The Great Taboo

A STRANGE ALLY.

In Tu-Kila-Kila’s temple-hut, meanwhile, the jealous, revengeful god, enshrined among his skeletons, was having in his turn an anxious and doubtful time of it.  Ever since his sacred blood had stained the dust of earth by the Frenchman’s cottage and in his own temple, Tu-Kila-Kila, for all his bluster, had been deeply stirred and terrified in his inmost soul by that unlucky portent.  A savage, even if he be a god, is always superstitious.  Could it be that his own time was, indeed, drawing nigh?  That he, who had remorselessly killed and eaten so many hundreds of human victims, was himself to fall a prey to some more successful competitor?  Had the white-faced stranger, the King of the Rain, really learned the secrets of the Great Taboo from the Soul of all dead parrots?  Did that mysterious bird speak the tongue of these new fire-bearing Korongs, whose doom was fixed for the approaching solstice?  Tu-Kila-Kila wondered and doubted.  His suspicions were keen, and deeply aroused.  Late that night he still lurked by the sacred banyan-tree, and when at last he retired to his own inner temple, white with the grinning skulls of the victims he had devoured, it was with strict injunctions to Fire and Water, and to his Eyes that watched there, to bring him word at once of any projected aggression on the part of the stranger.

Within the temple-hut, however, Ula awaited him.  That was a pleasant change.  The beautiful, supple, satin-skinned Polynesian looked more beautiful and more treacherous than ever that fateful evening.  Her great brown limbs, smooth and glossy as pearl, were set off by a narrow girdle or waistband of green and scarlet leaves, twined spirally around her.  Armlets of nautilus shell threw up the dainty plumpness of her soft, round forearm.  A garland hung festooned across one shapely shoulder; her bosom was bare or but half hidden by the crimson hibiscus that nestled voluptuously upon it.  As Tu-Kila-Kila entered, she lifted her large eyes, and, smiling, showed two even rows of pearly white teeth.  “My master has come!” she cried, holding up both lissome arms with a gesture to welcome him.  “The great god relaxes his care of the world for a while.  All goes on well.  He leaves his sun to sleep and his stars to shine, and he retires to rest on the unworthy bosom of her, his mate, his meat, that is honored to love him.”

Tu-Kila-Kila was scarcely just then in a mood for dalliance.  “The Queen of the Clouds comes hither to-morrow,” he answered, casting a somewhat contemptuous glance at Ula’s more dusky and solid charms.  “I go to seek her with the wedding gifts early in the morning.  For a week she shall be mine.  And after that—­” he lifted his tomahawk and brought it down on a huge block of wood significantly.

Ula smiled once more, that deep, treacherous smile of hers, and showed her white teeth even deeper than ever.  “If my lord, the great god, rises so early to-morrow,” she said, sidling up toward him voluptuously, “to seek one more bride for his sacred temple, all the more reason he should take his rest and sleep soundly to-night.  Is he not a god?  Are not his limbs tired?  Does he not need divine silence and slumber?”

Tu-Kila-Kila pouted.  “I could sleep more soundly,” he said, with a snort, “if I knew what my enemy, the Korong, is doing.  I have set my Eyes to watch him, yet I do not feel secure.  They are not to be trusted.  I shall be happier far when I have killed and eaten him.”  He passed his hand across his bosom with a reflective air.  You have a great sense of security toward your enemy, no doubt, when you know that he slumbers, well digested, within you.

Ula raised herself on her elbow, and gazed snake-like into his face, “My lord’s Eyes are everywhere,” she said, reverently, with every mark of respect.  “He sees and knows all things.  Who can hide anything on earth from his face?  Even when he is asleep, his Eyes watch well for him.  Then why should the great god, the Measurer of Heaven and Earth, the King of Men, fear a white-faced stranger?  To-morrow the Queen of the Clouds will be yours, and the stranger will be abased:  ha, ha, he will grieve at it!  To-night, Fire and Water keep guard and watch over you.  Whoever would hurt you must pass through Fire and Water before he reach your door.  Fire would burn, Water would drown.  This is a Great Taboo.  No stranger dare face it.”

Tu-Kila-Kila lifted himself up in his thrasonic mood.  “If he did,” he cried, swelling himself, “I would shrivel him to ashes with one flash of my eyes.  I would scorch him to a cinder with one stroke of my lightning.”

Ula smiled again, a well-satisfied smile.  She was working her man up.  “Tu-Kila-Kila is great,” she repeated, slowly.  “All earth obeys him.  All heaven fears him.”

The savage took her hand with a doubtful air.  “And yet,” he said, toying with it, half irresolute, “when I went to the white-faced stranger’s hut this morning, he did not speak fair; he answered me insolently.  His words were bold.  He talked to me as one talks to a man, not to a great god.  Ula, I wonder if he knows my secret?”

Ula started back in well-affected horror.  “A white-faced stranger from the sun know your secret, O great king!” she cried, hiding her face in a square of cloth.  “See me beat my breast!  Impossible!  Impossible!  No one of your subjects would dare to tell him so great a taboo.  It would be rank blasphemy.  If they did, your anger would utterly consume them!”

“That is true,” Tu-Kila-Kila said, practically, “but I might not discover it.  I am a very great god.  My Eyes are everywhere.  No corner of the world is hid from my gaze.  All the concerns of heaven and earth are my care, And, therefore; sometimes, I overlook some detail.”

