Lalani of the Distant Sea

by Erin Entrada Kelly

  I don’t think it’s hard to swim, do you? Veyda would say. You kick your legs, sweep your arms in front of you, and move through the water like a fish. Right?

  What did Lalani know of swimming?

  The water was shallow here, at least. But still—

  She took a step. And another.

  She was still on the smooth rocks. A few more steps, and she’d have more grip.

  She’d just become sure of herself when her sandal hit a small wet patch, smaller than a pebble, and bam! She went down. She hit the rock with her knee. A line of fire shot up her leg. She hadn’t fallen in the water, but who cared about that blessing? The pain was so great she screamed. She leaned forward, palms splayed on the rocks in front of her. She shifted back and sat on the wet rock. She studied her leg. A thick clot of blood oozed from the wound.

  “Ugh,” she groaned.

  She eyed the shore, wondering how she would get there with a banged and bloody knee. What if she fell again? She studied the fishing boats, no more than dots bobbing on the horizon now. Her knee throbbed. She wished she knew which boat belonged to her uncle, so she could make a silent request to Mount Kahna. Kahna, if you can hear me, please pull Drum underwater.

  “Lalani!” A man called her name. Maddux Oragleo, Toppi’s father. He was walking along the shore, headed to his fishing boat. “Do you need help?”

  Before she could say no, he was on his way to her, skillfully stepping across the rocks. He pulled her to her feet and frowned at the blood on her knee.

  “You’ll need to wrap that tight,” he said. “I can fetch the menyoro if you’d like. Perhaps he can help you with the injury?”

  “Oh, there’s no need,” Lalani replied. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

  They walked back to the shore together. Something—a wallecta—scampered by. They sidestepped it, with Lalani holding tight to the crook of Maddux’s arm. Wallecta were small creatures who often played near the water. They were sweet, but cautious. Lalani and Veyda had tried to tame one once. But wallecta weren’t meant to be tamed.

  Drum often told Lalani she was as useless as a wallecta. But at least wallecta have small bites of meat to offer us, he’d say. What do you have?

  “I’m sorry Toppi’s sick,” Lalani said. She wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, but she meant it. How unfair it was, she thought, for Toppi to suffer when he’d done nothing wrong.

  But then, any suffering was terrible—wasn’t it?

  “Thank you, Lalani,” Maddux said.

  Lalani let go of Maddux’s arm, relieved to be on solid ground again.

  “There’s so much heartache for everyone these days, as we wait for the rain,” Maddux continued. “It’s kind of you to think of our Toppi.”

  “I wish I could do more for him,” Lalani said. “Me and Veyda, too.”

  “You’re kind girls. You do what you can,” Maddux replied. “And that’s what matters.”

  As Maddux walked away, Lalani felt a stitch of guilt in her gut. He’d said—twice—that she was kind. But she’d wished harm on her uncle moments ago.

  If Maddux knew, would he still think she was a kind girl?

  Probably not, she thought.

  House of Shadows

  Drum, Lalani’s uncle, cast the darkest shadow in the house. Lalani’s real father had died, together with Veyda’s, years before. He had been a Sanlagitan sailor, which meant his life was celebrated and short. Very few men were selected by the menyoro to sail for Isa, where all of life’s good fortunes were said to be, and these men were the strongest, cleverest, or most skilled. The men most likely to survive.

  But they never did.

  Her father’s death had left Lalani and her mother, one of the village menders, alone. But not for long. Lalani’s uncle came knocking on their door soon enough. He’d lost his wife to mender’s disease and had a son, Kul, who needed looking after. Lalani and her mother wanted nothing to do with them. Drum’s temper was legendary, and his son was no better. They were dangerous and sturdy, the pair of them. But how could Lalani’s mother say no to her dead husband’s older brother? It was a match that made perfect sense, at least to the menyoro and Drum.

  Lalani had been eight years old, and she remembered the day vividly. The sky was clear, but a storm had entered their house. Suddenly she had a second father who towered over her, and a scowling brother who was four years older and built like cleaved rock.

