A Heathen Monastery—A scene of Primitive Heathenism—My unsolicited Professional Engagement—I imbibe Kava—I am made “Taboo”—Things that I may not Confess—My escape—Fanga Loma—A Native Village—The Enchantress of the Forest—Temptation—In Suva again.

IRECALL that, though my profession has never burdened me with wealth till it seemed an encumbrance, my violin has enabled me to delve without harm into the most secretive, dangerous heathen societies and sacred festivals. Where a white man would have been, in the ordinary way, clubbed, or doped with a mixture of kava and South Sea strychnine for intruding at a secret sacred festival, I have been received with open arms. It seems incredible, when I think of the magnificent receptions I have had through being able to play my old Sunday-school hymns on a fiddle before ex-cannibal chiefs.

I was in Suva, Fiji, when I managed to wheedle my way into a heathen monastery that was the one surviving temple of another age. This sacred hell was situated in a picturesque spot up in the Kai Tholos mountains. These Kai Tholos tribes were a fierce mountain people who, up till that date, had successfully resisted the advances of the British missionaries. Few of them were still living, but those few most certainly did their best to make up for the iniquities of the missing when they met in their temple cavern four miles west of Mandaua, not far from the Rewa River. The aforesaid river ran through an isolated district in those days. Where now the new sugar and coffee plantations are, there was nothing more than a few taro and pineapple patches that supplied the scattered villages with work and food.

How I got to know the whereabouts of the aforesaid monastery matters little. I will simply say that an elder chief, named Kambo, secured me uninterrupted admission into the cavern-chamber where the old unconverted Kai Tholos assembled for religious purposes.

Only a poet of superb descriptive ability could adequately describe that cavern’s interior and its romantic surroundings. All I am able to say of the local scenery is, that the mountains seemed to abet, to watch over those wild Kai Tholos and their secret meetings, for ever guarding the cavern’s entrance with their rugged hollows and pinnacles that were clad with feathery palms and the innocent flowerage of artless Nature. It was like entering some wondrous Arabian Nights cave of enchantment to enter that volcanic chamber.

“In there?” I said to old Kambo, as I stood hesitating, looking across the silent gullies, watching the migrating cockatoos fade away in the aftermath of the sunset ere I made up my mind to enter.

The large red feathers in Kambo’s mop-head brushed against the low roof of the tunnel-way as we both entered that ominous-looking entrance. The glittering stalactites, hanging in festoons from the rocky alcoves, intensified the weird atmosphere of that gloomy place, as, with fiddle in my hand, I crept warily behind my swarthy guide. We had to stoop, almost crawl, as we passed along into the third corridor. Great was my surprise as I suddenly entered a spacious chamber. The scene before me almost dazzled my eyes, for beneath the hanging rows of innumerable coco-nut-oil lamps, suspended over a large platform, danced a group of dusky, sparkling-eyed houris!

I stared like one in a dream as I continued to gaze on those whirling, semi-nude figures. A few were attired in diaphanous tappa robes, that seemed to be worn for no other purpose than for the fact that they softly opened out like large umbrellas and then closed down again. I am at a loss to know how to describe the dances and the various “turns” those maids gave, as they sought to give the onlookers a violent, demonstrative exhibition of their charms. Some whirled, some somersaulted, and a few seemed to detach their limbs from their bodies and gently throw them, in boomerang-like swerves, across the stage, ere they returned and fixed themselves by apparent magic into their customary position. So it seemed to me, for I am at a loss to give any reasonable explanation of maidens pitching their legs and arms in such a way as they did, without dislocation, if not serious injury and strain. It is quite possible that they had been trained from early childhood, like to our own contortionists and music-hall dancers, so that they might please the eyes of sinful old priests.

Squatting on coco-nut-fibre mats, arranged in semicircles, reposed the most hideous-looking chiefs it has ever been my lot to gaze upon. They were tattooed in grotesque style from toes to chin, their teeth reddened through chewing betel-nut. They were undoubtedly the surviving grand old rouÉs of the pre-Christian times. To the indescribable capers of the sacred maids, they gave enthusiastic grunts and awful wheezes, and the effect of it all was weird enough as the sounds echoed and re-echoed ere they escaped from the close atmosphere of that subterranean chamber.

