“We have been here thirty-five years,” said Père Olivier, “and I, thirty. Our order first tried to establish a church at Oomoa, but failed. You have seen there a stone foundation that supports the wild vanilla vines? Frère Fesal built that, with a Raratonga islander who was a good mason. The two cut the stones and shaped them. The valley of Oomoa was drunk. Rum was everywhere, the palm namu was being made all the time, and few people were ever sober. There was a Hawaiian Protestant missionary there, and he was not good friends with Frère Fesal. There was no French authority at Oomoa, and the strongest man was the law. The whalers were worse than the natives, and hated the missionaries. One day when the valley was crazed, a native killed the Raratonga man. You will find the murderer living on Tahuata now. Frère Fesal buried his assistant, and fled here.
“That date was about the last Hanavave suffered from cannibalism and extreme sorcery. The taua, the pagan priest, was still powerful, however, and his gods demanded victims. The men here conspired with the men of Hanahouua to descend on Oi, a little village by the sea between here and Oomoa. They had guns of a sort, for the whalers had brought old and rusty guns to trade with the Marquesans for wood, fruit, and fish. Frère Fesal learned of the conspiracy, but the men were drinking rum, and he was helpless. The warriors went stealthily over the mountains and at night lowered themselves from the cliffs with ropes made of the fau. There were only thirty people left in Oi, and the enemy came upon them in the dark like the wolf. Only one man escaped— There he is now, entering the mission. We will ask him to tell the story.”
He stood in the rickety doorway and called, “Tutaiei, come here!” An old and withered man approached, one-eyed, the wrinkles of his face and body abscuring the blue patterns of tattooing, a shrunken, but hideous, scar making a hairless patch on one side of his head.
“I was on the beach pulling up my canoe and taking out the fish I had speared,” said this wreck of a man. “Half the night was spent, and every one was asleep except me. We were a little company, for they had killed and eaten most of us, and others had died of the white man's curse. In the night I heard the cries of the Hanavave and Hanahouua men who had lowered themselves down the precipice and were using their war-clubs on the sleeping.
“I was one man. I could do nothing but die, and I was full of life. In the darkness I smashed with a rock all the canoes on the beach save mine. In my ears were the groans of the dying, and the war-cries. I saw the torches coming. I put the fish back in my canoe, and pushed out.
“They were but a moment late, for I have a hole in my head into which they shot a nail, and I have this crack in my head upon which they flung a stone. They could not follow me, for there were no canoes left. I paddled to Oomoa after a day, during which I did what I have no memory of.”
“They had guns?” I asked him.
“They had a few guns, but they used in them nails or stones, having no balls of metal. Their slings were worse. I could sling a stone as big as a mango and kill a man, striking him fair on the head, at the distance those guns would shoot. We made our slings of the bark of the cocoanut-tree, and the stones, polished by rubbing against each other, we carried in a net about the waist.”
“But if that stone broke your head, why did you not die?”
“A tatihi fixed my head. The nail in my leg he took out with a loop of hair, and cured the wound.”