Call It Courage Read online

  “LIKE ALL HERO LEGENDS MAFATU’S STORY HAS A STRENGTH AND SIMPLICITY . . . IT IS BEAUTIFULLY TOLD.”

  —New York Times

  Mafatu’s name means “Stout Heart,” but his people call him a coward. Ever since the sea took his mother’s life and spared his own, he has lived with a deep fear. And even though his father is the Great Chief of Hikueru—an island whose seafaring people worship courage—he is terrified and so they hate him.

  By the time he is fifteen years old, Mafatu can bear it no longer. He must conquer his fear alone . . . even if it means certain death.

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Cover designed by Lisa Vega

  Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Greg Call

  Ages 8–12

  0490

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  CALL IT

  COURAGE

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1940 by Macmillan Publishing Co.

  Copyright renewed 1968 by Armstrong Sperry

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Also available in a Simon & Schuster

  eISBN: 978-1-4424-6007-2

  Library of Congress Control Number 89-18456

  ISBN-13: 978-0-02-786030-6 (hc)

  ISBN-10: 0-02-786030-2 (hc)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-5368-5 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-5368-X (pbk)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: FLIGHT

  CHAPTER 2: THE SEA

  CHAPTER 3: THE ISLAND

  CHAPTER 4: DRUMS

  CHAPTER 5: HOMEWARD

  CALL IT

  COURAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  FLIGHT

  It happened many years ago, before the traders and missionaries first came into the South Seas, while the Polynesians were still great in numbers and fierce of heart. But even today the people of Hikueru sing this story in their chants and tell it over the evening fires. It is the story of Mafatu, the Boy Who Was Afraid.

  They worshiped courage, those early Polynesians. The spirit which had urged them across the Pacific in their sailing canoes, before the dawn of recorded history, not knowing where they were going nor caring what their fate might be, still sang its song of danger in their blood. There was only courage. A man who was afraid—what place had he in their midst? And the boy Mafatu—son of Tavana Nui, the Great Chief of Hikueru—always had been afraid. So the people drove him forth. Not by violence, but by indifference.

  Mafatu went out alone to face the thing he feared the most. And the people of Hikueru still sing his story in their chants and tell it over the evening fires.

  It was the sea that Mafatu feared. He had been surrounded by it ever since he was born. The thunder of it filled his ears; the crash of it upon the reef, the mutter of it at sunset, the threat and fury of its storms—on every hand, wherever he turned—the sea.

  He could not remember when the fear of it first had taken hold of him. Perhaps it was during the great hurricane which swept Hikueru when he was a child of three. Even now, twelve years later, Mafatu could remember that terrible morning. His mother had taken him out to the barrier reef to search for sea urchins in the reef pools. There were other canoes scattered at wide intervals along the reef. With late afternoon the other fishermen began to turn back. They shouted warnings to Mafatu’s mother. It was the season of hurricane and the people of Hikueru were nervous and ill at ease, charged, it seemed, with an almost animal awareness of impending storm.

  But when at last Mafatu’s mother turned back toward shore, a swift current had set in around the shoulder of the reef passage: a meeting of tides that swept like a millrace out into the open sea. It seized the frail craft in its swift race. Despite all the woman’s skill, the canoe was carried on the crest of the churning tide, through the reef passage, into the outer ocean.

  Mafatu would never forget the sound of his mother’s despairing cry. He didn’t know then what it meant; but he felt that something was terribly wrong, and he set up a loud wailing. Night closed down upon them, swift as a frigate’s wing, darkening the known world. The wind of the open ocean rushed in at them, screaming. Waves lifted and struck at one another, their crests hissing with spray. The poles of the outrigger were torn from their thwarts. The woman sprang forward to seize her child as the canoe capsized. The little boy gasped when the cold water struck him. He clung to his mother’s neck. Moana, the Sea God, was reaching up for them, seeking to draw them down to his dark heart. …

  Off the tip of Hikueru, the uninhabited islet of Tekoto lay shrouded in darkness. It was scarcely more than a ledge of coral, almost awash. The swift current bore directly down upon the islet.

