Chapter 3

Morning is the same except for the secret knowledge that Toby is leaving. Melvill can barely eat his breakfast. Toby's eating is slow and deliberate, as if it is an unpleasant task which must be accomplished. When the bowls and cups are cleared away, Marheyo begins shooing everyone but Melvill out of the hut. Melvill does not want to be occupied, even with Fayaway, when Toby leaves. He begins to protest but Toby stops him, "Just go along, old fellow. Let's not arouse suspicion more than is necessary." 

So Melvill goes to his mat wondering if Toby is initiating his rescue or his lonely exile. On his way out of the hut Toby takes a bunch of bananas from the wall. No one seems to notice or care. Melvill is too nervous to lie still. He sits up and looks toward the opening where Toby has vanished. He thinks for a moment he can make the journey and wants to call out to Toby to wait. But Melvill knows it is a ludicrous thought. Marheyo, who has been fussing with bowls not used at breakfast, motions for Melvill to lie back and says something about Fayaway. 

Melvill hesitates then reclines as ordered. He listens closely for the sounds of commotion but everything seems normal: another day for the Typees. He continues to listen intently, straining so hard he thinks perhaps he might hear a sail flapping on the windy sea. Nothing. 

In a moment Fayaway is there with the tortoise-shell bowl and her glittering eyes. She greets him warmly and familiarly--as she might her favorite pet that she has come to groom. Melvill slides down his pant leg and exposes his healing limb. He finds it hard to believe that Fayaway's primitive treatments are the cause of his improvement; but there is no question his leg is getting better. 

Today Fayaway's hands are just as soothing and her face as beautiful and her slender brown body just as alluring but Melvill does not have to fight the waves of arousal. He is too distracted by the idea of being without Toby--of being abandoned here in this alien cannibal world. Melvill continually glances to the hut's entryway. 

When Fayaway is finished, Melvill helps himself up with the crutch. He goes outside in only his shirt and underbreeches. Slowly, barefoot, he makes his way toward the bathing pool. Fayaway follows him, perhaps afraid he will fall. Korykory does not come for him as usual. 

The streamwater is cool. Near Melvill a boy and girl splash in the pool, frolicking more than bathing. Fayaway waits on the bank by his crutch and clothes. Melvill shuts his eyes and wonders what has become of Toby. He reclines his head and water fills his ears, making him hear the sea. When he looks up again, Korykory and Marheyo are there talking to Fayaway, who appears concerned and puzzled. 

Melvill calls out, "What is it? What are you saying?" 

Marheyo blurts out something "taboo" and "Toby" and "wai" (water, Melvill has learned) and "kiki," then something "Happar." The old man is angry. 

Melvill's heart is pounding. He is agitated because he understands so little. Toby is gone and he has taken water and food, it seems. But what about the Happars? "Is Toby all right?" 

Marheyo shakes his head, apparently also frustrated with the language barrier, and turns away. He says something more to Korykory and Fayaway and the two rush in the direction of the grove, where Toby would have begun his trek. Marheyo walks wearily away. And Melvill is left alone except for the boy and girl, who are oblivious beyond their own carefree play. 

Melvill gets out of the pool and into his breeches. He methodically returns to Marheyo's hut. Are the Typees looking at him differently, their dark faces a mixture of contempt and fear? And where have Korykory and Fayaway gone? To find Toby? 

Inside Marheyo's hut the old man and his wife are involved in a serious discussion. They seem to take no notice of Melvill, exhausted in spite of the rush of anxiety he still feels. He leans on his crutch just inside the hut's opening. In a while they end their conversation and Marheyo leaves the hut, rushing in his old man's way; he neither looks at nor speaks to Melvill as he passes. Meanwhile Tinor goes to the corner where the bowls of food are kept. She begins the work of mixing a powder into the boacho then into the poeepoee. 

Uncomfortable with the silence, Melvill says, "We have done nothing wrong. We cannot stay here forever. That was never our intention." Tinor does not look up from her mixing. "Toby--" 

Tinor twists to him snakelike: "Taboo! Taboo!" She points her long finger at him; it is crooked with rheumatism.  

"All right, old witch, his name is taboo. But he is only trying to secure better treatment for my leg and a means of departure." 

Tinor says more, including something about the Happars. She punctuates her remark with a forced bit of laughter but Melvill is surprised to see a tear slip down her leathery brown cheek. He dresses himself. 

