in it after all." And he swam the harder, but the eddy carried him
away. "I do not care about this eddy," said the missionary; and
even as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above
the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with
another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder led to the
door, and all about the house hung calabashes. He had never seen
such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the
ladder. "This is singular," said the missionary, "but there can be
nothing in it." And he laid hold of the ladder and went up. It
was a fine house; but there was no man there; and when the
missionary looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the
sea. "It is strange about the island," said the missionary, "but
who's afraid? my stories are the true ones." And he laid hold of a
calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities. Now he had no
sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that which he handled, and
that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble and was gone;
and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes of the
net; and he wallowed there like a fish.

"A body would think there was something in this," said the
missionary. "But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my
tales!"

Now the flaming of Akaanga's torch drew near in the night; and the
misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the
missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping
in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru. And
there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her
four daughters, and made the kava of the dead; and there sat the
comers out of the islands of the living, dripping and lamenting.