We climbed painfully, Le Moine and I suffering keenly from the sharp edges of the stones that cut even through the thick soles of our shoes. The others, who were barefooted, made nothing of them, walking as easily and lithely as panthers on the jagged trail. Soon we heard the crash of the Vaihae, and sliding down the mountain-side a hundred feet we came into a depths of a gorge a yard or two wide, a mere crack in the rocks, filled with the boom and roar of rushing water. The rain-swollen stream, cramped in the narrow passage, flung itself foaming high on the spray-wet cliffs, and dashed in a mighty torrent into a deep howl riven out of the solid granite twenty feet below.
We put off our clothes and leaped into the pool, enjoying intensely the coolness of the swirling water after the sweat of our climb. Malicious Gossip and her sister would not go in at first, but when I had climbed the face of a slippery rock twenty feet high to dive, and remained there gazing at the melancholy grandeur of the scene, Malicious Gossip put off her tunic and swam through the race, bringing me my camera untouched by the water. She was a naiad of the old mythologies as she slipped through the green current, her hair streaming over her shoulders and her body moving effortlessly as a fish. Once wetted, she remained in the water with us, and she told me there was a cave behind the waterfall, hidden by the glassy sheet of water.
“It is called Enamoa (Behold the Servant of the Priest) and it has a terrible history,” said Malicious Gossip. “Follow me and we will enter it.”
She swam across the pool and turning lithely in the water curved out of sight beneath the surface of the vortex. Kekela followed her, and I made several attempts, but each time was flung back, bruised and breathless. It was not until Kekela, finding a long stick in the cave, thrust it through the white foam, that by catching its end in the whirling water I was able to fight through the roaring and smashing deluge.
The cave was obscure and damp, its only light filtering through the moving curtain of green water. Black and crawling things squirmed at our feet, and darkness filled the recesses of the cavern. Malicious Gossip's body was a blur in the dimness, and her low soft voice was like an overtone of the deep organ notes of the torrent.
“The tale of the cave of Enamoa is not a legend,” she said, “for it is more. It was a happening known to our grandfathers. There were two warriors who coveted a woman, and she was tapu to them. She was a taua vehine, a priestess of the old gods. But they coveted her, and they were friends, who shared their wives as they divided their popoi.”
“Panalua,” said Kekela. “That is 'dear friend custom.' We had it in Hawaii. Brothers shared their wives, and sisters their husbands.”
“These two were name-brothers, and loved as though they were brothers by blood,” said Malicious Gossip. “And their hearts were consumed with flame when they looked on this girl. It was evil of them, for it was against the will of the gods. She was of their own clan, and the priests had made her tapu until she had reached a certain age. Her brother was the servant of the priests, and she was consecrated to the gods. She was guarded by most sacred custom. It was forbidden to touch her or her food.
“Yet these warriors, toa they were, and renowned in battle, coveted her with a desire that ate their sleep. And at last when they had drunk the fiery namu enata till their brains were filled with flames, they lay in wait for her.
“She came down to this pool to bathe. The pool itself was tapu save for those consecrated to the gods, yet this wretched pair crept through the lantana there on the bank, and watched her. She stood on the rock above the pool and put off her pae, her cap of gauze, her long robe, and her pareu, all of finest tree-cloth, for in those days before the whites came our people were properly clothed. All naked then in the sunlight, she lifted her arms toward the sky and laughed, and sat down on a rock to bathe her feet.