In a moment Marheyo is back with several palmetto leaves and a wad of twine. They begin pouring the boacho and poeepoee, which now have a gelatinous consistency, into the long narrow leaves. Marheyo skillfully folds and rolls and ties the leaves into tight tubes. Melvill watches mutely and counts as they prepare twenty-eight leaf tubes. They are preparing for a famine, speculates Melvill, brought on by Toby's taboo departure. Poor simple people. 

Marheyo leaves with a basket filled with the leaf tubes. Melvill decides to follow him in spite of the pain in his leg, and the growing irritation under his right arm from the roughly fashioned crutch. He suspects that Marheyo will forbid him to follow but the rigid old man says nothing as he heads toward the grove. Melvill cannot keep up so by the time Marheyo enters the ring of trees he is thirty or forty paces behind. Melvill, sweating and nearly panting, watches and follows until Marheyo stops at a plot of sandy ground where several Typees are using ax-like tools to dig shallow holes. They are burying their leaf tubes inside sheets of tappa. Marheyo picks up a spare ax-tool and begins digging also. 

"This isn't necessary," Melvill says to the whole group. "T-- His departure will not initiate floods and famine. That is singularly ludicrous." None of the workers pay attention to his meaningless chatter. He might as well have been a macaw clucking in a tree. "Go on. Dig your holes. Bury your food like a pack of paranoid dogs." At least they are not burying me in the sand, he thinks suddenly. 

Melvill turns away and wonders what to do next. He is so tired and upset he cannot think clearly. It is like his brain is on fire, his thoughts smoldering into smoke. He hobbles on his crutch back to Marheyo's hut. The atmosphere is charged with tension. The mat in front of the hut's entryway has been removed and someone, Tinor presumably, has poured water on the hard ground to make a small plot of mud. A symbol with wavy lines--water? the sea?--has been etched into the quickly drying earth. Perhaps it is his imagination but Melvill believes he can smell the ocean more distinctly than before; it has been only an occasional whisper on the hot wind. 

Melvill speculates the symbol on the ground is to keep out bad luck, but does that apply to him as well? Not wanting to risk another chastisement from Tinor, he turns away and goes to a log by the small fire pit. The orange embers remind him first of his mother's kitchen stove, then of the hell stoves in the Acushnet. Both now seem as distant as a dream. 

Sitting on the log is making his bad leg go numb. He thinks of how long Toby has been gone--only an hour?--and wonders how much time will pass before Toby returns. Will I continue to count the minutes and days and weeks even after the point when Toby could reasonably be back, then possibly be back, then beyond possibility? Melvill imagines his life of waiting and counting. Eternally on duty in the crow's nest watching for a whale that never breaks the surface. Or he imagines himself a whaleman's wife that watches year upon year for an impossible sail to appear on the distant oceanic horizon. A watcher who goes mad with watching. 

Time, which has had little meaning since they jumped ship, is totally lost to Melvill while he sits on the log--awash in forlornness. He is only remotely aware of the sun's climb toward its apex and the growing heat on his shoulders. Also, the movement of the villagers around him is sensed only in a primitive way. But suddenly their pace is frantic. Running, chattering. Melville rises with difficulty, almost falling before he can get his weight on his crutch. "What is it? What's happening?" 

A woman passing whom Melvill does not know says something Toby. 

Melvill hobbles after the flock as they hurry toward the grove. He begins to imagine the worst--to feel the guilt, desperation, fear. All there in the cavity of his gut. Before he can reach the trees encircling the grove the villagers are coming back. At the center now is Korykory carrying Toby's limp form. Toby's hand, hanging down like a ragdoll's, is bloodstained. A sleeve of his shirt is ripped. His neck and face are bloody too. 

"Is he dead?" Melvill pleads for an answer. "Tell me, is he dead?" 

Korykory speaks to Melvill as the group passes around him. Fayaway, whom Melvill has not noticed, holds him by the arm and helps him to try to keep pace. Korykory takes Toby into Marheyo's hut; only Marheyo and then Fayaway and Melvill follow inside. Korykory places Toby on a mat then begins feeling his head and neck and shoulders. Melvill pushes past Marheyo and Tinor: "Please, is Toby alive?" Korykory responds without looking at Melvill but of course his words carry no meaning. Melvill drops to Toby's side and takes hold of his wrist but before he can find his friend's pulse Toby moans and rolls his head. "Thank God," whispers Melvill. 

