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Updated: June 21, 2025
A hand fumbled against the mat that served for a door. "Who is there?" Mapuhi cried. "Nauri," came the answer. "Can you tell me where is my son, Mapuhi?" Tefara screamed and gripped her husband's arm. "A ghost!" she chattered. "A ghost!" Mapuhi's face was a ghastly yellow. He clung weakly to his wife. "Good woman," he said in faltering tones, striving to disguise his vice, "I know your son well.
The height of the hurricane endured from eleven at night till three in the morning, and it was at eleven that the tree in which clung Mapuhi and his women snapped off. Mapuhi rose to the surface of the lagoon, still clutching his daughter Ngakura. Only a South Sea islander could have lived in such a driving smother.
Half-drowned, exhausted, they were hurled into this mad mortar of the elements and battered into formless flesh. But Mapuhi was fortunate. His chance was the one in ten; it fell to him by the freakage of fate. He emerged upon the sand, bleeding from a score of wounds. Ngakura's left arm was broken; the fingers of her right hand were crushed; and cheek and forehead were laid open to the bone.
But when Mapuhi exposed the pearl to his sight he managed to suppress the startle it gave him, and to maintain a careless, commercial expression on his face. For the pearl had struck him a blow. It was large as a pigeon egg, a perfect sphere, of a whiteness that reflected opalescent lights from all colors about it. It was alive. Never had he seen anything like it.
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