The moon is a slice of melon afloat in an inky sea. By pearly light, the lush jungle becomes a fantasy of half-seen shapes and half-heard sounds.

Here, the subtle flutter of feathers, the strident shriek of a bird disturbed by drifting shadows.

There, a caw from another species.

Here, the stealthy tread of furred paw, a clash of teeth upon unsuspecting flesh, and a cry of something dying.

And there, in tall grass at the edge of a clearing, the susurrus of sighs, wet mouth movements, satin-smooth slap of skin on skin. "Ah, Vanui," breathes a husky, masculine voice, its owner lost in overgrown vegetation. "A moment ago, I felt strong enough to crush rocks in my hands. Now you have made me weak as a newborn nufa-liki. And look: I am bleeding where you bit me!"

Comes a rustle, a muffled giggle. A feminine voice laden with the sultriness of tropical night: "I am sorry, Pukuoa. I lost myself in you. You taste sweet as a mango." Then, a hint of bedevilment: "Did I hurt the big, strong warrior?"

"It is nothing. In your arms I feel no pain. So bite where you will. It will hurt only when you have left me."

In silence, Vanui's slim brown hand lifts to tease the tufted tip of a pollen-loaded night-flower, descends to entwine with Pukuoa's strong, mahogany-hued fingers on the rise.

"But do not go yet, my love," the young man says. "Stay beside me a little longer." Her response is delayed by busy lips and caressing hands.

"I cannot. I must return soon, my true joy, before my husband"—the word is spit out as though it were bitter fruit— "misses me."

A long silence is filled only with the chirp and whine of insects. The grass moves and two moon-silvered figures stand to wrap frond-woven girdles about loins, rearrange necklaces of shell, bracelets of bone. The figures merge. One face polishes the other. The girl turns away. "I must go." She tilts her head to insert a gaudy ornament through an earlobe.

He nods. "I shall walk with you until the paths divide. I shall take the longer route back to the village."

Vanui and Pukuoa join hands and trample a path through unresisting stalks of grass, away from the spot matted by their bodies, towards the well-beaten trail. They dawdle, cling for a hundred foot-dragging paces, their hearts so full of one another they scarcely speak. At this moment, the earth could cease spinning, rocks could belch fire, the ocean could turn dry, and they would not care. What could be more awe-inspiring that what they feel? At the junction of the paths, they embrace. The two distinct shapes, one large and bulky, one small and lithe, blend into an amorphous mass.

They spring apart instantly at the clap of thunder contained in four soft-spoken words: "My wife. My brother." A broad shadow detaches from the black bole of a baobao tree, steps forward. Moonlight strikes sparks from the polished stone point of a spear.

"Batani!" The girl's face is a shocking mask of capiz-inlaid teak. She flings Pukuoa's hand from her as though it is aflame. "My hu-hu-husband," Vanui stutters, eyes downcast. Her bare toes groove the soil as she sidles towards the newcomer. "It was such a pleasant night. The stars were so bright. Pukuoa and I were enjoying a short walk along the trail, and—"

"Fata'apaa! Liar!" Batani brandishes the spear, prevents her approach. "I saw you in Pukuoa's arms."

She glimpses Pukuoa from the corners of her eyes. He stands as though made of wood. "You are mistaken, my husband." Vanui’s voice shakes. Her lips are twisted in a ghastly smile. "I stumbled on a root and Pukuoa caught me before I fell. That is all you saw."

"Liar!" Batani's eyeballs are bulged and bloody, like tuka bird egg yolks. "I see tooth marks there." He points with a stiff finger at her left breast.

Vanui's glance darts down, ricochets towards the statue-like Pukuoa and meets her husband's glare on the rebound. Her laugh is brittle. "I bathed in the pond. It is the mark of a leech, just a leech." Her hand cups the wound. “You know you cannot feel them when—"

"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Batani stamps a calloused foot with each word. His nostrils flare around boar's tusks. "If you have bathed, my wife, why can I smell the sweat of passion on you still? Explain that away, if you can!" A self-satisfied smile plays about his lips then dies from lack of nourishment.

Vanui does not speak. Her eyes slide from side to side as though watching the movements of an advancing snake. The hand on her breast squeezes convulsively, but she seems not to notice. The other hand is rigid, splay-fingered at the end of a numb arm.

