Magic

Whether it is an island in the South Seas or a great city, the spell of one’s homeland holds, and the sight of a homeland face, when far afield, can work wonders in the human heart, as Tauti and Uliami lived to learn.

In Tilafeaa there lived, many years ago, two young men, Tauti and Uliami by name, and brothers in all things but birth.

Tilafeaa is a high island, very large, and many ships come there for copra and turtle and beche de mer, and at night you can see the reef alight with the torches of the fish spearers, and there is a club where the white captains and the mates from the ships meet with the traders to drink and talk.

The town is larger than the town here at Malaffii, but more spread, with trees everywhere, and between the houses, artus and palms and bread fruit, so that at night the lights of the town show like fireflies in the thick bush.

Tauti’s house lay near the middle of the great street, near to the church, while the house of Uliami was the last in all that street but one, a pleasant house under the shadow of the true woods and close to the mountain track that goes over the shoulder of Paulii and beyond.

It was at the house of Uliami that these two chiefly met, for Uliami was the richer man and his house was the pleasanter house and he himself was the stronger of the two—not in power of limb but in person. You will have noticed that, of two men equal in the strength of the body, one will be greater than the other, so that men and women will come to him first, and he will be able to get the better price for his copra, and in any public place he will find more consideration shown to him.

It was so with Uliami. He was first of these two as he might have been the elder brother, and, though first, always put himself last, so great was his spirit and love for Tauti. When they went fishing together, though he caught more, it was always Tauti that brought home the heaviest basket. The ripest fruit was always for Tauti, and once, at the risk of his own, he had saved Tauti’s life.

As for Tauti, he was equally fine in spirit. Though Uliami might fill his basket the fullest, he always tried to contrive that in the end Uliami had the better fish and fruit, and once he, too, had risked his life to save a man—and that man was Uliami.

Now since these two were inseparable and had given in spirit the life of the one for the life of the other, nothing, you will say, could separate them but Death which separates all things.

II.

One day Tauti, coming up alone from the fishing and taking a byway through the trees, came across a girl crouched beneath the shelter of a bread fruit whose leaves were so great that one of them could have covered her little body.

It was Kinei, the daughter of Sikra the basket maker, and she was stringing flowers which she had plucked to make a chaplet. He knew her well, and he had often passed her; she was fourteen, or a little more, and had for nickname the “Laughing One,” for she was as pleasant to look at as the sunshine through leaves on a shadowed brook. She was so young that he had scarcely thought of her as being different from a man, and she had always, on meeting him, had a smile for him, given openly as a child may give a pretty shell in the palm of its hand.

But to-day, as she looked up, she had no smile for him. He drew near and sat down close to her and handed her the flowers for her to string. Then, as he looked into her eyes, he saw that they were deep as the deepest sea, and full of trouble.

He made inquiry as to the cause of the trouble and Kinei, without answering him, looked down. He raised her chin and, looking at him full, her eyes filled with tears. Then he knew. He had found Love, suddenly, like a treasure, or like a flower just opened and filled with dew.

On leaving her that day he could have run through the woods like a man distracted and filled with joy, but, instead he sought his own house, and there he sat down to contemplate this new thing that had befallen him.

Now, in the past, when any good had come to Tauti, no sooner was it in his hand than he carried it to Uliami to show; and his eyes now turned that way. But, look hard as he would, he could not see Uliami, for there was now no one else in the world for him but Kinei.

He could not tell his news, but hid it up, and when Uliami met him and asked him what was on his mind, he replied “Nothing.” And so things went on, till one day Uliami, walking in the woods, came upon Kinei with Tauti in her arms.

He would sooner have come upon his own death, for he, too, had learned to love the girl, but his love for her had made him as weak as a maiden and as fearful as a child in the dark of the high woods, when there is no moon. Love is like that, making some men bold as the frigate bird in its flight, and some timorous as the dove, and the strongest are often the weakest when taken in the snare.

Uliami, having gazed for two heartbeats, passed away like a shadow among the trees and sought his own house and sat down to consider this new thing that had come to him. Any bad fortune of the past he had always carried to Tauti to share it with him, and his eyes turned toward Tauti now, but not with that intent.

