was sticky.
His heart sinking even before he processed what it meant, Poke felt the same horror he’d seen in Hefua’s eyes. He moved his fingers in front of his face to look at them, almost brushing the beaklike nose of the tangata manu. Confused and dismayed, he knew deep inside what he was looking at, what the sticky substance on his fingertips was.
It couldn’t be. He’d won. He’d beaten Teto and was to be the birdman.
Yolk.
“No,” Poke whispered, his voice mirroring Hefua’s.
The tangata manu turned and faced the crowd, spreading the plumage of his arms into an imposing span. Spreading his wings with authority.
“This one has not met the conditions,” he intoned. His voice was a raw cackle, almost screeching. “The egg is cracked.”
Everyone had realized it by then, whether it was by seeing the damaged egg with their own eyes or by hearing the excitement racing through the crowd. But it was still jarring to hear it announced by the tangata manu. The commotion racing through the crowd conveyed a million different things — much disappointment and sympathy, but also a frenzied sense of drama at the sudden change of events.
The tangata manu squawked the pronouncement more loudly, “The egg is cracked!”
Teto’s confusion evaporated quickly with the force of the birdman’s shriek. It took only the briefest time for him to realize that Poke had failed, and the desperate look of maddening defeat on his face gave way quickly to his characteristic grin.
Looking larger and rounder than ever, he raised a triumphant hand above his head and gave an exultant cry. The tangata manu wobbled over to him, his wee eyes studying the egg in Teto’s hei. With a curt nod, he held out his hand, the claws of his long nails hooked upwards to await the competitor’s offer.
Teto’s looked over at Hefua for a long moment as she continued her struggle within the clamping grip of the attendants. When he returned his eyes to the tangata manu, he took the egg from his hei and held it, his fingertips stroking it. “Tangata manu! I, Teto, offer you the first mâmari manu of this year” He took the egg, the island’s ancient symbol of new leadership, and slid it into the open palm of the tangata manu.
The tangata manu treated the egg gingerly, aware of the ease with which his powerful talons could damage and break it. Looking it over carefully, he squealed in his strained voice, “The egg is sound. I yield to the new tangata manu!”
It was an instant that changed everything for Teto. His official power would persist until he accepted next year’s egg, but there would be the residual power of the birdmen that would last the remainder of his life.
The attendants who held his prize were now his. They moved the virgin to stand her at his side. When the robe of feathers was draped around his back, he took on the very first of many reminders that his authority resided in the power of the birds. Later, his hair would be shaved and he would never again cut his nails. As other birds would continue to arrive at the island over the spring in homage to the new tangata manu, his dominion over the people would continue to ascend. It would wane only with the coming of the next season, the rains, when other young men would begin to prepare themselves to compete for his mantle.
Adorned in brightly colored plumage atop the cliff at the highest point on the island, Teto, the tangata manu, looked as though it would require only the slightest of hops over the edge of the cliff for him to take flight and soar supremely over his realm.
Poke’s shoulders sagged. He looked down and touched his lei, sadly caressing the shells he had once watched a little girl retrieve from the sand. The defeat in his face was beyond measure.
But only a single person saw it. All other eyes remained turned to Teto, who spread his arms, stretching his newfound wings, and wrapped them around his prize to embrace her. He cared not at all that she wept plaintively when his lips pressed hers. There was no passion in his kiss anyways. All that mattered was that he now possessed her.
Teto said nothing to Poke, at least not at this moment of his victory. Watching him defile the one person he would forever love, Poke could see the way Teto’s eyes already looked more beady and avian. Those eyes repeated the disgusting thing Poke had heard from Teto’s own lips an eternity ago.
“I will get what I want, Poke. I always do in the end.”
(Author’s Note: The birdman competition was practiced on Easter Island until the 1860’s when it was suppressed by Catholic missionaries. It is one of very few examples in the world where governance of a people was determined by an athletic competition.)
~~~
About the author
Patrick M. Boucher is an author, attorney, and scientist living near Denver, Colorado. He writes both fiction and nonfiction.
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Personal website: https://pmboucher.com
Blog: https://juriscientia.com
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