  The men took up a lot of space. Not just in the sleeping room, where Lalani and her mother nestled in a corner, but in other ways, too.

  They were fishermen. The smell of sweat, scales, and water crept into every part of the house.

  They were big. Their footfalls shook the floor.

  And they were loud. Lalani knew them by the sound of their boots hitting the ground. The door slamming shut. Demands being made. Mend this shirt. Wash this fruit. Gut the fish.

  And she knew them by their tells. That’s what she called the little hints that told her what was going on in someone’s head. When Veyda braided her hair, it meant she was impatient. When Lo Yuzi lifted her shoulders, it meant her story was almost over. And when her uncle drummed his fingers against his leg, it meant he was angry. And when he was angry, he was frightening.

  So that’s how Lalani thought of him: Drum. He had a name, of course. But his shadow was so dark that Lalani rarely thought of it.

  Drum and Kul weren’t there when Lalani finally made it home. They often left before light to get the best catch. Her mother was awake, sitting in the front room, surrounded by baskets of village clothing and swaths of fabric. Her head was bent over her work. Sometimes she became so focused that she barely knew what was happening around her.

  “Good morning, Mama,” Lalani said.

  Lalani had limped through the village, but she’d had the sense to wipe the weeping lines of blood away with the hem of her dress. Now that she was home, she picked up the first scrap of discarded fabric she saw, sat in the chair next to her mother, and tied the stiff material around her knee. Her mother didn’t ask any questions.

  The room was dimly lit—the sun still in the east—but her mother could mend no matter what. She was good at her job, which meant the menyoro assigned her more clothes and fishing nets than the other menders. Never mind that mending was already one of the most dangerous tasks in Sanlagita.

  Truth be told, Lalani didn’t enjoy sitting next to her mother while she was mending. It made her heart catch to see her mother’s skin near the needle.

  “See how I thread these close together?” her mother said, lifting a shirt to Lalani’s eyes. “If you space your stitches too far apart, your seam will have a hole. No good.”

  Lalani nodded.

  “But you don’t want them too close together, either,” her mother added, going back to work. Her dark hair fell around her face. “Wastes thread. And then the loomers complain to the menyoro.”

  Lalani nodded again. The needle moved swiftly in, out, the point barely a breath from her mother’s fingers. So many menders died in Sanlagita, which made it an unenviable job. Even Lo Yuzi was grateful to spend her days in the blazing sun, harvesting food, rather than sitting indoors with a stack of mending and the threat of mender’s disease.

  “I thought you were mending nets today,” Lalani said. “I saw a pile near the door.”

  “I’ll wait until sunset. Too hot to sit outside,” her mother said. “If the rain doesn’t come, I may have to bring the nets in.”

  Lalani scrunched up her nose, thinking of all the smelly fish guts and scales that would trail inside the house behind the damaged nets.

  Once the seam was complete, her mother neatly folded the shirt, laid it in the basket at her right foot, and reached for the next item.

  “Mama?” Lalani said, after several moments of silence.

  “Hm?”

  “Do you know any stories?

  “Stories?”

  “Yes. Maybe stories from your childhood or something. Like
the story of the beast who lives in Mount Kahna.”

  Her mother tightened her mouth, then lowered her voice and said, “Don’t speak of the mountain outside of benediction. The menyoro says all we have to fear is the wrath of Mount Kahna.”

  Lalani paused, frowning. “Do you know any, though?”

  Her mother’s hands stilled. She gazed off at something in the distance—a memory, perhaps.

  “My mother used to tell me a story,” she said.

  Lalani sat up straighter. “Really?”

  “She said it was a story she heard from her mother. And the mother before her.”

  Lalani had never known any mothers in her family but her own. She imagined them now, a long line of weary women, telling tales to one another.

  “How did the story go?” Lalani asked.

  “All I recall is the first line.”

  “What was the first line?”

  “‘Imagine a place where the binty sing.’”