  Dawn found the woman still clinging to the purau pole and the little boy with his arms locked about his mother’s neck. The grim light revealed sharks circling, circling. … Little Mafatu buried his head against his mother’s cold neck. He was filled with terror. He even forgot the thirst that burned his throat. But the palms of Tekoto beckoned with their promise of life, and the woman fought on.

  When at last they were cast up on the pinnacle of coral, Mafatu’s mother crawled ashore with scarcely enough strength left to pull her child beyond reach of the sea’s hungry fingers. The little boy was too weak even to cry. At hand lay a cracked coconut; the woman managed to press the cool, sustaining meat to her child’s lips before she died.

  Sometimes now, in the hush of night, when the moon was full and its light lay in silver bands across the pandanus mats, and all the village was sleeping, Mafatu awoke and sat upright. The sea muttered its eternal threat to the reef. The sea. … And a terrible trembling seized the boy’s limbs, while a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Mafatu seemed to see again the faces of the fishermen who had found the dead mother and her whimpering child. These pictures still colored his dreams. And so it was that he shuddered when the mighty seas, gathering far out, hurled themselves at the barrier reef of Hikueru and the whole island quivered under the assault.

  Perhaps that was the beginning of it. Mafatu, the boy who had been christened Stout Heart by his proud father, was afraid of the sea. What manner of fisherman would he grow up to be? How would he ever lead the men in battle against warriors of other islands? Mafatu’s father heard the whispers, and the man grew silent and grim.

  The older people were not unkind to the boy, for they believed that it was all the fault of the tupapau—the ghost-spirit which possesses every child at birth. But the girls laughed at him, and the boys failed to include him in their games. And the voice of the reef seemed pitched for his ears alone; it seemed to say: “You cheated me once, Mafatu, but someday, someday I will claim you!”

  Mafatu’s stepmother knew small sympathy for him, and his stepbrothers treated him with open scorn.

  “Listen,” they would mock, “Moana, the Sea God, thunders on the reef. He is angry with us all because Mafatu is afraid!”

  The boy learned to turn these jibes aside, but his father’s silence shamed him. He tried with all his might to overcome his terror of the sea. Sometimes, steeling himself against it, he went with Tav
ana Nui and his stepbrothers out beyond the reef to fish. Out there, where the glassy swells of the ocean lifted and dropped the small canoe, pictures crowded into the boy’s mind, setting his scalp atingle: pictures of himself, a babe, clinging to his mother’s back . . . sharks cruising. … And so overcome would he be at the remembrance of that time that he would drop his spear overboard, or let the line go slack at the wrong moment and lose the fish.

  It was obvious to everyone that Mafatu was useless upon the sea. He would never earn his proper place in the tribe. Stout Heart—how bitter the name must taste upon his father’s lips!

  So, finally, he was not allowed to fare forth with the fishermen. He brought ill luck. He had to stay at home making spears and nets, twisting coir—the husk of the coconut—into stout sharkline for other boys to use. He became very skillful at these pursuits, but he hated them. His heart was like a stone in his breast.

  A nondescript yellow dog named Uri was Mafatu’s inseparable companion—Uri with his thin coat, which showed his ribs, and his eyes so puzzled and true. He followed the boy wherever he went. Their only other friend was Kivi, an albatross. The boy had once found the bird on his lonely wanderings. One of Kivi’s feet was smaller than the other. Perhaps because it was different from its kind, the older birds were heckling and pestering the fledgling. Something about that small bird trying to fight off its more powerful fellows touched the boy’s heart. He picked it up and carried it home—caught fish for it in the shallows of the lagoon. The bird followed Mafatu and Uri about, limping on its one good leg. At length, when the young albatross learned to fly, it began to find its own food. In the air it achieved perfection, floating serenely against the sky while Mafatu followed its effortless flight with envious eyes. If only he, too, could escape to some world far removed from Hikueru!

