Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land: A story of old Fiji

by Henry Britton

A week or so after the incident of the capture and death of the crocodile, Hot-Water, who had been in indifferent health for some time, was attacked by a violent cold, which settled on his chest, and it was apparent that he would not live long. One evening he sent for me to his house to say farewell. A large company were assembled, silently expecting his death. It was known that his end was very near, for the town had recently been enveloped in a dense fog, and there was an eclipse of the moon that night,—certain forerunners of the death of a great chief.

Hot-Water was greatly exhausted, but he raised himself as I entered the gloomy chamber, lighted only by the flickering flame of a wick floating in a pan of oil placed near the chief. Addressing the assemblage, though speaking with difficulty, he told them in symbolic language that as the musket and axe of the white man were truthful, so was his religion true—that as the foe fell before his firing and the tree before his chopping, so should fall their old religion smitten by the new and truthful one—that in a few more years they would set aside their gods of darkness and conform in many respects to the habits of the papalangis. Commending me to the protection of the tribe when he was gone, he lay back and became incapable of further speech.

Glancing round the company, I saw that these remarks had been received with anything but favour. It was well known that the King’s successor, his brother, Ratu Bolatha (ill-omened canoe), would be no friend to me for personal reasons; also, that he was opposed to the settlement of white men in the country, and the minor chiefs and people were preparing to follow the views of the new régime, under which white men would be regarded as no better than themselves, while I had always been looked upon as a sort of God.

On the following day I went to the King’s house, to enquire after Hot-Water again. Entering the building, I found the floor occupied by three groups of men and women, the middle figure of each group being held in a sitting posture and covered by a large veil of masi. On either side of each veiled figure there stood in line, seven or eight men, one company hauling against the other on a cord of sinnet passed twice round the neck of the central figure, which was in each case one of the old chief’s wives. All were motionless as wax figures. I had arrived during a strange hush—a haunted silence—it was the moment of death with the victims. Accustomed as I was to barbarous scenes, I could not but feel a thrill of horror. I was told that ten widows had now been strangled to accompany their lord to Hades.

Turning to the body of the King, I found, to my great surprise, that he was not dead. He raised his hand feebly and tried to speak, but without articulate utterance. At that moment the dolorous wail of two conch-shells, like a passing knell, published his death to the community. I remonstrated with the bystanders; they replied that his spirit was gone, and that he was dead;—his body might move, but that it did unconsciously. The body was already dressed for the grave. It was covered all over with a coat of black powder; the turban was secured by a chaplet of white cowries, and the flowing folds of a new sulu lay at the feet. An attendant approached, and laid in the hollow of the King’s arm his famous war club. It was an ushering in of Death with all the etiquette and observance of a punctilious court—a grim masquerading of the King of Terrors, in which there was no real sorrow or feeling displayed. And yet Hot-Water was a chief, distinguished by a few of the rarer Fijian virtues as well as by personal attractions.

At the sound of the conch-shells announcing the demise of the King, the chief priest turned towards the King elect and saluted him with the words “Peace, Sir, the King is dead; but his successor lives.” Then a loud flourish of trumpet-shells from the door of the royal residence informed the people that they owed allegiance to Bolatha, Tui Ramáka.

The bodies of the women, whose lives had been so cruelly sacrificed, were dressed in gala attire with vermilion powder spread on their faces and bosoms, as though they were being decked for the bride-bed rather than the grave. Then they were laid by the side of the dead chief. Visitors came in large parties to weep over the bodies, after the manner of the keening at an Irish wake. The corpses were watched during the night, the watchers singing a succession of dirges.

The burial of the late King was accompanied by many strange observances. The grave was lined with mats on which the bodies of the wives selected to accompany their husband to the spirit-world were laid, the King being placed on them. He had with him his club to help him in making his way through the difficulties which beset the paths of Hades. A strong man was also killed and buried with him in order that he might go before and hold the Fijian Cerberus when he attempted to prevent His Majesty from entering any of the spiritual Kingdoms. The old King was heard to moan after the soil had been heaped on him, but that was not regarded as a sign that his spirit was still in its earthly tenement, and the grave closed over him. The grave was only three feet deep, and its place was well indicated by the deceased’s long train of masi, some yards of which, being left above ground, were festooned on the branches of a neighbouring tree.

Many mourning ceremonies followed on the death of the King. His children prepared a feast in honor of his spirit, which was now to them a god, and made wreaths and necklaces of sweet-smelling flowers and leaves, which were called “garlands for the departing spirit.” Many near relations each cut off a finger, and the digits were stuck in rows along the eaves of the late King’s house. The coast, for several miles, was made tambu, which meant that no one might fish there. Vast groves of cocoanuts were also declared to be sacred. One mourning custom observed, called Vakavindiulo, “jumping-of-maggots,” was a public lamentation in which the mourners pictured to themselves the corruption which had taken place in the body of the departed, the fourth day after burial. Another was called the Vakandrendre, “causing-to-laugh.” It consisted in the performance of comic games to help the friends of the deceased to forget their grief.

At length the funeral banquetings were over, all necessary usages had been fully complied with, the old King was gathered to his fathers, and Ratu Bolatha reigned in his stead. The passing of the chiefdom into the hands of a ruler who was not friendly to the white man, would, I was fully aware, lead to disagreeable consequences to me. However, it was not in accordance with Fijian custom to do anything hurriedly, and I knew that I should have time to look about me. So I continued the even tenor of my way, secretly revolving in my mind, however, various methods of protecting myself from an impending blow.