“Can its powers be restored?” inquired the friend of Ika, as the tabued trumpet was returned to him.
“Not while the tabu mark remains,” replied the priest; “not until—but no matter; its magic voices are silent now.”
Before Ika awoke from his drunken stupor the Kiha-pu had been restored to its usual place of deposit.
The next morning Ika partook of more awa, threw over his shoulders a cape of red—a color sacred to the gods—suspended the Kiha-pu from his neck with a cord of human hair, and went proudly forth to receive the homage of his companions. But they refused to accord him the honors to which he imagined he was entitled, and in his wrath he raised the trumpet to his lips to blast them with a proclamation of his superiority. A natural and monotonous sound issued from the shell. He regarded it for a moment with amazement, then replaced it to his lips and poured his breath into it with the full force of his lungs; but its many voices were silent; its thunder-tones had been hushed.
He hastily re-entered his hut to escape the comments of his companions, and discovered, after repeated trials, that the Kiha-pu had lost its magic powers, and in his hands was nothing more than a simple shell. Not doubting that it had been deprived of its virtues through supernatural agencies, Ika visited a renowned kilo, or wizard, living near Waialua, taking with him the Kiha-pu, which was enclosed in a pouch of kapa, that it might not be observed. The age of the kilo was a hundred and twenty-four years, and he was totally blind, subsisting upon the bounty of those who sought his counsel. Finding his hut after some difficulty, Ika presented him with a roll of kapa which he had brought with him from Waolani, and a pig which he had stolen in the valley below, and implored him to ascertain, if possible, the cause of the disenchantment of the Kiha-pu. Taking the trumpet from Ika, the kilo passed his wrinkled hands over it for some minutes, and then retired with it behind a screen of mats, leaving his visitor under the eye of an old crone, who had admitted him without a word and seated herself beside the opening.
It was a long time before the kilo reappeared, and it was then to inform Ika that little could be learned concerning the Kiha-pu. He had employed every means known to his art, and finally appealed to Uli, the supreme god of sorcery, when the reluctant answer came that the Kiha-pu had been silenced by a power greater than his. “I dare not inquire further,” said the kilo, returning the trumpet.
“Will its voices ever return to it? Will your cowardice allow you to answer that question?” inquired Ika, in a sneering tone.
“Yes,” replied the kilo, with an effort restraining his wrath and speaking calmly—“yes; its voices will be heard again in Hawaii, among the hills that have sent back their echoes.”
Ika would have questioned the kilo farther, but the old woman rose and pointed toward the door, and with a look of disappointment he replaced the shell in its pouch of kapa and sullenly left the hut.
Returning to Waolani, Ika abandoned his lofty pretensions and mingled again with his companions on terms of comparative equality. This restored him to their friendship, and, remembering the words of the kilo, he prevailed upon a majority of them to accompany him to Hawaii. Stealing boats at Waikiki, the party set sail for Hawaii, and the fourth day landed at Kawaihae, in the district of Kohala. There they abandoned their canoes, or exchanged them for food, and in parties of four or five proceeded across the island by way of Waimea, and soon after took possession of their old quarters in the mountains back of Waipio, after an absence of eight years.