The Moai Murders
By Lyn Hamilton
VERI AMO
ANA O KEKE—It was the third day that the food hadn't come, judging by the cycle of light and darkness seen through the narrow opening in the rock, and Veri Amo could feel the pangs in her stomach growing fierce. The others were hungry, too, of course, but secure in the knowledge that sustenance would come, brought and pushed through to them as it always had been. After all, were they, the Neru, not essential to the coming of the birds? But why had the food not come? That was what Veri Amo wanted to know.
She could feel her bones already, through the still abundant flesh, and this was not good. For three days they had been forced to eat the skins from the bananas and potatoes brought before, but now even these were gone. Surely they were not forgotten! No, that would not happen. Her father, after all, was the one who brought the food. But where was he? Veri Amo missed her mother, but she had told Veri Amo to be brave, and brave she would be. Was she not, after all, clan Miru, direct descendants of the great Hotu Matu'a, the first ariki mau at this, the center of the world? Was the king not always chosen from clan Miru?
It was her brother she missed most of all, Veri Amo thought. He had been taken away in the big ship, and she feared he might never return.
It would be possible to go out, she thought, to slither on her back, headfirst through the narrow opening, and thence on to the narrow ledge, high above the rolling sea. Then, she could make her way cautiously up the rocky slope. She would enjoy the feel of the wind on her face after all these weeks. But if she did that, then the carefully cultivated pallor would, like the folds of flesh, be gone. She and the other girls, the chosen, had to be pale and corpulent. They would emerge to take part in the ceremonies at Orongo as soon as the birds came.
She wondered if already the wisemen who scanned the heavens for a sign that the birds were near had taken their places at Haka-rongu-manu to await the signal that the sacred first bird's egg had been found. If so, then soon they would be sent for. No, she would wait, with the others, in the darkness. The food would come as it always had.
1
TE-PITO-TE-HENUA—If there is a list kept somewhere of the most common motives for murder, I very much doubt that a disagreement over a potato features very highly on it. Not that this was just any potato, mind you. It was ipomoea batatas, the sweet potato, and its existence on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere—a mere mote in the planet's watery eye—has plagued those who care about such things for a very long time. Still, you wouldn't expect anyone to kill over it, no matter what the police said.
For me, the tawdry tale of man and potato, one in which I rather reluctantly played a part, was an object lesson in perspective—both keeping it and losing it. In a way, it ended as it began, with a conscious decision about what is most important, in one case life affirming, in the other, bringing life to an end. More than anything else, I think, the events that unfolded at the center of the world demonstrated the fierce grip that the past holds on us all.
The story began happily enough, with news I'd hardly dared hope for lest in doing so I would jinx the outcome. It came in an unexpected visit to my antique shop by my best friend, Moira Meller. She waited while I rang up a sale and saw another satisfied McClintoch and Swain customer to the door. I was a little apprehensive as I wrapped up the merchandise and chatted away to the customer. Moira had not been well in the past few weeks. She was paler and thinner, and I noticed she sat down while she waited. She looked terrific despite that—her dark brown hair in a very sleek "do," without so much as a gray strand visible, and her makeup was, as usual, perfect. She has to look that way, of course. She owns a spa just down the street, and there are certain expectations about the appearance of a spa owner. Fortunately, these do not apply to an antique dealer, although certain standards must be met. By and large people do not buy antiques from someone who looks as if they acquired their merchandise by backing a van up to the door of a house while the owners are vacationing at their condo in Palm Beach.
"Guess what?" she said when we were alone at last. "Everything's okay. The tests have all come back clear."
"Oh, Moira," I said, giving her a hug. "I am so happy to hear that!" She sounded remarkably calm about it. I was over the moon.
"Me too," she said. "Another one of those character-building experiences life throws our way from time to time."
"I suppose it does help put things in perspective," I said.
"Funny you should say that," she said. "When I came out of the anesthetic, the first thought I had, other than 'ouch,' that is, was that if I survived this, I was going to make a list of the things I'd put off and another list of those things that I didn't want to do anymore, and I was going to do the former and stop doing the latter."
"I've been feeling the same ever since I heard you had to have the operation," I said. "I'll tell you now what I wouldn't say before: It was a shock that someone so close was so ill."
"I know," she said. "But now that the doctors have told me I'm fine, I'm not going to forget this. I'm not going back to putting off what I want to do for some indefinite time in the future. You don't know how much time you've got."
"True," I said. "But where to start?"
"Clive isn't here, is he?" she said, looking around.
"No," I replied. "He's off to pick up some stuff for our booth at the antique show at the end of the month."
"I thought I saw his car go by," she said. "There's something I want to discuss with just you."
"There's nobody here," I said. "Not a single customer, either, I regret to say. Discuss whatever you want."
"Easter Island," she said.
"Easter Island?" I said. Somehow this didn't seem to be a topic that required the utmost secrecy.
"Easter Island," she repeated. "It's right at the top of my new life To Do list. I'm going to hug a statue."
"Okay," I said. "That's… well, far."
"I don't care how far it is. Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to go there," she said. "I read all Thor Heyerdahl's books, the one about sailing a raft from South America to Polynesia when everyone said it couldn't be done—Kon Tiki, it was called—and then Aku-Aku, about his archaeological studies on Easter Island. It was incredibly romantic. I thought he was brave and handsome—a hero, in my eyes. I wanted to be an archaeologist, just like him. It's a far cry, I'll grant you, from the spa owner I actually became."
"A very successful spa owner," I said. "Don't forget that. You get written up in business journals all the time."
"I suppose," she said. "I am proud of what I've done, but I'm not just a spa owner. I have lots of other interests, even if it would be difficult to guess that judging by what I've done in the last ten years. Now I'm going to pursue those other interests for a while, starting with Easter Island. It's on my life list. You know—the pyramids in Egypt, the Parthenon in Athens, the Forum in Rome. But somehow, I didn't get to Easter Island to see those stone statues. I don't know why. Maybe life just got in the way. Now I'm going, so there. Admit it, you've always wanted to go."
"Yes, I have," I said. "It's on my life list, too, but I've never been able to think of a single reason for an antique dealer from Toronto to go there. All my travel is for the shop. I haven't had a trip with no work involved for years."
"I guess they wouldn't let you take one of those giant stone heads home with you," she laughed. "There are probably rules about that."