Magic

Author of “Picaroons,” “A Man of Iron,” Etc.

Whether it is an island in the South Seas or a great city, the spell of one’s homeland holds, and the sight of 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.