“Woi! Woi! Vanaka!” they yelled. Then several old women lifted magic sticks, with sponges on the ends, and wiped dribble from their ugly mouths!

“Kasawayo! Kasawayo!” the whole audience yelled, as a pretty Fijian princess stepped from the alcove to the right of the stage, did a seemingly impossible somersault, and gave a characteristic bow. The audience gazed on her in breathless silence. She was arrayed in a most picturesque style; the gleams of the hanging oil-lamps falling upon her made her appear like some goddess. About her waist was a girdle of shells and flowers that dangled down to her knees. But that which attracted me most was the manner of the timid obeisances which she repeatedly paid the monstrous wooden idol that an old priest had placed in front of her.

“Whathi! Whathi, Ndengi!” the audience yelled, as she prostrated herself before the image. Sometimes she burst into blood-curdling peals of laughter and beat the floor with her limbs. Her skull must have been extremely thick, for she repeatedly crashed her head on the floor without any apparent harm coming to it. She looked like some weird enchantress as she went through the heathen rites which were mimicked in the old ship’s saloon mirror that was stuck up against the cavern’s wall just beside her. Once she sprang to her feet as though struck by a sudden wondrous thought, then, lifting one arm to the rocky roof, as though it were some far-off sky, made a mute appeal, moving her lips as though in prayer. After going through many seemingly impossible contortions, she put forth her arms and, twining them that they might resemble the sinuous movements of a crawling serpent, chanted a weirdly sweet melody. And all the while this was going on, the whole audience chanted out, “Whathi! Whathi!” Though she performed many feats that made those dusky old men of the front rows lift their chins to the roof in sheer ecstatic joy, it was her peculiar wardrobe that mostly appealed to my imagination. Rising to her feet, she beat her bare thighs with her hands and cried out as though in pain, her extensive wardrobe rattling forth the weirdest music imaginable. Her raiment was adorned with the threaded bones and teeth of dead chiefs, old men’s beards, maidens’ dried fingers and toes, and, most sacred of all, the dried bosoms of sacrificed girls!—there they hung, tied into small bouquets, bits of tawny skin like shrivelled parchment, grotesque but sad manuscripts of forgotten lovers, and what sad heartbeats! For it appeared that they were the breasts of vestal maidens who had fallen in love and so violated the principles of their creed. “No! Never!” was my astonished ejaculation as Kambo, my friendly guide, took me aside and whispered much to me that must remain where it remains. As that old friendly chief, Kambo, pointed out the distinctive charms that adorned the dancer’s heathen-raiment, I felt like making a bolt for it. I heartily repented of my foolish act in allowing myself to be lured into such a den of heathen iniquity. But it was too late.

“Woh, woil! You play moosic, alak!” said Kambo, as several fierce men approached me. In a moment all eyes were upon me. Something banged me on the shoulder. For a moment I lost my head, and fancied that some mighty heathen god had suddenly dropped from the roof upon me. In my fright and in the one vital thought that came to me, I metaphorically leapt over my own shoulders and endeavoured to bolt down the tunnel away out into the night; but a nudge in the ribs with a war-club brought me back to my senses. I was immediately gripped by twelve pairs of dusky hands and lifted bodily by the neck and shoulders up on the pae-pae (stage). In a flash I realized the whole position. Obediently as a child I lifted my violin to my chin and commenced to play. Only God remembers the melody I performed; I don’t. A chief chuckled in a blood-curdling manner as I finished the strain; then he swung a war-club across the chamber. I instinctively dodged as the weapon made a boomerang-like swerve and returned to its owner’s massive palm! Seeing that the aforesaid act was only an act of appreciation of my playing by the court jester, I was immensely relieved.

Then I took the proffered calabash of kava from the hands of the head chiefess. All eyes were on me; there was no way out of it; I saw that I had to drink to the glory of the dancer’s eyes. My hand trembled, I know, as I lifted the goblet to my lips and took a sensitive gulp of that wretched stuff; then I nearly vomited. It was surely the filthiest liquor ever imbibed by man. I managed to keep it down, though. It is wonderful what one can go through when necessity drives! Having read the lives of the British martyrs, I well knew my chances, what might occur to me if I did not favour the rites of those primitive religious bigots; consequently I swallowed another pint, thinking it best to take no risks of giving offence.

