Weeping with an Ancient God

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Hours pass. Days. Melvill has only a precarious foothold in reality, alive only in a small place within himself. The Typees do what they can for him, in there, but he responds with the barest animal instinct for survival. He swallows the sustenance they pour into his mouth; he uses the crude pots they bring him for his toilet. Once, twice Fayaway washes his inanimate body in Marheyo's hut. Melvill understands, without thinking it, it is for the native family's sake as much as for his. 

At times Melvill is there in the hut alone with these cannibals. At times he is in the fetid Acushnet waiting for his shift to be rang on deck. In New York listening for the sound of his mother coming upstairs to rouse him for school. Always the funny nonsensical words drift down to him and settle strangely on his stomach. And on his heart. 

A parade of visitors wanders past him--Melvill has the impression of an official corpse lying in state. The shuffling of bare feet over the mats and bamboo as the strangers move around him. The voices bearing the nonsensical words again. The voices are like music--plodding Protestant hymns--deep full tones with such a slow rhythm one thinks each note is the last. Until finally there is a last note lingering in the air. His mind tries to make the notes into a familiar pattern: "Are You Washed in the Blood?" "Rock of Ages," "Ye Ransomed Sinners, Hear." Vacuous time passes and Melvill begins to imagine the words of the hymns mingling with the labored Typee melody. After a while he realizes the English is not his imagination at all--and the Typee words are not the slow notes of a song. Melvill opens his eyes and there is an oddly dressed native kneeling next to him. He is saying, "Hermes man to wake now . . . Hermes man to wake now. . . ." 

Finally Melvill interrupts the long string of words. "I'm awake--you speak English." His voice is a whisper. 

"Yes I know the English some." The native smiles broadly. He is not Typee; his skin is darker and the bone structure of his face more angular; and he does not have the Typees' small flat nose. He wears the Typee warrior's sharktooth necklace but he also has on a kind of buttonless red vest and bands of woven grass around each biceps. 

"Who are you?" Melvill manages. His throat is dry. 

"My name is called Marnoo." Again the flash of the broad smile. "I come to speak for you." 

". . . for me . . ." Melvill is voiceless. 

Marnoo signals to someone standing in the shadows beyond Melvill's vision. Melvill expects Korykory or Marheyo to come forth but it is a young boy who brings a cup of water. As the boy helps Melvill drink he notices the three dots on the boy's forehead. He has seen the tattooing before: on the dried heads of the Happar warriors in the Ti. The cool water is delicious and revitalizes Melvill some. He sits up with Marnoo's assistance. 

"How long have I been asleep?" 

Marnoo understands the real point of Melvill's question and says, "Your friend is gone to near five days." He holds up his hand, the fingers and thumb spread. 

Melvill puts his head down--it is true then and not just a terrible dream. 

Marnoo anticipates his next question: "Sailing men like you come to trade, your mate speaks then goes with them to the ship." Again Marnoo anticipates: "They sail away--the Typee say the white sails sink into the ocean." 

Melvill sits quietly for a moment before Marnoo says, "Come. Daylight give you the strength." He helps Melvill stand and hands him his crutch. It is mid to late afternoon. The village is peaceful. Melvill hears the voices of children at play. His leg is stiff but there is little pain. He and Marnoo sit on a log next to the firepit. The sun, slightly filtered by the jungle, does begin to enliven him.