The Gates of Morning

by H. De Vere Stacpoole

She was gone. Gone for a little time at least; gone and he was left behind, free in the place Le Moan had warmed with her feet, on every part of which her eyes had gazed, and where, moreover, she was living and breathing.

The women had parted with their new husbands the night before. There was no crowd to watch the vessel go out, only Katafa, a few boys and a couple of women who were dragging in a short net which they had put out during the night, using the smaller of the schooner’s boats which Aioma had left behind. The women stood for a moment with their eyes sheltered against the sun, then they returned to their work whilst Katafa, leaving the beach, came on to the high coral and to the very point of rock where Aioma, standing, had seen the approach of the giant waves.

She had scarcely slept during the night. Taori was going away from her, nor far or for any time, but he was going beyond the reef. To the atoll dweller the reef is the boundary of the world—all beyond is undecided and vague and fraught with danger; the comparative peace of the lagoon waters gives the outer sea an appearance of menace which becomes fixed in the mind of the islander and even a short trip away from the harbour of refuge is a thing to be undertaken with precaution.

But she had said nothing that might disturb Dick’s mind on her account or spoil his pleasure or mar his manhood. Even had the business been visibly dangerous and had Dick chosen to face it, she would not have held out a hand to prevent him. This was a man’s business with which womenfolk had nothing to do. So she ate her heart out all the night and stood waving to him as the boat pushed off and watched the Kermadec leave the lagoon just as she was watching it now out on the sea, sails bellying to the wind and bow pointing north.

She watched it grow smaller, more gull-like and more forlorn in the vast wastes of water and beneath the vast blue sky. On its deck Le Moan was watching Karolin and its sinking reef just as on the reef Katafa was watching the ship and its disappearing hull, dreaming of wreck, of disaster, of thirst for her beloved one, dreaming nothing of Le Moan.

She watched whilst the morning passed, and the schooner still held her course. “She will soon turn and come back,” said Katafa, as the distance widened and the sails grew less, and as the hull sank from sight she strained her eyes thinking that she saw the sails broaden as the ship, tired from going so great a distance and remembering, turned to come back to Katafa.

But the mark on the sky did not broaden. Vaguely triangular and like a fly’s wing it stood undecided in the sea dazzle, it seemed to wabble and change in shape and change back again, but it did not increase, and one moment it would be gone and the next it would say “Here I am again, but see how much smaller I have grown!” Then it vanished, vanished for a long time, only to reappear by some trick and again to vanish and not to return.

The sea had taken the schooner and its masts and spars, its sails, its boat; everything that was mirrored only last evening in the lagoon the sea had taken and dissolved and made nothing of. The sea had taken Poni and Timau and Tahuku the strange kanakas; the sea had taken Aioma, and—the sea had taken Taori.

Oh, the grief! The pain that like a knife cut her heart as she gazed on the sea, on the far horizon line above which the speechless sky stood crystal pale sweeping up to azure. He had gone only a little way, soon to return, storms would not come nor would the wind change, nor would it matter if it did change.

Nothing could keep him from coming back. He had food with him in plenty, water in abundance, he had Poni and Timau and Tahuku and Nanta and Tirai; he had Aioma the wise and he had Le Moan—Le Moan the pathfinder.