Fayaway is now kneeling at Toby's other side. She has a sponge and a bowl of water and begins cleansing his wounds, which seem primarily to be two lacerations, one above his left eye and the other on his right cheekbone. 

Marheyo and Korykory urge Melvill to stand. They say something about Fayaway, perhaps that she should be left alone to finish tending to Toby's cuts. Outside the village is quiet. The crowd that accompanied Toby back to Marheyo's hut has dispersed. The old man and Korykory exchange a few words; then unexpectedly Marheyo jerks the crutch away from Melvill and at the same instant Korykory hoists him onto his strong back. 

"What're you doing?" Melvill struggles lamely for a moment but Korykory is carrying him toward the grove while Marheyo follows with his crutch in hand. "To the Ti?" 

Neither native responds. 

Into the grove and down a path Melvill has not traveled before. It is shaded and quiet--not even the birds are calling. Then they come to a cluster of huts, much like the cluster where Marheyo's family lives, except these huts sit on the shore of a large pond, nearly a lake, Melvill thinks. There is another cluster of huts two hundred yards or more around the bend of the pond, and in between is a group of Typees. This is where Korykory and Marheyo are transporting him. When the group senses their arrival it parts instinctively. They are gathered around a stone slab on which lies a young warrior. Melvill recognizes him as one of Toby's escorts. Dead. There is a large puncture wound in his left ribcage, perhaps from a spear, which still leaks blood. Village girls, as young as seven or eight, are making a garland of white flowers across his body. 

Melvill is let down from Korykory's back and Marheyo begins speaking to him, telling him a story it seems. Melvill understands the warrior's name, "Toonoo," and "Happar." Several times Marheyo touches his own side where Toonoo was pierced and says, "muckee moee," which Melvill assumes refers to death or being killed. Marheyo's tale also has "taboo" and "Toby." 

"I understand," says Melvill. "This young man's death was caused by Toby--by his leaving or by his stepping foot into Happar territory. Or by both. I'm sorry, truly, but we cannot be imprisoned here because of your primeval customs." 

Marheyo responds with something more, but about "Hermes," not to him precisely. The old man with tattooed vines growing along his arms like jungle ivy shakes his head in disgust or frustration. Korykory gestures to Melvill to climb on his back. The great distance to Toby and to the shelter of Marheyo's hut makes it necessary. However at this moment the thing Melvill desires the least is Typee charity, which only compounds his miserable guilt. Melvill takes his crutch from Marheyo and slides it into the back of his shirt like an arrow into its quiver; then climbs onto Korykory's avian inked back. 

The whole Typee Valley is quiet still, yet the air is tinged with excitement and activity. In preparation for what? reflects Melvill as he is carried along. Not famine still? No, it is something else, something more. When they have passed through the grove and its outer ring of trees Korykory lets Melvill down. He must hobble from here, which is perfectly acceptable to Melvill, a relief really. He uses the crutch for the remainder; Korykory stays at his side, though to do so he must move slowly and awkwardly. 

Inside Marheyo's hut Fayaway is still tending to Toby. Now she is sponging water into his mouth. He semiconsciously swallows the drops. A glob like brown mud covers the cut on Toby's head. The crude poultice has stopped the bleeding and Toby is not as pale. 

Thank God, thinks Melvill: Toby will live--unless a Typee devil decides to exact some recompense for the death of Toonoo. Melvill sits by his friend and Fayaway hands him a cup of water. It is warm but delicious nonetheless. "Thank you, and thank you for caring for Toby." 

Fayaway smiles slightly. At the recognition of Toby's name? 

Melvill has a thousand questions--about the death of the warrior and what it means and why the Happars attacked Toby and if he was rescued by the Typees, about Toby's condition-but there is no one to ask. 

While Toby sleeps they have a simple lunch in the hut: Tinor, Korykory, Fayaway and Melvill. Marheyo has not returned. Melvill feels he should not have an appetite--because of Toby's convalescence and in mourning Toonoo--but he is famished. The slightly unripe bananas and poeepoee only begin to satisfy him. He is thinking about going to a section of the grove where a tangerine-like fruit grows and surreptitiously eating his fill; however before he can commit to his plan there is a visitor to the hut, one of Toby's warrior escorts. He speaks quietly to Korykory. Melvill hears "Marheyo" and "Mehevi." He notices that Tinor and Fayaway have no interest in the conversation as if they already know its purpose. When the discussion is finished the young warrior departs. Korykory looks at Melvill but says nothing. He saves his breath though he wants to know what is happening. 

