Then Bogo, the Mamoose of Mer, strode heavily forward. They greeted by lifting outstretched arms and placing the hands on each other’s shoulders, smiling with a side touch of the face to each cheek; but only the highly initiated few noted the secret signs of the Bomai-Malu that passed between them. Then Beizam, proudly erect and smiling shyly, stepped forward. His hawklike eyes shone as the people shouted his name, and he trembled with happiness when the great Kebisu smilingly touched his head-mai. The youth thrilled when the crowd shouted in renewed approbation; an ecstatic premonition of greatness to come coursed madly through his brain and heart. Then out strode Kesu, Mamoose of Eroob, as “broad as he was long,” with arms knobbed like the roots of trees and paws that swung at a level with his knees. His face was that of a killer who could accept death with a laugh. Kebisu greeted him with the geniality of long friendship, then turned to Orama, Mamoose of Naghir. This man was tall, a fitting representative of the towering, needle-like peak which marked his own cold grey island. He walked with stealthy litheness. His form was splendid, his face should have been that of a god. So it was-a devil-god! Cruelty personified, his handsome features expressed a vindictiveness that had never shown mercy to any living thing. His piercing eyes adored Kebisu, but only as the Killer. Next came Maros, Mamoose of Ugar, idol of his people, unadulterated bad man. Of all the unscrupulous scoundrels known to the Islanders, Maros was the worst. He was fairly tall, and his body was nuggety and muscled like that of a horse. He stepped forward with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. An ugly man, his grim face was rendered striking by the menace in the rolling black eyes which could, however, twinkle into laughter in a second. Maros lived! He did not know what fear was, found joy in daily life, and loved a fight even more than he loved women.
Then out stepped Jakara, with a devil-may-care defiance, with head erect and smiling face, a strongly-formed man of living bronze. His steel-grey eyes and long brown hair contrasted strangely with the black eyes and hair of the mixed tribes. Kebisu joined with unfeigned approval in the shouts, “Jakara the Wise!” “Jakara the Lamar of Cunning!” “When will Jakara flash Lightning again?” And in varying degrees of high estate among this throng were those of the Bomai-Malu. By secret signs these also Kebisu greeted, but they alone knew when and how.
Then the Island Mamooses and village chiefs and councillors formed a body-guard and escorted Kebisu along the pleasant village street towards the Sacred Grove where the Zogo-le and attendant Tami-le priests were waiting.
The people thronged around the Tutu men and laughingly quarrelled over their entertainment, as with songs and joking they led them across the village street to where the feast was hot in the kop-maori ovens. And Jakara was at liberty to notice Eyes of the Sea.
Eyes of the Sea, in the centre of an admiring group, was all vivacious movement and gay repartee under the excitement; her sweet little laugh echoed in Jakara’s heart as he pushed in among the crowd. She was small compared with the girls around, her skin was berry-brown, her body slim and rounded, with the silken strength of the dancer. She had come arrayed in the softest though shortest of skirts, with a necklet of mother-of-pearl round her comely throat. Her restless limbs were braceleted with mottled tortoise-shell: rich brown hair played upon little round breasts. Her face was a cameo of happiness made startlingly beautiful with eyes of intense blue – laughing eyes under long black lashes, mischievous and roguish. Obviously a happy girl.
She smiled impulsively at Jakara, saying demurely, “Greeting to Jakara of Mer,” and he smiled back with a wealth of good wishes in eyes that had grown very kind. Shyly, but serenely, she gazed at this Lamar of whom she had heard so much. The on-lookers watched delightedly. Jakara laughed boyishly amid the sudden silence, and took her hand and turned, leading the way into the village.
A boisterous shout arose as the people scrambled to tear down palm-branches to wave over them. The girl’s blood quickened, for among this people such a proceeding was a sign: when a man boldly took the hand of a girl, he was bidding for the possession of her. No one guessed at the hurt in the heart of the Pretty Lamar.
But Eyes of the Sea broke away with a prevaricating laugh that hid her quickened thoughts. She instinctively realized that something would come of this. The world, as she knew it, had been her playground. All her wild life she had been the independent favourite of a people who determinedly suppress their women when possible, and now she felt, though without understanding, that the playground held other players, perhaps a master.
Jakara leaned against a palm. Life was suddenly interesting. His world had changed, too; a brightness had come into it, something pleasant to think about, something to look forward to – it felt nearly like happiness.
The vivid blue of the girl’s eyes had surprised and enchanted, as her brown skin had shocked him. He remembered his dreams of a white-skinned girl, forgetting that the sun and sea had browned her ever since childhood. And the gold fringing of her hair! Constant sea-diving turned the ends of the native girls’ hair a bright brown, but this girl’s hair was fringed with gold. Above mere prettiness, she represented something very dear – the heart and mind of a white girl. So he held a wealth of reverie until sundown, to stare uncomprehending into the harsh eyes of a Maid-le messenger. Quickly he woke. That whispered name busied his mind as he strode through the palms, then up the hill-side track that vanished within the Wongai grove. It was oppressively silent and gloomy in there, for Wongai-trees are rugged and almost squat, and their lowlying, grey limbs carpeted the ground with shadows. Finally, across the open of the tree-walled amphitheatre he hurried, guessing with certainty what was required of him, yet not thinking of it, for he was planning to keep Eyes of the Sea now that she was here. Almost subconsciously, he noticed Beizam standing alone among the Wongai-trees and gazing longingly towards the Zogo-house. “The black pup would love to bark inside among the Council,” thought Jakara. “Mer will crown a Caesar when Beizam gains the crescent-mai – though not if I can help it.”
The Zogo-house doors opened to Jakara, and then shut noiselessly. He strode forward and saluted the Au-gud. He could never make cringing obeisance to this thing, but he gave it military salute in recognition of the undoubted powers behind it. And the ways of Jakara the Strange were accepted.
He gazed boldly around. An alien though he was within this chamber of terrorism and of material and spiritual power, he felt the glow of a new feeling, a challenging defiance. He did not realize that it was because he now fondly imagined he had someone else to fight for beside himself.
C’Zarcke regarded him from black eyes as wise as the crocodiles’ teeth plaited in his beard were grotesque. On a coloured mat of sacred patterns he was sitting before the great Au-gud. To his right and left sat the two others of the Island nations, and the Bomai-Malu Zogo-le. Joined with them, and completing the circle, were the lesser Zogo-le of the allied Island groups. Attendant Maid-le priests stood statuesque between the mummies. Old Passi, the chief medicine-man, was there – a slight figure, but the brain within had an expert knowledge of herbs, and the kindly eyes were piercing with hypnotic light. Kebisu, with Bogo and Kesu, sat fronting C’Zarcke. High above all, out over the Council, there floated a pale blue light.
Quietly Jakara, with