At first, and for some time covering many days, he felt no ill will—no more than a man feels toward the matagi that blows suddenly out of a clear sky, driving him off shore to be drowned.

Then came the marriage of Tauti to Kinei, and a year that passed, and a son that was born to them.

And then slowly, as the great storms rise, the storm that had been gathering in the heart of Uliami rose and darkened, and what caused that storm was the fact that Tauti, in his happiness, had forgotten their old-time bond of brotherhood, and was so happy in his wife and his little affairs that Uliami might as well not have been on that island.

Tauti had robbed him not only of Kinei but of himself; Kinei had robbed him not only of herself but of Tauti—and they were happy. But the storm might never have burst, for Uliami was no evil man, had he not one day discovered that Kinei was no longer faithful to Tauti. She was of that sort, and the devil, who knows all things, did not leave the matter long to rest, but took Uliami by the ear and showed him the truth.

Now what the devil does to a man that man does often to another. Uliami showed Tauti the truth, and in such a manner that Tauti struck him on the mouth.

“So be it,” said Uliami, wiping his mouth. “All is ended between us, and now I will kill you—not to-day, but to-morrow, and as sure as the sun will rise.”

Tauti laughed.

“There are two to that game,” said he. “As you say, all is ended between us, and to-morrow I will kill you as sure as the sun will set.”

Then they each went their ways, not knowing that their words had been overheard by Sikra, the father of Kinei, who had been hiding in the bushes by the path where they had met.

III.

This Sikra was only a basket maker and knew only one trade, but for all that he was the wisest man on that island, and the most cunning, and the most evil. And Sikra said to himself, “If these two men kill one another over Kinei and her conduct, all may be discovered openly which is now known only secretly and to a few.”

He went to the lagoon edge, and there, in the shelter of the canoe houses, he sat down, and, with his hands before him, began contemplating the matter, twisting the facts, this way and that, with the fingers of his mind, just as the fingers of his body had been accustomed to twist the plaited grass, this way and that, into the form of his baskets.

He knew that this thing was a death feud, and that by the morrow’s sunset one of the two men would be no longer alive, unless they were separated and one taken clean away from that island. But more than that, he said to himself, “Of what use is there in taking one away, for if Tauti is left he will maltreat my daughter and search more deeply into this matter and bring more confusion upon us. And if I were to kill Uliami to-night in his sleep, as has just occurred to me, would not the deed be put down to Tauti, who, in trying to free himself, might in some way bring the deed home to me? And if I were to kill Tauti, might not the same thing happen?”

Thinking so, his wandering mind crossed the lagoon to the two ships there at anchor—a schooner and a brig—and both due to leave by the flood of the morrow’s dawn. It was then, with the suddenness of the closing of a buckle, that a great thought came to Sikra, making him laugh out loud so that the echoes of the canoe house made answer.

He rose up and, leaving the beach, made through the trees in the direction of Tauti’s house. There, when he reached it, was Kinei, seated at the doorway. He knew, by this, that Tauti was not at home, and so, nodding to his daughter, he withdrew, making along that street toward the sea end where presently he met his man leaving the forge of Tomassu, the smith, who makes and mends in iron things and sharpens fish spears and knives. Tauti had a knife in his girdle, and, noting it, Sikra drew him aside into the lane that goes through the bushes of mammee apple, past the chief trader’s house to the far end of the beach.

Here he stopped, when they had passed beyond earshot of the trader’s house, and, placing his finger on the breast of the other, says he:

“Tauti, what about that knife you were having sharpened just now at the forge of Tomassu?”

“To-morrow,” said Tauti, “I have to kill a pig.”

“You are right,” said Sikra. “He is a pig. I heard you both when you were talking on the path, and I heard the name he gave my daughter, and I saw you strike him. But you will not kill him to-morrow.”

“But why?” asked Tauti.

“Because,” said Sikra, “he has left the island.”

Tauti laughed, disbelieving the other.

