The Great Taboo

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE DOWN­FALL OF A PAN­THEON.

The Aus­tralasian's gig en­tered the la­goon through the fring­ing reef by its nar­row sea­ward mouth, and rowed steadi­ly for the land­ing place on the main is­land.

A lit­tle way out from shore, amid loud screams and yells, the na­tives came up with it in their laden war-​ca­noes. Shout­ing and ges­tic­ulat­ing and bran­dish­ing their spears with the shark's tooth tips, they en­deav­ored to stop its progress land­ward by pure noise and brava­do.

“We must be care­ful what we do, boys,” the cap­tain ob­served, in a qui­et voice of sea­man­like res­olu­tion to his armed com­pan­ions. “We mustn't fright­en the sav­ages too much, or show too hos­tile a front, for fear they should re­tal­iate on our friends on the is­land.” He held up his hand, with the gold braid on the wrist, to com­mand si­lence; and the na­tives, gaz­ing open-​mouthed, looked and won­dered at the ges­ture. These sail­ing gods were cer­tain­ly ar­rayed in most gor­geous vest­ments, and their ca­noe, though de­void of a grin­ning fig­ure-​head, was pro­vid­ed with a most ad­mirable and well-​uni­formed equip­ment.

A coral rock jut­ted high out of the sea to the left hard by. Its sum­mit was crowd­ed with a bask­ing pop­ula­tion of sea-​gulls and pel­icans. The cap­tain gave the word to “easy all.” In a sec­ond the gig stopped short, as those stout arms held her. He rose in his place and lift­ed the six-​shoot­er. Then he point­ed it os­ten­ta­tious­ly at the rock, away from the na­tive ca­noes, and held up his hand yet again for si­lence. “We'll give 'em a taste of what we can do, boys,” he said, “just to show 'em, not to hurt 'em.” At that he drew the trig­ger twice. His first two cham­bers were load­ed on pur­pose with duck-​shot car­tridges. Twice the big gun roared; twice the fire flashed red from its smok­ing mouth. As the smoke cleared away, the na­tives, dumb with sur­prise, and per­fect­ly cowed with ter­ror, saw ten or a dozen torn and bleed­ing birds float man­gled up­on the wa­ter.

“Now for the dy­na­mite!” the cap­tain said, cheer­ily, pro­ceed­ing to low­er a small ob­ject over­board by a sin­gle wire, while he held up his hand a third time to be­speak si­lence and at­ten­tion.

The na­tives looked again, with eyes start­ing from their heads. The cap­tain gave a lit­tle click, and point­ed with his fin­ger to a spot on the wa­ter's top, a lit­tle way in front of him. In­stant­ly, a loud re­port, and a col­umn of wa­ter spurt­ed up in­to the air, some ten or twelve feet, in a bois­ter­ous foun­tain. As it sub­sid­ed again, a hun­dred or so of the bright-​col­ored fish that browse among the sub­merged, coral-​groves of these still la­goons, rose dead or dy­ing to the seething, boil­ing sur­face.

The cap­tain smiled. In­stant­ly the na­tives set up a ter­ri­fied shout. “It is even as he said,” they cried. “These gods are his min­is­ters! The white-​faced Ko­rong is a very great de­ity! He is in­deed the true Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la. These gods have come for him. They are very mighty. Thun­der and light­ning and wa­ter­spouts are theirs. The waves do as they bid. The sea obeys them. They are here to take away our Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la from our midst. And what will then be­come of the is­land of Boupari? Will it not sink in the waves of the sea and dis­ap­pear? Will not the sun in heav­en grow dark, and the moon cease to shed its be­nign light on the earth, when Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la the Great re­turns at last to his own far coun­try?”

“That lot'll do for 'em, I ex­pect,” the cap­tain said cheer­ily, with a con­fi­dent smile. “Now for­ward all, boys. I fan­cy we've as­ton­ished the na­tives a tri­fle.”

They rowed on steadi­ly, but cau­tious­ly, to­ward the white bank of sand which formed the usu­al land­ing-​place, the cap­tain hold­ing the six-​shoot­er in readi­ness all the time, and keep­ing an eye firm­ly fixed on ev­ery move­ment of the sav­ages. But the war­riors in the ca­noes, thor­ough­ly cowed and over­awed by this sin­gu­lar ex­hi­bi­tion of the strangers' prowess, pad­dled on in whis­per­ing si­lence, near­ly abreast of the gig, but at a safe dis­tance, as they thought, and eyed the ad­vanc­ing Eu­ro­peans with qui­et looks of un­mixed sus­pi­cion.

