dick was the first person down, followed by katafa.
he nearly stepped on the spinous back of a great fish, a fish such as he had never seen before, larger than a full-grown man and tangled amongst the bushes and the trees.
the ruin was pitiable. gone were the great canoe-houses, their thatch and ridgepoles floating in the lagoon water, gone the houses of the village, and all their humble furniture, mats and bowls and shelves, knives, implements and ornaments.
gone were the little ships and each single thing that dick and katafa had brought from palm tree; gone was nan, grin and post and all.
the house of the uta matu which, despite its walls of cane and roof of thatch, was in fact a public building, the canoe-houses which were a navy yard—three great waves had washed away all visible sign of the past of karolin; but the people did not mourn, they were alive and the trees were saved, and the wreckage in the lagoon could be collected and rebuilt into new houses. there were three hours yet before sunset and led by aioma the salvage hunting began, knives were recovered from cracks in the coral and mats that had wrapped themselves round tree trunks, canes and ridgepoles from the near water of the lagoon; the rainy season was far off and in that sultry weather being roofless was little discomfort; a week or more would put the houses up again, the only serious loss was in the paraka patches, washed clean out. but there was paraka growing on the southern beach, which the waves had not affected, and there was the huge fish of which the sea had made them a present.
not one of them asked why this thing had occurred, or only dick of aioma and aioma of his own soul.
“i do not know,” said aioma, “only as i stood there i knew in my mind that the sea had not ceased to speak, then i saw the far waves and called to the people to climb the trees.”
of the little ships, not a trace could be found. they had gone forever to some port beyond recall. dick, to whom these things had been part of his existence, bound up in his life, left aioma and sat apart by himself brooding as the dusk rose.
the heat had dried up the moisture that had not drained off into the lagoon and the sleeping mats were spread near to where the house of uta matu had once stood, but dick had no heart for sleep.
not only were the little ships gone, but everything he and katafa had brought from palm tree. but it was the loss of the ships that hurt.
they were his earliest recollection, they were his toys; they had never ceased to be his toys, he who could kill so well and fight so bravely had never tired of them as playthings, playthings sometimes used in play, sometimes forgotten, but always remembered again. then they were more than that; who can tell how much more, for who can see into the subliminal mind or tell what dim ghosts hiding in the under mind of dick were connected with these things—kearney surely, lestrange and the men of the rarotonga, perhaps. palm tree and his life on that enchanted island, certainly.
it was as though fate, in taking his toys, had cut a cord attaching him to his past and the last remnant of civilization. how completely the hand of fate had done its work he was yet to know.
the stars showed through the momentary gauze of dusk, and then blazed out over a world of night.
le moan, who had refused a mat, was nowhere to be seen. she had slunk away into the tree shadows, where, sitting with her back to a tree bole, she could, unobserved, see the reef and the figure of dick seated brooding, katafa’s form on the mat where she had lain down to wait for dick, the foam lifting in the starlight and the sea stars beyond the foam.
what the cassi flowers had said still lingered in the mind of le moan.
in that mind so simple, so subtle, so indefinite, so wildly strong, had grown since the night before an energy, calm, patient, sure of itself: a power so large and certain that the thought of katafa did not even stir jealousy; a passion that could not reason but yet could say, “he is mine, beside me all things are nothing—i want only time.”
katafa had ruined her imaginary world only to create from the ruins this giant whose heart was determination.
amidst the trees kanoa, resting on his elbow, could see le moan as she sat, her head just outlined in the starlight.
the mind of kanoa formed a strange contrast to that of the girl. in his mind there was no surety, no calm. though he had rescued le moan, his heart told him that her heart was far from him, she had no eyes for him and though she did not avoid him, he might have been a tree or a rock, so little did his presence move her—and yet, if only she would look at him once, give him recognition by even the lifting of a finger, all his weakness would be turned to strength, his longing to fire.
presently as the moon rose high, le moan’s head sank from sight. she had lain herself down and the lovesick one, turning on his side, closed his eyes.
dick, rising and straightening himself and stretching his arms, turned to where katafa was waiting for him; he made a step towards her and then stood, his eyes fixed across the northern sea.
cutting the sky from east to west, bright in the light of the moon lay a cloud, a long thready cloud.
no, it was not a cloud, it was too low. it was different; it swelled and contracted, rose and sank.
he called to katafa and his voice roused kanoa, whose voice brought poni from the mammee apple.
in a minute the village was awake and watching this new prodigy, wondering, doubting, the women calling one to the other till the voice of a man rang out:
“gulls.”
a murmur of relief went up from the women.
gulls, only gulls. thousands of gulls flying in line formation—and then the murmur checked and died out.
what was driving the gulls?
a storm coming from the north? no, the sky to the north was stainless and to these people who could smell and feel weather, there was no sign of storm.
“look!” cried kanoa.
the formation had altered; sweeping round from the east in a grand curve, the great moonlit line was shortening moment by moment till now it had contracted, showing only the van of the oncomers, who were heading for karolin through the night sky like a spear towards a target.
the sound of them could now be heard, a steady winnowing sound, the pulse-like beat of ten thousand wings, whilst all along the reef from windward and leeward came the crying of the gulls of karolin.
the crying of the burgomasters and skuas, the frigate birds and the great southern gannets, the laughing gulls and the brandt’s cormorants, all rising like a challenge to the newcomers from whom came no response other than the steady throbbing of the wings.
the gulls of karolin knew, knew that of which the human beings were ignorant—knew that away beyond the sea line some great home of the sea fowl had vanished beneath the waves as kingaman island and lindsay island have vanished in the past, as many a pacific island will vanish in the years to come. knew that this was an army of invasion, a fight for a home and fishing rights. knew that the waters of karolin and the breeding places were insufficient for themselves and the strangers, knew that the moment which all nations and all wild herds and flocks must face, had come, and then as though actuated by one single mind, rose in a vast ringshaped cloud and swept away south.
swept away south beneath the moon whilst the van of the invaders now nearly above the reef swerved and turning due west, was followed by the whole line in what seemed, at first, level flight. then rising and curving in a grand curve like that of a spiral nebula it broke into voice, a challenge that was answered from the south.
“look!” cried aioma.
the karolin birds were returning, drifting like a curl of smoke. a wind seemed blowing them lazily through the sky, a wind seemed moulding them and the invaders, till, in the form of two great vortex rings, they overhung the lagoon: a moment and then clashing in battle, they broke, reformed, and broke again, snowing dead and wounded gulls beneath the moon. the storm of their cries filled the night from reef to reef— now they would be dark against the moon, now away like blown smoke.
sometimes the battle would drift towards the southern beach only to return gliding towards the northern. it was truly the battle that drifted, not the birds.
just as a flock flies like one bird, moving here, heading there, under the dominion of a common mind, so these two great flocks fought—each not as a congregation, but as an individual; till, of a sudden and as if at the sounding of a trumpet, the combat broke, the storm ceased, the clouds parted, one still circling above the reef, the other drifting away southeast beneath the moon.
southeast to find some more likely home, to die in the waves, to split up into companies seeking shelter in the paumotuan atolls—no man could say, or whether the birds of karolin were the victors or the strangers from the north. wanderers lost for ever to sight as their home sunk beneath the waves.
