FAIRY FOLK.
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]
Footnote 3:
Kava, or yangona, is the Fiji grog expressed from the masticated
fibres of a root. Kava is an introduced Tongan word.
Footnote 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.”
Footnote 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 chief’s 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.