Chapter 13

When Melvill awakes, Marheyo and Tinor are quite busy, but illuminated by only the bluish light from a pair of tapers it is difficult to tell what they are busy about. Besides, Melvill's head is throbbing and he has a terrible thirst--reminiscent of when he and Toby descended from the wild mountains into this valley. How many days before? Impossible to say. Melvill closes his eyes and even this is painful. 

Marheyo must have seen him stir. The old man speaks to Melvill and brings him a large cup of water. Melvill sits up to drink, which increases the pounding in his brain. Melvill reaches for the cup and feels the dull pain pulling at his shoulder: the tattoo. He had nearly forgotten. He wants to see it but that would require removing his shirt and more light, possibly even a mirror, not one of which he has seen since leaving the Acushnet. He takes a long drink of the tepid water and it is delicious. 

Marheyo cautions him to slow down or to wait a moment then he goes to the far side of the hut where the family's stores are kept. He returns with a bowl, takes Melvill's cup, drops a pinch of white powder from the bowl into the water, swirls it, and returns the cup to Melvill--says something about "arva" and points to Melvill's head. 

Melvill drinks. It is bitter and grainy and smells a bit like greenwillow bark. Marheyo encourages him to drink it all, which he does with effort. 

Then Korykory is at the doorway speaking to his parents. The old man and his son help Melvill to stand. It is nearly dusk outside. They begin to make their way toward the Ti grove. The whole family and other families too, but not all. Melvill's leg is not bad and they make good progress. He uses the crutch more like a walkingstick. 

In the grove other families merge with their large group. Fayaway is among the new arrivals. Like most of the females she is wearing a cape of white tappa. She naturally joins in with Melvill and Korykory. The mass of islanders forms narrower columns as they take the sea path. It is dim. Here and there natives raise lighted torches of coconut husks. 

Melvill wants to know what is happening but he is not concerned for his safety. This is not a war party, nor an angry mob bent on his demise. In spite of the jungle's density the air becomes cooler and fresher as they advance toward the sea. Perhaps a ship is there waiting to take me from this island, Melvill allows himself to think for a moment, then dismisses it as utter fantasy. 

The throng is strangely quiet as they make their way along the barely illuminated path. The torchbearers often reach down to replenish their flames with fuel that has fallen to the ground naturally. The group's pace is leisurely enough that even the elderly and the infirm have no trouble keeping up. 

Melvill is delighted when he feels Fayaway's small hand lightly grip his arm. He imagines going to a New York City cotillion, and escorting his dark naked maiden onto the dancefloor. He smiles to think of the shockwave among the dowagers. Melvill looks down and discovers that Fayaway is holding Korykory's arm as well which beclouds his delight somewhat. 

Night seems to lengthen the sea path but eventually they emerge from the dense jungle onto the high plain. All at once stars appear overhead and the thunderous sound of the surf reaches them. Ahead Melvill notices groups of Typee men shouldering long boats. Melvill does not know when the boats were retrieved, or if these are new groups of Typees who have rendezvoused here. A brilliant fullmoon gleams off the boat bottoms, seven in all. The entire beach and ocean surface are well lighted by the luminous white disk. The gun shack stands alone in the moonlight like a wearied sentry. 

Once on the beach the columns of natives fan out. Melvill tries to stay with Korykory and Fayaway but Korykory breaks from them and runs toward one of the groups with a boat. While the natives with the boats advance toward the breaking waves, others use the torches to light fires on the beach, the wood piles having been prepared in advance. 

Fayaway leads Melvill to one of the small fires. Someone has unfolded a large piece of tappa on the sand so Fayaway and Melvill sit. Melvill watches as the boats are launched into the ocean, each carrying a dozen Typee men outfitted with paddles, nets and spears. The long narrow boats seesaw on the waves for a moment then they are expertly guided into deep water. 

Melvill did not know the Typees were mariners. He thinks about the sea spray flying, recalls the icy pinpricks on his skin. 

The night is so clear and the moon so bright the boats can be seen a good distance on the open water. Melvill wants to stand to see even farther but this may be considered impolite. The men who had helped launch the boats have now taken seats around the various fires. The Typees are engaged in lively conversations. Every so often he can recognize a Typee word or phrase but for the most part they could be parrots chattering nonsense in the jungle or wildboars grunting in the undergrowth. 

Melvill stares beyond the fishing boats to the limitless open sea. He thinks of Ulysses on the beach longing for home in spite of the company of a goddess, who is both captor and lover. He thinks of the leviathans who roam the cold oceans and of the infamous brute who hunts men, truly like the seamonsters of myth. It takes him a moment to recall the brute's name--Mocha Dick--and it bothers him: evidence that his former existence is fading from memory. And if its fading is complete did it ever truly exist? 

The moon, large in the lavender sky, is near its zenith when the boats return one by one, each with its catch of fishes, silvery in the moonlight, like pieces-of-eight brought up from a sunken Spanish galleon. The nets are emptied onto sheets and Melvill expects the preparation of the fish to begin. He walks with Fayaway toward the wriggling bounty. He is shocked however when the Typees start eating the fish raw, skin, scales and all. Fayaway reaches down and selects a small silverorange fish and starts eating it hungrily. Scales glitter iridescently on her lips. 

She finishes the flesh of her fish and tosses the remains on the sand. She smiles, her mouth shiny with gore, and hands Melvill a fish, slightly larger than the one she just consumed. 

It is still cold from the sea, some variety of perch, he thinks. Moonlight catches its eye and enlivens it for a brief moment, amplifying his repulsion. But the sounds of dozens of Typees enjoying the catch, rarely talking in fact they are so enthralled by this midnight-hour meal, settles Melvill. He brings the fish to his lips and nibbles at the fleshy part near its lateral fin, only enough to break the skin, and he tastes the saltiness. He rents the skin by pulling at the fin, exposing the meat, radiant beneath the fullmoon. Melvill bites at it and is surprised by the richness of the flavor. He eats more, enjoying it, glad to have animal flesh after so many meals of fruit, mashed or chopped or straight from the tree. It reminds him of the beefsteak Toby and he discussed having when reaching the Hawaiian Islands, now so long ago, like a conversation from a dream only vaguely recollected. 

Melvill looks around him, and at his pretty Fayaway: a primitive people performing a primitive ritual, as unchanged as copulating and excreting and birthing, all the natural acts of a living species. If I stay long enough, will I partake of human flesh? He assures himself no but there is a residue of doubt in his mind. Only moments ago he was repulsed by the idea of eating the raw fish, and now. . . . 

He tosses the carcass of his fish on the beach--it will be a good meal for a scavenger bird, plenty of flesh still clinging to the skeleton, and the entrails too. He imagines the bird that will be reflected in the perch's eye just before it is pecked out. 

Melvill, cold in the tropical air, returns to the fire but finds it has grown weak in the meantime and there is no more driftwood for it to consume.