At last, the ad­ven­tur­ous young chief, who had ad­vised killing Fe­lix off-​hand on the is­land, mus­tered up courage to pad­dle his own ca­noe a lit­tle near­er, and flung his spear mad­ly in the di­rec­tion of the gig. It fell short by ten yards. He stood ey­ing it an­gri­ly. But the cap­tain, grim­ly qui­et, rais­ing his Winch­ester to his shoul­der with­out one sec­ond's de­lay, and mark­ing his man, fired at the young chief as he stood, still half in the at­ti­tude of throw­ing, on the prow of his ca­noe, an easy aim for fire-​arms. The ball went clean through the sav­age's breast, and then ric­ochet­ted three times on the wa­ter afar off. The young chief fell stone dead in­to the sea like a log, and sank in­stant­ly to the bot­tom.

It was a crit­ical mo­ment. The cap­tain felt un­cer­tain whether the na­tives would close round them in force or not. It is al­ways dan­ger­ous to fire a shot at sav­ages. But the Boupari men were too ut­ter­ly awed to ven­ture on de­fence. “He was Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's en­emy,” they cried, in as­ton­ished tones. “He raised his voice against the very high god. There­fore, the very high god's friends have smit­ten him with their light­ning. Their thun­der­bolt went through him, and hit the wa­ter be­yond. How strong is their hand! They can kill from afar. They are mighty gods. Let no man strive to fight against the friends of Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.”

The sailors rowed on and reached the land­ing-​place. There, half of them, head­ed by the cap­tain, dis­em­barked in good or­der, with drawn cut­lass­es, while the oth­er half re­mained be­hind to guard the gig, un­der the third of­fi­cer. The na­tives al­so dis­em­barked, a lit­tle way off, and, mak­ing hum­ble signs of sub­mis­sion with knee and arm, en­deav­ored, by pan­tomime, to ex­press the idea of their will­ing­ness to guide the strangers to their friends' quar­ters.

The cap­tain waved them on with his hand. The na­tives, re­as­sured, led the way, at some dis­tance ahead, along the paths through the jun­gle. The cap­tain had his fin­ger on his six-​shoot­er the while; ev­ery sailor grasped his cut­lass and kept his re­volver ready for ac­tion. “I don't half like the look of it,” the cap­tain ob­served, part­ly to him­self. “They seem to be lead­ing us in­to an am­bus­cade or some­thing. Keep a sharp look­out against sur­prise from the jun­gle, boys; and if any na­tive shows fight shoot him down in­stant­ly.”

At last they emerged up­on a clear space in the front, where a great group of sav­ages stood in a cir­cle, with ser­ried spears, round a large wat­tled hut that oc­cu­pied the el­evat­ed cen­tre of the clear­ing.

For a minute or two the ac­tion of the sav­ages was un­cer­tain. Half of the de­fend­ers turned round to face the in­vaders an­gri­ly; the oth­er half stood ir­res­olute, with their spears still held in­ward, guard­ing a white line of sand with in­flex­ible de­vo­tion.

The war­riors who had pre­ced­ed them from the shore called aloud to their friends by the tem­ple in star­tled tones. The cap­tain and sailors had no idea what their words meant. But just then, from the midst of the cir­cle, an En­glish voice cried out in haste, “Don't fire! Do noth­ing rash! We're safe. Don't be fright­ened. The na­tives are dis­posed to par­ley and palaver. Take care how you act. They're ter­ri­bly afraid of you.”

Just out­side the taboo-​line the cap­tain halt­ed. The gray-​head­ed old chief, who had ac­com­pa­nied his fel­lows to the shore, spoke out in Poly­ne­sian. “Do not re­sist them,” he said, “my peo­ple. If you do, you will be blast­ed by their light­ning like a bare bam­boo in a mighty cy­clone. They car­ry thun­der in their hands. They are mighty, mighty gods. The white-​faced Ko­rong spoke no more than the truth. Let them do as they will with us. We are but their meat. We are as dust be­neath their sole, and as driv­en mul­ber­ry-​leaves be­fore the breath of the tem­pest.”

The de­fend­ers hes­itat­ed still a lit­tle. Then, sud­den­ly los­ing heart, they broke rank at last at a point close by where the cap­tain of the Aus­tralasian stood, one man af­ter an­oth­er falling aside slow­ly and shame­faced­ly a pace or two. The cap­tain, un­hesi­tat­ing­ly, over­stepped the white taboo-​line. Next in­stant, Fe­lix and Muriel were grasp­ing his hand hard, and M. Pey­ron was bow­ing a po­lite Parisian re­cep­tion.

