Chapter 9

Hours pass. Days. Melvill has only a precarious foothold in reality, alive only in a small place within himself. The Typees do what they can for him, in there, but he responds with the barest animal instinct for survival. He swallows the sustenance they pour into his mouth; he uses the crude pots they bring him for his toilet. Once, twice Fayaway washes his inanimate body in Marheyo's hut. Melvill understands, without thinking it, it is for the native family's sake as much as for his. 

At times Melvill is there in the hut alone with these cannibals. At times he is in the fetid Acushnet waiting for his shift to be rang on deck. In New York listening for the sound of his mother coming upstairs to rouse him for school. Always the funny nonsensical words drift down to him and settle strangely on his stomach. And on his heart. 

A parade of visitors wanders past him--Melvill has the impression of an official corpse lying in state. The shuffling of bare feet over the mats and bamboo as the strangers move around him. The voices bearing the nonsensical words again. The voices are like music--plodding Protestant hymns--deep full tones with such a slow rhythm one thinks each note is the last. Until finally there is a last note lingering in the air. His mind tries to make the notes into a familiar pattern: "Are You Washed in the Blood?" "Rock of Ages," "Ye Ransomed Sinners, Hear." Vacuous time passes and Melvill begins to imagine the words of the hymns mingling with the labored Typee melody. After a while he realizes the English is not his imagination at all--and the Typee words are not the slow notes of a song. Melvill opens his eyes and there is an oddly dressed native kneeling next to him. He is saying, "Hermes man to wake now . . . Hermes man to wake now. . . ." 

Finally Melvill interrupts the long string of words. "I'm awake--you speak English." His voice is a whisper. 

"Yes I know the English some." The native smiles broadly. He is not Typee; his skin is darker and the bone structure of his face more angular; and he does not have the Typees' small flat nose. He wears the Typee warrior's sharktooth necklace but he also has on a kind of buttonless red vest and bands of woven grass around each biceps. 

"Who are you?" Melvill manages. His throat is dry. 

"My name is called Marnoo." Again the flash of the broad smile. "I come to speak for you." 

". . . for me . . ." Melvill is voiceless. 

Marnoo signals to someone standing in the shadows beyond Melvill's vision. Melvill expects Korykory or Marheyo to come forth but it is a young boy who brings a cup of water. As the boy helps Melvill drink he notices the three dots on the boy's forehead. He has seen the tattooing before: on the dried heads of the Happar warriors in the Ti. The cool water is delicious and revitalizes Melvill some. He sits up with Marnoo's assistance. 

"How long have I been asleep?" 

Marnoo understands the real point of Melvill's question and says, "Your friend is gone to near five days." He holds up his hand, the fingers and thumb spread. 

Melvill puts his head down--it is true then and not just a terrible dream. 

Marnoo anticipates his next question: "Sailing men like you come to trade, your mate speaks then goes with them to the ship." Again Marnoo anticipates: "They sail away--the Typee say the white sails sink into the ocean." 

Melvill sits quietly for a moment before Marnoo says, "Come. Daylight give you the strength." He helps Melvill stand and hands him his crutch. It is mid to late afternoon. The village is peaceful. Melvill hears the voices of children at play. His leg is stiff but there is little pain. He and Marnoo sit on a log next to the firepit. The sun, slightly filtered by the jungle, does begin to enliven him. 

Marnoo rearranges the longbladed knife that hangs at his side as he crosses his legs. "The old ones they send for me when your mate he goes." 

"Who are you? You're not Typee. And how is it you speak English?" 

"I am Marnoo. Marnoo is talker, hearer--" he touches his lips, his ears--"for all men on island. Typee they cannot talk to Happar, Happar they cannot talk to Typee. Happar Typee they cannot talk to Uahanna, Uahanna they cannot talk to Nukuheva and so and so. When a boy I picked to be Marnoo. Like this boy. Boy Marnoo too." 

"So you are an interpreter for the entire island, a diplomatic envoy for life. And you learned English as well?" 

"When Marnoo become a man Marnoo not want to be Marnoo. Become harpooner on Aussie whaleship the Sarah Jones. Harpoon whales six months. But Marnoo get chance to be Marnoo again. I come back." 