"Rapua!" Batani’s eyes are aglow. "Whore!" A meaty hand lashes out, smacks against Vanui's cheek. The blow resounds like a breaking branch, lifts the girl off her feet. She tumbles into a heap.

As he hears the insult and sees his lover hurt, Pukuoa tenses muscles to spring upon Batani.

But the other man is ready. He shifts the spear, grazes Pukuoa's belly, drawing a thin ribbon of blood. Lips compressed, Pukuoa steps back, hands dangling limply at sides, chin resting on chest: a posture of defeat.

"Betrayer!" Batani grabs a handful of Pukuoa's hair. He places the spear blade against his victim's throat, where pulse throbs beneath skin, and peers into the face that contains the same brooding eyes, the same broad nose, and the same thick lips as his own.

The armed man looks from Pukuoa to Vanui, who regains her feet and massages her cheek. "I should kill you both now and be done with it." Batani's eyes slice the pair into tiny pieces. "But I will not." He thrusts Pukuoa's head away, takes several deep breaths. The fire in him subsides. "We have laws to deal with you."

 Pukuoa and Vanui exchange a quick peek. Vanui bites her lip. Pukuoa impotently clenches and unclenches fists, knowing the futility of trying to overpower his brother, a proven warrior with a penchant for maiming.

 Pukuoa creeps forward, voice falsetto with fright. “It will not happen again. I will not let Vanui lure me into the grass—"

 "Me? Lure you?" Vanui ignores her husband, stalks over to confront Pukuoa. "It was you who could not pass by without touching me. It was you who nearly carried me off. I did not want to go, but—"

 “Enough!” Batani steps aside, motions the pair ahead of him, his eyes as fiery as a jungle cat’s. "No more talk. Back to the village." He prods them alternately with his spear point and they move on wobbly, hesitating legs down the trail.

The entire adult population is turned out. They gather about the blazing fire-pit, men with spears standing, women seated. Each wears freshly applied stripes of black paint and a somber expression. Not one of the villagers utters a sound, but all eyes bore into Vanui and Pukuoa, still held at bay by Batani.

With a flourish of his war club, Chief Tahai ducks out of his hut, strides to the lovers, glares into their faces. His cheeks and forehead are smeared with streaks of black and ochre. A pair of luupani claws sprouts from his nostrils, framing thick, unsmiling lips. His hair is festooned with multicolored feathers. "You have disgraced yourselves and our village! You have broken tabu!" He shakes a fist at the young man and woman.

"Ta-bu," the assembled villagers softly chant. "Ta-bu."

"Vanui, you lay with Pukuoa. You deceived your husband, the noble Batani." The latter, at mention of his name, draws up a little taller. "This man feeds you. He shelters you. He protects you. He pledged himself to you, in blood. He is the only man you are privileged to couple with. You have broken tabu!"

"Ta-bu!" The chant grows in tempo and volume. "Ta-bu!"

"You, Pukuoa, betray your brother. You lust after his wife. Your own brother! Backstabber!" The chief jabs a finger at the cowering man. "Traitor! You have broken tabu!"

"Ta-bu!" The villagers shout, their eyes staring, mouths wide. The jungle echoes with the sound. "Ta-bu!"

The chief raises the war club and the chant ceases. For a beat, there is only the crackle of the fire and the distant protest of a jungle creature to disturb the silence.

"The law is clear," Tahai says, loud enough for all to hear. "Shall trees be heavy with fruit? Shall waters give up their bounty? Shall we triumph in battle? Shall sickness pass us by? Shall our women bear healthy children?" He pauses until the last head bobs in agreement. "If these things are to be, the village must be cleansed of this shame. We must be purified. Tabu must be lifted!" He finishes with both arms upraised.

The villagers blare a chilling cry in accord.

Again the chief slashes the air for quiet. "But first, we must know where the fault lies in this transgression."

"It was she, I swear it!" Pukuoa whines.

 "No, no." Vanui's voice is shrill. "He is the one!"

 The chief motions and the protests dribble away to nothing. "As I say, we must know where the fault lies." Tahai sweeps a hand towards the girl. "Did Vanui entice Pukuoa?"

 She shakes her head, vigorously denying guilt.

 Tahai drops one hand, raises the other. "Or did Pukuoa lure Vanui away from her husband?"

 Pukuoa makes no sound or movement, but pierces his companion of the evening with a barbed stare.