After that trial and dire insult to my digestive apparatus, I performed another solo, keeping excellent tempo, considering my position, to the mighty kicks and indescribable swerves of the heathen houris who were giving a special ran-tan selection in my honour. The very coco-nut-oil lamp gleams seemed to fade into a dim blush as I stared at the monstrous silhouette of myself that fiddled on the wall. I might say that the cavern was about fifteen feet high at the end where I stood. Just as the unearthly din of the audience’s delighted exclamation was fading away, half a dozen half-caste girls came running into the cavern out of the tunnel entrance. They had coral-dyed hair, and by the fairness of their complexion I guessed that they were a mixture of Samoan and Fijian blood. I felt much relieved to see them appear, for they were human-looking, and so brought a sense of companionship into that subterranean den.

The oldest member of the new-comers was attractive-looking. Her eyes were large and very bright. Her crown of hair had a marvellous glitter about it and fell in soft ripples down to her shoulders. In another moment she had rushed up to me and had prostrated herself at my feet! A tremendous yell from the onlookers followed this act of the girl’s. It appeared that her act had made me “taboo”—a sacred personage. I felt bewildered over it all. An uncomfortable idea got into my head that I was the chosen for some heathen sacrifice! I know that I must have visibly paled. I even appreciated the caresses and wailing lamentations that the goddess-maid (for such she was) made as she poured strange phrases into my ears, telling me, doubtless, of my beauty! I do confess here that her eyes told more than her lips (for I could not understand the language in which she flattered me), and I could not fail to understand the meaning conveyed.

Loud acclamations of approval followed all that the girl did. It was some little time ere I discovered how I was supposed to show my reciprocation of the dubious elevation that her choice had conferred upon me. The fact was that she was the head sacred-maid, and, instead of choosing a youth of her own race, had chosen me; therefore I found myself suddenly elevated to priesthood. The order of priesthood was not so bad, but I discovered that I was supposed to embrace and kiss the lips of the monstrous wooden idol that stood on the pae-pae in front of me. Its big, wooden, grinning, one-toothed mouth and goggling glass eyes seemed to say in some malevolent voice of silence: “Come on, thou dog of a Christian, kiss this heathenish mouth, bow the knee to me, thou destroyer of heathen creeds and mighty wooden images!”

I felt helpless. I gazed in despair on the front rows of that grim, dusky-hued audience of mop-headed men! They had thrust their chins and clubs forward on seeing my obvious hesitation to worship that wooden thing. An ominous silence dwelt over all. Two fierce old hags put forth their scraggy hands and made as though to clutch at me, but, warned by a look from the goddess-maid who had brought me to that pass, they lifted their chins and spat at me! And still I hesitated. I would die sooner than kneel before that grinning wooden deity. By now the audience was loudly shouting, their headdress of big red feathers violently shaking, and still I pretended not to understand what they wished me to do. But it was hopeless, for they kept shouting and pointing to the maid and then at the idol. There stood that wooden thing, mocking me with its hideous carven grin. Not even though it meant death for me, would I violate my inherent dignity by embracing that monstrous image.

“Woi! Woi!” I cried, and, pretending to misunderstand the whole business, I leapt forward and embraced the maid.

Those old chiefs opened their mouths in astonishment. That much I noticed as I instinctively turned my head to see the effect of my act. The very tattoo engraving that adorned the faces of the aged priests had wrinkled up into distorted bunches. In another moment each look of rage and horror had resolved into a grim grimace—they were all grinning. I was saved! The Fijian race was endowed with humour! No words of mine can adequately describe all I felt at that moment. My relief was intense. I knew that, had those priests been as humourless as are British disciples in their creeds, I had been done for. God knows, my head, that now recalls those old days, would have decorated a Fijian’s girdle, or would be a pinch of dust beneath the South Sea palms, or possibly have been discovered ornamenting a native hut, and by now be on show, exhibited in some British anthropological museum, as a fine specimen of the skull of primitive man.

As the maid continued to rub my face with her soft nose (the customary salutation of the Fijians), I felt much relieved.

