Lalani of the Distant Sea

by Erin Entrada Kelly

  “My mother is asleep. She’s not feeling well, you know,” Bosalene said. “Probably because of girls like you running around her all the time, asking for old legends.”

  Lalani turned her attention to the shek again to hide her disappointment. The animals were clustered near the fence. Probably looking for any greenery they could find. The mountain slope looked plush with grass, but no one dared to set an animal or person free on the mountain. Who knew what Kahna would do?

  “I don’t have your mother’s thread rations just yet,” Bosalene said. “But I will tomorrow.”

  Lalani promised to return the next day, then headed back the way she’d come. She walked slowly and tried to distract herself from the pain in her knee by whispering some of Lo Yuzi’s stories to the air. But before long she could think of nothing but the fire in her leg and the dryness of the earth.

  Valiant Hetsbi

  There was only one way to know which boys in Sanlagita were meant to be sailors, shipbuilders, or fishermen: you had to put them to the task.

  Unfortunately, Hetsbi Yuzi was horrendous at everything.

  For shipbuilding instruction, the youngest boys—ages six and seven—first learned how to identify and fell superior trees. Once they reached age eleven, they were supposed to have the skills to build a small fishing boat, big enough for two.

  Hetsbi had started his project with the best of intentions. He planned to build a mighty boat, one that any Sanlagita fisherman could take into the water. A boat that could carry a thousand nets, if needed. How hard could it be? He could be successful if he followed the instructions and watched the stronger boys, like Cade Malay.

  Or so he thought.

  Then he started building and discovered that his hands wouldn’t do what he wanted them to. He wanted to sand the timber smooth, but his hands moved sloppily. He wanted to hammer the nails straight, but his hands missed their marks. He wanted to build a boat that would make jaws drop. We were wrong, the villagers would mutter. We were wrong about Hetsbi.

  But they weren’t.

  His boat was a failure.

  And everyone was about to find out.

  The boys stood in a line near the northern shore, a mile trek from the schoolyard, facing their instructor, Taiting. The Veiled Sea roiled under its strange fog behind them. All ten boys were focused on Taiting. Each of them held his boat upright, ready for inspection.

  Taiting was built like a meha cane—tall and lean, but hearty. He was kind, but firm. Despite his knotted knees, Taiting moved elegantly as he made his way down the line.

  “Well done, Bio,” he said to the Pasa boy. Hetsbi’s heart thundered. “No doubt your father will be pleased for you to take this home.”

  That was the prize for building an operable boat—the boys were able to take their boats back with them to the village, so the fishermen could put them to use. The unusable boats were thrown in a pile of scraps with last year’s failures.

  Taiting moved on to Bio’s brother, Dah Pasa.

  “A bit more sanding here, Dah,” Taiting said. “You don’t want the men getting splinters in their feet.”

  “Yes, Taiting,” said Dah.

  Cade Malay’s boat was next. Cade wore his ax-saw around his waist, like he was ready to fell a tree at any moment. The other boys carried the ax-saw in slings. The knives had short, serrated blades that curved at the end, and Hetsbi was always afraid his would nick his skin if he wore it too close. But Cade wasn’t scared. He had a quality Hetsbi envied. An easy confidence. According to Taiting, his boat was in perfect condition. No surprise there.

  “You’re a skilled builder, like your brother,” said Taiting. “There is much hope for Sailing Day.”

  Oh, yes. Hetsbi had been so preoccupied with his project that he’d forgotten about Sailing Day—Cade’s brother and two cousins would be the first to sail in years. How could he have forgotten?

  Cade did not respond.

  “No doubt your hands show the marks of hard work,” Taiting continued. He inspected Cade’s hands—roughened, torn, with blisters where he’d held the tools—and nodded approvingly.

  Hetsbi put his hands behind his back.

  His were blistered, too.

  His skin had turned to tree bark.

  Every knuckle ached.

  But what did he have to show for it?

  “Aha,” said Taiting, now standing in front of Hetsbi, with Hetsbi’s boat between them. “Let’s take a look.”

  Taiting leaned forward and craned his long neck this way and that, eyeing the belly of Hetsbi’s pathetic vessel.

  Hetsbi heard the Pasa boys snicker, as loud as thunder.

  “I see a streak of auburn here,” Taiting said.

  The boats were meant to be smoothed clean. Unblemished. But on the last day of construction, the tender and overworked skin between Hetsbi’s index finger and thumb finally broke, and drops of blood had plunked down on the boat, like fat teardrops. He’d sanded them into the wood. What choice did he have?

  “An imperfection,” said Hetsbi quietly.

  What would Taiting make of a boy who’d worked so hard and done so little?

  The instructor crouched and moved along the edge of the boat on his haunches, like an insect ready to pounce. He had nearly reached Hetsbi’s feet when he frowned.

  “I’m afraid the nose of the vessel is too narrow and uneven,” Taiting said.

