Call It Courage: Chapter 2

Day broke over a gray and dismal world.

The canoe lifted and fell idly on the glassy swells.

Mafatu looked back over his shoulder, searching the horizon for a last glimpse of Hikueru; but the atoll had vanished, as if to hide itself forever from his concern.

But there seemed to be no need of a sail: the little canoe was riding one of the mysterious ocean currents that flow in their courses through the length and breadth of the Pacific: the Ara Moana, Paths of the Sea, as the Ancients called them.

Mafatu watched his albatross disappear and felt a desolation flood his heart. Now there was only Uri to keep him company in this hostile world of sky and sea.

All around, as far as the eye could reach, were wastes of leaden water.

The boy shuddered. His fingers gripped the paddle convulsively.

It was an ominous, oppressive world at this season of storm.

It was an ominous, oppressive world at this season of storm.

Half a mile distant a whale heaved its varnished hulk to the surface, to throw a jet of vapory mist high into the air; then it submerged, leaving scarcely a ripple to mark its passage.

A shoal of flying fishes broke water, skimming away in a silver shimmer of flight.

There was a wind rising, too, in little puffs and gusts. Now the canoe heeled over under the sudden attack, while Mafatu scrambled onto the outrigger to lend his weight for ballast; then the wind dropped as suddenly as it appeared, while the canoe righted itself and the boy breathed freely once again.

Now the canoe heeled over under the sudden attack, while Mafatu scrambled onto the outrigger to lend his weight for ballast; then the wind dropped as suddenly as it appeared, while the canoe righted itself and the boy breathed freely once again.

The wind shifted a point, bringing with it a heavy squall.

The canoe rose to the swells as lightly as a gull and coasted like a sled down the frothing slopes.

What skill had wrought this small canoe! This dugout, hewn from the mighty tamanu tree.

It swooped and yielded, bucked and scudded, one with the fierce element whose back it rode.

How long could this frail craft of wood and sennit resist? Under the combined attack of wind and sea it seemed that something must inevitably give way.

Then with a rending groan the mast cracked.

Only the buoyancy of tamanu kept the craft afloat.

Uri cowered in the bow, half submerged, his howls drowned by the roar of the elements.

Every nerve became dulled by tumult.

There was a wave lifting before the canoe. Many the boy had seen, but this was a giant—a monster livid and hungry.

The canoe slewed round into the trough.

Uri crept toward the prostrate boy, quailing beside him, whimpering softly.

Uri crept toward the prostrate boy, quailing beside him, whimpering softly.

As one hour merged into another there came moments of fitful, choking slumber, a growing agony of thirst for the boy and his dog.

Out of the sultry mists the sea emerged, blue and violent.

With the coming of this new day terror raised its head. Mafatu tried to fight it back, to deny its existence; but it gripped his heart with clammy fingers, tightened his throat.

His voice was but a hoarse croak, yet it stirred Uri to life: the dog’s ragged tail gave one feeble thump.

The brave thump of his dog’s tail touched Mafatu profoundly.

Was it Tahiti, the golden island, whose language was akin to that of Hikueru?

With waning afternoon, the island took more distinct form as the canoe drifted nearer.

Involuntarily the boy shuddered. Would his ears never be free of the Sea God’s threat?

Now across the swells came a sound like a chorus of ghostly fishermen weary with their day’s toil: sea birds, always complaining, never at rest; while softer, yet rising above it was another sound—the voice of the reef itself, quieting with sundown, like the reassuring hush of a mother to her child.

A soft land breeze, heavy with a scent of flowers, wafted out across the dark waters, tantalizing, bitter-sweet.

Weak with thirst, the boy drifted now into a merciful sleep. He struggled against it, like a weary swimmer fighting a rip-tide, but his head drooped and his eyes closed.

Boy and dog were hurled headlong into the boiling surf.

He fell to the sand once more, then, guided by he knew not what impulse, he dragged himself to the edge of the jungle.

Water, sweet water. Down the face of an age-worn rock a small cascade lost itself amid ferns and cool mosses.