After a few more minutes of sitting quietly by Toby while Tinor and Fayaway gather the dirty bowls and cups, the gnawing in his stomach makes him forget about Korykory's conversation. He gets up and starts to leave the hut. Korykory quickly blocks his way. He speaks ardently to Melvill putting his hands up urging him to wait. 

"Look here, I simply want to go for a stretch. My leg is stiffening." That much is true; he rubs his bad leg. 

Korykory is insistent. He even tries using an English word: "Pah-leez." 

Melvill is wondering what to do when the young warrior appears again in the doorway. Korykory is greatly relieved. Now he wants Melvill to go outside. The remainder of Toby's escort is there, and they are standing around a long flat board which is secured at its corners to two sturdy poles. Korykory urges Melvill toward the board. "Yes, I can see it. What do you want me to do?" Korykory encourages him closer then goes past Melvill and sits in the center of the board. "I understand," says Melvill. "It's a litter." He nods to emphasize his recognition. Korykory jumps up and ushers Melvill to his seat. Melvill is reluctant but he has no desire to make another spectacle. When he is seated in the middle of the litter, the four young warriors hoist him up, first to arm's length, then to their shoulders; and they begin toward the grove. 

Typees, especially children, stare at Melvill as he and his entourage pass--like some damn Oriental prince, he thinks. Beyond the grove they take a wide path which cuts directly toward the sea. Melvill believes he can smell its salt even though it is miles away and not within view. All he can see is the sandy path through the forest and to his left and back the purpleblue mountain tops. Now and then they encounter a native, who glances as he hurries along, either passing them or going the opposite way. 

Eventually the path emerges from the forest and begins to climb uphill, up out of the Typee Valley. Melvill thinks about how the warriors carrying him must be laboring now. Melvill glances behind at Korykory, faithfully keeping his crutch. On either side of the path, which is less sandy here and more grayblack volcanic dirt, the grasscovered hills are spotted with colorful wildflowers: orange starshape bursts, red and yellow and blue puffs like sea anemones. Finally the path crests and instantly declines a hundred yards to a wide plain where wind moves across the grass in waves. 

The breeze is so fresh Melvill breathes it deeply, even greedily. The air is one thing he loves about the ocean. The sea air is freedom . . . and life unevolved, hence uncompromised by the modern world. Perhaps that is why he despises the cooking blubber so--the stench overpowers the ocean's natural scent, corrupting the sea air for miles. The sky too, here, is the ocean's: steely and powerful, a presence itself, a mighty dome arching above the mighty sea. 

Melvill sees a shack, a good old New England shack, made of boards instead of indigenous bamboo. The shack is leaning in toward the path and its boards are sunbleached gray. It must have been a white man's hand that constructed it--but how many years before? 

As they travel along the level grade, the sea is revealed to Melvill. It is spread out blue, like an emperor's silk gown. The natives quickly but gently maneuver Melvill's litter to the ground near the shack before breaking formation to catch their breath, each in his own way, bending at the waist or dropping to his knees or walking about with his hands on his hips. They remind Melvill of Greek messengers winded after their long run to Marathon. Korykory, not winded at all, helps Melvill up then hands him his crutch. 

Melvill is enchanted by the sight of the ocean. It seems as unreal as a painting, even though it moves and rushes against the whitesand beach. He is thinking about the image when Typees begin to emerge from the shack. He recognizes one as Mehevi. The cannibal chief is not smiling as he has been quick to do in the Ti. Another Typee, also heavily decorated like Mehevi, is fiercer looking and has only one eye. The empty socket, which is in shadow because of the overhead sun, draws Melvill's attention. He forces himself to look into the native's good eye, where he finds disdain, as if Melvill is a diseased animal whose pitiful life should be stamped out. A broad circle has been tattooed around the solitary brown orb, making it a bull's-eye, as if the cannibal is daring some enemy to blind him completely. 

Melvill wonders at the hierarchy of this group. Are these other Typees, eight in number, Mehevi's cabinet of advisers? Or is the cannibal nation run more by committee, of which Mehevi is the chairman, and these other Typees are simply lesser chieftains, one of whom will one day take over the committee--by mutual agreement or by force? From his demeanor, the single-eyed Typee is perhaps a sort of captain of the guard. 

