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64                   ABBOTT'S MONTHLY     

Call of the Heart -- (Continued from page 42)

. . . I no more laugh at Obaria." Tina had come to the end of her story. She went away. Rita and Peter watched her lithe, graceful figure until it disappeared behind the Pandanus trees near the end of the lane.

THE night was coming on swiftly as it usually does in the topics. A lemon moon was slowly emerging from behind palm fronds. Through the open windows the island breathed softly, fragrantly, upon Rita and Peter. They heard low voices, feminine laughter, and music. Feeling intensely alive, Rita stood up and went to the window.

"Peter," she said, "there's something strange about this place--and Tina, too. . . . Of course, nobody would believe those tales of hers. But there's something--"

Peter now stood beside her at the window. "I'm glad you feel that," he said. "It'll be easier for you. There're some people who can't believe in the lure of the South Seas. But the lure of the South Seas gets a lot of us--and we can't break away."

Groups of natives could be seen loitering in front of their doors. Women sat on mats, their babies in their arms. Old men were sitting on the ground, smoking in their pipes the tobacco that the Chinese had brought. Young girls and boys were at their games and dances.

Then came sounds of a guitar and women's voices in songs, plaintive and gentle. Now it all was something of sadness, now the sweetest of music. It was the voice of summer in the island; it was the song of unconscious rejoicing, always appearing to rise upwards in greater and greater exaltation at the sheer happiness of living.

"That's wonderful, wonderful, Peter," Rita cried, joyfully. "I can't understand the words, but it's beautiful. . . . I can feel the music. . . . It creeps all over you."

AND she closed her eyes and listened. Ever since she could remember, music had always exercised some indefinable power over her. She knew that was why she ran away from her country home in South Australia--and went to Sydney to sing in a show. For a short time fame and success beckoned to her. Fame and success coming her way--until that dare-devil, Don Perdo, lured her across the wide waters to Honolulu, and deserted her a year ago.

But how easy it was to forget a Don Perdo when she became the leading dancer at the notorious La Boheme Cabaret! How easy it was for her to dance herself "sick!" The doctor advised a short vacation. And now she was not sorry that the Morinda had tossed her and Peter upon the rugged shores of this beautiful island of mystic songs and music. . . .

The night itself of soft lands wind and fragrant fruity odors and native melodies intoxicated her. She seemed to sink and steep in the music and the night.

"All this is heart-breaking--the innocence of it, Peter." She spoke wistfully now. "These people ought to be let alone. To think that all this must be profaned by human greed and selfishness! . . . I don't want to go to the other end of the island."

"I know how you feel," Peter said. "I thought you would understand."

"Yes, Peter, I know now why you love Tahiti," Rita replied, sadly. "Everyone is so against the natives. Everyone wants to seize what they have. . . . What gets me is their good nature and their music."

THE natives' voices and music soon died away. It was bedtime on the island. Peter found the matches beside the oil lamp on the table. He lit the lamp, the light revealing again the comfortably arranged bedroom. Rita saw on the bed women's garments. There was also a robe of creamy silk. The silk had been woven by native women-- and now it was a rather simple little frock with a girdle of silken braids. Under it Rita found the white duck clothes that men wear in the tropics.

"Here's something for you, Peter," she said, holding up a pair of trousers.

"Yes--and let's go to bed, Rita. Both of us are tired."

He took the men's apparel from her--and walked across the room to the other door. Rita spoke. He hesitated.

"Where're you going, dear?" Her voice was demanding, and there was a frown of irritation on her face.

"I'm going to sleep on the couch, in the other room," he answered, firmly. "You'll be perfectly safe alone."

"You're going to sleep in there, Peter?" she asked, wondering if she should tell him. . . . Surely, he would not go into the next room and leave her alone--if she told him that she was afraid.

EPISODE II

Peter closed the door, and he thought he had left an expression of anxiety and disappointment on Rita's face. But it was hard to determine anything about a girl like Rita.

HE was so tired and weary; sleep would bring rest and peace. Last night it was awful out there in the sea, battling with the mad waves, and desperately trying to save Rita; despairing, and hoping that they could reach land or some kind of resting place before his exhausted body refused to go on. . . . He was falling asleep on the couch . . . Tina . . . beautiful dark eyes . . . her lovely copper tinted face.

It happened several hours later. He awoke, frightened; heard Rita scream! She was calling him! He jumped up, terrified--and dashed into her room.

In the brilliant moonlight he saw Rita sitting up in the bed. Her face was buried in her hands, but he could tell by her motionless body that she was not weeping. A belt of silvery light streamed through the window, falling across her bare arms and shoulders, and they stood out intensely white against the sombre blackness of the head of the bed.

"Oh, Peter! I had a terrible dream!" she cried. "It was awful! . . . I'm afraid--I'm afraid in here alone."




for MAY, 1931                    65

"So it was only a bad dream." Peter laughed coldly, seeing that she was quite safe and nothing, nothing at all, had happened to her. "Try to go back to sleep. It won't bother you any more," he added, walking away. 

