“‘It is well. This gift shall be yours and your descendants’ for ever. Whether you stay here or go to other countries, this power shall remain with you.’
“So Tui Nkualita let Tui na Moliwai go alive, and returned to his home at Navakaisese, telling no one what had befallen him. But on the day when masáwe was cooked at Wakanisalato, and the oven was heated, Tui Nkualita rose and sprang into the great pit, trampling the burning stones unharmed, and treading down the green leaves as they were thrown to line the oven, so that he was hidden in the steam. And the people raised a great shout, wondering much when they saw him come out alive and unharmed. Thus it came about that whenever masáwe is cooked in Mbengga, the people of Rukua and Sawau must first leap into the oven to make the baking good; and if yams or other food were put into the oven with the masáwe, they would be taken out at the end of four days still raw.
“Last year we went to a great feast at Rewa, and one of the Rewa chiefs jested with us as we stood by the ovens, saying, ‘Come, leap into our ovens, as you do into your own.’ And we told them that it is tabu to say this of any oven but the masáwe oven, and that the food in the smoking-pits would not be cooked. And our words came true, for when the ovens were dug they found the pig and the yams raw as they were put in.”
“When the wood was all out there remained a conical pile of glowing stones.”
When we were at last summoned, the fire had been burning for more than four hours. The pit was filled with a white-hot mass shooting out little tongues of white flame, and throwing out a heat beside which the scorching sun was a pleasant relief. A number of men were engaged with long poles, to which a loop of thick vine had been attached, in noosing the pieces of unburnt wood by twisting the pole, like a horse’s twitch, until the loop was tight, and dragging the log out by main force. When the wood was all out there remained a conical pile of glowing stones in the middle of the pit. Ten men now drove the butts of green saplings into the base of the pile, and held the upper end while a stout vine was passed behind the row of saplings. A dozen men grasped each end of the vine, and with loud shouts hauled with all their might. The saplings, like the teeth of an enormous rake, tore through the pile of stones, flattening them out towards the opposite edge of the pit. The saplings were then driven in on the other side, and the stones raked in the opposite direction, then sideways, until the bottom of the pit was covered with an even layer of hot stones. This process had taken fully half an hour, but any doubt as to the heat of the stones at the end was set at rest by the tongues of flame that played continually among them. The cameras were hard at work, and a large crowd of people pressed inwards towards the pit as the moment drew near. A Zanzibar negro and his wife, drifted from heaven knows where, half-castes with Samoan mothers, with Fijian mothers and unknown fathers, mingled with the crowd of natives from the neighbouring mainland. They were all excited except Jonathan, who preserved, even in the supreme moment, the air of holy calm that never leaves his face. All eyes are fixed expectant on the dense bush behind the clearing, whence the Shadrachs, Meshachs, and Abednegos of the Pacific are to emerge. There is a cry of “Vutu! Vutu!” and forth from the bush, two and two, march fifteen men, dressed in garlands and fringes. They tramp straight to the brink of the pit. The leading pair show something like fear in their faces, but do not pause, perhaps because the rest would force them to move forward. They step down upon the stones and continue their march round the pit, planting their feet squarely and firmly on each stone. The cameras snap, the crowd surges forward, the bystanders fling in great bundles of green leaves. But the bundles strike the last man of the procession and cut him off from his fellows; so he stays where he is, trampling down the leaves as they are thrown to line the pit, in a dense cloud of steam from the boiling sap. The rest leap back to his assistance, shouting and trampling, and the pit turns into the mouth of an Inferno, filled with dusky frenzied fiends, half seen through the dense volume that rolls up to heaven and darkens the sunlight. After the leaves, palm-leaf baskets of the dracæna root are flung to them, more leaves, and then bystanders and every one joins in shovelling earth over all till the pit is gone, and a smoking mound of fresh earth takes its place. This will keep hot for four days, and then the masáwe will be cooked.
As the procession had filed up to the pit, by a preconcerted arrangement with the noble Jonathan, a large stone had been hooked out of the pit to the feet of one of the party, who poised a pocket-handkerchief over it, and dropped it lightly upon the stone when the first man leaped into the oven, and snatched what remained of it up as the last left the stones. During the fifteen or twenty seconds it lay there every fold that touched the stone was charred, and the rest of it scorched yellow. So the stones were not cool. We caught four or five of the performers as they came out, and closely examined their feet. They were cool, and showed no trace of scorching, nor were their anklets of dried tree-fern leaf burnt. This, Jonathan explained, is part of the miracle; for dried tree-fern is as combustible as tinder, and there were flames shooting out among the stones. Sceptics had affirmed that the skin of a Fijian’s foot being a quarter of an inch thick, he would not feel a burn. Whether this be true or not of the ball and heel, the instep is covered with skin no thicker than our own, and we saw the men plant their insteps fairly on the stone. Clearly eternity can have no terrors for these simple natives.
I think that most of the sceptics were impressed. Even the skipper of the steamer, who was once a conjurer, and ate fire at a variety entertainment, said it was “very fair for niggers,” but darkly hinted that he could improve upon it.
Seated by a bowl of kava and a candle stuck in a bottle-neck, Jonathan underwent my cross-examination with calm good-humour. Why were the young men afraid? Because only five of the fifteen had ever passed through the fire before. The regular performers were elderly men, and they had reflected upon our distinguished rank, and the rumour that picture-machines would be brought, and selected good-looking youths rather than ugly old men. The handkerchief was burned? Well, if it had been thrown into the middle of the pit, instead of upon an isolated stone, it would not have been even singed, for the linen being of human manufacture would share the god’s gift to men. Would a strange man share the gift? Certainly, if he went with one of the tribe. If I had told him my wishes sooner he would have taken me in barefooted, and I should have found the stones cool and pleasant. Yes, it was true that one of the men had nearly fallen, but the others ran to hold him up. Would he have been burnt if he had fallen? He thought not. Then why were the people so anxious to save him from falling? Well—they remembered a man who fell many years ago, and yes—he certainly was burnt on the shoulders and side, but a wise man patted the burns, and they dried up and ceased paining him. Any trick? Here Jonathan’s ample face shrunk smaller, and a shadow passed over his candid eye. “If there had been any trick it would have come to light long ago. The whole world would know. Perhaps I do not believe the story of Tui na Moliwai, but I do believe that my tribe has been given to pass unharmed through the fire.” Oh, wily Jonathan!
Perhaps the Na Ivilankata clan have no secret, and there is nothing wonderful in their performance, but, miracle or not, I am very glad I saw it.