“Awaie, le oa taki!” she murmured.

Then, in response to the wish of that subterranean audience, I placed my violin to my chin and commenced to play a weird chant to her eyes. It had to be done, I knew. Ah, how I played! My instrument wailed out Wagner’s “Swan Song,” then I finished up with a Band of Hope hymn. And all the while the maid fawned on me like a cat, looked into my eyes, stroked my hand that swayed the violin bow, and gazed in wonder on the other that travelled up and down the fingerboard of my instrument.

Suddenly I seemed to be whirled away on the roar and thunder of some invisible Niagara Falls. Forked lightning seemed to flicker down the corridors of my brain. I knew that it was the fumes of that cursed kava beginning to work on the emotional temperament! The world seemed to wobble on its orbit. I made a creditable effort, I am sure, to steady myself; then I seemed to have leapt out of myself—I had clutched the maid, and in some awful delirium of ecstasy was whirling with her in the heathenish mekee-dance!

I may not tell all that occurred at that enforced professional engagement, no, not till Time has finished its onward flight and the blind sun stares on the melancholy past. One thing I can confess to, and that is, I had made up my mind to escape at the first opportunity. Opposite me was the tunnel-way wherethrough I had entered. Often, as the clamouring audience rose to encore the dancers, their shadows fell on me and across the cavern walls; but my chance seemed never to arrive. Still I played on and watched, and still the maid whom I had embraced sang a weird melody of wailful sweetness into my ears.

Once more I was compelled to imbibe the “sacred” potion of kava, and once more my digestive apparatus groaned within me.

I thought I must surely be dreaming when all the fierce, watching eyes of the priests, who stared at the goddess-maid and myself, suddenly dropped from their sockets and twinkled on the cavern’s floor! This strange effect was caused, not only through some obliquity of my kava-stricken vision, but also because a puff of wind suddenly blew down the tunnel-way’s entrance and swayed the rows of coco-nut-oil lamps into shadowy gleams. As soon as normal conditions returned, my senses seemed to readjust themselves.

Suddenly the sacred personage, Kasawayo, who had stood aside since I had been made taboo, stepped forward and cried: “Alaka!” (Hold!)

This act of Kasawayo’s gave me considerable relief. I saw that she had some great influence over the priests; for they immediately ceased their hubbub and their remarks, I am sure, of a debased nature.

It appeared that Kasawayo was the religious impersonation of some great goddess of shadowland, and I had reason to believe that she was a jealous impersonation. Stepping on the small platform, she gave the maid who had made me taboo a fierce whack on the face! A great hullabaloo followed this ungracious act. The priests, chiefesses, and youths leapt from their mats and joined enthusiastically in the mÊlÉe. My chance to escape had come! In a second I had dived towards the cavern’s side. I scrambled down the tunnel-way. When I arrived at the spot where one was compelled to stoop, a great fear seized my heart, for I heard the sound of breathing just behind me—I knew that I was pursued! I cursed my ample bulk. Had I been a little thinner I could have squeezed through the narrow aperture easily enough. Holding my violin forward in one hand, so that I could clear the walls without its being crushed, I gave a final wriggle—I was through!

My delight can be imagined when I emerged into the bush of the surrounding gullies. Scrambling through the tropical growth I heard a faint shuffling noise close behind me. It was evident that someone else had rushed through the tunnel-way and was close on my track.

“I’m done for!” I thought, as I turned round, determined to sell my life dearly. The old barbarian that dwells in all men leapt into my soul. I even felt some fierce joy at the idea of cracking my pursuer’s skull ere I fell. “Come on!” I shouted, as I held a lump of rock over my head; then I dropped my clumsy weapon and smiled—the dusky goddess-maid who had made me taboo stood before me!

“Come, Papalagi!” she whispered, as she clutched my arm.

Like an obedient child I raced along as she ran soft-footed beside me. I felt that I was running across some fairy-world in a dream, as I saw the maid’s flying heels and the moonlit forest around me.

“Runner fast!” she said.

And so I did.