"Don't leave me now--I'm afraid!" Rita exclaimed--and now then her voice became softly imploring. "Be a good, dear boy, Peter--and stay with l'il Rita."

"You're all right now, Rita . . . I'm going back," he said, leaving the room.

THE sun was high above the trees when he awoke in the morning. Rita, with the aid of a native woman, had prepared breakfast. They were eating when Tari rushed into the room. A wild, excited Tari.

"My man see The Terrible One's men!" he almost shouted. "He see them come on ship this morning. They got their guns--they soon get fix--then they come down the island. We go to stop them--we give our men more guns. We like you to help us."

Tina walked into the room, holding a large bowl in her hands, just as her brother concluded. Her curling black hair was rippling down her shoulders, and her red lips were quivering with laughter, as she greeted Peter and Rita. She sat the bowl on the table, placing it before Rita.

"Let this be your morning tea," Tina laughed. But it was not tea. It was a delicious native drink that she had made by mixing lemon juice with cocoanut milk.

"Tina, The Terrible One get his men this morning," Tari said nervously.

"May the gods save us!" she exclaimed.

A STARTLING change had come over her, and Peter observed her closely. The high, firm breasts were tremulously rising and falling beneath her brief yellow garment. Her long fingers were trembling slightly, as she kept moving them up and down the smooth tan skin of her arm.

"You help us--you save us from The Terrible One," she implored, facing Peter, her eyes sparkling.

Peter dipped the little coconut shell drinking cup into the bowl again, and drank his third cup of cool "tea."

"I don't know--there isn't much I can do," he said, looking from Tina to Tari. "How many rifles and ammunitions," Tari answered. "We get all these little things from good white men."

He and Peter hurried down the land toward the palace. In front of it stood large crowds of native men: some had rifles, others had only long glittering knives. Peter and Tari passed on, and went down another lane to Chief Ouma Ati's old armory.

The rifles were very ancient, with half a century of gleaming wear upon the stock and barrel. It was from Spain, Tari told Peter, that the supply had come. A ship had called five or six times in the past twenty-five years, bringing these old weapons.

PETER took on of the old rifles in his hands. It appeared much better on closer inspection. There were over fifteen hundred, not counting the broken ones. And the store of ammunition was ninety-five per cent good. . . . He and Tari lost no time in arming the natives.

It was a magic day on this end of the island. In the morning sunlight the swaying gold and green palms on the inland hills dominated the village. Beyond the gently sloping plane before the village was the flashing surf booming on the reef. And beyond the reef was a turquoise sea--and over all was a turquoise sky. It seemed to Peter that this island was the tropical wonderland--the new paradise--that was about to be invaded by a venomous serpent.

He and Tari worked tirelessly, organizing the natives for the coming battle. More efficiency and life were put into the small army than it had ever done before. All day long they worked and waited.

Peter knew that a more modern army would throw away those old rifles. But he had also learned through bitter experience that it isn't always what you carry in your hands that is everything which counts; better still, it is what you carry in your heart. It was a soul-stirring thing to him how hard the natives tried, how carefully they held their ancient firearms.

Late that afternoon he left Tari, and went back to the old armory. There might be a few more of the old rifles that could be used. Every effort must be made by the power of sheer numbers to offset the advantages of The Terrible One's superior weapons.

Tina entered the armory, coming in very quietly. She was at his side before he became aware of her presence.

"I bring thanks for what you do for us," she said in a soft voice. "When you run The Terrible One and his men into the sea--I see to it that my father share with you the pretty treasures."

"I'm glad enough to do something for you," Peter replied. "And don't think it's because I want your treasure."

She was staring at his feet. Then she lifted her eyes, smiling delightfully at him, and said: "You think you could find the hidden treasures--if you want it?"

"I don't know--maybe I could," Peter laughed.

"You stand on the hidden treasures," she said shyly, softly.

Peter looked down at his feet, and looked at her again. She made him think of a lovely rosebud--not a rosebud of glass houses but a rosebud that grew in an island garden--and it had something strange and exotic about it.

"Take away your feet -- look under," she whispered.

He began to move away the thin floor of straw and reeds, and when he had moved away everything, he saw two large iron containers. He looked at the little bronze Buddha heads and the bronze figures of his disciples. The sacred relics of some Medieval cathedral: gold candle-sticks and bronze crosses with the body of Christ. Piles of gold coins. Gold rings, and diamond bracelets and necklaces that had adorned the lovely bodies of ladies at some king's court of many years ago.

"It was much more," Tina said. "We give it to a French trader from Tahiti. He brings us lamp oil and pretty dresses from Australia. The days pass__I look for the ship to come again. But there is yet much treasures--much for you."

PETER was not thinking of gold and diamonds. He was deeply conscious of the nearness of the beautiful child-woman of the island, who

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