Atolls of the Sun

by Frederick O'Brien

“Why don’t you stay, an’ go to Papeet’ with me,” asked Captain Pincher. “We’ll ’ead out in a day or two when the wind is right. You’re in no ‘’urry. You want to see ’em lay ol’ Mapuhi in the grave.”

I agreed, and paddled to shore with McHenry. Natives were taking the last load of copra out to the steamship, and I rode on the bags with McHenry. On the deck of the Saint François I passed Barbe and the nuns on my way below to get my trifling belongings. McHenry stayed above, and, when I had bidden good-by to the captain and the first officer, I sought the three women, with my canvas bag in hand. The sisters were my friends, and I shook their hands. I was about to say au revoir to Barbe when she walked with me a few yards to the gangway. I explained my intention not to continue on the steamship.

“What shall I do?” she implored, as she squeezed my hand nervously. “I am afraid of everything—”

The whistle sounded again.

Lutz, who was talking with McHenry, approached me, and drew from me my reason for carrying my assets with me. I thought he appeared relieved at my leaving, and that his hopes to see me in Papeete were shammed. In the boat I glanced up to see Mademoiselle Narbonne leaning over the rail, her black cloud of hair framing her pale face with its look of sadness and perplexity, and her eyes still demanding of me the answer to her question.

“I bloody well put a roach in Lutz’s ear,” said McHenry, as we rowed back.

That he had even mentioned Barbe’s name I did not believe. Lutz would have taken him by the throat, and thrown him overboard. On the strand at the atoll again, I saw the smoke streaming from the steamship’s funnel as she set out for Papeete; and I sent an unspoken message of good will to the groping ill-matched pair whom I could not call lovers, and yet both of whom were searching for the satisfaction of heart and ambition I too sought.

Mapuhi was interred that afternoon an hour before sunset. In these atolls where there is no soil, and where water lies close under the coral surface, even burial is difficult. Cyclones as in Hikueru have torn the coral coverings off the graves, and swept the coffins, corpses, and bones into the lagoon and the maws of the sharks and the voracious barracuda. For Mapuhi a marble cenotaph would be ordered in Tahiti, and cover him when made in a few weeks.

Nohea and two elders dug the grave. About four feet deep, it was wide enough to rest the huge body in the glistening coffin. This was borne on the shoulders of six young men, nephews of Mapuhi, and in the cortège were all of the Takaroans of age. Solemnly and silently they marched down the road. All who owned black garments wore them, and others were in white trousers, some with and others without shirts, but all treading ceremoniously with bowed heads and serious faces. Nohea was the leader, carrying the large Book of Mormon from the temple, and at the grave he read from it verses about the resurrection, the near approach of the coming of Christ, and Mapuhi’s being quiet in the grave until the trumpet rang for the assembling of the just, the unjust on opposite sides for judgment.

“Mapuhi a Mapuhi will sit very close to Brigham Young in the judgment and afterward will be among the great on earth when the rejected are cast into the terrible pit of fire, and the elect live in plenty and happiness here.”