A Heathen Monastery—A scene of Primitive Heathenism—My unsolicited Professional Engagement—I imbibe Kava—I am made “Taboo”—Things that I may not Confess—My escape—Fanga Loma—A Native Village—The Enchantress of the Forest—Temptation—In Suva again. I RECALL that, though my profession has never burdened me with wealth till it seemed an encumbrance, my violin has enabled me to delve without harm into the most secretive, dangerous heathen societies and sacred festivals. Where a white man would have been, in the ordinary way, clubbed, or doped with a mixture of kava and South Sea strychnine for intruding at a secret sacred festival, I have been received with open arms. It seems incredible, when I think of the magnificent receptions I have had through being able to play my old Sunday-school hymns on a fiddle before ex-cannibal chiefs.
I was in Suva, Fiji, when I managed to wheedle my way into a heathen monastery that was the one surviving temple of another age. This sacred hell was situated in a picturesque spot up in the Kai Tholos mountains. These Kai Tholos tribes were a fierce mountain people who, up till that date, had successfully resisted the advances of the British missionaries. Few of them were still living, but those few most certainly did their best to make up for the iniquities of the missing when they met in their temple cavern four miles west of Mandaua, not far from the Rewa River. The aforesaid river 159ran through an isolated district in those days. Where now the new sugar and coffee plantations are, there was nothing more than a few taro and pineapple patches that supplied the scattered villages with work and food.
How I got to know the whereabouts of the aforesaid monastery matters little. I will simply say that an elder chief, named Kambo, secured me uninterrupted admission into the cavern-chamber where the old unconverted Kai Tholos assembled for religious purposes.
Only a poet of superb descriptive ability could adequately describe that cavern’s interior and its romantic surroundings. All I am able to say of the local scenery is, that the mountains seemed to abet, to watch over those wild Kai Tholos and their secret meetings, for ever guarding the cavern’s entrance with their rugged hollows and pinnacles that were clad with feathery palms and the innocent flowerage of artless Nature. It was like entering some wondrous Arabian Nights cave of enchantment to enter that volcanic chamber.
“In there?” I said to old Kambo, as I stood hesitating, looking across the silent gullies, watching the migrating cockatoos fade away in the aftermath of the sunset ere I made up my mind to enter.
The large red feathers in Kambo’s mop-head brushed against the low roof of the tunnel-way as we both entered that ominous-looking entrance. The glittering stalactites, hanging in festoons from the rocky alcoves, intensified the weird atmosphere of that gloomy place, as, with fiddle in my hand, I crept warily behind my swarthy guide. We had to stoop, almost crawl, as we passed along into the third corridor. Great was my surprise as I suddenly entered a spacious chamber. The scene before me almost dazzled my eyes, for beneath the hanging rows of innumerable coco-nut-oil lamps, suspended 160over a large platform, danced a group of dusky, sparkling-eyed houris!
I stared like one in a dream as I continued to gaze on those whirling, semi-nude figures. A few were attired in diaphanous tappa robes, that seemed to be worn for no other purpose than for the fact that they softly opened out like large umbrellas and then closed down again. I am at a loss to know how to describe the dances and the various “turns” those maids gave, as they sought to give the onlookers a violent, demonstrative exhibition of their charms. Some whirled, some somersaulted, and a few seemed to detach their limbs from their bodies and gently throw them, in boomerang-like swerves, across the stage, ere they returned and fixed themselves by apparent magic into their customary position. So it seemed to me, for I am at a loss to give any reasonable explanation of maidens pitching their legs and arms in such a way as they did, without dislocation, if not serious injury and strain. It is quite possible that they had been trained from early childhood, like to our own contortionists and music-hall dancers, so that they might please the eyes of sinful old priests.
Squatting on coco-nut-fibre mats, arranged in semicircles, reposed the most hideous-looking chiefs it has ever been my lot to gaze upon. They were tattooed in grotesque style from toes to chin, their teeth reddened through chewing betel-nut. They were undoubtedly the surviving grand old roués of the pre-Christian times. To the indescribable capers of the sacred maids, they gave enthusiastic grunts and awful wheezes, and the effect of it all was weird enough as the sounds echoed and re-echoed ere they escaped from the close atmosphere of that subterranean chamber.