  A place where the binty sing? Lalani had never heard of such a thing. The binty were small and useless birds. A curious creature to build a tale around. And everyone knew birds didn’t sing. A singing bird—what a funny thought.

  Lalani’s mind swam with anticipation.

  But her mother was not Lo Yuzi. She bowed her head, back to her mending.

  “I don’t remember the rest,” she mumbled. “Best to focus on work.”

  You Are Where the Binty Sing

  Imagine a place where the binty sing. An island far in the north, where they raise their heads like majestic gods and bring forth the most beautiful birdsong you’ve ever heard. You don’t think birds can sing, do you? It sounds foolish, I know. They don’t sing in Sanlagita, that’s true. They are quiet here and sullen and feathered with ash. They have lost their voices. Or perhaps they never knew they had voices. Is that the same thing?

  In the north, they have lost nothing. In the north, on Mount Isa, the binty are beautiful. I don’t know what makes them sing, and I have never heard it. So, I imagine.

  When I have impossible questions, I answer by imagining.

  In my mind, birdsong sounds like the sweetest drip of nectar.

  It sounds like the shining sun of all the island’s daughters.

  It sounds like light in the darkness. A rising moon.

  It sounds like calm after a peaceful sleep, just before you open your eyes.

  Don’t be frightened. Why would something like this frighten you, my little daughter?

  Shh. Shh.

  Listen.

  What does the binty sound like to you?

  Pardon Me

  Boom. Boom. The sound of Drum’s boots hitting the floor. Thunk, thunk: now Kul’s. They strode in, smelling of fish and water, as Lalani gathered a basket of mended clothes. They were home early. But it was clear from the looks on their faces that things had not gone well. Again.

  “The fish aren’t biting,” Drum grumbled. He filled a cup from the basin and drank deeply. Water dripped down his chin. When he was finished, he stepped aside and leaned against the wall near the door. Kul drank and did the same. “And why are there so many nets waiting to be mended?” Drum asked.

  “It’s too hot to sit outside,” Lalani’s mother replied.

  “My son and I were outside all day, and we survived. You can’t manage to mend a few nets?” Drum snorted and shook his head. “Useless, you are.”

  “Useless,” Kul repeated. “The menyoro may have to cut rations if the rain doesn’t come. If you don’t do your work, we’ll be the first to lose our share.”

  “She’s doing her work,” Lalani said, pointing to the basket of mended clothes.

  Kul narrowed his eyes at her. “No one asked you, sahyoon. And what’s wrong with your knee?”

  “I fell.”

  “Idiot,” Kul said.

  Drum took another drink of water, then said, “We’ve never had a dry season like this.”

  “The menyoro should go from house to house and demand more benedictions,” Kul said. “This is punishment from Kahna. Or trickery by that marked ghost woman.”

  “Her name is Ziva,” Lalani said.

  “Who cares what her name is?” Kul snapped.

  Drum strode toward Lalani’s mother, who gathered the clothes from her lap as his shadow fell over her. She soundlessly surrendered her chair. He sat down as she placed her work on the table and kept mending.

  “You best keep an eye out,” Drum said to her. He leaned back in the chair. “If you get sick, you’ll be no use.”

  She nodded without looking up, then lifted her chin to the basket of mended clothes. “Bring those to the loomers, Lalani,” she said. “And ask for the next bundle of rations. I’m nearly out of thread.”

  Lalani was more than happy to go. The day was still hot, dry, and brutal, but it was better than being inside with the shadows. She pulled the basket into the crook of her arm and headed toward the door. Kul blocked her way. He glared down at her and grinned. An evil grin. He was good at those.

  “Pardon me,” Lalani said.

  “Pardon me,” he replied. There was a sneer in his voice. There always was.

  He shifted aside, just enough for her to leave. And she did—quickly—even though it pained her to walk that fast.

  The Loomers

  Menders died on the island of Sanlagita. More than you would expect. The exact cause of the disease was a mystery, but many Sanlagitans believed it was punishment for poor or sloppy work.