Mehevi steps close enough to Melvill to touch him and begins speaking to him in low serious tones, something about the Happars again and "muckee moee," that ominous phrase that holds death in it. Then Mehevi takes Melvill by the arm which is not gripping the crutch and leads him to the graybleached shack. It has no door, and inside Melvill is surprised to find an ancient Typee warrior, an old old man on a mat on the shack's sandy dirt floor. The ancient one's eyes are staring vacantly out the doorway, perhaps at the ocean-like sky. 

Also inside the shack is a collection of firearms, which seem to be why Mehevi has brought him here. Some of the pieces appear to be fairly contemporary but poorly maintained. Others, muskets and even a brace of blunderbusses, are very old--mid-eighteenth century, Melvill speculates--and they are broken and rusted. There is even a fowling piece with a queen-anne stock like the one Melvill pawned in New York City before his first experience at sea as a deckhand on the Liverpool-bound St. Lawrence. In the corner of the shack several small kegs of shot and powder are piled, as are boxes of ammunition in various calibers. 

Mehevi seems to be telling Melvill about the weapons. 

Melvill nods, though he barely understands. "How in the world did you come by all these?" But Melvill can imagine how--some bartered for perhaps, others pried from the hands of their dead enemies. 

Meanwhile Mehevi continues to talk about the weapons. He pantomimes shooting, even the recoil. Mehevi unexpectedly takes hold of Melvill's hands, says a few last words and smiles, squeezing his hands for emphasis. 

Melvill believes he understands. "You want me to get these weapons in working order. But not all white men are gunsmiths; I certainly am not." He recalls the corpse of the young warrior, his ribs leaking blood onto the stone slab, the garland of white flowers strung by the children. "I'll see what I can do--no promises however." Melvill nods exaggeratedly: "Yes, I'll see what I can do." 

Mehevi, pleased, leaves the shack and speaks to his comrades. He seems to be reassuring them. 

Melvill stands fixed for a few moments. "What do you see, old man?" he says to the entranced warrior but of course there is no response. He begins his work by first examining each of the guns and separating out the ones which are obviously in need of specialized repair. The remainder--eight fairly contemporary pieces, three European-made and five American-, including a good pair of flintlock Kentucky rifles and two single-shot flintlock pistols--appear as though a thorough cleaning may make them serviceable. He decides the prize piece though is a Wheeler revolving cylinder flintlock that can be fired seven times before reloading. His mind is already collecting locally available items which might be used for the task of servicing the weapons when he finds a wooden box among the piles of casks and crates that contains various types of cloth, bottles of oil, a ram rod, plus an assortment of files and other fine tools, screws and springs. 

"The fates continue to watch over me," Melvill says to his silent companion. 

For some time he sits on a crate and works at the guns, cleaning and oiling, checking their hammers and triggers, their breech and firing mechanisms, the straightness of their barrels, that their muzzles are clear, and making what few minor repairs he feels capable of--all that he knows to do. After, he sorts shot and powder and cartridges, matching each to the appropriate firearm. For all this time none of the Typees have looked in on him; and the old warrior in the shack has made no sound, virtually no movement. His remaining purpose in life seems to be as guardian of this cache of mysterious weaponry. 

Melvill hobbles out into the bright day and speaks to Mehevi, who with the other Typees has been resting in a shaded area on the grassy hillock. "Finished," he says, "to the best of my knowledge. But I'm not testing them. I'll leave your boys the brunt of any backfiring." 

Mehevi smiles at Melvill's words then follows him into the shack. Melvill points out which ammunition to use with which gun. He is about to demonstrate to Mehevi how to load them when the chief excitedly takes hold of the unloaded Wheeler and it is clear he has some familiarity with its use. The one-eyed Typee also enters the shack. He looks as stern and disgusted as before. Then Korykory is there to lead Melvill back to the litter. 

"Come, footmen," says Melvill, "back to the palace." He realizes his hunger and exhaustion as he sits on the flat board. Korykory, as if by telepathy, hands him three small bananas in exchange for his crutch. Before peeling one Melvill breathes the saltfresh air deeply for a last time. 

It is a long way back. When they reach the Ti the natives set Melvill down, then they rush off toward the mountains with another group of young warriors. 

As Korykory helps Melvill to stand, he says, "Is there to be war then?" 