Arriving at the bottom of the steep incline, we pulled up by the edge of a wide mountain lagoon. Feathery palms leaned over the silent waters. The moon, high in the sky right overhead, was imaged distinctly in the dark water at my feet, and by the mirrored orb floated a canoe. The clear shadow of that tiny craft was so distinct that it seemed to float just over the moon’s image, the shadow being more visible than the canoe itself.

“O Papalagi, jumper! jumper!” said the maid in an appealing voice.

I did not hesitate, but I leaned forward and leapt—splash!—I had jumped into the shadow craft and down into the depths of the imaged moon. The maid, as I floundered about in the deep water, clutched my hair, and so enabled me to scramble up on the lagoon’s edge.

“Silly Papalagi!” she murmured; then we heard the wild calls of our pursuers coming from somewhere up in the mountains. In a moment I had leapt again, this time landing safely in the real article. The way that girl paddled the canoe is something that pleases my memory to this day. She looked like some pretty enchantress as she sat there in front of me, her paddle cutting a line of fire as she dipped softly into the radiance of the moon’s white flame. So clear were those huddled waters from the distant mountains, that we could see ourselves sitting in the canoe as it sped across the dark depths. I felt a thrill of joy as we gently beached on the opposite shore. The girl leapt softly from the canoe; as for me, I upset the fragile craft and then scrambled knee-deep ashore. My little comrade was evidently taking no risks that night.

“Comer on!” she said.

It took me all my time to keep up with her as she raced down into the hollows and sped up the steep inclines. There seemed no ending to that forest, ere we rushed out from the shades of the breadfruits and I found myself in a large, cleared space that fronted a native village!

Even then I did not feel easy in my mind. But I was relieved when the girl told me that it was her own village. The hushed, huddled, bee-hive-shaped dens in the shade of the palms, through which the saluting moonlight fell, made a picturesque scene.

“Is it safe?” I said, as I stared at the rows of huts.

The little goddess-maid answered me by turning a somersault on the rara (village green) right in front of my eyes.

Then Fanga Loma, for that turned out to be her name, ran across the green patch and entered one of the larger huts.

“Supposing she’s a traitor?” I thought, as the girl disappeared.

But she was straight enough. In a few moments I heard sleepy mutterings, and then a loud jabbering commenced. In a few moments Fanga Loma’s parents, for such they were, had hastily arrayed themselves in their fig-leaves, so to speak, and had run out of the hut to see and welcome me! For a considerable time Fanga continued to jabber in her own tongue to her people. I could only guess the lies she was telling them as she pointed excitedly to me and then gabbled again. She was a clever little devil, for the pleased expression on the faces of her aged parents was a treat to see. I suppose she had to invent some kind of a tale. The village was a Christianized one, and had Fanga told the truth her parents would probably have been greatly incensed at finding that she visited the heathen Kai Tholos of the mountains. Though it was midnight, a festival was immediately given in my honour. From the innumerable grunts of pleasure and the attention which was lavished upon me, I gathered that I was supposed to have rescued Fanga Loma from some dire danger. As for Fanga, She gave me many fascinating glances of confidence, and seemed quite assured that I was not the kind to go back on her and tell the truth! She had evidently met white men before, and so knew what holy beggars they were!

Sleepy youths and women dodged about as they lit up the hanging coco-nut-oil lamps that are to be seen in all native villages. In a few moments they were all alight, and the breadfruit and banyan boughs looked like the branches of some fairy scene. I knew what was expected of me, and so I took up my position beneath the centre palm tree and, placing my violin to my chin, commenced to play. Possibly I looked like some wondrous heathen god pulling invisible strings—strings that guided the wonderful capers of those semi-heathen people. Up and down they jumped, the whole population bobbing like puppets as I fiddled away! The little kiddies awoke from their sleeping-mats and rushed out of the huts to see the fun. To see a white man playing a strange instrument under a palm by moonlight was something that made the kids stare in wonder. They looked like dusky cherubs as they crept on all-fours among the leafy banyan groves, and peered at me between the fern and palm-leaves in fright. Such demon-bright eyes they had! And when I whipped out the flute-like harmonics of Paganini’s “Witches’ Dance,” they all gave a shriek of terror, let the big palm-leaf drop, and vanished, as it were, into shadowland!

