The Great Taboo

CHAPTER VII.

IN­TER­CHANGE OF CI­VIL­ITIES.

All night long, with­out in­ter­mis­sion, the heavy trop­ical rain de­scend­ed in tor­rents; at sun­rise it ceased, and a bright blue vault of sky stood in a spot­less dome over the is­land of Boupari.

As soon as the sun was well risen, and the rain had ceased, one shy na­tive girl af­ter an­oth­er came strag­gling up timid­ly to the white line that marked the taboo round Fe­lix and Muriel's huts. They came with more bas­kets of fruit and eggs. Humbly salut­ing three times as they drew near, they laid down their gifts mod­est­ly just out­side the line, with many loud ejac­ula­tions of praise and grat­itude to the gods in their own lan­guage.

“What do they say?” Muriel asked, in a dazed and fright­ened way, look­ing out of the hut door, and turn­ing in won­der to Mali.

“They say, 'Thank you, Quee­nie, for rain and fruits,'” Mali an­swered, un­con­cerned, bustling about in the hut. “Mis­sy want to wash him face and hands this morn­ing? La­dy al­ways wash ev­ery day over yon­der in Queens­land.”

Muriel nod­ded as­sent. It was all so strange to her. But Mali went to the door and beck­oned care­less­ly to one of the na­tive girls just out­side, who drew near the line at the sum­mons, with a some­what fright­ened air, putting one fin­ger to her mouth in coy­ly un­cer­tain sav­age fash­ion.

“Fetch me wa­ter from the spring!” Mali said, au­thor­ita­tive­ly, in Poly­ne­sian. With­out a mo­ment's de­lay the girl dart­ed off at the top of her speed, and soon re­turned with a large cal­abash full of fresh cool wa­ter, which she lay down re­spect­ful­ly by the taboo line, not dar­ing to cross it.

“Why didn't you get it your­self?” Muriel asked of her Shad­ow, rather re­lieved than oth­er­wise that Mali hadn't left her. It was some­thing in these dire straits to have some­body al­ways near who could at least speak a lit­tle En­glish.

Mali start­ed back in sur­prise. “Oh, that would nev­er do,” she an­swered, catch­ing a col­lo­qui­al phrase she had of­ten heard long be­fore in Queens­land. “Me mis­sy's Shad­ow. That great Taboo. If me go away out of mis­sy's sight, very big sin--very big dan­ger. Man-​a-​Boupari catch me and kill me like Jani, for no me stop and wait all the time on mis­sy.”

It was clear that hu­man life was held very cheap on the is­land of Boupari.

Muriel made her scanty toi­let in the hut as well as she was able, with the cal­abash and wa­ter, aid­ed by a rough shell comb which Mali had pro­vid­ed for her. Then she break­fast­ed, not ill, off eggs and fruit, which Mali cooked with some rude na­tive skill over the open-​air fire with­out in the precincts.

Af­ter break­fast, Fe­lix came in to in­quire how she had passed the night in her new quar­ters. Al­ready Muriel felt how odd was the con­trast be­tween the qui­et po­lite­ness of his man­ner as an En­glish gen­tle­man and the strange sav­age sur­round­ings in which they both now found them­selves. Civ­iliza­tion is an at­tribute of com­mu­ni­ties; we nec­es­sar­ily leave it be­hind when we find our­selves iso­lat­ed among bar­bar­ians or sav­ages. But cul­ture is a pure­ly per­son­al and in­di­vid­ual pos­ses­sion; we car­ry it with us wher­ev­er we go; and no cir­cum­stances of life can ev­er de­prive us of it.

As they sat there talk­ing, with a deep and abid­ing sense of awe at the change (Muriel more con­scious than ev­er now of how deep was her in­ter­est in Fe­lix Thurstan, who rep­re­sent­ed for her all that was dear­est and best in Eng­land), a cu­ri­ous noise, as of a dis­cor­dant drum or tom-​tom, beat­en in a sort of re­cur­rent tune, was heard to­ward the hills; and at its very first sound both the Shad­ows, fling­ing them­selves up­on their faces with ev­ery sign of ter­ror, en­deav­ored to hide them­selves un­der the na­tive mats with which the bare lit­tle hut was rough­ly car­pet­ed.

“What's the mat­ter?” Fe­lix cried, in En­glish, to Mali; for Muriel had al­ready ex­plained to him how the girl had picked up some knowl­edge of our tongue in Queens­land.