“Woi! Woi! Vanaka!” they yelled. Then several 161old women lifted magic sticks, with sponges on the ends, and wiped dribble from their ugly mouths!
“Kasawayo! Kasawayo!” the whole audience yelled, as a pretty Fijian princess stepped from the alcove to the right of the stage, did a seemingly impossible somersault, and gave a characteristic bow. The audience gazed on her in breathless silence. She was arrayed in a most picturesque style; the gleams of the hanging oil-lamps falling upon her made her appear like some goddess. About her waist was a girdle of shells and flowers that dangled down to her knees. But that which attracted me most was the manner of the timid obeisances which she repeatedly paid the monstrous wooden idol that an old priest had placed in front of her.
“Whathi! Whathi, Ndengi!” the audience yelled, as she prostrated herself before the image. Sometimes she burst into blood-curdling peals of laughter and beat the floor with her limbs. Her skull must have been extremely thick, for she repeatedly crashed her head on the floor without any apparent harm coming to it. She looked like some weird enchantress as she went through the heathen rites which were mimicked in the old ship’s saloon mirror that was stuck up against the cavern’s wall just beside her. Once she sprang to her feet as though struck by a sudden wondrous thought, then, lifting one arm to the rocky roof, as though it were some far-off sky, made a mute appeal, moving her lips as though in prayer. After going through many seemingly impossible contortions, she put forth her arms and, twining them that they might resemble the sinuous movements of a crawling serpent, chanted a weirdly sweet melody. And all the while this was going on, the whole audience chanted out, “Whathi! Whathi!” Though she performed many feats that made those dusky old men of the front rows lift their chins to the 162roof in sheer ecstatic joy, it was her peculiar wardrobe that mostly appealed to my imagination. Rising to her feet, she beat her bare thighs with her hands and cried out as though in pain, her extensive wardrobe rattling forth the weirdest music imaginable. Her raiment was adorned with the threaded bones and teeth of dead chiefs, old men’s beards, maidens’ dried fingers and toes, and, most sacred of all, the dried bosoms of sacrificed girls!—there they hung, tied into small bouquets, bits of tawny skin like shrivelled parchment, grotesque but sad manuscripts of forgotten lovers, and what sad heartbeats! For it appeared that they were the breasts of vestal maidens who had fallen in love and so violated the principles of their creed. “No! Never!” was my astonished ejaculation as Kambo, my friendly guide, took me aside and whispered much to me that must remain where it remains. As that old friendly chief, Kambo, pointed out the distinctive charms that adorned the dancer’s heathen-raiment, I felt like making a bolt for it. I heartily repented of my foolish act in allowing myself to be lured into such a den of heathen iniquity. But it was too late.
“Woh, woil! You play moosic, alak!” said Kambo, as several fierce men approached me. In a moment all eyes were upon me. Something banged me on the shoulder. For a moment I lost my head, and fancied that some mighty heathen god had suddenly dropped from the roof upon me. In my fright and in the one vital thought that came to me, I metaphorically leapt over my own shoulders and endeavoured to bolt down the tunnel away out into the night; but a nudge in the ribs with a war-club brought me back to my senses. I was immediately gripped by twelve pairs of dusky hands and lifted bodily by the neck and shoulders up on the pae-pae (stage). In a flash I realized the whole position. Obediently 163as a child I lifted my violin to my chin and commenced to play. Only God remembers the melody I performed; I don’t. A chief chuckled in a blood-curdling manner as I finished the strain; then he swung a war-club across the chamber. I instinctively dodged as the weapon made a boomerang-like swerve and returned to its owner’s massive palm! Seeing that the aforesaid act was only an act of appreciation of my playing by the court jester, I was immensely relieved.
Then I took the proffered calabash of kava from the hands of the head chiefess. All eyes were on me; there was no way out of it; I saw that I had to drink to the glory of the dancer’s eyes. My hand trembled, I know, as I lifted the goblet to my lips and took a sensitive gulp of that wretched stuff; then I nearly vomited. It was surely the filthiest liquor ever imbibed by man. I managed to keep it down, though. It is wonderful what one can go through when necessity drives! Having read the lives of the British martyrs, I well knew my chances, what might occur to me if I did not favour the rites of those primitive religious bigots; consequently I swallowed another pint, thinking it best to take no risks of giving offence.
