Atolls of the Sun

by Frederick O'Brien

Nor can he enter therein.

This mysterious person was written about in the Bible, said Elder Kidd.

Aue! That was a puzzler! Who could it be? Many scratched their heads. Others shook theirs despairingly. A few older men, of the diaconate, probably, smiled knowingly. Some began to eliminate likely biblical characters on their fingers. Iesu-Kirito, Aberahama, Ioba, Petero, and so on through a list of the more prominent notables of Scripture. But after five minutes of guesses, which were pointed out by Mr. Kidd not to comply with the specifications of the charade, the answer was announced with impressive unction:

“Asini Balaama.”

Balaam’s ass. Aue! Why, of course. I had named to myself every persona dramatis of the Book I could recall, but the talkative steed had escaped me. We all laughed. Most of the congregation had never seen an ass or even a horse, and the word itself was pulled into their language by the ears. But they could conjure up a life-like picture of the scene from their pastor’s description, and there were many interchanges between neighbors about the wisdom of the beast, and his kindness in saving Balaam from the angry angel who would have killed him.

But in time the prose part of the service came to an end, and the singing began. I moved myself to the shadows outside the pale, and stretching at full length on a mat on the sand, gave myself to the rapture of their poetry, and the waking dreams it brought.

Himene, all mass singing was called in these islands—the missionary hymn Polynesianized. They had only chants when the whites came; proud recitatives of valor in war, of the beginnings of creation, of the wanderings of their heroes, challenges to the foe, and prayers to the mysterious gods and demons of their supernal regions. They learned awedly the hymns of Christianity, and struggled decades with the airs. Confused with these were songs of the white sailors, the spirited bowline and windlass chanteys of the British and American tars, the trivial or obscene lays of beach-combers and soldiers, and later the popular tunes of nations and governments. Out of all these the Polynesians had evolved their himenes, singing as different from any ever heard in Europe or America as the bagpipe from the violin, but never to be forgotten when once heard to advantage, for its barbaric call, its poignancy of utterance, and its marvelous harmony.

In the great shed outside which I lay under the purple sky, the men and women were divided, and the women led the himene. One began a wail, a high note, almost a shriek, like the keening of a wake, and carrying but a phrase. Others met her voice at an exact interval, and formed a chorus, into which men and women entered, apparently at will, but each with a perfect observance of time, so that the result was an overwhelming symphony of vocal sounds which had in them the power of a pipe-organ to evoke thought. I heard the cry of sea-birds, the crash of the waves on the reef, the thrashing of the giant fronds of the cocoa-palms, the groans of afflicted humans, and the pæans of victory of embattled warriors. The effect was incredibly individual. Each white heard the himene differently, according to his own cosmos.

There under the stars on Kaukura, cast down and conscious as I had been of my trivial hurts, and of a certain loneliness of situation, I forgot all in the thrill of emotion caused by the exquisite though unstudied art of these simple Josephites, worshipers, whose voices pierced my heart with the sorrows and aspirations of an occult world. The Reverends Kidd and Imbel were forgotten, and all but the mysterious conflict of man with his soul. I fell asleep as the himene went on for hours, and was awakened by Kopcke, the trader, who said that the Marara was to sail at midnight, and that he had been asked to bring me aboard.

Chocolat barked a welcome from the taffrail as we boarded the schooner, and with the offshore wind we welcomed I could hear a faint human noise which I interpreted as the benediction of the Reverend Johnny Kidd.