Forth­with, the sailors crowd­ed round them in a hol­low square. Muriel and Fe­lix, half faint with re­lief from their long and anx­ious sus­pense, stag­gered slow­ly down the sea­ward path be­tween them. But there was no need now for fur­ther show of de­fence. The is­landers, press­ing near and fling­ing away their weapons, fol­lowed the pro­ces­sion close, with tears and lamen­ta­tions. As they went on, the wom­en, rush­ing out of their huts while the fugi­tives passed, tore their hair on their heads, and beat their breasts in ter­ror. The war­riors who had come from the shore re­count­ed, with their own ex­ag­ger­ative ad­di­tions, the mir­acle of the six-​shoot­er and the dy­na­mite car­tridge. Grad­ual­ly they ap­proached the land­ing-​place on the beach. There the third of­fi­cer sat wait­ing in the gig to re­ceive them. The lamen­ta­tions of the is­landers now be­came pos­itive­ly poignant. “Oh, my fa­ther,” they cried aloud, “my broth­er, my revered one, you are in­deed the true Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la. Do not go away like this and desert us! Oh, our moth­er, great queen, mighty god­dess, stop with us! Take not away your sun from the heav­ens, nor your rain from the crops. We ac­knowl­edge we have sinned; we have done very wrong; but the chief sin­ner is dead; the wrong-​do­er has paid; spare us who re­main; spare us, great de­ity; do not make the bright lights of heav­en be­come dark over us. Stay with your wor­ship­pers, and we will give you choice young girls to eat ev­ery day, we will sac­ri­fice the ten­der­est of our chil­dren to feed you.”

It is an aw­ful thing for any race or na­tion when its taboos fail all at once, and die out en­tire­ly. To the men of Boupari, the Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la of the mo­ment rep­re­sent­ed both the Moral Or­der and the reg­ular se­quence of the phys­ical uni­verse. An­ar­chy and chaos might rule when he was gone. The sun might be quenched, and the peo­ple run ri­ot. No won­der they shrank from the fear­ful con­se­quence that might next en­sue. King and priest, god and re­li­gion, all at one fell blow were to be tak­en away from them!

Fe­lix turned round on the shore and spoke to them again. “My peo­ple,” he said, in a kind­ly tone--for, af­ter all, he pitied them--“you need have no fear. When I am gone, the sun will still shine and the trees will still bear fruit ev­ery year as for­mer­ly. I will send the mes­sen­gers I promised from my own land to teach you. Un­til they come, I leave you this as a great Taboo. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la en­joins it. Shed no hu­man blood; eat no hu­man flesh. Those who do will be pun­ished when an­oth­er fire-​ca­noe comes from the far land to bring my mes­sen­gers.”

The King of Fire bent low at the words. “Oh, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la,” he said, “it shall be done as you say. Till your mes­sen­gers come, ev­ery man shall live at peace with all his neigh­bors.”

They stepped in­to the gig. Mali and Toko fol­lowed be­fore M. Pey­ron as nat­ural­ly as they had al­ways fol­lowed their mas­ters on the is­land be­fore.

“Who are these?” the cap­tain asked, smil­ing.

“Our Shad­ows,” Fe­lix an­swered. “Let them come. I will pay their pas­sage when I reach San Fran­cis­co. They have been very faith­ful to us, and they are afraid to re­main, lest the is­landers should kill them for let­ting us go or for not ac­com­pa­ny­ing us.”

“Very well,” the cap­tain an­swered. “For­ward all, there, boys! Now, ahead for the ship. And thank God, we're well out of it!”

But the is­landers still stood on the shore and wept, stretch­ing their hands in vain af­ter the de­part­ing boat, and cry­ing aloud in piteous tones, “Oh, my fa­ther, re­turn! Oh, my moth­er, come back! Oh, very great gods, do not fly and desert us!”

Sev­en weeks lat­er Mr. and Mrs. Fe­lix Thurstan, who had been mar­ried in the cathe­dral at Hon­olu­lu the very morn­ing the Aus­tralasian ar­rived there, sat in an em­inent­ly re­spectable draw­ing-​room in a Lon­don square, where Mrs. El­lis, Muriel's aunt by mar­riage, was act­ing as their host­ess.

“But how dread­ful it is to think, dear,” Mrs. El­lis re­marked for the twen­ti­eth time since their ar­rival, with a deep-​drawn sigh, “how dread­ful to think that you and Fe­lix should have been all those months alone on the is­land to­geth­er with­out be­ing mar­ried!”

Muriel looked up with a qui­et smile to­ward Fe­lix. “I think, Aunt Mary,” she said, dream­ily, “if you'd been there your­self, and suf­fered all those fears, and passed through all those hor­rors that we did to­geth­er, you'd have trou­bled your head very lit­tle in­deed about such con­ven­tion­al­ities, as whether or not you hap­pened to be mar­ried.... Be­sides,” she added, af­ter a pause, with a fine per­cep­tion of the in­ex­orable strin­gen­cy of Mrs. Grundy's law, “we weren't quite with­out chap­er­ons, ei­ther, don't you know; for our Shad­ows, of course, were al­ways with us.”

Where­at Fe­lix smiled an equal­ly qui­et smile. “And ter­ri­ble as it all was,” he put in, “I shall nev­er re­gret it, be­cause it made Muriel know how pro­found­ly I loved her, and it made me know how brave and trust­ful and pure a wom­an could be un­der such aw­ful con­di­tions.”

But Mrs. El­lis sat still in her chair and smiled un­com­fort­ably. It af­fect­ed her spir­its. Taboos, af­ter all, are much the same in Eng­land as in Boupari.

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