OF the beauties of Anaho books might be written.I remember waking about three,to find the air temperate and scented.The long swell brimmed into the bay,and seemed to fill it full and then subside.
Gently,deeply,and silently the CASCO rolled;only at times a block piped like a bird.Oceanward,the heaven was bright with stars and the sea with their reflections.If I looked to that side,I might have sung with the Hawaiian poet:
UA MAOMAO KA LANI,UA KAHAEA LUNA,UA PIPI KA MAKA O KA HOKU.
(The heavens were fair,they stretched above,Many were the eyes of the stars.)And then I turned shoreward,and high squalls were overhead;the mountains loomed up black;and I could have fancied I had slipped ten thousand miles away and was anchored in a Highland loch;that when the day came,it would show pine,and heather,and green fern,and roofs of turf sending up the smoke of peats;and the alien speech that should next greet my ears must be Gaelic,not Kanaka.
And day,when it came,brought other sights and thoughts.I have watched the morning break in many quarters of the world;it has been certainly one of the chief joys of my existence,and the dawn that I saw with most emotion shone upon the bay of Anaho.The mountains abruptly overhang the port with every variety of surface and of inclination,lawn,and cliff,and forest.Not one of these but wore its proper tint of saffron,of sulphur,of the clove,and of the rose.The lustre was like that of satin;on the lighter hues there seemed to float an efflorescence;a solemn bloom appeared on the more dark.The light itself was the ordinary light of morning,colourless and clean;and on this ground of jewels,pencilled out the least detail of drawing.Meanwhile,around the hamlet,under the palms,where the blue shadow lingered,the red coals of cocoa husk and the light trails of smoke betrayed the awakening business of the day;along the beach men and women,lads and lasses,were returning from the bath in bright raiment,red and blue and green,such as we delighted to see in the coloured little pictures of our childhood;and presently the sun had cleared the eastern hill,and the glow of the day was over all.
The glow continued and increased,the business,from the main part,ceased before it had begun.Twice in the day there was a certain stir of shepherding along the seaward hills.At times a canoe went out to fish.At times a woman or two languidly filled a basket in the cotton patch.At times a pipe would sound out of the shadow of a house,ringing the changes on its three notes,with an effect like QUE LE JOUR ME DURE,repeated endlessly.Or at times,across a corner of the bay,two natives might communicate in the Marquesan manner with conventional whistlings.All else was sleep and silence.The surf broke and shone around the shores;a species of black crane fished in the broken water;the black pigs were continually galloping by on some affair;but the people might never have awaked,or they might all be dead.
My favourite haunt was opposite the hamlet,where was a landing in a cove under a lianaed cliff.The beach was lined with palms and a tree called the purao,something between the fig and mulberry in growth,and bearing a flower like a great yellow poppy with a maroon heart.In places rocks encroached upon the sand;the beach would be all submerged;and the surf would bubble warmly as high as to my knees,and play with cocoa-nut husks as our more homely ocean plays with wreck and wrack and bottles.As the reflux drew down,marvels of colour and design streamed between my feet;which Iwould grasp at,miss,or seize:now to find them what they promised,shells to grace a cabinet or be set in gold upon a lady's finger;now to catch only MAYA of coloured sand,pounded fragments and pebbles,that,as soon as they were dry,became as dull and homely as the flints upon a garden path.I have toiled at this childish pleasure for hours in the strong sun,conscious of my incurable ignorance;but too keenly pleased to be ashamed.
Meanwhile,the blackbird (or his tropical understudy)would be fluting in the thickets overhead.
A little further,in the turn of the bay,a streamlet trickled in the bottom of a den,thence spilling down a stair of rock into the sea.The draught of air drew down under the foliage in the very bottom of the den,which was a perfect arbour for coolness.In front it stood open on the blue bay and the CASCO lying there under her awning and her cheerful colours.Overhead was a thatch of puraos,and over these again palms brandished their bright fans,as I have seen a conjurer make himself a halo out of naked swords.
For in this spot,over a neck of low land at the foot of the mountains,the trade-wind streams into Anaho Bay in a flood of almost constant volume and velocity,and of a heavenly coolness.
It chanced one day that I was ashore in the cove,with Mrs.
Stevenson and the ship's cook.Except for the CASCO lying outside,and a crane or two,and the ever-busy wind and sea,the face of the world was of a prehistoric emptiness;life appeared to stand stock-still,and the sense of isolation was profound and refreshing.On a sudden,the trade-wind,coming in a gust over the isthmus,struck and scattered the fans of the palms above the den;and,behold!in two of the tops there sat a native,motionless as an idol and watching us,you would have said,without a wink.The next moment the tree closed,and the glimpse was gone.This discovery of human presences latent over-head in a place where we had supposed ourselves alone,the immobility of our tree-top spies,and the thought that perhaps at all hours we were similarly supervised,struck us with a chill.Talk languished on the beach.As for the cook (whose conscience was not clear),he never afterwards set foot on shore,and twice,when the CASCO appeared to be driving on the rocks,it was amusing to observe that man's alacrity;death,he was persuaded,awaiting him upon the beach.It was more than a year later,in the Gilberts,that the explanation dawned upon myself.