 The chief addresses the crowd. "Or are they both equally guilty? We must be sure of the answer lest we punish someone unjustly. For that is also tabu."

Tahai approaches the trembling couple. "There is one true way to decide upon whose head the blame rests." He faces the crowd, his voice a roar. "We shall have the test of the Na'a-Na'a."

At the word, both Vanui and Pukuoa start as if pricked. Vanui moans and seems to shrink into herself. Pukuoa turns as if to run, but is confronted by Batani and a wall of spear wielders.

"Seize them," Chief Tahai orders.

Immediately, strong hands grasp the pair and bear them towards the fire-pit. There, a few paces from blazing logs, heavy wooden posts the thickness of a man stand driven into the earth a double arm's-breadth apart. In moments, the prisoners are securely bound with woven fiber ropes to the two center posts, facing one another. The villagers, stippled by dancing shadows that distort faces and deform bodies, cluster behind them.

Tahai retrieves from his hut a small box cleverly constructed of kanupopo leaves. With back to the fire, facing both prisoners and spectators, he speaks: "The Na'a-Na'a will show the truth." The chief sets the box down halfway between fire and posts, equidistant from the prisoners. Squatting, he lifts a hinged door, steps gingerly away.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, there is a slight movement within the box. A black tendril appears. Another appendage follows then another and another until the contents of the box are fully revealed.

The villagers emit gasps and babble excitedly. "Na'a-Na'a."           

It is a spider the size of a child's fist, lava-black and fuzzy like cocoanut husk, with legs long as a man's fingers. In its bite, as everyone knows, is excruciating pain and certain death.

The fire’s heat drives the creature forward, inch by hesitant inch as its shadow lengthens before it. Feeling ahead with wavering forelegs, the spider takes a tentative step on a line that will carry it between the posts. Uneven earth, chewed by countless unshod feet, compels it towards Vanui one moment, towards Pukuoa the next.

The girl slumps senseless from her bonds, whites of eyes showing beneath half-closed lids.

Pukuoa is drenched with sweat as though he were roasting over the fire, body taut against ropes, teeth brilliant in a terrified grimace.

Now the Na'a-Na'a is but inches from Vanui's bare foot. It reaches out, rests one furry foreleg on her smallest toe. The girl does not, or cannot, react. The spider pauses. Villagers crane forward, torches at the ready should the spider come too near.

At the fringe of the throng stands Batani, watching grim-faced.

Pukuoa cannot take his eyes from the Na'a-Na'a, torn between morbid fascination for what is to transpire, loathing for the creature touching Vanui's smooth skin, and relief it was she, not he, who was chosen.

But wait.

The spider leaves Vanui and moves on, making for jungle beyond. Then it senses the collective mass of assembled villagers, veers, and strides resolutely towards Pukuoa.

The young man draws back as the spider nears, trying to become part of the post that holds him. A thin wail issues from his lips, changes to guttural moan as the Na'a-Na'a finds purchase on the man's quivering foot and begins to climb. The ascent seems to take forever. The spider gropes upward and Pukuoa, shaking as though seized by fever, hinders its progress. But the creature clings stubbornly. At last it reaches the lower edge of Pukuoa's girdle, then disappears from view beneath the fabric.

Pukuoa is like a madman. With an inhuman cry, he wraps hands about the post at his back, braces legs, and strains towards the sky. Such is his effort that he raises the post an inch out of the earth.

The spectators, including Vanui, now awake and watching intently, are awestruck by this feat.

Pukuoa appears to completely lose reason. His eyes start as though about to vacate their sockets, the pupils flitting like scorched moths. His nostrils are twin fumaroles, his mouth a gaping black hole ringed with teeth, from which saliva bubbles. His muscles twitch as though he has hold of an electric eel. A low, growling sound emanates from Pukuoa's throat, rises in pitch and volume, shatters jungle chatter into a million silent fragments, passes into a range that sets fruit bats flying.

As the noise reaches the limits of hearing, the threshold of pain, Pukuoa leaps into the air. The heavy post jumps free of the earth like a spear yanked from a wound. The villagers fall back as Pukuoa takes one, two, three stone-legged steps towards them, bent double by the great weight to which he is tied.

A small, dark shape drops from him and scurries for the safety of nearby foliage. No one prevents the Na'a-Na'a's escape. Its job is done.

