“never more shall we see karolin.”
the words of aioma were repeated by the sky, by the sun, and the sea. never more would he see katafa, hear her voice, feel her arms about him. the hard hot deck beneath him, the sun beating on his back, the sounds of the sea on the planking and the groaning of the timbers all were part of his misery, of the awful hunger that fed on his heart.
he loved her as a man loves a woman, as a child loves a mother, as a mother loves a child. he who had killed men and dared death was, in fact, still a child; passionate, loving, ignorant of the terrors that life holds for the heart of man, of the grief that kills and the separation that annihilates. he had never met grief before.
le moan watched him as he lay. she knew. he was lying like that because of katafa, she had lain like that on the coral because of him.
by declaring that vision had returned to her, by seizing the wheel and steering for karolin, she could have brought him to his feet a well man—only to hand him over to katafa.
she could not do that.
her heart, pitiless to the world, was human only towards him; she had braved the unknown and she had braved death to save his life, but to save him from this suffering she could not speak three words.
aioma watched him absolutely unmoved. if dick had been wounded by a spear or club, it would have been different, but mental anguish was unknown to the canoe-builder and you cannot sympathize with the unknown.
then as dick struggled to his feet and stood with his hand on the rail, dazed and with his face turned again to the south, the old man recommenced his plaint with the insistency of a brute, whilst the wind blew and poni at the wheel kept the ship on her course south, ever towards the hopeless south.
“no,” said aioma, “never more shall we see karolin. uta has us in his net. never more shall i shape my logs (he had dropped that business before leaving karolin) or spear the big fish by night whilst the boys hold the torches (upoli), and the great eels will go through the water with none to catch them. it is this ayat that has brought us where we now are to confusion and a sea without measure, and this wind, which is the breath of le juan, and may her breath be accursed. well, taori, and so it stands, and what now? shall we go before the wind or counter it—seek the south e haya where nothing is, or the east e hola where nothing is?”
dick turned his face to the canoe builder. “i do not know, aioma, i do not know. it is all darkness.” his eyes turned to le moan and passed her, falling on poni at the wheel, and the sea beyond.
aioma had told him that he was taking le moan as a pathfinder, but dick had troubled little about that, scarcely believing in it. he had trusted to the current and the light of karolin as a guide. they were gone, but it was the words of aioma that removed the last vestige of hope.
he trusted aioma in all sea matters and when aioma said that they were lost, they were lost indeed. palm tree vanished, karolin gone, nothing but the sea, the trackless hopeless sea and the words of aioma!
urged by a blind instinct to get away from the sight of that sea, that sky, that pitiless sun, he left the deck and came down the steps to the saloon where he stood, a strange figure, almost nude, against the commonplace surroundings; the table, the chairs, the bunks with their still disordered bedding, the mirror let into the forward bulkhead, a mirror so old and dim and spotted that it scarcely cast a reflection.
he looked about him for a moment, moved towards the bunk where carlin had once slept, and, sitting down on the edge of it, leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, his head bowed; just as his father had sat long, long years ago when emmeline had vanished into the woods to return bearing a child in her arms—bearing him, taori.
just as his father had sat all astray, crushed, helpless and lost, so he sat now, and for the same reason.
up on deck poni at the wheel turned to the canoe-builder.
“and what now, aioma,” said poni, “since le moan knows not where to go, where go we?” as he spoke the mainsail trembled, rippled, and flattened again.
the canoe-builder turned aft. the breezed-up blue, beyond a certain point, lay in meadows and a far glitter spoke of a great space where there was no wind.
“the wind is losing its feathers,” said poni with a backward glance in the direction towards which the other was looking.
as he spoke the mainsail trembled again as though a shudder were running up it and the boom shifted to the cordy creak of the topping lifts.
yes, the wind was losing its feathers, dying, jaded, exhausted; again the mainsail flattened, shivered and filled only to flatten again, the wabble of the bow wash began to die out and the schooner to lose steerage way.
the breath of le juan was failing and aioma who had cursed it saw now the calm spreading towards them, passing them, taking the southern sea.
poni left the wheel.
there was nothing to steer. a ship is only a ship when she is moving, and the schooner, now a hulk on the lift of the swell, lay with a gentle roll on the glassy water—drawing vague figures upon the sky with her trucks, complaining with the voice of block and cordage whilst the canoe-builder standing with his eyes on the north, felt the calm: felt it with a sixth sense gained from close on a century of weather influence; measured it, and knew that it was great. great and enduring because of its extent, complete and flawless as a block of crystal placed by the gods on the face of ten thousand square miles of sea.
he remembered how he had cursed the wind, and turning to speak to le moan, found her gone.
le moan following dick to the saloon hatch had stood for a moment listening.
unable to hear anything below, she waited till aioma’s back was turned and then cautiously began to descend the steps of the companion-way; cautiously, just as she had come down those steps that night to attack the white men single-handed and save, at the risk of her life, the life of taori.
reaching the door of the saloon, she saw him half seated on the bunk’s edge, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands whilst above him, now on the ceiling, now on the wall, glimmered and glittered and danced the same water shimmer that had danced above the sleeping carlin. only now it was a butterfly of gold.
the ripples sent out by the roll of the schooner on the sea surface gave it its tremor, the roll its extent of flight, the sunlight its gold.
it fluttered now, sweeping down as if to light on dick, and now it was flying on the ceiling above him. it seemed a portent, but of what she could not tell, nor did she heed it after the first glance.
crossing the floor, she came to him, sat down beside him, and rested her hand on his shoulder.
dick turned to her. like the child that he was, he had shuddered and sobbed himself into a state where thought scarcely existed above the sense of despair. he turned to her, the touch of a woman’s sympathy relaxing the numbing grip of disaster, yet not for a moment releasing him. then casting his arms around her neck, he clung to her for comfort as a child to its mother.
clasping her arms around his naked body, her lips on his throat, her eyes closed, in paradise—heedless of life and death and dead to the world, le moan held him, flesh to flesh, soul to soul, for one supreme moment her own. that she was nothing to him was naught, that grief not love had thrown him into her arms was naught, she held him.
to le moan whose soul was, in a way, and as far as taori was concerned, greater than her body, marriage and its consummation could have given little more—if as much. she held him.
above them danced the golden butterfly that no man could catch or brutalize; a thing born of light, of the sea, of chance; gold by day that had been silver by moonlight, elusive as the dreams that had led carlin to his death and the love that had led le moan to destroy him.
then, little by little, the world broke in upon her, her arms relaxed, and rising, half blind and groping her way, she found the door, the steps, the deck, where poni stood released from the wheel, and aioma by the rail.
