_Come to me in my dreams, and then I’ll hear
The music of your voice steal like a stream
Thro’ some old forest where like thirsty deer
My thoughts will haunt the banks—drink deep the dream!
Come when my night full of deep loneliness
Sighs all its stars across the dreaming skies,
Till memory’s ocean mirrors happiness—
My heaven with all its half-forgotten eyes._
NEXT morning Hawahee and Sestrina went, as usual, and prayed before the
gods of the shell-temple. No sadder sight could be imagined than the
sight of the two lonely castaways kneeling there, in the faith born of
superstitious fear and misery, before those solemn-faced figures which
were sombre manifestations of Hawahee’s pagan creed.
Sestrina’s small delicate form, her hair rippling down her back, and
Hawahee, tall and broad-shouldered, kneeling by her side, like some
Phidias before Olympian Zeus and his colossal vassals, made a symbolical
picture which might well have appealed to a beneficent Omnipotence.
Their statues were dwarfed to pigmy-like proportions as they knelt in
humbleness before those herculean, solemn high-domed-headed gods that
stood on either side of the divinely majestic solemn-voiced goddess
Pelé. How mellow was her voice, for the wind, drifting from the
south-west, came sweeping down the leafy valley and entered the
convolutions of her pearly lips with æolian cunning and murmuring
sweetness.
As soon as they had left the temple Hawahee proposed that they should
take a trip together and search for seagulls’ eggs on the other side of
the isle. It was only about half an hour’s walk across the island.
Sestrina, who was never so happy as when roaming about the tropical
loveliness of that solitary world, clapped her hands with delight. When
they arrived on the cooler elevation of the palm-clad hills in the
centre of the isle, the sun was high in the sky.
“How sweet is the smell of the scented wind,” said Sestrina, as she
stood on the height and felt the cool scent-laden breeze as it stirred
the leafy boughs of the mango and breadfruit trees. Standing up there
they could see the far-off curling waves running up the shores around
their solitary isle. To the eastward they could see the two huge rocks
that looked like two vast monoliths standing by the sea. Again to the
south-west stood the lightning-blasted giant breadfruit trunk; its one
shrivelled blackened branch resembled a mighty human arm that ever
pointed to the western skyline, like some weird sign-post pointing the
way towards the eternity of the blue days and the sad, hesitating
sunsets.
While standing there, on the hills, the wind gently touched Sestrina’s
tresses, blowing them softly out till they floated against Hawahee’s
cheek.
“Sestra, the winds are my friends to-day,” said Hawahee, as he smiled
and then glanced about him in an observant manner, as though he would
hide his own thoughts from himself.
Then he pointed to the shore, far behind them, and said: “See, I have
taken the signal-flag down.”
Sestrina turned her head, also, and noticed that the old tappa flag no
longer flew from the top of the palm on the promontory’s edge.
“’Tis good of you, Hawahee, to take the flag down. I well know that you
have taken it down to please me.”
“True enough, wahine,” the man replied.
Sestrina gazed into Hawahee’s face; the fire of passion was glowing in
his eyes. She swiftly turned her head that he might not see the light in
her own eyes. In endeavouring to hide her face from her companion she
slipped and fell forward, giving a startled cry.
“Aue!” cried Hawahee. He had rushed forward—Sestrina had tumbled into a
small hollow by the bamboos. In a moment he was beside her. She lay in a
recumbent position, her dress slightly disarranged as she lifted her
knee, which was stained with blood.
“Are you hurt, O Sestra?” he murmured. His voice sounded hoarse and
strange to Sestrina as he knelt beside her and gently wiped the blood
from the small wound where a thorn had torn the flesh. Then he proceeded
to bind the knee with a piece of tappa-cloth which he had hastily torn
from the loose sleeve of his jerkin. “Aue! poor wahine,” he sighed as he
gently twisted the bandage round and round. Hawahee’s hand was shaking.
A flood of passion nearly overwhelmed his senses. All the noble
resolutions which he had made whilst on his knees before his gods were
made in vain!
“Sestra!”
“Hawahee!”
The next moment their lips met in a long impassioned kiss! Sestrina made
an attempt to rise. The full-blown, richly-scented, crimson tropic
flowers shed their leaves over her as her head fell back again into the
deep fern grasses. Her eyes, half closed, gave a quivering gleam from
the pupils, just visible between the dark-lashed eyelids, that were
slightly apart, like a sick baby’s when it sleeps.
“Hawahee, my knee!” she moaned as their lips met again and yet again.