“Since when,” asked he, “has Uliami taken wings?”

“An hour ago,” replied Sikra. “I rowed him over to the schooner that lies there in the lagoon; most of the crew were ashore getting fruit, and the rest were asleep, and the captain and his mate were at the club drinking, and the hatch was open and Uliami crept on board and hid himself among the cargo. His lips were white with fear.”

“But Uliami is no coward,” said the other.

“Did he return your blow?” asked the cunning Sikra.

“That is true,” replied Tauti, “but hiding will not save him. I have sworn his death and my hatred is as deep as the sea. I will go on board the schooner now and tell the captain what sort of cockroach lies hidden in his ship; and when they bring him out I will kill him.”

“And then the white men will hang you,” said Sikra. “Child that you are, will you listen to me?”

“I listen,” said Tauti.

“Well,” said Sikra, “you go aboard the schooner now and become one of the crew. They are in need of hands, as, indeed, is also that brig that lies by her. Then in a day or less, when Uliami knocks to be let out, you will be on board and on some dark night, or peradventure at the next port the schooner reaches, you can do the business you have set your heart to.”

Now this counsel fell in not only with Tauti’s desire for blood, but also with his wish to be shut of that island for a while and the wife who had betrayed him.

He thought for a moment on the matter, and then he fell in with the idea of Sikra, and, not even returning to his house, just as he was, let himself be led to the far end of the beach, where Sikra, borrowing a canoe, rowed him to the schooner, whose captain was right glad to have him, being, as Sikra had stated truly enough, short of hands.

IV.

Sikra, having got rid of one of his men, paddled back ashore, and, waiting till dark had nearly fallen, took himself to Uliami’s house. Here he found Uliami seated with a fish spear across his knees and a whetstone in his hands; a knife that had just been sharpened lay beside him.

“You are busy?” said Sikra, “but your labor is useless, for the man you would kill has flown. Hiding in the bushes I heard all that passed between you and Tauti. He has left the island for fear of you and has crept on board the brig that lies at anchor in the lagoon. With the help of a friend who is one of the crew, he has hidden himself in the hold with the cargo.”

“Then,” said the other, and almost in the words Tauti had used, “I will row off to the brig and tell the captain what sort of reptile has hidden in his hold, and when they drag him forth I will kill him.”

“And the white men will hang you,” said Sikra. “Child, listen to the words of Sikra, who is old enough to be your father. Go on board the brig pretending nothing, become one of the crew, and then, when Tauti knocks to be let out, you can have your way with him some dark night, or peradventure, at the first port the ship touches at. I wish to be shut of him as a son-in-law for many reasons, but I do not want him killed on this island.”

Uliami brooded for a moment on this. Then he rose, and, taking only the knife, followed the other to the beach.

It was now dark. When they reached the side of the brig the captain was called, and glad enough he was to get a new hand and willing to pay three dollars a month, which is better pay by a dollar than what they were giving on the plantations—and paid in dollars, not trade goods.

Uliami climbed on board, and then Sikra put back ashore, where he sat on the beach for a while, looking at the lights of the two ships and holding his stomach with laughter. Then he made for the house of Tauti and beat Kinei, and took possession of all the belongings of her husband. Next day he went to the house of Uliami and took the best of the things there, assured in his mind that neither Tauti nor Uliami would ever get back to that island again.

V.

Now when a man finds himself in his grave he may like it or not, but he cannot get out; and so it is with a ship.

Uliami presently found himself in the fo’c’s’le of that ship where the hands were having their supper by the light of a stinking lamp, and so far from eating, it was all he could do to breathe.

Neither did the men please him, being different from the men he had always met with. There were men from the Solomons, with slit ears and nose rings; and there were men from the low islands, whose language he could scarcely understand; and he would have been the unhappiest man in the world, just then, had it not been for the thought of Tauti so close to him hidden among the cargo and fancying himself safe.

At the same time, on board the schooner, Tauti was in the same way, wishing himself in any other place, but upheld by the thought of Uliami hiding from him, yet so close.

