Or take an experience of Mr.Donat's on the island of Anaa.It was a night of a high wind,with violent squalls;his child was very sick,and the father,though he had gone to bed,lay wakeful,hearkening to the gale.All at once a fowl was violently dashed on the house wall.Supposing he had forgot to put it in shelter with the rest,Donat arose,found the bird (a cock)lying on the verandah,and put it in the hen-house,the door of which he securely fastened.Fifteen minutes later the business was repeated,only this time,as it was being dashed against the wall,the bird crew.Again Donat replaced it,examining the hen-house thoroughly and finding it quite perfect;as he was so engaged the wind puffed out his light,and he must grope back to the door a good deal shaken.Yet a third time the bird was dashed upon the wall;a third time Donat set it,now near dead,beside its mates;and he was scarce returned before there came a rush,like that of a furious strong man,against the door,and a whistle as loud as that of a railway engine rang about the house.The sceptical reader may here detect the finger of the tempest;but the women gave up all for lost and clustered on the beds lamenting.Nothing followed,and I must suppose the gale somewhat abated,for presently after a chief came visiting.He was a bold man to be abroad so late,but doubtless carried a bright lantern.And he was certainly a man of counsel,for as soon as he heard the details of these disturbances he was in a position to explain their nature.'Your child,'said he,'must certainly die.This is the evil spirit of our island who lies in wait to eat the spirits of the newly dead.'And then he went on to expatiate on the strangeness of the spirit's conduct.
He was not usually,he explained,so open of assault,but sat silent on the house-top waiting,in the guise of a bird,while within the people tended the dying and bewailed the dead,and had no thought of peril.But when the day came and the doors were opened,and men began to go abroad,blood-stains on the wall betrayed the tragedy.
This is the quality I admire in Paumotuan legend.In Tahiti the spirit-eater is said to assume a vesture which has much more of pomp,but how much less of horror.It has been seen by all sorts and conditions,native and foreign;only the last insist it is a meteor.My authority was not so sure.He was riding with his wife about two in the morning;both were near asleep,and the horses not much better.It was a brilliant and still night,and the road wound over a mountain,near by a deserted marae (old Tahitian temple).All at once the appearance passed above them:a form of light;the head round and greenish;the body long,red,and with a focus of yet redder brilliancy about the midst.A buzzing hoot accompanied its passage;it flew direct out of one marae,and direct for another down the mountain side.And this,as my informant argued,is suggestive.For why should a mere meteor frequent the altars of abominable gods?The horses,I should say,were equally dismayed with their riders.Now I am not dismayed at all -not even agreeably.Give me rather the bird upon the house-top and the morning blood-gouts on the wall.
But the dead are not exclusive in their diet.They carry with them to the grave,in particular,the Polynesian taste for fish,and enter at times with the living into a partnership in fishery.Rua-a-mariterangi is again my authority;I feel it diminishes the credit of the fact,but how it builds up the image of this inveterate ghost-seer!He belongs to the miserably poor island of Taenga,yet his father's house was always well supplied.As Rua grew up he was called at last to go a-fishing with this fortunate parent.They rowed the lagoon at dusk,to an unlikely place,and the lay down in the stern,and the father began vainly to cast his line over the bows.It is to be supposed that Rua slept;and when he awoke there was the figure of another beside his father,and his father was pulling in the fish hand over hand.'Who is that man,father?'Rua asked.'It is none of your business,'said the father;and Rua supposed the stranger had swum off to them from shore.Night after night they fared into the lagoon,often to the most unlikely places;night after night the stranger would suddenly be seen on board,and as suddenly be missed;and morning after morning the canoe returned laden with fish.'My father is a very lucky man,'thought Rua.At last,one fine day,there came first one boat party and then another,who must be entertained;father and son put off later than usual into the lagoon;and before the canoe was landed it was four o'clock,and the morning star was close on the horizon.Then the stranger appeared seized with some distress;turned about,showing for the first time his face,which was that of one long dead,with shining eyes;stared into the east,set the tips of his fingers to his mouth like one a-cold,uttered a strange,shuddering sound between a whistle and a moan -a thing to freeze the blood;and,the day-star just rising from the sea,he suddenly was not.Then Rua understood why his father prospered,why his fishes rotted early in the day,and why some were always carried to the cemetery and laid upon the graves.My informant is a man not certainly averse to superstition,but he keeps his head,and takes a certain superior interest,which I may be allowed to call scientific.The last point reminding him of some parallel practice in Tahiti,he asked Rua if the fish were left,or carried home again after a formal dedication.It appears old Mariterangi practised both methods;sometimes treating his shadowy partner to a mere oblation,sometimes honestly leaving his fish to rot upon the grave.