He still knelt beside her, and lifting her slightly, clasped her to his
bosom. She opened her eyes; Hawahee saw a deep, earnest light in their
depths. He murmured soft fond words in his musical language. Lifting her
tresses, in the throes of some great passion, he buried his face in the
folds of her hair, touching the shining skeins with his lips. His arms
stole softly about her form. He felt the soft heave of her bosom as she
placed one hand over her eyes.
“Sestra, how beautiful you look, the wild scents of the flowers and
pulis cling to your tresses,” he whispered. A cockatoo in the palms gave
a dismal croak and fluttered away. The winds stirred the bamboo thickets
as her hair floated softly against his face.
“Sestra,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse and trembled. He touched her
hand, caressing her fingers with his own. “Wahine, O laki, aloah!” he
whispered. A sigh escaped Sestrina’s lips as he knelt there, beside her.
“Hawahee, let me go, my knee stings.”
“Sestra, ’tis my heart that stings; let me stay,” he replied.
Sestrina’s gaze met his own. Again she inclined her head, and placed her
hand over her eyes.
“Hawahee, remember I am weak, I am a woman!” she sobbed. Her voice
seemed to awaken the Hawaiian fanatic from some lovely impassioned
dream. He suddenly stared over his shoulder, a startled look in his
eyes. Beads of sweat stood on his brow. He too had something to
remember—he was a leper! And as he remembered, he distinctly heard the
warning, moaning chimes of the shells and the gods of the temple of the
valley. They both knelt there, listening, fright and misery expressed on
their brows. Hawahee was convinced, beyond all doubt, that the gods of
shadowland had seen his danger, had warned him.
“O god of Langi, O Atua, O Pelé! I thank thee,” he cried as he thought
how near to sorrow temptation had brought him and the woman he loved
beyond all earthly passion.
Sestrina also heard the solemn warning chimes from the valley of the
shell altar. She rose to her feet and gazed for a moment in wonder on
Hawahee. And as she noticed the reverence for the gods expressed on his
face and in his calm clear eyes, she also came under the influence of
the pagan superstition which he had instilled into her heart. Then she
remembered, and leaning forward in a great pretence, hid her face from
the man as she examined her injured knee.
Hawahee gazed on her inclined form for a second, and then gazed straight
up at the sky; and there was misery in his eyes as he watched the
fast-flying flock of migrating black swans as they came over the ocean,
passed over the isle, and sped on their trackless flight. Without
glancing at Sestrina, he murmured in a low tone, “Beloved sister, ’tis
well that I go alone to seek the sea-birds’ eggs.” Then, fearing his own
weakness, he hurried away from Sestrina’s presence. As his dignified,
handsome form passed between the palm stems, Sestrina gazed after him.
Tears were in her eyes as she noticed his bowed head. Then she, too,
hastened away and disappeared in the Arcadian shadows of the pulus
(dwarf fern trees) and palms.
* * * * *
“They are beautiful eggs,” murmured Sestrina. Hawahee had returned from
his journey and had laid the full basket of coloured sea-birds’ eggs
down at her feet.
“Ah, wahine, thank me not, ’tis a pleasure of great love to gather the
eggs for thee.”
“Is it, Hawahee?” responded Sestrina as her downcast eyes studied the
pretty hand-plaited ribbons of her sandals.
“Sestra, ’tis happy I am, that I can still call thee sweet sister,” said
Hawahee as Sestrina went on with her work, very busy cooking.
Sestrina made no reply to her companion’s remark, but placed the cooked
fish in the platters. Then they sat down and ate their meal in silence.
“Why so silent, Sestra?” said the man as the woman he loved avoided his
eyes.
Sestrina made no reply, but simply proceeded to pass the tortoise-shell
comb through her shining tresses, combing them forward so that they hid
the expression of her face from view.
“Aloah, Sestra, good night,” murmured Hawahee.
But still the comb moved and moved, as it relentlessly tugged the
tresses till they fell like a tent about the girl’s face and shoulders.
“Aloah!” he reiterated. Then he turned away from the veranda and passed
back into the shadows. And as the Hawaiian entered his lonely homestead,
he heard the shell-gods moaning their murmuring melodies. Thereupon, he
at once fell on his knees, and thanked all the gods and the great White
God who had helped him in his weaknesses, and so made the day pass
without sorrow.