After that trial and dire insult to my digestive apparatus, I performed another solo, keeping excellent tempo, considering my position, to the mighty kicks and indescribable swerves of the heathen houris who were giving a special ran-tan selection in my honour. The very coco-nut-oil lamp gleams seemed to fade into a dim blush as I stared at the monstrous silhouette of myself that fiddled on the wall. I might say that the cavern was about fifteen feet high at the end where I stood. Just as the unearthly din of the audience’s delighted exclamation was fading away, half a dozen half-caste girls came running into the cavern out of the tunnel 164entrance. They had coral-dyed hair, and by the fairness of their complexion I guessed that they were a mixture of Samoan and Fijian blood. I felt much relieved to see them appear, for they were human-looking, and so brought a sense of companionship into that subterranean den.
The oldest member of the new-comers was attractive-looking. Her eyes were large and very bright. Her crown of hair had a marvellous glitter about it and fell in soft ripples down to her shoulders. In another moment she had rushed up to me and had prostrated herself at my feet! A tremendous yell from the onlookers followed this act of the girl’s. It appeared that her act had made me “taboo”—a sacred personage. I felt bewildered over it all. An uncomfortable idea got into my head that I was the chosen for some heathen sacrifice! I know that I must have visibly paled. I even appreciated the caresses and wailing lamentations that the goddess-maid (for such she was) made as she poured strange phrases into my ears, telling me, doubtless, of my beauty! I do confess here that her eyes told more than her lips (for I could not understand the language in which she flattered me), and I could not fail to understand the meaning conveyed.
Loud acclamations of approval followed all that the girl did. It was some little time ere I discovered how I was supposed to show my reciprocation of the dubious elevation that her choice had conferred upon me. The fact was that she was the head sacred-maid, and, instead of choosing a youth of her own race, had chosen me; therefore I found myself suddenly elevated to priesthood. The order of priesthood was not so bad, but I discovered that I was supposed to embrace and kiss the lips of the monstrous wooden idol that stood on the pae-pae in front of me. Its big, wooden, grinning, one-toothed 165mouth and goggling glass eyes seemed to say in some malevolent voice of silence: “Come on, thou dog of a Christian, kiss this heathenish mouth, bow the knee to me, thou destroyer of heathen creeds and mighty wooden images!”
I felt helpless. I gazed in despair on the front rows of that grim, dusky-hued audience of mop-headed men! They had thrust their chins and clubs forward on seeing my obvious hesitation to worship that wooden thing. An ominous silence dwelt over all. Two fierce old hags put forth their scraggy hands and made as though to clutch at me, but, warned by a look from the goddess-maid who had brought me to that pass, they lifted their chins and spat at me! And still I hesitated. I would die sooner than kneel before that grinning wooden deity. By now the audience was loudly shouting, their headdress of big red feathers violently shaking, and still I pretended not to understand what they wished me to do. But it was hopeless, for they kept shouting and pointing to the maid and then at the idol. There stood that wooden thing, mocking me with its hideous carven grin. Not even though it meant death for me, would I violate my inherent dignity by embracing that monstrous image.
“Woi! Woi!” I cried, and, pretending to misunderstand the whole business, I leapt forward and embraced the maid.
Those old chiefs opened their mouths in astonishment. That much I noticed as I instinctively turned my head to see the effect of my act. The very tattoo engraving that adorned the faces of the aged priests had wrinkled up into distorted bunches. In another moment each look of rage and horror had resolved into a grim grimace—they were all grinning. I was saved! The Fijian race was endowed with humour! No words of mine can adequately describe all I felt at that moment. 166My relief was intense. I knew that, had those priests been as humourless as are British disciples in their creeds, I had been done for. God knows, my head, that now recalls those old days, would have decorated a Fijian’s girdle, or would be a pinch of dust beneath the South Sea palms, or possibly have been discovered ornamenting a native hut, and by now be on show, exhibited in some British anthropological museum, as a fine specimen of the skull of primitive man.
As the maid continued to rub my face with her soft nose (the customary salutation of the Fijians), I felt much relieved.
“Awaie, le oa taki!” she murmured.
The............