Читать книгу Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land - Henry Britton - Страница 11

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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?

Carver! Carver for what, Master Cook?

For the little chap, Puck, Master Cook?

Then carve away at his Ma, Master Cook!

For the son has made off, Master Cook!”

Nothing comes amiss to these troublesome little imps when pilfering is the work to be done. The fruit trees are stripped, the ladies’ reticules and other depositories of valuables are emptied of their contents; the hot yams just ready for the evening meal are snapped out of the crock, and the fish off the rack, to the utter heartbreaking of the poor women and the irrepressible wrath of their savage lords on their return from their planting, building, fighting, or games. The only explanation is, “’Twas done by the elves!”

On the occasion of a family gathering one evening round the festive ^[3]kava-bowl, Lolóma undertook to relate a mysterious experience which had recently happened to her. “As I wandered with my playmates in the valley,” said she, “where the palm-tree bowls of nectar yields to quench the thirst of Koroivónu’s, warriors and the sacred vesi sheds its solemn shade, we heard the fairies mocking our speech. If we greeted each other with the daily salutation of ‘Good morning,’ we were sure to hear out of some tree close by ‘morning!’ Then, getting frightened, we shouted ‘The elves are coming,’ and they added to our terror by a quick, short call of ‘coming’! Following what I thought was the voice of one of my companions, I was led by the elfin tribe in roundabout ways until at last I was helplessly lost in the midst of thick forests and the blackness of night, and I heard the elfin choir merrily chanting—

“Up and down, up and down;

We will lead them up and down.

We are feared in field and town;

Goblin, lead them up and down.”^[4]

3. Kava, or yangona, is the Fiji grog expressed from the masticated fibres of a root. Kava is an introduced Tongan word.

4. The words of the Fijian poet are so near to those of Shakespeare, that I have preferred this quotation to my own translation.

“Suddenly a strange apparition appeared before me. Its form was that of a full-grown man, its aspect that of the ^[5]papalangis whom the minstrels fable. The creature looked kindly upon me, spoke a few words I could not understand, and vanished. Often have I visited the spot since, drawn by an irresistible fascination, but only once again did I catch a glimpse of the figure, which ascended a tree and disappeared.”

5. Foreigners. Vavalangi is the Fijian word. Papalangi, the introduced Tongan word, is now more commonly known.

When the Princess had finished her recital there was hardly one of her superstitious auditory who did not believe that she had seen either the departed spirit of some mortal lingering about the scene of his earthly labours, as is the wont of Fijian spirits for some days before taking their flight to Hades, or else that the sprites had played her a trick and bewitched her senses.

The wise men, nevertheless, determined that it was a matter which must be seen to. It was arranged that on the following evening a few of Big-Wind’s courtiers should accompany her to the spot on which the apparition last appeared.

Lolóma duly communicated the plan to me, and I determined to declare myself a white man and trust to the friendship of the tribe, knowing that I should always have the good word of the chiefs daughter.

The eventful time arrived. Lolóma and a party of friends approached my hidden cave. I descended the tree unobserved, and suddenly broke upon their startled sight. They were surprised beyond measure at my appearance, but were delighted on finding that I could make myself understood in their language. I explained to them how I became an inhabitant of the country. They determined that I was a Kalou vulavula. They all expressed a strong desire to have a papalangi in the tribe, and I was hurried away to the town for the purpose of being presented to the King with as little delay as possible.

Crossing the ridge which commanded a view of the Tivóli valley, just after sunset, I came in view of the locale of the town.

I observed that the grove in which it was embosomed was all aglow with dancing lights. My first thought was that the inhabitants were coming out to meet me with lighted fire-sticks, and that the warlike demonstration boded me no good. My companions laughed heartily at my startled expression, for the illumination was that of fireflies, a common enough sight to them. Now I saw that the whole forest sparkled with myriads of winged starlets. Conducted by this gorgeous torchlight procession, whose glittering cohorts seemed to be as numerous as the sands of the sea, I cheerfully advanced, feeling assured that their bright companionship was a good omen.