After playing for a considerable time, I stopped, and intimated to the chiefs that I wished to get away. At first they begged me to stay; but, seeing that I was determined, they loaded me with coco-nut milk. One old woman took a large bone hair-comb from her mop and presented it to me. After a little discussion they agreed to let Fanga Loma accompany me a little way on the route. I was glad of this gracious act, for I felt a bit nervous that night. And so off Fanga Loma and I went. I heard the death-owl screaming as we entered the deep shadows of the forest. Fanga began to sing a pretty strain as her bare feet shuffled a kind of tempo to her melody while she walked beside me. I felt like a heathen as the moonlight streamed through the giant trees and that strange girl stared up into my eyes. Those eyes of hers were unearthly bright, and seemed to express the wild, poetic mystery of her race. She cast a weird atmosphere over everything by her eerie presence. The trees around me, the moonlight on the tropic flowers, the stealing streams, and the stars, seemed charged with the magical light of Fanga Loma’s eyes! I’ve often fancied I’ve felt the mystery of the great Unseen that dwells about us as we move through this mortal existence, and such a feeling of the proximity of the unknown and “worlds not realized” came to me that night. That eerie, star-eyed girl seemed some enchantress, some dusky Christabel haunting my footsteps as I softly trod the mossy path of that moonlit forest. It was a bewitching melody that she sang as she softly swayed in an elfin-like manner beside me.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t sing that!” I whispered, as I looked into her face.

And did she stop?—not she! She simply sang on all the more, then looked up into my eyes. I trembled; a fierce light shone in those unearthly bright orbs.

“Why you leaver go my arm?” she wailed; then she said softly: “Papalagi, must you go and leaver Fanga Loma for ever?”

We were standing by the cross-road of the forest as she said that. The girl’s manner and the eerie gaze of her eyes carried me out of myself back into some other age. I realized my weakness, and turned away from those shining, appealing eyes. I kissed the hand she offered, and gazed as though in deep thought on the floor of the silent forest.

“Fanga, I must go back to Suva, but I will return some day,” I whispered, as I looked in fright on the giant trees, wondering if they could hear!

Then the girl fell on her knees, lifted her hands to the forest height, and cried out in this wise:

“Is not the world of love, the magic of the stars, flowers, and deep waters and touch of a maiden’s lips enough for such as you? Are not these trees that sigh over us our dear, great friends, and yours too, O white Papalagi? Who is this great white god that seems sweeter to you than the loving arms of a maid? Hear me, I am daughter of great chief. The village will be your own, chiefs will fawn at your feet and cast nicer fruits and shells at you!”

For a moment I marvelled at the maid’s sudden outburst. I wondered if she had been reading some South Sea novel, so strangely romantic did it all seem.

“I will come again, Loma,” I murmured, as I recovered my senses and gazed steadily into the eyes of that wild girl of the forest. She was little more than a child; many acts of hers had told me that much.

“Farewell, little goddess-maid!” I said.

“Farewell, O Papalagi!” she whispered, then she gave a jump and—splash! had dived headlong into the lagoon by our side.

“God, she’s committed suicide!” I thought, as I made to leap into the dark water. I could see only a few ripples where she had disappeared. I put forth my hands to dive, then stopped, for out in the middle of the lagoon up came a tangled mass of hair! It was Fanga’s head. I saw her swimming arms and dusky shoulders twinkle in the moonlight. She was simply swimming across the lagoon, taking the nearest cut back to her native village!

When I awoke in my Suva lodging-house next morning, I discovered that my violin was cracked. But for the scratches on my legs and the wisps of hair from dead men’s grey beards clinging to my blue serge suit, I might have concluded that the whole of my night’s adventures were the outcome of a nightmare. About a week after my adventure in that heathen monastery and with Fanga Loma, I met a chief who claimed to be the son of King Thakombau. He was an intelligent man, and told me a lot about the doings of the old cannibalistic times. When I told him what I had experienced in the heathen monastery of the Kai Tholos, he gave me a hint as to what might have happened to me had I not made my escape. It was this son of Thakombau’s who told me many interesting heathen legends. One legend in particular struck my imagination, for it was about the old goddess Kasawayo, but was so different from the impersonation I had seen in the Kai Tholos temple, that I will do my best to give an impression of all that I heard in the following chapter.