“No man alive would dare to tell the Great Taboo!” Ula repeated, confidently.  “Why, even I myself, who am the most favored of your wives, and who am permitted to bask in the light of your presence—­even I, Ula—­I do not know it.  How much less, then, the spirit from the sun, the sailing god, the white-faced stranger!”

Tu-Kila-Kila pursed up his brow and looked preternaturally wise, as the savage loves to do.  “But the parrot,” he cried, “the Soul of all dead parrots! He knew the secret, they say:—­I taught it him myself in an ancient day, many, many years ago—­when no man now living was born, save only I—­in another incarnation—­and he may have told it.  For the strangers, they say, speak the language of birds; and in the language of birds did I tell the Great Taboo to him.”

Ula pooh-poohed the mighty man-god’s fears.  “No, no,” she cried, with confidence; “he can never have told them.  If he had, would not your Eyes that watch ever for all that happens on heaven or earth, have straightway reported it to you?  The parrot died without yielding up the tale.  Were it otherwise, Toko, who loves and worships you, would surely have told me.”

The man-god puckered his brows slightly, as if he liked not the security.  “Well, somehow, Ula,” he said, feeling her soft brown arms with his divine hand, slowly, “I have always had my doubts since that day the Soul of all dead parrots bit me.  A vicious bird!  What did he mean by his bite?” He lowered his voice and looked at her fixedly.  “Did not his spilling my blood portend,” he asked, with a shudder of fear, “that through that ill-omened bird I, who was once Lavita, should cease to be Tu-Kila-Kila?”

Ula smiled contentedly again.  To say the truth, that was precisely the interpretation she herself had put on that terrific omen.  The parrot had spilled Tu-Kila-Kila’s sacred blood upon the soil of earth.  According to her simple natural philosophy, that was a certain sign that through the parrot’s instrumentality Tu-Kila-Kila’s life would be forfeited to the great eternal earth-spirit.  Or, rather, the earth-spirit would claim the blood of the man Lavita, in whose body it dwelt, and would itself migrate to some new earthly tabernacle.

But for all that, she dissembled.  “Great god,” she cried, smiling, a benign smile, “you are tired!  You are thirsty!  Care for heaven and earth has wearied you out.  You feel the fatigue of upholding the sun in heaven.  Your arms must ache.  Your thews must give under you.  Drink of the soul-inspiring juice of the kava!  My hands have prepared the divine cup.  For Tu-Kila-Kila did I make it—­fresh, pure, invigorating!”

She held the bowl to his lips with an enticing smile.  Tu-Kila-Kila hesitated and glanced around him suspiciously.  “What if the white-faced stranger should come to-night?” he whispered, hoarsely.  “He may have discovered the Great Taboo, after all.  Who can tell the ways of the world, how they come about?  My people are so treacherous.  Some traitor may have betrayed it to him.”

“Impossible,” the beautiful, snake-like woman answered, with a strong gesture of natural dissent.  “And even if he came, would not kava, the divine, inspiriting drink of the gods, in which dwell the embodied souls of our fathers—­would not kava make you more vigorous, strong for the fight?  Would it not course through your limbs like fire?  Would it not pour into your soul the divine, abiding strength of your mighty mother, the eternal earth-spirit?”

“A little,” Tu-Kila-Kila said, yielding, “but not too much.  Too much would stupefy me.  When the spirits, that the kava-tree sucks up from the earth, are too strong within us, they overpower our own strength, so that even I, the high god—­even I can do nothing.”

Ula held the bowl to his lips, and enticed him to drink with her beautiful eyes.  “A deep draught, O supporter of the sun in heaven,” she cried, pressing his arm tenderly.  “Am I not Ula?  Did I not brew it for you?  Am I not the chief and most favored among your women?  I will sit at the door.  I will watch all night.  I will not close an eye.  Not a footfall on the ground but my ear shall hear it.”

“Do.”  Tu-Kila-Kila said, laconically.  “I fear Fire and Water.  Those gods love me not.  Fain would they make me migrate into some other body.  But I myself like it not.  This one suits me admirably.  Ula, that kava is stronger than you are used to make it.”

“No, no,” Ula cried, pressing it to his lips a second time, passionately.  “You are a very great god.  You are tired; it overcomes you.  And if you sleep, I will watch.  Fire and Water dare not disobey your commands.  Are you not great?  Your Eyes are everywhere.  And I, even I, will be as one of them.”

The savage gulped down a few more mouthfuls of the intoxicating liquid.  Then he glanced up again suddenly with a quick, suspicious look.  The cunning of his race gave him wisdom in spite of the deadly strength of the kava Ula had brewed too deep for him.  With a sudden resolve, he rose and staggered out.  “You are a serpent, woman!” he cried angrily, seeing the smile that lurked upon Ula’s face.  “To-morrow I will kill you.  I will take the white woman for my bride, and she and I will feast off your carrion body.  You have tried to betray me, but you are not cunning enough, not strong enough.  No woman shall kill me.  I am a very great god.  I will not yield.  I will wait by the tree.  This is a trap you have set, but I do not fall into it.  If the King of the Rain comes, I shall be there to meet him.”

He seized his spear and hatchet and walked forth, erect, without one sign of drunkenness.  Ula trembled to herself as she saw him go.  She was playing a deep game.  Had she given him only just enough kava to strengthen and inspire him?