The South Sea Tales. Jack London

Starhurst looked about him with flashing eyes. Upborne by an unwavering trust, untouched by doubt or fear, he exulted in all he saw. He knew that since the beginning of time he was the first white man ever to tread the mountain stronghold of Gatoka.

      The grass houses clung to the steep mountain side or overhung the rushing Rewa. On either side towered a mighty precipice. At the best, three hours of sunlight penetrated that narrow gorge. No cocoanuts nor bananas were to be seen, though dense, tropic vegetation overran everything, dripping in airy festoons from the sheer lips of the precipices and running riot in all the crannied ledges. At the far end of the gorge the Rewa leaped eight hundred feet in a single span, while the atmosphere of the rock fortress pulsed to the rhythmic thunder of the fall.

      From the Buli's house, John Starhurst saw emerging the Buli and his followers.

      "I bring you good tidings," was the missionary's greeting.

      "Who has sent you?" the Buli rejoined quietly.

      "God."

      "It is a new name in Viti Levu," the Buli grinned. "Of what islands, villages, or passes may he be chief?"

      "He is the chief over all islands, all villages, all passes," John Starhurst answered solemnly. "He is the Lord over heaven and earth, and I am come to bring His word to you."

      "Has he sent whale teeth?" was the insolent query.

      "No, but more precious than whale teeth is the—"

      "It is the custom, between chiefs, to send whale teeth," the Buli interrupted.

      "Your chief is either a niggard, or you are a fool, to come empty-handed into the mountains. Behold, a more generous than you is before you."

      So saying, he showed the whale tooth he had received from Erirola.

      Narau groaned.

      "It is the whale tooth of Ra Vatu," he whispered to Starhurst. "I know it well. Now are we undone."

      "A gracious thing," the missionary answered, passing his hand through his long beard and adjusting his glasses. "Ra Vatu has arranged that we should be well received."

      But Narau groaned again, and backed away from the heels he had dogged so faithfully.

      "Ra Vatu is soon to become Lotu," Starhurst explained, "and I have come bringing the Lotu to you."

      "I want none of your Lotu," said the Buli, proudly. "And it is in my mind that you will be clubbed this day."

      The Buli nodded to one of his big mountaineers, who stepped forward, swinging a club. Narau bolted into the nearest house, seeking to hide among the woman and mats; but John Starhurst sprang in under the club and threw his arms around his executioner's neck. From this point of vantage he proceeded to argue. He was arguing for his life, and he knew it; but he was neither excited nor afraid.

      "It would be an evil thing for you to kill me," he told the man. "I have done you no wrong, nor have I done the Buli wrong."

      So well did he cling to the neck of the one man that they dared not strike with their clubs. And he continued to cling and to dispute for his life with those who clamored for his death.

      "I am John Starhurst," he went on calmly. "I have labored in Fiji for three years, and I have done it for no profit. I am here among you for good. Why should any man kill me? To kill me will not profit any man."

      The Buli stole a look at the whale tooth. He was well paid for the deed.

      The missionary was surrounded by a mass of naked savages, all struggling to get at him. The death song, which is the song of the oven, was raised, and his expostulations could no longer be heard. But so cunningly did he twine and wreathe his body about his captor's that the death blow could not be struck. Erirola smiled, and the Buli grew angry.

      "Away with you!" he cried. "A nice story to go back to the coast—a dozen of you and one missionary, without weapons, weak as a woman, overcoming all of you."

      "Wait, O Buli," John Starhurst called out from the thick of the scuffle, "and I will overcome even you. For my weapons are Truth and Right, and no man can withstand them."

      "Come to me, then," the Buli answered, "for my weapon is only a poor miserable club, and, as you say, it cannot withstand you."

      The group separated from him, and John Starhurst stood alone, facing the Buli, who was leaning on an enormous, knotted warclub.

      "Come to me, missionary man, and overcome me," the Buli challenged.

      "Even so will I come to you and overcome you," John Starhurst made answer, first wiping his spectacles and settling them properly, then beginning his advance.

      The Buli raised the club and waited.

      "In the first place, my death will profit you nothing," began the argument.

      "I leave the answer to my club," was the Buli's reply.

      And to every point he made the same reply, at the same time watching the missionary closely in order to forestall that cunning run-in under the lifted club. Then, and for the first time, John Starhurst knew that his death was at hand. He made no attempt to run in. Bareheaded, he stood in the sun and prayed aloud—the mysterious figure of the inevitable white man, who, with Bible, bullet, or rum bottle, has confronted the amazed savage in his every stronghold. Even so stood John Starhurst in the rock fortress of the Buli of Gatoka.

      "Forgive them, for they know not what they do," he prayed. "O Lord! Have mercy upon Fiji. Have compasssion for Fiji. O Jehovah, hear us for His sake, Thy Son, whom Thou didst give that through Him all men might also become Thy children. From Thee we came, and our mind is that to Thee we may return. The land is dark, O Lord, the land is dark. But Thou art mighty to save. Reach out Thy hand, O Lord, and save Fiji, poor cannibal Fiji."

      The Buli grew impatient.

      "Now will I answer thee," he muttered, at the same time swinging his club with both hands.