“Aue! Aue!” wailed the stricken mother, as we turned away from the graveside. And three or four little children who had stood watching the burial procession from the shades of the flamboyant trees, cried: “Wa noo! Wa noo!” and then disappeared in some fright down the forest tracks. Such was the end of Ramao as the sunset fired the far-off sea horizon. The cicalas were chrruping in the belts of mangroves as we arrived once more at Langi’s homestead.
For a long time after that sad incident I fancied I could hear some wail of sorrow in the mournful monotones of the waves that incessantly beat against the barrier reefs. But the splendid reality of the hot sunlight again came over the world. Again Time turned the withered pages of each blue tropic day, pages that faded into the yellowing of each sunset. Flowers on the slopes grew musical with bees. Fierce happiness reigned in the tribal villages along the coast as the old chiefs chanted their savage memories of olden time and the children thumped toy drums. Bright-eyed maidens and amorous youths laughed and sang. Then O Le Langi enticed me to go off troubadouring with him.
“We maker lot moneys, O Tusitala!” said he.
And so I went, and O Le Langi carried my violin as we tramped miles and miles visiting the coast villages. Sometimes we hired a canoe and paddled to the many islets of the Samoan group. With his tappa robe wrapped about him, the tasselled end flung cavalier-wise over one shoulder, O Le Langi would stand with chin raised as he stood in the old tribal forums of many a lonely native village, chanting melodiously as I played on my violin. Even the white men, traders and sailors in the grog-bars near Matautu, down by the beach on Savaii Isle, left their rum mugs, strode to the bar doorway, listened and stared, as Langi told wonderful things about his old gods, pointing magnificently to the trees, the distant mountains and seas, calling them mighty witnesses of all which he would claim for the beauty of his legendary world. The old shellbacks opened their eyes in astonishment, tugged their beards, spat seaward, and stared again, as the earnest note in his voice gained even their ragged respect. It must have been a strange sight as my pagan brother-artist stood before them, clothed in the majesty of a past tribal chiefdom and the glory of a proud imagination that they could not understand. But what cared I, as with fiddle to my chin I played on, my helmet hat tilted back on my head, till O Le Langi’s wheezy voice gave the final chant ere he snatched that dilapidated shelter from the tropic sun off my head, and held it under the eyes of those sunburnt men from the seas!