Atolls of the Sun

by Frederick O'Brien

Thus ready for my would-be murderer or father-in-law, I whistled to Exploding Eggs the next forenoon, and, he with towels in hand, we walked toward the sands. There was no one on the veranda of the palace. Except for the residence of the lepers by the cemetery there was no other house toward the beach but that of my enemy.

Obscure under the heavy-leaved palms, I could not be sure that Peyral was not ensconced on his gallery with a bottle of absinthe and a shot-gun or rifle waiting to pot-shot me. He knew my habit of bathing every day, and maybe was chuckling over scaring me from the spot. I walked boldly and briskly past his house. There was no figure on the porch but that of a girl. I glimpsed her only, for an emotion of shame—inexplicable shame—directed my eyes away from her. I continued on to the water, and, hiding my revolver in the trailing pahue with its morning-glory blossoms, I took up my surfboard and forgot Peyral in that most exhilarating of sports.

Exploding Eggs dragged his tiny canoe from the bushes, and we launched it and pushed it through the surf. With rare dexterity he paddled it seaward, I with my board on my knees, a calm admirer of his marvelous control of the little craft: he and it the first Marquesan and the first canoe I had seen in this archipelago. When we were out half a mile or so we lay still for the right breaker. He watched and after a few minutes began to paddle with intense energy until the wave caught him. We swung to its crest and clung there as we dashed in at a fast pace without motion on our part. But, when half-way, Exploding Eggs took my board from me, and, handing me the paddle, he suddenly plunged with it from the canoe and, extended full on the board in rhythm with the billow I rode, accompanied me to shore.

The sun was dropping down the western sky when we dressed to leave the beach, Exploding Eggs in his loin-cloth and I in mine, with my coat over the Browning. The hours in the salt water with the exercise and the laughter had cleared the cobwebs of blame from my brain. My innocent blood would be on the guilty head of Peyral did he kill me. That was comforting. However, I made sure that the knot slipped easily, and with my valet beside me I made the start.

I had gained half-way when I saw Peyral coming toward me, a thousand feet away, with a shot-gun over his shoulder. He was silhouetted against the setting sun and could not be mistaken. His burly form, his beard, his general shagginess made him unmistakable, as was also the outline of the weapon.

There was no stopping. The swamp was on either side of the ten-foot road, the beach behind me. Fleeing was out of the question. I might have taken a side road had there been one, but just such conditions as presented themselves then must be met daily. I kept on, and, as we came nearer, our eyes joined and remained steadily fixed. I do not know how Peyral felt, but I was as fascinated as the proverbial bird by the snake. I moved as if by magnetic power toward my probable slayer, and he toward me. Neither of us made a movement except that of our legs and stiff bodies.

There came a second when we were about four feet apart, each hugging the edge of the road. Our eyes were held straight ahead, and mine remained so. We appeared to hesitate as if we might whirl and seize each other or draw our weapons. The shot-gun was on his shoulder but in the flash of an eye might be brought down to the level of my vitals. But the eye did not flash. The gun swayed only with his footfalls, and we continued our mechanical advance away from each other.

Prudence whispered to me to turn and protect myself from a rear attack, but the message did not affect my legs. I winced momentarily for the expected load of shot in my back, but I walked stiffly as if a great ray of light were penetrating my cerebellum. Exploding Eggs, who knew only about our fight upon the palace balcony and nothing of my having the Browning, was chanting about the god of night, Po, and paid no attention to Peyral, except to say quite audibly, “Peyralé aoe metai! Peyral is no good!” That did not add to my surety, and the imagined missile or missiles from behind did not become less vivid until I was beyond shooting distance. Just as I calculated with incredible relief that the crisis was past, Peyral’s gun roared out.

My muscles squirmed, my heart leaped, my knees bent, and my chin touched my bosom. Exploding Eggs laughed.

“Peyralé puhi kuku,” he said regretfully; “Peyral has shot a kuku”—as if I should have shot it. I laughed heartily with him. The joke was on me, but I enjoyed it to the echo. I recalled that often of an evening my enemy replenished his larder with an expenditure of Number Four shot. It was funny, and when I reached the palace I was trembling with the reverberations of the absurd climax to my fears.