A DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.
In the hope of keeping on good terms with the bete or priest,
Box-of-Tricks, I called upon that sagacious individual, taking with me a
suitable present—a necklace made of pieces of whales’ teeth, which were
very valuable in Fiji, and equivalent to diamonds with us.
The Temple to which I directed my steps lay in the deep shadow of upas
trees, from which the priests obtain a kind of poison for the sorcerer’s
work. At the base of a huge vesi was the great sacrificial stone,
indented with blows, which told of the many victims who had been there
offered to the gods, and notches in the trunk of the tree accurately
attested their number. The dark foliage of the upas trees shed a
funereal gloom around, which well suited this weird spot. The grass
seemed to have withered where the priest’s shadow fell.
I found the old man seated inside the Temple, his long white beard
flowing over a table made of human bones. His glittering, snake-like
eyes, rested upon fearful decorations which were the remnants of slain
bodies; and one of his long bony hands clutched a skull used for
drinking yangona. Strips of tapa trailing from the roof to the floor,
forming veil-like curtains, were the steps down which the gods came when
invoked by their powerful servant. It was impossible to enter this place
of baleful emanations, with its sombre surroundings and sinister tenant,
without an involuntary shudder. The occasional glimmer of the ocean,
momentarily seen through the open door and thick leaves, was the only
thing that recalled the mind from the supernatural to the natural.
I desired to discourse with the priest on the subject of our recent
bereavement. I extolled the virtues and wisdom of the departed.
“Aye,” answered the ecclesiastic, “he was indeed a master of words and
the salt of language. Capsized is the land we live in; capsized is our
stricken country.”
At the same time his evil heart gave the lie to his words, for he was
secretly pledged to the retrogressive policy of Bolatha, the banishment
of white men, and the restoration of all the old heathen customs, some
of which the dead chief had allowed to fall into desuetude.
“The noble Hot-Water,” continued Box-of-Tricks, “is in the land of
shadows, now to dwell forever with immortals, for have I not seen him
pass successfully through all the portals of Hades?”
Fixing his eyes straight before him, they assumed a strange dull glare,
and the priest had evidently passed into the world of visions. He
proceeded, speaking like one in a trance:
“Methinks I see great Hot-Water now, with chiefly bearing, in his habit
as he lived. He is at the Place-of-Dying, overlooking the sea, where the
human spirits of our tribe take their departure for the other world.
See! He is looking with his large earnest eyes towards the beach just in
front of the village! His gaze is fixed upon his favorite canoe, drawn
up on the sand and partly shaded by that clump of palms. Day after day,
for a week or more, he has come to look at that little craft, the father
of delightful reminiscences to him. Hark! He speaks! He is saying to
himself ‘Oh, that canoe! Why don’t they put it on my grave! Oh, that
fast little sailer! If it were only here, shouldn’t I be able to hoist
sail, and away to those who await my coming!’ But, alas! his friends
have been unmindful of their duty. The spirit of the canoe cannot
therefore depart to its late owner and captain, who must now proceed on
the inevitable submarine passage as best he may.
“Now he takes the dreadful dive into the Great Passage. The waters have
not overwhelmed him—he emerges in the Place of Refuge. I see him with
other spirits at the Face-Washing-Water, where they are washed with
boiling water, which removes their outward and worldly appearance. One
of Hot-Water’s companions is a bachelor. May the gods befriend him! This
is no place for single spirits. Already the officers of the place are
putting him under a large rock which will press him as a beetle is
pressed under the foot of mortals! Bear up, brave heart! The utmost
limit of thy fortitude must be fully ascertained by those who are now
thy spiritual chiefs. According to thy endurance and chiefly bearing
under trial shall their future treatment of thee be.
“Behold, a beautiful tree appears in view. Have a care, good spirits,
for here lurks a grim monster, the King of the state you are now
traversing. The lake hard by is the Face-Washing-Water. Speed on, but
beware the fence guarded by King Spirit-Smiter. Dash on bravely now, and
heed not the ghostly figure, or dreadful will be your doom. On, great
Hot-Water presses, with club upraised—the spirit of the very club he
used in the wars of earth, and which his weeping friends put into his
hands just as he was coming away. Uplifted also is the club of the great
Smiter; and now, crash! crash! crash! To right and left flies the flimsy
fence. Well done, great chief. The horrible Smiter’s hands are
paralysed, and he himself stands aside in blank wonderment at the
uncommon daring of the hero, whose spirit, he now sees, is that of no
ordinary child of earth, but one of the bravest of the brave.
“Now the great chief looks seaward, expecting some one from out the
briny deep from which he himself but lately emerged. He pauses in front
of a screw-pine, and throws whales’ teeth at it. Once, twice, three
times, twenty times! and struck the mark ten times! He has twenty wives,
and ten of them are being strangled that they may have the privilege of
accompanying their lord through all the kingdoms of this mysterious
world. How the prospect has lifted the cloud which a few minutes ago
rested on his chiefly features! How quickly now he turns with cheerful
face and beaming eye towards the beach, remarking as he does so, ‘They
cannot be long in coming! They will soon be here!’ True, indeed. Even as
he speaks, the ten wives arrive by the old and well-beaten submarine
road. The water is dripping from their hair, and the mark of the
strangling cord is still about their necks, which, but yesterday,
sweet-smelling flowers bedecked. Oh! beneficent customs of our
fatherland, long may they survive, and may the people never turn from
the instructions of their priests.
“Again, I see Hot-Water in the Third State. Being a man of arms, he
bears a club upon his shoulder. Here the country is well planted with
food for the benefit of new arrivals. Hot-Water was not cut off
untimely, for see! his bananas in Hades are ripe. Yonder wretched spirit
is that of a poor man who committed suicide in his youth, and he is
obliged to live on green fruit.
“Hark! Do you not hear sounds as from a multitude of voices chanting. We
are in the Fourth State of the Spirit-World—the Land of Song. The great
King of the country is also its music-master. There is no place so
joyous and gleesome as this. Great Hot-Water seems himself again. His
moonlight nights are all come back to him, and he enjoys them as
heartily as he used to do in the old world.
“Slowly and reluctantly the spirits are gliding away to the Fifth State.
Their eyes are drooping and fireless, and their faces are pale with the
paint of Death, who, for the fifth time, is already touching them with
his icy hand. Even now they are in the country where reigns and rules
with iron will the hideous despot, King Back-Chopper. The song is
hushed, and the dance is done. No more are there any sweet-smelling
flowers, or cool breezes, or moonlight walks under the village trees!
Nothing but the awful King, stalking abroad to chop, with his spiritual
tomahawk, the backs of his spiritual subjects! Hot-Water bears the
torture bravely. He knows that it cannot last for ever, and that with
none but himself to thank, King Back-Chopper has hourly to behold, to
his infinite chagrin, spirits whom he has long victimised, bolting at
last through the very gate of which he is himself the porter, to
“The Sixth and Last State—‘the Place-of-Everlasting-Standing.’ Hot-Water
is in the land of shadows. I see his noble spirit moving through space
in the care of the gods. It is enough. Great is Dengeh, and the priests
are his prophets.”
I learned from this semi-visionary deliverance of the wily Box-of-Tricks
more than I had ever known before of the future state the Fijians
believe in. The old priest was now too excited to talk to me on any
other subject, so I left him to his mummeries.