Mali trem­bled in ev­ery limb, so that she could hard­ly speak. “Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la come,” she an­swered, all breath­less. “No black­fel­low look at him. Burn black­fel­low up. You and Mis­sy Ko­rong. All right for you. Go out to meet him!”

“Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la is com­ing,” the young man-​Shad­ow said, in Poly­ne­sian, al­most in the same breath, and no less tremu­lous­ly. “We dare not look up­on his face lest he burn us to ash­es. He is a very great Taboo. His face is fire. But you two are gods. Step forth to re­ceive him.”

Fe­lix took Muriel's hand in his, some­what trem­bling him­self, and led her forth on to the open space in front of the huts to meet the man-​god. She fol­lowed him like a child. She was wom­an enough for that. She had im­plic­it trust in him.

As they emerged, a strange pro­ces­sion met their eyes un­awares, com­ing down the zig-​zag path that led from the hills to the shore of the la­goon, where their huts were sit­uat­ed. At its head marched two men--tall, straight, and sup­ple--wear­ing huge feath­er masks over their faces, and beat­ing tom-​toms, dec­orat­ed with long strings of shiny cowries. Af­ter them, in or­der, came a sort of hol­low square of chiefs or war­riors, sur­round­ing with fan-​palms a cen­tral ob­ject all shroud­ed from the view with the ut­most pre­cau­tion. This cen­tral ob­ject was cov­ered with a huge re­gal um­brel­la, from whose edge hung rows of small nau­tilus and oth­er shells, so as to form a kind of screen, like the Japanese portieres now so com­mon in En­glish door­ways. Two sup­port­ers held it up, one on ei­ther side, in long cloaks of feath­ers. Un­der the um­brel­la, a man seemed to move; and as he ap­proached, the na­tives, to right and left, fled pre­cip­itate­ly to their huts, snatch­ing up their naked lit­tle ones from the ground as they went, and cry­ing aloud, “Taboo, Taboo! He comes! he comes. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la! Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la!”

The pro­ces­sion wound slow­ly on, un­heed­ing these com­mon crea­tures, till it reached the huts. Then the chiefs who formed the hol­low square fell back one by one, and the man un­der the um­brel­la, with his two sup­port­ers, came for­ward bold­ly. Fe­lix no­ticed that they crossed with­out scru­ple the thick white line of sand which all the oth­er na­tives so care­ful­ly re­spect­ed. The man with­in the um­brel­la drew aside the cur­tain of hang­ing nau­tilus shells. His face was cov­ered with a thin mask of pa­per mul­ber­ry bark; but Fe­lix knew he was the self-​same per­son whom they had seen the day be­fore in the cen­tral tem­ple.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's air was more in­so­lent and ar­ro­gant than even be­fore. He was clear­ly in high spir­its. “You have done well, O King of the Rain,” he said, turn­ing gay­ly to Fe­lix; “and you too, O Queen of the Clouds; you have done right brave­ly. We have all ac­quit­ted our­selves as our peo­ple would wish. We have made our show­ers to de­scend abun­dant­ly from heav­en; we have caused the crops to grow; we have wet­ted the plan­tain bush­es. See; Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la, who is so great a god, has come from his own home on the hills to greet you.”

“It has cer­tain­ly rained in the night,” Fe­lix an­swered, dry­ly.

But Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la was not to be put off thus. Ad­just­ing his thin mask or veil of bark, so as to hide his face more thor­ough­ly from the in­fe­ri­or god, he turned round once more to the chiefs, who even so hard­ly dared to look open­ly up­on him. Then he struck an at­ti­tude. The man was clear­ly burst­ing with spir­itu­al pride. He knew him­self to be a god, and was filled with the in­so­lence of his su­per­nat­ural pow­er. “See, my peo­ple,” he cried, hold­ing up his hands, palm out­ward, in his ac­cus­tomed god-​like way; “I am in­deed a great de­ity--Lord of Heav­en, Lord of Earth, Life of the World, Mas­ter of Time, Mea­sur­er of the Sun's Course, Spir­it of Growth, Cre­ator of the Har­vest, Mas­ter of Mor­tals, Be­stow­er of Breath up­on Men, Chief Pil­lar of Heav­en!”

The war­riors bowed down be­fore their bloat­ed mas­ter with un­ques­tion­ing as­sent. “Giv­er of Life to all the host of the gods,” they cried, “you are in­deed a mighty one. Weigher of the equipoise of Heav­en and Earth, we ac­knowl­edge your might; we give you thanks eter­nal­ly.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la swelled with vis­ible im­por­tance. “Did I not tell you, my meat,” he ex­claimed, “I would bring you new gods, great spir­its from the sun, fetch­ers of fire from my bright home in the heav­ens? And have they not come? Are they not here to-​day? Have they not brought the pre­cious gift of fresh fire with them?”

“Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la speaks true,” the chiefs echoed, sub­mis­sive­ly, with bent heads.

“Did I not make one of them King of the Rain?” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la asked once more, stretch­ing one hand to­ward the sky with the­atri­cal mag­nif­icence. “Did I not de­clare the oth­er Queen of the Clouds in Heav­en? And have I not caused them to bring down show­ers this night up­on our crops? Has not the dry earth drunk? Am I not the great god, the Saviour of Boupari?”

“Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la says well,” the chiefs re­spond­ed, once more, in unan­imous cho­rus.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la struck an­oth­er at­ti­tude with child­ish self-​sat­is­fac­tion. “I go in­to the hut to speak with my min­is­ters,” he said, grandil­oquent­ly. “Fire and Wa­ter, wait you here out­side while I en­ter and speak with my friends from the sun, whom I have brought for the sal­va­tion of the crops to Boupari.”

The King of Fire and the King of Wa­ter, sup­port­ing the um­brel­la, bowed as­sent to his words. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la mo­tioned Fe­lix and Muriel in­to the near­est hut. It was the one where the two Shad­ows lay crouch­ing in ter­ror among the na­tive mats. As the god tried to en­ter, the two cow­er­ing wretch­es set up a loud shout, “Taboo! Taboo! Mer­cy! Mer­cy! Mer­cy!” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la re­treat­ed with a con­temp­tu­ous smile. “I want to see you alone,” he said, in Poly­ne­sian, to Fe­lix. “Is the oth­er hut emp­ty? If not, go in and cut their throats who sit there, and make the place a soli­tude for Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la.”

“There is no one in the hut,” Fe­lix an­swered, with a nod, con­ceal­ing his dis­gust at the com­mand as far as he was able.

“That is well,” Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la an­swered, and walked in­to it care­less­ly. Fe­lix fol­lowed him close and deemed it best to make Muriel en­ter al­so.

As soon-​as they were alone, Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la's man­ner al­tered great­ly. “Come, now,” he said, quite ge­nial­ly, yet with a cu­ri­ous un­der-​cur­rent of hate in his steely gray eye; “we three are all gods. We who are in heav­en need have no se­crets from one an­oth­er. Tell me the truth; did you re­al­ly come to us di­rect from the sun, or are you sail­ing gods, dropped from a great ca­noe be­long­ing to the war­riors who seek la­bor­ers for the white men in the dis­tant coun­try?”

Fe­lix told him briefly, in as few words as pos­si­ble, the sto­ry of their ar­rival.

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la lis­tened with live­ly in­ter­est, then he said, very de­ci­sive­ly, with great brava­do, “It was _I_ who made the big wave wash your sis­ter over­board. I sent it to your ship. I want­ed a Ko­rong just now in Boupari. It was _I_ who brought you.”

“You are mis­tak­en,” Fe­lix said, sim­ply, not think­ing it worth while to con­tra­dict him fur­ther. “It was a pure­ly nat­ural ac­ci­dent.”

“Well, tell me,” the sav­age god went on once more, ey­ing him close and sharp, “they say you have brought fresh fire from the sun with you, and that you know how to make it burst out like light­ning at will. My peo­ple have seen it. They tell me the won­der. I wish to see it too. We are all gods here; we need have no se­crets. On­ly, I didn't want to let those com­mon peo­ple out­side see I asked you to show me. Make fire leap forth. I de­sire to be­hold it.”

Fe­lix took out the match-​box from his pock­et, and struck a ves­ta care­ful­ly. Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la looked on with pro­found in­ter­est. “It is won­der­ful,” he said, tak­ing the ves­ta in his own hand as it burned, and ex­am­in­ing it close­ly. “I have heard of this be­fore, but I have nev­er seen it. You are in­deed gods, you white men, you sailors of the sea.” He glanced at Muriel. “And the wom­an, too,” he said, with a hor­ri­ble leer, “the wom­an is pret­ty.”

Fe­lix took the mea­sure of his man at once. He opened his knife, and held it up threat­en­ing­ly. “See here, fel­low,” he said, in a low, slow tone, but with great de­ci­sion, “if you dare to speak or look like that at that la­dy--god or no god, I'll drive this knife straight up to the han­dle in your heart, though your peo­ple kill me for it af­ter­ward ten thou­sand times over. I am not afraid of you. These sav­ages may be afraid, and may think you are a god; but if you are, then I am a god ten thou­sand times stronger than you. One more word--one more look like that, I say--and I plunge this knife re­morse­less­ly in­to you.”

Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la drew back, and smiled be­nign­ly. Stal­wart ruf­fi­an as he was, and ab­so­lute mas­ter of his own peo­ple's lives, he was yet afraid in a way of the strange new-​com­er. Vague sto­ries of the men with white faces--the “sail­ing gods”--had reached him from time to time; and though on­ly twice with­in his mem­ory had Eu­ro­pean boats land­ed on his is­land, he yet knew enough of the race to know that they were at least very pow­er­ful deities--more pow­er­ful with their weapons than even he was. Be­sides, a man who could draw down fire from heav­en with a piece of wax and a lit­tle met­al box might sure­ly with­er him to ash­es, if he would, as he stood be­fore him. The very fact that Fe­lix beard­ed him thus open­ly to his face as­ton­ished and some­what ter­ri­fied the su­per­sti­tious sav­age. Ev­ery­body else on the is­land was afraid of him; then cer­tain­ly a man who was not afraid must be the pos­ses­sor of some most ef­fi­ca­cious and mag­ical medicine. His one fear now was lest his fol­low­ers should hear and dis­cov­er his dis­com­fi­ture. He peered about him cau­tious­ly, with that care­ful gleam shin­ing bright in his eye; then he said with a leer, in a very low voice, “We two need not quar­rel. We are both of us gods. Nei­ther of us is the stronger. We are equal, that's all. Let us live like broth­ers, not like en­emies, on the is­land.”

“I don't want to be your broth­er,” Fe­lix an­swered, un­able to con­ceal his loathing any more. “I hate and de­test you.”

“What does he say?” Muriel asked, in an agony of fear at the sav­age's black looks. “Is he go­ing to kill us?”

“No,” Fe­lix an­swered, bold­ly. “I think he's afraid of us. He's go­ing to do noth­ing. You needn't fear him.”

“Can she not speak?” the sav­age asked, point­ing with his fin­ger some­what rude­ly to­ward Muriel. “Has she no voice but this, the chat­ter of birds? Does she not know the hu­man lan­guage?”

“She can speak,” Fe­lix replied, plac­ing him­self like a shield be­tween Muriel and the as­ton­ished sav­age. “She can speak the lan­guage of the peo­ple of our dis­tant coun­try--a beau­ti­ful lan­guage which is as far su­pe­ri­or to the speech of the brown men of Poly­ne­sia as the sun in the heav­ens is su­pe­ri­or to the light of a can­dlenut. But she can't speak the wretched tongue of you Boupari can­ni­bals. I thank Heav­en she can't, for it saves her from un­der­stand­ing the hate­ful things your peo­ple would say of her. Now go! I have seen al­ready enough of you. I am not afraid. Re­mem­ber, I am as pow­er­ful a god as you. I need not fear. You can­not hurt me.”

A bale­ful light gleamed in the can­ni­bal's eye. But he thought it best to tem­po­rize. Pow­er­ful as he was on his is­land, there was one thing yet more pow­er­ful by far than he; and that was Taboo--the cus­tom and su­per­sti­tion hand­ed down from his an­ces­tors, These strangers were Ko­rong; he dare not touch them, ex­cept in the way and man­ner and time ap­point­ed by cus­tom. If he did, god as he was, his peo­ple them­selves would turn and rend him. He was a god, but he was bound on ev­ery side by the strictest taboos. He dare not him­self of­fer vi­olence to Fe­lix.

So he turned with a smile and bid­ed his time. He knew it would come. He could af­ford to laugh. Then, go­ing to the door, he said, with his grand af­fa­ble man­ner to his chiefs around, “I have spo­ken with the gods, my min­is­ters, with­in. They have kissed my hands. My rain has fall­en. All is well in the land. Arise, let us go away hence to my tem­ple.”

The sav­ages put them­selves in march­ing or­der at once. “It is the voice of a god,” they said, rev­er­ent­ly. “Let us take back Tu-​Ki­la-​Ki­la to his tem­ple home. Let us es­cort the lord of the di­vine um­brel­la. Wher­ev­er he is, there trees and plants put forth green leaves and flour­ish. At his bid­ding flow­ers bloom and springs of wa­ter rise up in foun­tains. His pres­ence dif­fus­es heav­en­ly bless­ings.”

“I think,” Fe­lix said, turn­ing to poor, ter­ri­fied Muriel, “I've sent the wretch away with a bee in his bon­net.”