  Now, once more, it was the beginning of the season of storms. Men scanned the skies anxiously, watching for the dreaded signs which might spell the destruction of their world. Soon the great bonitos would be swimming beyond the reef—hundreds, thousands of them—for they came each year at this time with the unfailing regularity of the tides. They were held to be the special property of young boys, since it was by killing them that a youth learned to kill the swordfishes and tiger-sharks, progressing from one stage to a higher. Every boy in the village sharpened his spear, tested the shaft, honed his shark knife. Every boy, that is, except Mafatu.

  Kana stopped one afternoon to watch Mafatu at work on his nets. Of all the youths of his own age, Kana alone had been friendly. Sometimes he even stayed behind when the others were fishing to help the boy with his work.

  “The bonitos have begun to run, Mafatu,” Kana said quietly.

  “Yes,” the other returned, then fell silent. His fingers faltered as they flew among the sennit fibers of the net he was making.

  “My father brought back word from the reef today,” Kana went on. “Already there are many bonitos out there. Tomorrow we boys will go after them. That’s our job. It will be fun, eh?”

  Mafatu’s knuckles whitened. His ears pounded with the swift fury of the sea. …

  “That will be fun, won’t it?” Kana insisted, watching Mafatu closely. But the boy made no answer. Kana started to speak; he stopped, turned impatiently and walked away. Mafatu wanted to cry out after him: “Wait, Kana! I’ll go! I’ll try—” But the words would not come. Kana had gone. Tomorrow he and all the other boys would be taking their canoes out beyond the reef. They would return at sunset, loaded down with bonitos, their faces happy, their shouts filling the dusk. Their fathers would say: “See what a fine fisherman is my son! He will be a chief one of these days.” Only Tavana Nui would be silent. His son had not gone.

  That night a new moon rose above the edge of the sea, silvering the land with a bloom of magic. Wandering along the outer beach with Uri, Mafatu heard laughing voices and drew hastily into the black shadow of a pandanus. A group of boys were pulling their canoes above high watermark, and laying their plans for the morrow. Their voices were shrill with eagerness.

  “Tomorrow at daybreak . . . ,” one was saying.

  “There’ll be Timi and Tapu and Viri. …”

  “Aué!” another voice broke in. “It’s work for us all. How else will we become fishermen and warriors? How else will we feed our families and keep the tribe alive?”

  “True! Hikueru is too poor. There are only the fish from the sea. A man must be fearless to provide food. We will all go—every one of us!”

  Mafatu, standing tense in the shadows, heard a scornful laugh. His heart contracted. “Not all of us will go,” he heard Kana scoff. “Not Mafatu!”

  “Ha! He is afraid.”

  “He makes good spears,” offered Viri generously.

  “Ho! That is woman’s work. Mafatu is afraid of the sea. He will never be a warrior.” Kana laughed again, and the scorn of his voice was like a spear thrust through Mafatu’s heart. “Aiá!” Kana was saying. “I have tried to be friendly with him. But he is good only for making spears. Mafatu is a coward.”

  The boys disappeared down the moonlit beach. Their laughter floated back on the night air. Mafatu stood quite still. Kana had spoken; he had voiced, once for all, the feeling of the tribe. Mafatu—Stout Heart—was a coward. He was the Boy Who Was Afraid.

  His hands were damp and cold. His nails dug into his palms. Suddenly a fierce resentment stormed through him. He knew in that instant what he must do: he must prove his courage to himself, and to the others, or he could no longer live in their midst. He must face Moana, the Sea God—face him and conquer him. He must.

  The boy stood there taut as a drawn arrow awaiting its release. Off to the south somewhere there were other islands. … He drew a deep breath. If he could win his way to a distant island, he could make a place for himself among strangers. And he would never return to Hikueru until he should have proven himself! He would come back with his head high-held in pride, and he would hear his father say: “Here is my son Stout Heart. A brave name for a brave boy.” Standing there with clenched fists, Mafatu knew a smarting on his eyelids and shut his eyes tight, and sank his teeth into his lower lip.

