“Hell,” said Carlin.
The sweat was running down his broad face. Rantan, brooding, said nothing for a moment. Then suddenly he broke silence.
“We’ve dished their canoes, they can’t come out and attack us; we’ve got the range over them, those arrows are no use at any distance; they live mostly on fish, those chaps, and they can’t come out and fish, having no canoes, and we aren’t hurried for time.” He seemed talking to himself, adding up accounts, whilst Carlin, who had picked up one of the rifles, sat with it across his knees, his face turned shoreward where on the beach lay the four dead men, and save for the gulls not a sign of life. The boat on the ebb tide was drifting slowly back in the direction of the schooner.
“We’ve just got to row up along,” went on Rantan, “and get level with the trees. Those trees don’t give much shelter across the reef. Their houses wouldn’t stop a bullet from a popgun. Take your oar, when we’ve got our position we can anchor and take things quiet.”
Carlin, putting his gun down, took his oar and they began pulling the heavy boat against the current till they got opposite the village and the trees.
Then within rifle shot, but beyond the reach of arrow flight, they dropped the anchor and the boat swung to the current and broadside to the shore.
Rantan was right—the trees though dense enough in patches were not a sufficient cover for a crowd of people, and the houses were death traps. From where they lay they could see the little houses clear marked against the sky beyond and the house of Uta Matu with the post beside it on top of which was the head of Nan, god of the coconut trees, Nan the benign watching over his people, the puraka beds and the pandanus palms.
Of old there had been two gods of Karolin, Nan the benign and Naniwa the ferocious.
Le Moan’s mother had been Le Jennabon, daughter of Le Juan, priestess of Naniwa the shark-toothed god. On the death of Le Juan, Naniwa had seemed to depart, for Karolin. Had he? Do the gods ever die whilst there is a human heart to give them sanctuary?
Nan the benign, grinning on his post—he was carved from a coconut—was set in such a way that his face was turned to the east, that is to say towards the gates of morning. He was placed in that way according to ritual. Chance had anchored the schooner in his line of vision. Hand helpless, as are most benign things, poor old Nan could do nothing to protect the people he no doubt loved. He could keep the weazle-teazle worms away from the puraka plants and he could help a bit in bringing up rain, and it was considered that he could even protect the canoes from the cobra worms that devour planking; but against the wickedness of man and Viterli rifles he was useless.