Then, with an empty belly, but a full mind, Uliami turned in, to be aroused just before break of day by the mate. On deck he was put to haul on ropes to raise the sails, and on the deck of the schooner, lying close by, he might have seen, had there been light, Tauti hauling likewise.

Then he was put to the windlass which pulls in the chain that raises the anchor, and as the sun laid his first finger upon Paulii the anchor came in and the brig, with the tide and the first of the land wind, drew toward the reef opening and passed it. Uliami, looking back, saw Tilafeaa standing bold from the sea and the reef and the opening with the schooner passing through it, and he wished himself back for a moment, till the remembrance of Tauti came to him and the picture of him hidden there among the cargo.

He reckoned that he would knock to be let out as soon as the ship told him by her movement that she was well on her voyage, and, being on the morning watch, he managed to keep close to the cargo hatch with his ears well open to any sound. At first the straining and creaking of the masts and timbers confused him, but he got used to these, but he heard no sound. An hour might have gone by when a new thought came to Uliami. He would lay no longer waiting for the other to make a move, but go straight to the captain and tell him that a man was hidden there under the hatch, for he was more hungry for the sight of Tauti’s face and the surprise on it at their meeting than a young maiden is for the sight of her lover.

At that moment the captain himself came on deck and began to look at the sun, holding to his face a thing so strangely formed that Uliami would have laughed, only that laughter and all gay thoughts were now as far from him as Tilafeaa.

The captain was a big man with a red face, and when he had done looking at the sun, and when he heard what Uliami had to say, he swore a great oath, and, calling to the mate, he ordered the tarpaulins to be taken off the hatch and the locking bars undone, and then the hatch was opened, but there was no man there.

Then the captain kicked Uliami, and the mate kicked him, and at that very time, or near it, they were kicking Tauti on board the schooner for also giving them word that a man was hidden in the cargo.

Of a truth these two, who had set out so gayly to kill one another, were receiving payment through the hands of Sikra; each of these men had seized the devil by the tail and they could not let go, and here he was galloping over the world with them, from wave to wave, like a horse over hurdles, for the brig and the schooner, though separated by many leagues, were going in the same direction.

VI.

They passed islands, and there was not an island they passed that did not make Uliami feel as though he had swallowed Paulii and it had risen in his throat.

As first, and for many days, he noticed in his ears a sound which was yet not a sound. Then he knew it was the sound of the reef that had been in his ears since childhood, but had now drawn away and gone from him, leaving only its memory. The food displeased him, and the work and the faces of his companions, and he would have given his pay and all he possessed for a sniff of the winds blowing from the high woods, or a sight of the surf on the shores of Tilafeaa.

He had only one companion—his anger against Tauti. He saw now that he had been served a trick, and put the whole matter down to the wiles of the other, little thinking that it was Sikra who had played this game against them both.

VII.

One day the brig, always butting like a ram against the blue sky and empty sea, gave them view of a mountain and land, stretching in the distance from north to south as though all the islands of the ocean had been drawn and joined together making one solid piece.

Then presently, as they drew in, Uliami saw a break in the land near the mountain. They told him it was the Golden Gate and the city of San Francisco where all the rich men in the world lived, but he had little time to listen to their tales. For they were now on the bar, and the brig was tumbling this way and that, and the mate and captain cursing and kicking those in the way, and giving orders to haul now on this rope, now on that.

Uliami had been used to swearing and cursing on board that brig, but, when they got to the wharf, what he heard overpassed all he had heard in that way, as though all the curses in the world, like all the men, and all the houses, and all the ships, had come to roost at that spot.

But Uliami did not mind. He was filled with one great desire—to go ashore to see for himself the great houses and the rich men and the new things to be seen. Next morning when the crew were paid and he had received five dollars as his pay, he joined up with Sru, a man from the low islands, who had been friendly to him on the voyage, and the pair, crossing the plank, set their feet on the wharf, and Sru, landing, made for the first tavern. That was the sort of man Sru was, old in the ways of harbors and ports, and with a liking for rum. But Uliami had no stomach for drink and, presently, he left the other and found himself in the streets round the dockside.

