­ing, bent low in re­sponse. “Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la is great,” they chant­ed, as they clapped their hands. “We thank him that he has cho­sen a fresh in­car­na­tion. The sun will not fade in the heav­ens over­head, nor the bread-​fruits with­er and cease to bear fruit on earth. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, our god, is great. He springs ev­er young and fresh, like the herbs of the field. He is a most high god. We, his peo­ple, praise him.”

Four tem­ple at­ten­dants brought sticks and leaves, while Fe­lix stood still, half dazed with the new­ness of these strange prepa­ra­tions. The King of Fire, with his torch, set light to the pile. It blazed mer­ri­ly on high. “I, Fire, salute you,” he cried, bend­ing over it to­ward Fe­lix.

“Now cut up the body of Lavi­ta, the son of Sa­mi,” he went on, turn­ing to­ward it con­temp­tu­ous­ly. “I will cook it in my flame, that Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la the great may eat of it.”

Fe­lix drew back with a face all aglow with hor­ror and dis­gust. “Don't touch that body!” he cried, au­thor­ita­tive­ly, putting his foot down firm. “Leave it alone at once. I refuse to al­low you.” Then he turned to M. Pey­ron. “The King of the Birds and I,” he said, with calm re­solve, “we two will bury it.”

The King of Fire drew back at these strange words, non­plussed. This was, in­deed, an ill-​omened break in the cer­emo­ny of ini­ti­ation of a new Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, to which he had nev­er be­fore in his life been ac­cus­tomed. He hard­ly knew how to com­port him­self un­der such sin­gu­lar cir­cum­stances. It was as though the sovereign of Eng­land, on coro­na­tion-​day, should refuse to be crowned, and in­ti­mate to the arch­bish­op, in his full canon­icals, a con­firmed pref­er­ence for the re­pub­li­can form of Gov­ern­ment. It was a con­tin­gen­cy that law and cus­tom in Boupari had nei­ther, in their wis­dom, fore­seen nor pro­vid­ed for.

The King of Wa­ter whis­pered low in the new god's ear. “You must eat of his body, my lord,” he said. “That is ab­so­lute­ly nec­es­sary. Ev­ery one of us must eat of the flesh of the god; but you, above all, must eat his heart, his di­vine na­ture. Oth­er­wise you can nev­er be full Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.”

“I don't care a straw for that,” Fe­lix cried, now aroused to a full sense of the break in Methuse­lah's sto­ry and trem­bling with ap­pre­hen­sion. “You may kill me if you like; we can die on­ly once; but hu­man flesh I can nev­er taste; nor will I, while I live, al­low you to touch this dead man's body. We will bury it our­selves, the King of the Birds and I. You may tell your peo­ple so. That is my last word.” He raised his voice to the cus­tom­ary cer­emo­ni­al pitch. “I, the new Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la,” he said, “have spo­ken it.”

The King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter, tak­en aback at his bold­ness, con­ferred to­geth­er for some sec­onds pri­vate­ly. The peo­ple mean­while looked on and won­dered. What could this strange hitch in the di­vine pro­ceed­ings mean? Was the god him­self re­cal­ci­trant? Nev­er in their lives had the old­est men among them known any­thing like it.

And as they whis­pered and de­bat­ed, awe-​struck but dis­cor­dant, a shout arose once more from the out­er cir­cle--a mighty shout of min­gled sur­prise, alarm, and ter­ror. “Taboo! Taboo! Fence the mys­ter­ies. Be­ware! Oh, great god, we warn you. The mys­ter­ies are in dan­ger! Cut her down! Kill her! A wom­an! A wom­an!”

At the words, Fe­lix was aware of some­body burst­ing through the dense crowd and rush­ing wild­ly to­ward him. Next mo­ment, Muriel hung and sobbed on his shoul­der, while Mali, just be­hind her, stood cry­ing and moan­ing.

Fe­lix held the poor star­tled girl in his arms and soothed her. And all around an­oth­er great cry arose from five hun­dred lips: “Two wom­en have pro­faned the mys­ter­ies of the god. They are Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's tres­pass-​of­fer­ing. Let us kill them and eat them!”