The meaning of her name in Fijian I found to be love or pity. My home in the grotto soon ceased to be a hermit’s cell. A supply of elegantly-worked mats and printed tapa gave one nook in it an air of comfort. When illuminated with flambeaux of resinous wood, and liberally furnished with all the delicacies of the Fijian cuisine, it was a dwelling-place which an epicure need not have despised.
Lolóma pitied me for my loneliness and complete severance from kith and kin. Our daily conversation turned on the advisability of adopting some plan by which I could join her tribe and have full liberty among her people.
The Princess’s frequent unexplained absences from the village green of Koroivónu had been noticed. On several occasions she was followed up the mountain steep, but whenever she approached the tree which guarded the entrance to the cave she disappeared as if she had been swallowed up in the earth, and the mystery remained unsolved. The report in the village was that she was in secret communion with the spirits of the departed. One day Lolóma suggested that she should announce to her friends her discovery of a hobgoblin in the woods, whose acquaintance was worth making. I knew that the superstitions of the common people would induce them to believe anything, but I was not so sure of passing muster with the more intelligent chiefs in the character of an elf. However, the experiment seemed to be worth trying, and as I had escaped the cannibal pot of the coast tribe, I was not likely to be treated as flotsam and jetsam here, where the people were milder-mannered, and rarely indulged in human sacrifices, except in time of war, which but seldom visited their peaceful vale. The interest the account of the hobgoblin would excite would at least cause some search to be made, and I should have the opportunity of disclosing myself if the circumstances seemed favorable.
CHAPTER VII.
FAIRY FOLK.
Lolóma was full of wild dreaming imaginations. Her airy fancy had fed upon the romantic legends and ballads of her native land, and her belief in pixies, dreams, omens, and a whole world of Fijian impossibilities was as profound as her belief in the existence of the sun.
The fairy folk of Fiji are never so happy as when engaged in some sort of mischief. It has happened more than once, tradition says, that some of their number have been captured and detained as objects of worship by their captors, but everyone admits that to entrap them is one of the most difficult things in the world. Every wood, valley, hill, and mountain of Cannibal-land is alive with fairies, elves, imps, hobgoblins, and other children of the imagination. They are always represented as miniature creatures in the image of human beings. Some wear their hair hanging down their backs and trailing on the ground. Others have it lying over and completely veiling their faces, while not a few prefer it short, and keep it well oiled and powdered in imitation of an animal of a higher order than they. Many of these mannikins are exceedingly ugly-looking dwarfs of a remarkably ancient and shrivelled appearance. The country has its Titanias and Oberons and Robin Goodfellows in great numbers; but they never seem to be beautiful or attractive creatures. They present themselves only as ill-favoured, “shrewd, and knavish sprites.” They dress in leaves and flowers, and speak a language of their own. A large part of the lives of these fairies is spent in preparing and playing off all sorts of mischievous tricks. Their whole enjoyment, and perhaps their very existence, depends on
“Those things
That befall preposterously.”
Once, so at least Lolóma told me, some wags took it into their heads to entrap a noted “Puck,” and if possible bake and eat him. The trap succeeded admirably. Puck was caught and covered up in a well-heated oven, made, as all Fijian ovens are, in the ground. When it was time to open the oven, a man, looking like the head cook of the party, came up, carrying in his hand a bamboo knife. This movement of the cook’s made it quite clear that everything was now ready for making a feast off the poor elf. So at least thought our wags, but not exactly so thought Robin himself. In his view, he was the last who should be served in that way. He hated cannibalism, as every real cannibal hated it, when it was to become a matter of personal experience, and he was doomed to be the eaten instead of the eater. When, therefore, the party began to uncover the oven, and the cook to flourish his bamboo knife, Puck’s voice was heard from the hollow of an adjacent tree, singing ironically, yet most jubilantly, what has ever since been known as one of the songs of Elfland:—
“What is that in thy hand, Master Cook?