"Lucky for me I guess. I don't understand the Typees--why are they so protective of me?" 

"You and mate come from mountains where the sun lives. All other sailing men come from the sea. You special. Harming you taboo. Some say you bring luck to Typees. They say you go and it taboo." 

"And Toby leaving, is that taboo?" 

"Your mate go you here--no Typee can say. Some say you go some say stay. Many . . . hot words about you go you stay." 

"Will Marnoo help me to go?" 

"Marnoo not here to help or hurt. Marnoo here to talk and hear. Hermes man like Toby man make his own path. Gods say if good or bad." 

"It's 'Herman' by the by. The Typees can't seem to say that." 

"Great Happar chief Manoa he kill many many Typee before Typee kill Manoa. 'Herman' sound like 'Manoa' to Typee: taboo." 

"Well, 'Hermes' can't go anywhere now." Melvill pats his bad leg. 

"Yes. Some Typee say gods put sickness in your leg so you staying. Some say gods punish you for you not going." 

"Then why does Fayaway nurse me if it's the gods' sickness?" 

"Father of Fayaway great warrior. Gods' magic with him all time. Fayaway maybe she help gods' sickness and no get gods' sickness." Marnoo suddenly stands up. "Must go now." 

"Wait--what am I to do? I don't want to stay here forever." 

"Marnoo not here to help or hurt. . . ." 

"I know, only to talk and hear--well go ahead and talk. I'm listening." He rakes back his hair and touches his ear. 

The islander thinks for a moment, a half smile on his thin lips. "Trust in Fayaway. She close to gods. By Fayaway you know what to do." 

Melvill was hoping for advice a bit less like a riddle. He stands with the aid of the crutch. "Thank you, Marnoo. Please don't be far away." He offers his hand. 

Marnoo hesitates a moment, not accustomed to handshakes on the island, then accepts Melvill's with a brief firm grip. Marnoo departs with his young novice. A dozen Typee children come from nowhere to hop along at their heels. The Pied Piper, thinks Melvill. When Marnoo is out of sight and the sound of the children has died down, the bewilderment returns to Melvill. One action at a time, day by day, hour by hour: this is how you must deal with it, he instructs himself. 

Even modest exercise makes him feel less weak. He decides to go downstream to the bathing pool. There are several Typees there--some adults, some children. Melvill strips off his clothes and wades into the cool water. He gently paddles to the far side then pulls himself onto the sandy bank. The sun glows red inside the lids of his closed eyes and its heat penetrates him completely. His hunger growls and he runs his fingers along the protrusions of ribs. Except for the meal of roasted boar, his diet has been vegetarian. Melvill has never been so thin, not even as a sometimes sickly boy. 

He recalls the poverty of his adolescence. It was never the poverty of hunger but rather the poverty of shame. The aura of dread and failure following the family to Albany--the widow and her eight children--the great city claiming them victim, his dead father's business collapsed in spite of his eldest brother's tireless efforts. The terrible economy affecting everything, lurking everywhere. And his searching for a career--keeping shop, teaching, surveying, farming--which would lead him west to Illinois then finally to New Bedford and whaling as a last resort: a family tradition to go to sea. 

And now he has failed at that too. 

Melvill rolls over to peer into a shallow puddle among some rocks at the edge of the stream. He is surprised by the wild face that reflects back at him: the long unruly hair, the black untrimmed beard, and his face so gaunt that his eyes blaze back, overlarge. He turns his head to the side to verify that this is himself he sees--and not some image from a fever-induced hallucination. He thinks it is a wonder that Fayaway comes near him without armed escort. 

He rolls onto his back again, places his arm over his face and allows the sound of the cataract to mesmerize him into sleep. He dreams of Mocha Dick, the whale who hunts whalemen, and about a man obsessed with revenge. Melvill is there on the deck of the ship, a sailor following the obsessed man in a black woolen cloak, trying desperately to see his face--but the man moves each time Melvill moves. This odd dance goes on and on, until Melvill realizes in his dream that he is not a sailor on the man's ship but rather he is the man's shadow: locked there by the highbright sun or nickelplated moon or brilliant oceansky stars . . . and by the physical laws of the natural world. . . .  

He wakes with a start as a shadow falls across him--Korykory blocking the light and dripping icy drops from his swim.