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We here heard of the death of one of Tati's sons, of which he numbered twenty-one. He had been dead three days, and his friends were awaiting Tati to pay the last honours to the deceased. I had intended to make an excursion to the Lake Vaihiria, but deferred doing so, in order to be present at the burial. On the following morning, 6th May, I paid a visit to the hut of the deceased.
Under the bow the water was hissing as from a steam jet, the air was filled with driven spray, there was a rush and rumble and long-echoing roar, and the canoe floated on the placid water of the lagoon. Moti laughed and shook the salt water from his eyes, and together they paddled in to the pounded-coral beach where Tati's grass walls through the cocoanut-palms showed golden in the setting sun.
Some of the dishes and knives and forks had belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson, who, said Tati, had given them to him when he was departing from Tahiti. Tati's sister, a widow, was of the party, and together we went to the Protestant churchyard to her husband's tomb. It was imposing and costly, and the inscription read: In Memory of Dorence Atwater, beloved husband of arii inoore Moetia Salmon.
Nevertheless, in spite of this, there was no other course open to us but to bid defiance to the angry water deity, and proceed upon our journey. In half an hour I was literally drenched; this being the case, I went on uncomplainingly, as it was impossible for me to become wetter than I was. On my return to Papara, I found that Tati's son was not buried, but the ceremony took place the next day.
He would buy a schooner one of those yacht- like, coppered crafts that sailed like witches and go trading copra and pearling among the islands. He would make the valley and the bay his headquarters. He would build a patriarchal grass house like Tati's, and have it and the valley and the schooner filled with dark-skinned servitors.
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