Korykory makes no attempt to respond other than to hand Melvill his crutch, and they slowly complete the journey to Marheyo's hut. By the sun Melvill guesses it is three or four in the afternoon. Late for warring, he thinks. Inside the hut Toby is conscious. "Old fellow," he says weakly. 

Melvill sits beside him on the floor. "Glad to have you back with us, Lazarus." He squeezes Toby's forearm. 

"What's happening?" 

"I'm not certain but I believe the Typees and Happars are going to battle." 

"Because of me?" 

Melvill hesitates. "That appears to have triggered it--but these islanders have a hair trigger. Their superstitions are so thick it takes very little to upset them." 

Melvill lies back and soon dozes next to Toby. It seems a very short time before the report of a distant gunshot startles him. He sits up. He and Toby are alone. There is another shot. And another. Melvill looks at Toby, who is awake but silent. Melvill slowly goes to the hut's opening. It is nearing sunset. The air seems to retain the glow of daylight even though the sun has descended from view. Melvill steps outdoors and there are fires in the Ti grove. Two more gunshots in immediate succession. 

Toby joins Melvill outdoors. 

"Should you be up?" 

"Probably not." Toby steadies himself by holding Melvill's arm. "But I must know what is happening." 

Melvill retrieves his crutch and they make their way toward the grove. When they reach the ring of trees the orange firelight has overtaken the daylight in dominance. Trying to remain out of view they enter the grove behind the Ti and cautiously stay near its side wall until they achieve a view of the grove's interior. There are several small fires. The natives are gathered near the center of the grove where a small bamboo scaffold has been erected. Melvill speculates it is seven or eight feet high. It is difficult to see in the strange light but there appears to be a white bundle on the top of the scaffold. Melvill is reminded of the pile of bedding he has seen at home on washday since before he can recall. 

Melvill is about to whisper to Toby, to ask what he thinks is happening, when the scaffold is ignited. Flames burst up nearly in an explosion. The wood must have been treated with some combustible agent. The intense fire illuminates the encircling crowd of Typees, who begin a low chant. 

"What's queer about that gathering?" says Toby then answers himself: "It's all women and children and old men." 

Melvill watches as the firetongues leap at the white bundle and it begins to smoke. The form of the bundle is clearer now and Melvill instantly understands: it is Toonoo's funeral pyre. Melvill wants to tell Toby but at the moment it is too much to explain. 

"Where are the men, the warriors?" says Toby. "Still fighting?" 

Melvill has no response. He searches the crowd for Fayaway. It is a pool of brown flesh and long black hair, all the bodies rouged by firelight, and he recognizes no one. 

A shadow emerges from the path that leads to the mountains, the one that Toby traveled that morning. Several Typees break away from the chanting group to speak with the new arrival, who Melvill can see is a young man--very young, no more than sixteen probably. After a short exchange the young man turns and runs toward another path, the one that leads to the place where Marheyo buried food. The firelight glows then fades on the adolescent's back as he rushes away, until he is invisible in the forest's blackness. 

Melvill whispers, "I believe I know where he is going." 

Careful to avoid the ring of light they methodically make their way to the path not quite halfway around the grove. When they are on the path and leaving the grove behind Melvill says, "How are you feeling?" 

"Fair. My head is aching some, but all right otherwise. You?" 

"The leg is much improved. The crutch is almost unnecessary." Melvill realizes the irony: the primary justification for Toby's leaving was to obtain medical care for his leg, and now it seems nearly healed. 

The path is dark but Melvill's eyes have adjusted. He thinks of the suffocating darkness in the hold of the Acushnet: the low ceiling closing in like the top of a cage, the stench of rot. And the movement underfoot, the whaleship always moving, a predatory shark forever on the hunt for victims, an unslakable thirst to turn life into death. He sees the bluegray ocean burst into that obscene orange color when it is suddenly filled with animal blood. Death is not black; it is orange, that cloud of rust in the sea. 

Melvill forces the hunting thoughts to cease. He must be alert. They do not want to encounter a party of Typees still swooning with bloodlust. After a short time they reach the small clearing where Marheyo and others had buried food. It seems deserted. Only a warm breeze. And a dazzling night sky. Melvill instantly recognizes the constellation Orion. A halfmoon is etched above a stand of trees. Melvill notices that the trees are strangely illuminated, black against an artificial light. 