It was very windy here and his thin coat and trousers flapped around him as a flag flaps on its staff, and the dust blew with the wind in great clouds. And, just as things touched by a wizard change and alter, so the mind of Uliami began to wither in him, for here there were no rich men to be seen, only dirty children playing their games, and there was not a child that did not see in him a man new to the place. They called after him, ridiculing him, and the houses were not proper houses set in gardens, but all of a piece and evil-looking beyond words.

Then pursuing his way he found himself in a broader street where cars ran without horses and where there were so many people that no one noticed him.

And that was the most curious thing that had happened to him yet, for at Tilafeaa every one had a nod or a smile or a word for every one else, but here the people all passed along in two streams, rapidly, like driven fish, with not a word for each other, nor a look nor a smile, so that, in all that crowd, Uliami felt more alone than in the woods yet not alone—for here were men and women, almost in touch, by the hundred and the thousand.

Then the shops took him where the traders exposed their goods, not in the open but behind windows of glass, each ten hundred times bigger than the window of glass in the church at Raupee. But the goods exposed were things, many of them, which he had never seen before, and they caused no desire in his mind, only distress and more loneliness, till he came to a shop where great bunches of bananas hung just as though they had been new cut down from the trees at Tilafeaa.

Here he hung, disregarding the other fruit exposed, and with tears filling his eyes, till the man of the shop spoke to him roughly, asking him what he wanted and bidding him be gone.

VIII.

Now at Tilafeaa the day was always cut out in pieces, with things to do in each piece, and on board the brig it was the same, but here the day was all one, with nothing to do but walk from street to street, among people blind to one another and always hurrying like leaves blown by a wind.

Uliami stood a while at a corner and watched these people, and it seemed to him, now, that they were each, like the cars that went without horses, or the boats in the bay that went without stern or side wheels, driven by some purpose that no man could see.

He felt that it was no good purpose that made men disregard one another and push one another aside and be blind to a stranger as though he were a ghost they could not see. He felt sick at heart, for even the sun had changed and here its light fell on nothing good. The great buildings and the little, it was all the same, they were equally hard with the hardness that lay in the faces of the people.

It was on noon when, wandering like a lost dog, he found himself in a most dismal place passing along by a great wall. Beyond the wall lay a building reaching the skies with chimneys that smoked and fumed, and here in the lane lay refuse and old empty tins and such truck with the sun shining on them and the light of it turned to mournfulness and desolation. Turning a corner of this lane he came face to face with Tauti, whose ship had come in to the bay only the morning before, and who, like Uliami, had been wandering hither and thither, like a lost dog.

Each man had still his knife in his girdle, and thus they stood facing one another, as they had stood when they parted last, in the woods of Tilafeaa. And surely, for a killing, no place was better suited than this, where there was no one to watch or take notice or care except the devil of desolation lurking in that lane, which of all places in the city seemed his truest home.

For a moment, as they stood, all things were shattered around them; everything wiped away but themselves, and their minds sprang back to the point of anger as a bow springs back to the straight, and who knows what might have happened between these two, but at that moment from the great building there came a howl like the voice of the whole city howling out in pain because of its own desolation.

It was the voice of the horn that is blown at midday for the work people, and as Tauti and Uliami looked round them in fear and wonder it seemed to them the voice of the dust, and the high walls and the streets, and the rubbish on the ground, and the hard-faced people on the foot walks. When it ceased, and they faced one another again, they were no longer alone, for that voice had reached Tilafeaa, and the high woods had come trooping to its call right across the sea, and they were standing as they had stood when they parted last in the company of the trees and amid the beauty of the flowers, and all anger had passed from their hearts where there was nothing now but the grief of exile and love.

Surely that was magic greater than the magic of the pictures that move, or the machines that speak, and surely places are the true gods that rule over man, for the voice of the city had brought an island from a thousand leagues away, and the island had brought love to Tauti and Uliami.

No man could have reconciled these two.

But Tauti died. Before ever he could get back to Tilafeaa a fever took him. It was many years ago.

I am Uliami.