That night Sestrina lay sleepless in bed thinking of many things that
troubled her. The moon had risen, and as she looked through the small
window-hole above her pillow, she could see the far-off ocean and the
tumbling silvered waves that seemed to be beating silently over the
shore reefs. One thin shaft of moonlight fell slantwise through the
dark-fingered palm leaves by her door, sending a mystic radiance across
her form as she lay there.
“I cannot sleep,” she murmured as she rose to a sitting attitude and
gazed on the faded photographs on the wall. Then she gave a start—a
shadow had fallen across the small room, obliterating the moon’s flame
swiftly, as though a lamp had been blown out. She gave no cry of fear as
she turned her head and saw Hawahee standing by her couch. “Why come to
me by night?” she asked calmly as she gazed up at the sad face of the
tall Hawaiian, who gazed in silence, speaking only by the light of his
earnest eyes.
“I also, like the stars, cannot sleep, wahine, dear sister,” he said, as
the woman turned her head, and once more a slip of moonlight touched the
lovely dishevelment of her shining hair. Her eyes were bright. One arm
lay across her bosom, the other inclined upward so that her head could
rest on it as she gazed in a meditative way at the solemn-faced man.
“Sestra, a great fire burns in my blood, and the gods may forget me,”
said Hawahee softly, a note of deep sadness in his voice. “Stare not in
my face, Sestra.”
But Sestrina still gazed, and saw that the sight of her lying there had
awakened a deep light in the Hawaiian’s eyes. The next moment she had
drawn the soft, delicately woven tappa sheet higher, so that her bosom
and throat curves were concealed. Hawahee, noticing this act of
Sestrina’s, gazed with downcast eyes at the floor, as though in shame.
Sestrina immediately put forth her arms, and said: “Hawahee, touch my
lips again, you are strong, noble and brave.”
“Hast thou forgotten the dreadful kilia?” he murmured as he reminded her
of the risk she ran through holding his hand.
“I care not for the kilia, or for anything else so long as you remain
with me, and keep brave and strong,” she sighed, as she too turned her
head away as though she dreaded that Hawahee would read her thoughts.
“Ah, wahine, I have come from my couch because I heard the hidden voices
whispering echoes of your own dreams into my heart. Be brave and strong,
Sestra, and desert not the gods. Pelé’s voice was deep with sorrow this
night when I knelt before her.” Then Hawahee lifted his hand and said:
“The shell-altars and the gods are speaking, listen!”
And as they both listened, they heard the night wind drifting the solemn
chant-chimes of Atua, Kauhilo, and Pelé across the slopes. The voices
sounded deep and solemn, and strangely in harmony with the low monotone
of the seas that answered along the shore. Again they kissed, and again
they heard the god-voices moan as the wind swept down the breadfruit
valley. Hawahee, fanatic as he was, seemed to realise at that moment how
he had toiled for years to create gods who would make his heart quake
with fear when the fruits of happiness and desire were within his grasp.
He turned his head and gazed in bitterness through the doorway. The next
moment the light of remorse and fear leapt into his eyes. He had
remembered all that the gods were supposed to have done for him, and for
Sestrina.
“But for their mercy I might be lying under the palms, hidden from the
winds of heaven beside Rohana, Steno, and their comrades in death,” he
thought.
Sestrina noticed the swift change in the man’s manner. Then she too
placed her hands to her ears as though she would attempt to shut out the
moans of the shell-gods.
“Be faithful to the gods, O wahine.”
“I will!” replied Sestrina as the old pagan superstition swept back to
her, bringing melancholy to her heart. For she had heard the praise of a
strong man’s voice. She sat up and stared in an appealing way at Hawahee
as she realised what her life had missed through the cruelty of the
fates. The presence of the tall, handsome man thrilled her in a strange
way, a thrill over which she seemed to have too little selfcontrol. She
half hated herself as the winds swept through the open door of her
chamber, and disturbed her tresses, making Hawahee turn his eyes from
her form as though he dreaded the temptation of her presence.
“’Tis I who am the temptress, he is truly noble—I am weak,” she said to
herself. “Ah, were it not for my memory of the past, and my thousand
prayers to the great White God and the Virgin when Hawahee thinks I am
praying to his gods, I would—”
Her reflections were suddenly broken short. Hawahee spoke, his voice
sounding almost stern:
“Sestra, a light which does not belong to the olden gods shines in your
eyes; why is this?”
“No! No!” said Sestrina as she gazed in fright at the man who could read
her thoughts. The next moment, Hawahee’s voice had softened.
