Chapter 11

After lunch Melvill rests. He tries to sleep but cannot quite achieve it. The Typees' division over him, the hostile stare of Mowmow's single eye, Melvill's desire to be with Fayaway--it all adds to his restlessness. He imagines where Toby might be. On a cutter slicing through the cerulean ocean bound for home. Melvill cannot at first stem the envy and the anger. It is possible that Toby's ship is anchored at Nukuheva and that his friend is concocting a plan at this moment to rescue him. Melvill cannot force himself to believe it. 

This cycle of thinking persists for some time. It is late afternoon when Korykory fetches him. He gestures to Melvill to leave the hut with him. Melvill is relieved to discover his leg feels good with only the faintest twinge of discomfort. He takes his crutch though. 

"Where are we going?" 

Korykory sensing Melvill's meaning waves vaguely toward the Ti. 

It's too early for supper, Melvill thinks. Maybe the verdict has been reached and I'm being led to the gallows. No, Melvill cannot believe the kindhearted Korykory would accept such a task. The village is unusually quiet. Normally women would be starting the preparation of meals and the ubiquitous children would be playing. There are a few natives about but they are generally idle--much like the old men who hold daily vigil in front of the tobacconist's shop in Albany. They seem to be either in heated debate amid their haze of smoke or in deep introspective reverie. 

Melvill follows Korykory to the Ti grove then onto the path which led to the cannibal's feast, the recollection of which makes Melvill uneasy. Soon however they divert to a different path, narrower and with even denser vegetation, one that Melvill has not noted before. The jungle here is filled with colorful flowers: luminous yellow, red, orange, violetblue--starkly contrasting against the dark dark green. Their scents are equally potent. Some overpoweringly sweet, some fetid. 

The jungle recedes a bit and there is a hut. As soon as it is revealed Korykory calls out and a native steps from its opening. The man's tattooed face and body surprise and repulse Melvill. It is difficult to locate a patch of skin that is not dyed with some elaborate design. When he smiles in greeting the whites of his teeth and his eyes are vivid against his densely illustrated skin. 

Korykory and the man speak excitedly together, old friends perhaps. The man's age is difficult to reckon because of the elaborate tattooing but certainly he is older than Korykory. Suddenly they are talking about Melvill. Korykory puts his hand on Melvill's shoulder, Hermes this and Hermes that. 

The tattooed islander calls into his hut and immediately a boy emerges with two large baskets. The boy, twelve or thirteen, appears free of tattoos. He carries the baskets to a crude bench as Melvill is urged toward the bench too. Korykory tugs at Melvill's shirt for him to remove it. Standing beside the bench now Melvill can see that the baskets contain bowls of dark fluids, cloth, and wooden needles. 

"Oh no. Thank you but no thank you. I prefer no tattoos at this time." He shakes his head vigorously declining the offer. 

He tries to back away but Korykory has a firm grip on his shirt. The young Typee becomes very animated as he implores Melvill to sit. His mood is serious--not that of a schoolmate urging a dare. It is as if everything depends on Melvill's cooperation. Korykory, still chattering excitedly, covers one eye and glares at Melvill. 

"This has something to do with Mowmow?" Melvill covers one eye. 

Korykory affirms Melvill's inference then is silent. 

Melvill looks down at the basket of needles. "If this has something to do with Mowmow then my future may depend on it." He removes his shirt. 

The tattooist, named Karky apparently, examines Melvill enthusiastically running his bony fingers over Melvill's white shoulders, chest, shoulder blades: a virgin canvas for his needle and ink. Karky seems to have no interest in Melvill's tanned forearms and hands. He and Korykory enter into a lively discussion; Karky keeps looking to Melvill as if he might join in. 

"I still would prefer not--truly." 

The Typees reach consensus on some issue. Karky prods and pinches Melvill's right shoulder, just beyond his sight. If they must, it is an all right location, thinks Melvill glancing at the bunch of wooden needles. Karky sits Melvill down on the rough bench and calls to his assistant, who comes with a cup for Melvill. By its smell he knows it is their "arva-wai"--no doubt to help him bear the stick of the needle. He takes a sip of the awful brew. Wormwood, he thinks. 

Almost instantly the potent drink goes to his head. Meanwhile Karky is washing his skin in various fluids preparing it. The fluids feel cool and make his skin tingle. A few more sips of the arva-wai and Melvill loses nearly all sensation. He can feel some pressure and pulling at his shoulder but no real pain. And he does not care what Karky is doing back there. With all the poking and pulling he imagines a vibrant Mexican mural on his back and it is all right. 

"Be sssure t'render a radianGuadelupe," Melvill slurs. 

Korykory takes hold of his arm and Melvill understands it is to stop his swaying even though he cannot sense his own movement. He takes a big drink of the arva-wai. Korykory takes the sloshing cup from his hands. 

Melvill sits there for some time totally immersed in the activity of riding the bench. He has difficulty recalling why he is there. Occasionally he thinks it is Fayaway holding his arm and is disappointed each time to locate Korykory there smiling at him. Though he cannot feel its prick, he knows when the needle is piercing his skin and he remembers the harpoons in the thick hides of the whales, how much force it took to bury the weapon's sharp head into a vital organ, the death sound of the animals when they sensed their mortality, their blowholes ejaculating pure blood. . . . Then somehow he knows it is the image of a whale that has been inked into his skin, a blue outline on his white canvas. He senses the needle as Karky renders a representation of that enigmatic eye, that probing judgmental eye. 

That eye. 

(•) 

Melvill is holding onto the image, that eye, when he slips from consciousness altogether.