Pukuoa falls to his knees, mouth covered with foam. Chief Tahai motions. Four men catch the post as it topples, free the bound man now writhing feebly, glazed-eyed, in pain.

Batani steps to Vanui, releases her with a stroke of his spear point. She rushes into his arms, babbling.

The villagers bear Pukuoa to the edge of the fire-pit. His eyes blink rapidly as though trying to focus.

Chief Tahai pushes through the crowd to stand over Pukuoa. "The Na'a-Na'a has chosen. You are guilty. You must pay the penalty for breaking tabu."

"Ta-bu, ta-bu." The chanting villagers close around the stricken man.

The chief produces a stone-headed ceremonial axe, so heavy he must lift it with both hands, the edge ground sharp enough to shave with, were shaving necessary. "Hold him," Tahai commands.

Men spring forward to pinion the helpless Pukuoa. "Your arms held a woman that was not yours." Tahai raises the axe high. "This will never happen again."

Pukuoa can only watch as the blade descends once, twice, severing his arms at the shoulder.

He feels the force of each impact.

Hears the snap of bone.

Sees the spurt of bright blood.

Experiences the awful sensation of watching his claw-fingered arms move away as though reaching for help that will never come.

Though he wants to, he cannot cry out, for his throat is paralyzed. It does not hurt—what is such pain compared to the bite of the Na'a-Na'a? Mercifully, the misery will end soon, with the feast of sharing, when all absorb the essence of his sin and learn from it.

"Ta-bu, ta-bu!" The crowd is driven to frenzy by the sight of blood.

The chief hands the club to Batani. "The honor is yours."

The corners of Batani's mouth rise as he accepts the weapon, glances down at the man resembling him. "I do not deserve the honor." He addresses the crowd in clear voice, dotting those nearest with crimson droplets from the axe head. "It was not I who survived the trial of justice. It was not I proven innocent of wrongdoing."

The chant dies to a murmur. Heads nod.

Batani lowers the stained head of the weapon to the ground, rests clasped hands on the wooden butt. "The honor belongs to my wife." He beckons. "Come, Vanui, and do what must be done."

All watch silently as the slim girl threads her way forward, eyes downcast.

As she approaches, Batani hefts the axe, muscles rippling, and holds it out to her. She does not take it.

"What is the matter, my dear? Do you still long for Pukuoa?"

Vanui dismisses her former lover with a flick of a wrist. "I cannot lift that club," she says to her husband. "I am not strong like you, Batani."

Batani's teeth show. "Do not worry, my faithful wife." There is a hint of malice in his voice. "I shall help you." He watches as her slender fingers wrap about the thick wooden haft between his own large hands.

Vanui looks past her husband to the recumbent figure, locks gazes with Pukuoa.

The spark she once so admired in his eyes is almost out. His body—so brawny just moments ago—lies limp and mutilated now. How could this husk of a man, his life draining into the earth, have attracted her so? He is less than nothing, of no more importance than a wild pig sizzling on a spit over the fire.

Her eyes slide away, scan the crowd, and pick out a young fisherman named Seppoaia dressed in a red-figured loincloth. Vanui appraises the firm calves, the sturdy thighs flanking the woven girdle, the rounded waist, and the broad chest. Seppoaia's large, liquid eyes watch her every move. His lips part in a secret smile. His tongue-tip flickers like a snake's.

The excitement of near-death past, the thrill of the celebration of rebirth soon to come, arouse in Vanui an inner heat so powerful it seems she must burst into flame.

"Yes," she says to herself, returning the young man's intense stare. "He will be the next one."

The immediate future becomes as clear to her as though it is the recent past.

It will happen one night soon, when these events have faded in clarity.

It will be a night when Batani has drunk his fill of pa'apani, a night like this when the moon is a round cake bitten in half.

She will again bathe in the broth of boiled hal'ana leaves, the scent too subtle for human nose, but a bane to all spiders. She will creep to the clearing a stone's throw from the trail, where the handsome young fisherman will be waiting, and—

The chief clears his throat, shattering the images.

Vanui glances about, sees Batani impatiently tapping one foot. Chief Tahai rocks back on his heels and forward on his toes. The crowd stirs restlessly.

She hesitates no longer. "I am ready, my husband."

Together, Vanui and Batani raise the wedge-shaped lump of stone above their heads.  

Together, they aim at a spot between Pukuoa's agony-dulled eyes.

Together, they let it fall.

The End