  Far off in the himené house the Old Ones were singing. Their voices filled the night with rich sound. They sang of long voyages in open canoes, of hunger and thirst and battle. They sang the deeds of heroes. The hair on the boy’s damp forehead stirred; the long-drawn mutter of the reef sounded its note of warning in his ears. At his side, Uri touched his master’s hand with a cold nose. Mafatu pulled the dog close.

  “We’re going away, Uri,” he whispered fiercely. “Off to the south there are other islands.”

  The outrigger canoes lay drawn up on the beach like long slim fish. Silent as a shadow, the boy crossed the sand. His heart was hammering in his throat. Into the nearest canoe he flung half a dozen green drinking nuts, his fish spear. He gave his pareu a brave hitch. Then he picked up a paddle and called to Uri. The dog leaped into the bow. There was only Kivi—Mafatu would miss his albatross. He scanned the dark sky for sight of the bird, then gave it up and turned away.

  The lagoon was as untroubled as a mirror. Upon its black face, the stars lay tracks of fire. The boy shoved off and climbed into the stern. Noiselessly he propelled the canoe forward, sending it half a length ahead with each thrust of his paddle. As he drew nearer to the barrier reef, the thunder of the surf increased. The old, familiar dread of it struck at his stomach’s pit, and made him falter in his paddling. The voices of the Old Ones were fainter and fainter now.

  The reef thunder mounted: a long-drawn, hushed yet mighty sound that seemed to have its being not in the air above but in the very sea beneath. Out beyond lurked a terrifying world of water and wind. Out there lay everything most to be feared. The boy’s hands tightened on his paddle. Behind him lay safety, security from the sea. What matter if they jeered? For a second he almost turned back. Then he heard Kana’s voice once more saying: “Mafatu is a coward.”

  The canoe entered the race forme
d by the ebbing tide. It caught up the small craft in its churn, swept it forward like a chip on a millrace. No turning back now. …

  The boy was aware of a sudden whir and fury in the sky above, a beat of mighty wings. Startled, he glanced upward. There was Kivi, his albatross. Mafatu’s heart lifted. The bird circled slowly in the moonlight, its wings edged with silver. It hovered for a moment just over the bow of the canoe, then it rose easily, lightly in its effortless flight. Out through the passage in the reef. Out into the open ocean.

  Mafatu gripped the steering paddle and followed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SEA

  Day broke over a gray and dismal world. The canoe lifted and fell idly on the glassy swells. Mafatu looked back over his shoulder, searching the horizon for a last glimpse of Hikueru; but the atoll had vanished, as if to hide itself forever from his concern.

  The matting sail slatted uselessly. But there seemed to be no need of a sail: the little canoe was riding one of the mysterious ocean currents that flow in their courses through the length and breadth of the Pacific: the Ara Moana, Paths of the Sea, as the Ancients called them. They were the ocean currents that had carried the Polynesian navigators from island to island in the childhood of the world. Mafatu was drifting farther and farther away from his homeland.

  With wide-flapping wings Kivi rose from the bow of the canoe. In ascending spirals the bird climbed higher and higher, until at last he was no more than a gray speck against the lighter gray of the sky. Mafatu watched his albatross disappear and felt a desolation flood his heart. Now there was only Uri to keep him company in this hostile world of sky and sea. Uri. … The yellow dog lay curled up in the shadow of the bow, opening one eye from time to time to look at his master. Wherever Mafatu went, Uri, too, would go.

  All around, as far as the eye could reach, were wastes of leaden water. The canoe was the moving center of a limitless circle of sea. The boy shuddered. His fingers gripped the paddle convulsively. He thought of Kana and the other boys—what would they say when they learned that he had disappeared? And Tavana Nui—would there be sorrow in his father’s heart? Would he believe that Moana, the Sea God, had claimed his son at last?