Ghost of Gacha and more Tales of the Tahkis

Though only a visitor to the island, Bop had convinced himself that Bucho could overcome his childish fears. Why should Bucho be any different from the rest of the Tahki tribe?

Bucho shuddered to think of spending a night with Moa. On the other hand Bucho trusted Bop and felt that his intentions were good. Through such an experience Bucho’s family and friends might have more respect for him. Bucho gritted his teeth and said, "I’ll do it."

"Great!" said Bop, pleasantly surprised.

That night they carried to Moa’s hut a couple of mats and some bananas to snack on. Upon entering, they noticed that Moa’s appearance had changed dramatically. He was no longer just a mask on a stick. Someone had lashed a wooden crosspiece to the pole and had draped a shawl around what now looked like Moa’s shoulders. In addition, clothe hung from his waist and wrapped around the base of the pole. Moa appeared to be seated, ready to receive whatever anyone brought him.

Flowers, shells and other offerings lay strewn here and there. Someone had propped a small tray immediately below Moa’s moveable jaw. Was it so that he could eat without having to be disturbed in the least?

Bucho shielded his eyes to prevent looking directly at Moa as he and Bop spread out their mats. Beside the flickering flames of a smoky torch, the mask stared silently into the night chill. Three fangs cast shadows across its ugly face. A vacuum of eerie blackness occupied the space behind the wide sockets of the skull eyes. Unruly, frizzy hair bushed out from beneath the hat crammed on his head.

Bucho lay down beside Bop who handed him half a banana he’d just peeled. Bucho ate slowly, saying nothing, shivering now and then. Instead of popping the last bite into his mouth, he got up, reverently placed the tidbit on Moa’s tray and lay back down, breathing hard from the ritual he’d just performed.

"My gosh," thought Bop. "Perhaps Bucho is stuck forever in his childish ways. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, after all."

Bop leaned back on his mat, rested his head in his hands and stared at Moa -- truly a dreadful sight he had to admit. In the theatre of his mind he replayed the scene from earlier that morning of the children running up to tell their parents about Moa. He recalled the groan they said the mask made: "Mo-o-a-a! Mo-o-a-a!" Suddenly Bop realized that the scene and its sound effects were coming not just from his memory but directly from the real thing in front of him. He sat up too hastily and accidentally kicked Bucho in the rear.

The unexpected jolt so startled Bucho that he curled his knees tightly against his chest and hid his head.

"What’s going on?" he whimpered.

"Don’t look, Bucho! Not now!" Bop warned him.

"Mo-o-a-a! Mo-o-a-a!" the mask growled, its jaw opening.

Bucho peeped out from under his arm just in time to see the grizzly drama. From between Moa’s yellowish-green fangs there slowly protruded a black hairy tongue. It quickly lunged like an attacking snake and dragged back into its mouth not the banana that Bucho had left, but the unwary cockroach roaming on top of it. Then Moa slowly closed his mouth: "Mo-o-a-a!"

Bucho unfolded himself, crawled out of the hut and began running, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Bop ran after him. "Wait, Bucho! Wait!"