"This way," says Melvill, leading Toby over the plot of ground where the poeepoee and boacho leaftubes are buried. His crutch digs into the soft earth. They discover that the stand of trees is at the edge of a ravine, and in the ravine all the Typee men are gathered around a circle of fires. For such a large gathering--two hundred? three?--they are oddly quiet; the only sounds are their random movements about the fires. Melvill estimates the circle is thirty to forty yards in diameter. 

Like the Typees, Melvill and Toby are completely silent as they watch. Melvill is startled by a thump . . . then another--like the beating of a drum, a slow steady rhythm. It takes a moment to find its source: it is a young man--possibly the adolescent Toby and he followed to this place--and he is striking a hollow log with a short wooden club. Melvill realizes the movement of the Typees is no longer random. They are taking up very particular positions around the fires. One Typee seems to be the attendant of a fire and behind him a line forms, from youngest (strongest?) to most senior. Melvill recalls that the old old men are back in the Ti grove. 

In a moment young men come from Melvill's left--from an area out of view--and they are carrying baskets with long sticks protruding from them. The baskets resemble large exotic insects, upended, in the odd light from the fires. The basketbearers take up positions to the immediate right of each fire attendant. They all remain quiet, immobile, like the ancient warrior in the gun shack. Melvill imagines the Typee is still there in the dark keeping his silent vigil. 

When all are in place the rhythmic beating on the log ceases for a moment--skipping one . . . two beats-then resumes. There is movement from the left. It is a man wearing a hood and cape of feathers. Melvill assumes them to be parrot feathers. When the man enters the circle of fires and stops at the center Melvill realizes it is Mehevi. The king is to officiate, he thinks. Mehevi slowly turns so that he eventually faces all the Typees in line at the fires. His arms are at his sides hidden by the cloak of feathers. As he completes the circle he lifts an arm--a wing--to others out of view. The natives around the fires keep their attention fixed; they do not turn to watch the action. 

Melvill is both repelled and spellbound by what he sees next. Two Typees carry long poles into the circle and mounted on each is a head. The eyes and mouths are open, as if screaming. The poles glisten with blood in the firelight. They are planted in the ground on either side of Mehevi. They go into the earth so deeply and so easily the holes must have been made in advance. 

Mehevi lifts his wings and speaks to the assemblage: a proclamation? a prayer? He finishes shortly and each fire attendant removes a stick from the basket. Food is skewered on the end of the stick--and Melvill knows that it is human meat, the flesh of these two Happars. Perhaps in the mountainous Happar region they are dining on a pair of fallen Typees at this same moment, a barbaric equilibrium at work in the universe. 

Except there is no sense of barbarism in their behavior, no jeering at the dead Happars. There is a solemnity to the ritual, almost a holiness, like they are paying homage to the slain warriors. 

There is popping in the fires as droplets of fat and blood fall into the flames. The aroma that is beginning to drift from the ravine is like nothing Melvill has ever smelled: strong but slightly sweet. He knows he will never forget the scent. His mouth is watering--an animal response to the smell of food--and it sickens him. He glances at Toby to check his reaction but it is too dark along the rim of the ravine. He knows he cannot watch the cannibals consume their meat. 

He whispers to Toby, "I'm going back," as he turns away from the ancient spectacle. 

Toby is there with him as he slowly crosses the clearing, his leg stiff from standing in one place for so long. They do not speak. Their silence is all that is keeping the world real. Melvill feels that he is traversing the brink of some nightmarish fiction, a treacherous precipice above a world he is incapable of comprehending, a place where his ignorance would be eternal. He senses he may spend the rest of his days attempting to grasp this new place in which he finds himself . . . or has lost himself. 

No one sees them as they retrace their path; perhaps they are invisible now, like the spirits of the fallen warriors whose presence lingers in the blackjungled world. 

In Marheyo's hut Melvill curls into his space. It is a terrible night between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness, fighting the urge to sleep for fear of dreaming, but dreaming off and on nevertheless. The cannibal ritual and recollections from the whaler mix and fuse. The Typees are gathered for their terrible feast on the goreslick deck of the Acushnet; Melvill and Toby stare down from the rigging. Then it is their shipmates who are lining up for the meat in the ravine. Fat Captain Pease, tattooed so completely only his eyes are untouched by the needle, is orchestrating the meal from the circle of fires, his arms become great taloned wings. . . .