“Papalagi, there she is!—those two bright stars are her eyes and the four pale little stars am her nipples.
“So you see, O Papalagi, why all the children of the islands ’way to north-west aretapu(sacred), for they are the children of the children who did once drink tapu-milk from the bosom of the stars.”
As Pokara finished, he looked intently up at the heavens. And as I too looked up and saw the two bright stars, and the accompanying smaller stars twinkling out there, far-off in the clear night sky, I understood how wonderful the universe must have appeared to the old heathens of many ages ago. I could not laugh over Pokara’s story, as we sat there by the forest lagoons. I must confess that I too felt some weird fascination for his heathen world. And, as the old chief laid his weary head down on the forest floor and the winds sang mournfully in the mangroves, I looked up towards the sky and strangely fancied that I saw the beautiful goddess Tarioa watching from the night-heavens amongst the stars, watching over her lost children. Then I laid my head down on my pillow of gathered moss and tried to sleep. As I watched the moon slowly climbing the blue vault of space over the forest height, Pokara’s deep bass snores broke gently through my meditations. After a while I gazed on the sleeping chief’s face and fancied he looked like some tattooed mummy who had lain there in its scented swathings beside me for possibly a thousand years. It was at that precise moment that my eyes spied a bright spot that shone like a vast jewel underthe distant ivory nut palms. It was a small forest lagoon that I had not observed before. I was not as surprised as one might suppose, when the water stirred and a shock-head of glistening hair protruded and two sparkling eyes peered at me. I could hardly believe my own eyes as the head rose higher and a beautiful form slowly emerged from the silent depths. She was a goddess-like creation of wondrous beauty; the glistening waters ran from her tresses down below her thighs as she gazed upon me. She was not more than twelve yards away.
“The wonders of the South Seas have no end,” thought I, as with finger to her lips she beckoned to me and came gliding towards me on tiptoe. I instinctively understood her meaning. In a moment I obeyed. Jumping to my feet, I clutched my violin and followed her. I heard the eerie rustle of her shadowy raiment, as her feet, pattering like rain on palm-leaves, sped softly beside me. Then we came to the sea. It was a wild, solitary spot. Only the tiny whirl of the incoming waves broke the moonlit stillness that dwelt at the feet of the mountains which rose like mighty sentinels to the north-west. Taking me by the hand, she led me out to the edge of the promontory. As I stood there staring on the strange greenish hue of the sea-line, I realized that I was standing on the most solitary point of the earth. Then, as gracefully as possible, I did exactly as she bade me—sat down in the large bowl of moonlight she had mysteriously placed there. And, so seated, I lifted my violin to my chin and played a weird melody, such a melody as a troubadour might well play to a beautiful enchantress. It was all real enough, no dream at all. I even touched myself. “No mistaking me!” I mumbled. Then I gazed on the sky, and observed that the stars swam like goldfish across the midnight blue. I knew that Pokara still lay fast asleep in the forestshadows, little dreaming of the strange visitant who had lured me from his side. In some strange way I realized how envious he would have been, could he have seen me sitting there in that bowl of moonlight playing my violin. He, I knew, alwayswouldthink the magic of things was wholly on his side and not on mine; and there I was, being strangely favoured by the gods of the present reality, whereas Pokara had to dive far back into a heathen past ere he realized such wonders as I realized that very night. And still I played on, as the maid danced in a way that surely none had ever seen before. It did not seem at all strange when she leaned forward and sang into my ears the melodious old English ballad “The Mistletoe Bough”; and while I played a tender staccato on my violin the waves wailed a wistful obligatocon anima espressione, as they rippled on the moonlit coral reefs.
Suddenly the maid, who had been dancing with her hands raised, stayed the silent trippings of her feet and fell on one knee before me. In my finest Hans Andersen style, I took her hand and listened to her pleading. My heart beat rapidly, I know, as she said in accents soft and low:
“O pale-faced troubadour from the western seas, come! Follow me!”
“Fancy this being the end of my wanderings in the southern seas!” I muttered deep within my soul, as she knelt there on the promontory’s edge and gazed into my eyes in a final mute appeal. Then I rose to my feet. I well knew that many men had risked their all for the sake of the light of witchery in a woman’s eyes. Perhaps she observed my hesitation, for, as she gazed on me, I saw her eyes blink, and, lo! I got one splendid glimpse of the stars that shone in their liquid depths. Nor could I help myself, as, standing there, I touchedher lips with my own thrice before I took the final plunge. I instinctively placed my violin under my coat so that it would not get wet. Once more I looked up at the sky. Then we both dived noiselessly into the ocean and faded away into the depths of a great silence.
I opened my eyes. Pokara was still beside me, fast asleep. Only the passionate song of theO Le Mao, high up in the breadfruits just overhead, disturbed the silence of the forest as I stared up at the stars. Then in some vague longing I turned over and tried to sleep, so that I might catch up the thread of that dream again.