“Thou knowest not the depth of my love, wahine. Maybe, some day you will
be rescued, taken away from this isle, and will go forth into the great
world again. ’Tis then you will remember these things, and know how
great was my love for thee.” So spake the great-souled Hawahee.
The sweet sorrow of that midnight meeting seemed to have brought comfort
to Sestrina’s heart when Hawahee vanished as though the winds had blown
a misty form from her presence. “Now I will sleep well, wahine,” he had
murmured as he turned to leave her. In a few moments he had stolen along
as though in some fear under the palms, and had entered his hut. For a
long time he knelt in deep prayer, appealing to his gods for comfort and
strength. Then he lay down on his couch, and seemed to pass away into a
deep slumber. And as he slept, his life entered the great dream-world of
the unseen reality. A wild wind swept through his slumber. Outside his
hut the giant breadfruits waved their tasselled arms and sighed some
melody of the ages.
On top of the first shore hill stood Sestrina’s hut, deserted! She too
had found a second existence, and had risen from her sleep and wandered
down to the shore. The ocean stretched away like a tremendous mirror of
pale romance as the tossing waves rose from the deep like white-necked
children of sorrow’s womb, and knocked in vain at the cave doors, or ran
along the dream-like beach. And still Sestrina walked up and down the
moonlit shore, wringing her hands in some unfathomable despair. Her face
was pale, and the gaze in her eyes as far-away looking as the light of
the imaged stars that haunted the blue lagoons by her side. As she
walked to and fro, her outblown hair softly lifting and falling about
her form as though in rhythmical sympathy with her own deep dreams, she
stared in fright out on the vast moon-ridden seas. Inclining her head,
she placed her hand to her ear and listened. Only the far-away sigh of
the winds reached her, the voices of the shell-gods were silent at last!
Again she listened—a startled look leaped into her eyes, for she could
hear the distant voice of Pelé rumbling across the pine and palm tracks.
It was a noiseless sound, just as one hears when placing the ear against
the pearly entrance of a large sea-shell. As though she was haunted by
the presence of some unfathomable terror, she wrung her hands, and began
to creep tiptoe up the slopes.
“Hawahee! Hawahee! save me! I am a woman, I am weak, and you are
strong,” she cried. Her voice, though apparently soundless, sent an echo
across the slopes into the ears of the sleeping man who listened!
Still she crept on, her hair blowing wildly about her, her rami’s
tasselled fringe swinging to the trembling of her own form. The next
moment she stood outside Hawahee’s open door. Her eyes were burning with
a strange, beautiful sapphire light. All the visionary beauty of woman
shone on her brow and in the fear of her parted lips as she called his
name.
Slowly, as though in some terror of the fascination and dread over which
her soul had no control, her pale hands clung, pulled at the canvas
folds of the doorway’s old curtain. Again and again she pushed and
pulled till slowly that fragile curtain, which divided the wandering
Sestrina from the sleeper, was swept aside, revealing Hawahee’s handsome
form and sleeping face. He tried to rise. He knew that he dreamed, and
yet he knew that his dream was the unseen reality of the truth!
Sestrina saw the smile on his lips as he welcomed her presence, for
though his eyes were closed he noticed these things. She even saw the
warm blood of some passion mount to his brow—the eyelids quivered as
though blown by some inward storm of the soul which they hid. “Hawahee,
my beloved Hawahee!” she whispered.
Ah, how sweet the voice sounded to the sleeper’s ears! That pale,
wraith-like woman who dreamed and voiced all the feminine passion and
sorrow of those infinite seas, saw the convulsive clutching of the
strong fingers as the sleeper endeavoured to rise from his couch and
embrace the vision of loveliness that leaned over him. He felt the touch
of warm lips kissing his own. The radiant light of some great passion,
mingled with religious fear, shone in the eyes of the figure that knelt
by his couch. It was only a momentary glance which he saw. The next
second his sad, beautiful visitor gazed in startled terror. It seemed
that a great wind had swept over an isle of dreams. It came up the
shores like some rude breath of reality sweeping across the pale seas of
romance, blowing the moon into shreds of mists and tangled light,
scattering the pale-eyed stars in fright from the lagoons.
Hawahee was awake. He distinctly saw a form standing in the moonlight by
his hut doorway, wringing its hands as though in terror. A shriek
escaped the figure’s lips. He stared again—like some moonlit cobweb
stuff, Sestrina’s shape seemed to have been blown from his sight.
“She only comes in dreams!” he sighed, and then the lone castaway fell
into a deeper slumber.