The heavy ivory sand rattled on the wood, and the remains of Mapuhi, last link between the healthy savagery and the present semi-civilization of the Paumotuan race, were one with the mysterious beach he had so long dwelt upon. He had been born before the white man ruled it, and his life had spanned the rise of the imperial industrialism which had destroyed the Polynesian.
After the funeral I took my bag to the hut of Nohea, to live the few days until the Morning Star left for Papeete. Our frugal meal was soon eaten, and the old diver and I sat outside his door in the cool of the sunset glow. We talked of Mapuhi.
“We had the same father but different mothers,” said Nohea. “Mapuhi was twenty years older than I. For many years he was as my father to me.”
“Where is Mapuhi now?” I asked, to discover his beliefs about the soul. Nohea trembled, and looked about him.
“Is he not in the hole in the coral?” he said, with alarm.
“Oh, yes, Nohea,” I replied, “the body of Mapuhi is in the coral, but where is that part that knew how to dive, to steer the schooner, to grow rich, and to pray? Where is that varua or spirit which loved you?”
Nohea responded quickly: “That is with the gods, with Adam, Christ, Joseph Smith, and Brigham Young. Mapuhi is with them making souls for the bodies of Mormon babies on earth. When Israel gathers by and by, I will see him again, for we will all live in America and be happy.”
“But Nohea,” I protested, “you will not be happy away from Takaroa. Your canoe and your fishing-nets and spears will be left behind.”
Nohea was confused, but his faith was strong.
“The elders have explained that in America, where all the saved people shall live after the judgment, we shall have everything we want. The fish will jump on the hook, the canoe will paddle itself, and the cocoanuts will be always ready for eating or cool for drinking.”