  Here was what the villagers knew for certain: mender’s disease struck after a pricked finger, but not every pricked finger made menders sick. If you were lucky, you’d spill some blood and that would be it. But if you were unlucky . . . well, you faced a short and tragic future.

  The first symptom was fever, usually within twenty-four hours. You’d notice a warmth in your chest. A rosiness in your cheeks. Sweat along your hairline. Not long after that, the secret thoughts buried in the corner of your mind crept into the light, and you’d find yourself making confessions—ones you never intended to make. Lalani and Veyda had once visited a sick elderly mender. Veyda had medicine that she thought would help. It lowered the woman’s temperature, but did nothing to ease the fever in her mind. While Veyda was rubbing ointment on her temples, the old woman had motioned them closer.

  “When my sister fell sick, she would send me to pick up her rations. She was so weak, she could hardly move,” the old woman whispered. Her breath was stale, and her lips cracked. “I stole from her every time. Kahna, forgive me.”

  After the confessions came the swelling. Your cheeks and throat swelled like a yoonfish. That’s when you knew for certain that you’d soon be dead, often within ten days.

  According to legend, there was a singular cure for mender’s disease nestled inside the petals of a miraculous flower. The flower was bright yellow, speckled with flecks of white, but it only grew on Mount Isa—one of many good fortunes that existed on the northern island.

  Was it true? Veyda said it was just another tall tale. But no one knew for sure, because the sailors who journeyed across the water never returned. Only pieces of their ships did.

  Lalani thought about this as she made her way through the village with the basket bumping against her skinny, brown leg. Another sailing day was coming up soon. Three sailors would set off into the sea this time, and the entire village would gather at the shore to bid them farewell.

  Lalani didn’t look forward to it.

  It made her think of her father. And Veyda’s. And how they, too, had set off with big dreams. How the villagers had waved and cheered. Lalani had been little then, but she still remembered the way the ship had disappeared into the mist, never to be seen again.

  But no use to mull over bad memories. She had just walked past the line of tubs where the washers worked. The women lifted their eyes and smiled at her. Some had small girls with them who wanted nothing more than to splash in the water that was meant for the clothes. Who could blame them? It was so hot. L
alani waved, even though the women couldn’t wave back because their arms were plunged deep into the water, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing dirty clothes, many of which would eventually find their way to one of the menders. Two of the washers were old and tired, their backs perpetually rounded from decades of bending over the basins.

  Lalani squinted as the sunlight moved across the path.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Kahna towered in the distance. The loomers lived along the foot of the mountain because it was an ideal place to raise shek. Lalani saw them now, round and heavy with soft, white fur that would be sheared and spun into thread. Many of them had been sheared already.

  Bosalene Pasa stood in the doorway of her house, which also served as a work hut for the loomers, with her hands on her hips. Her mouth was a straight, tight line, and she wielded judgment like a weapon. Her sons Bio and Dah were the same way. Luckily, the boys in Sanlagita went to school during the day, so they were rarely there when Lalani picked up her mother’s thread.

  Veyda could hardly stomach the idea of boys like Bio and Dah learning new trades and skills when she and Lalani could not. No amount of schooling could give them brains, Veyda often said.

  “Are those my clothes?” Bosalene asked. A wide fence encircled her small plot of land—a pen for the shek. Only it didn’t look like they had much to graze on. The land had turned brown.

  “How are the shek?” Lalani asked as she handed the basket to Bosalene and craned her neck to find her favorite. She had secretly named him My-Shek, because she thought of him as hers. She was the one who had first noticed the black patch behind his ear, after all.

  Bosalene sorted through the basket, then balanced it on her hip.

  “Not good,” she said. “We need rain. What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “I fell,” Lalani replied absently. “Is Mora Pasa home?”

  Lalani wanted to ask Mora Pasa if she knew the story of the binty, so she could tell it to her mother. What a wonderful gift it would be, Lalani thought, to tell her mother a tale that she’d long forgotten.