  “Yes,” said Hetsbi.

  A spattering of quiet laughter spread among the other boys. Hetsbi kept his eyes down.

  “It will never navigate well in the water,” Taiting said.

  “I understand,” said Hetsbi.

  The teacher stood. He towered over Hetsbi.

  “It was a valiant effort,” he said.

  Mouthful of Yoonfish

  After the sun set and the family had their plates of fish, Lalani asked if she could stay at Veyda’s house again.

  Drum spoke before her mother could answer.

  “You spend too much time with that girl,” he said. A flake of fish sat on his lip. He drummed two large fingers against the table and eyed Lalani suspiciously. “There’s something not right about the Yuzis. That girl’s got ideas in her head. And the boy’s so useless, he may as well be a girl. A boy who’s afraid of his own feet will never become a man.”

  Kul chuckled through a mouthful of yoonfish.

  Lalani twisted her hands in her lap. “She’s my best friend,” she said.

  “What do you girls do over there, anyway?” Kul asked. “Talk about your lost papas?”

  He chuckled again.

  Lalani’s mother lifted her eyes. They landed on Kul. Hard.

  “You may go to Veyda’s, Lalani,” she said.

  The only time her mother showed defiance was when someone spoke out against her first husband.

  Your father was kind, but too strong for his own good, she used to say, back when she still mentioned him. Kahna forgive me, but there were times I wished he were weak or ill. Then the menyoro would never have chosen him to sail.

  Only the bravest and strongest were selected as sailors. They were Sanlagita’s best chance. The fact that her father had been a sailor and Drum was a fisherman—a class of workers lower than the shipbuilders—was a secret source of pride for both Lalani and her mother, even if they’d never admitted it out loud, even to each other.

  Lalani thanked her mother and stood up before Drum could protest. She gathered her plate, placed it in the basin, and rushed out the door.

  The walk to Veyda’s house didn’t take long, and it brought Lalani near the village pump, where she often helped herself to a handful of water. She saw Agapito Malay, one of Cade’s older brothers, standing guard with his arms crossed.

  “The water is being heavily rationed,” Agapito said, not unkindly. “You can only take from the pump if you have a special bowl issued by the menyoro. Do you have a bowl?”

  “No,” Lalani said.

  He sighed. “When it rains again, things will get
better.”

  “I understand,” said Lalani. She stepped away to continue her journey to Veyda’s, then stopped and turned. “Your brother is sailing soon.”

  He shifted his eyes away.

  “I’ll be there to see him off, along with the rest of the village,” she said. “I wish him the best.”

  Agapito nodded. He said nothing else.

  You Are Sanlagitan

  Imagine you’re a Sanlagitan. Things are as they’ve always been. You don’t know how your people arrived on this island. All you know is that you are here now.

  Look at the pitched roofs of the flenka houses, covered with thick meha leaves. There is the water well, in the center of the village. And here is the schoolhouse, where boys learn to become men.

  To the west is Mount Kahna—wide, dark, and looming. When you were little, the grown-ups told you stories of boys who went exploring there and were never seen again. No one dares to explore Kahna anymore—it’s believed the mountain is hungry and eats whatever passes. It may barrel down to the village and devour you all. So, in the morning and night, you whisper a simple benediction to spare your souls.

  Something curious, though: men no longer explore Mount Kahna, but they continue sailing north, even though no one has returned from there, either. Perhaps because that legend is too hard to resist. Or perhaps because they discovered fortunes after all and chose not to return. But, no—that can’t be it, because you know about all the terrible things that have happened. Ziva, the lock of her hair, the men . . . No. You don’t want to think of that. Put that away. Stuff it in a box and close the lid.

  There are plenty of other things to wonder about. Because even though each day is the same here—yesterday and tomorrow are today—you find time to wonder.

  When did you first hear that there was a better place to the north? A place that held the answers to all your questions. Everything you ever needed. Everything you ever wanted (for those aren’t the same thing, are they?).

  The place is called Isa, though no one remembers where that name came from or how they know it. Only that it’s been muttered again and again, like its own benediction.

  When did you watch the first ship push away from the shore? You remember cheering, long ago. You remember dreaming of its triumphant return. What a homecoming it would be!

  But that didn’t come to pass.

  More ships left as you got older.

  Only the smallest children cheered by then, because they had no memory.

  You watched the boats vanish into the sea. You knew that they wouldn’t come back, but you hoped. Deep down, you hoped.

  There was a light inside you and it filled you up. It said: Someone will make it. One of these men will be our hero.

  The light faded each time a ship disappeared into the horizon.

  But it shined nonetheless.

  Hearts of Clouds and Rock

  Toppi wailed. He curled his fists and beat the air. His cheeks were a fierce shade of red. His little feet kicked at the space around him as Veyda watched helplessly. Lalani stood beside her. Eyes round like the sun. Real life terrified her more than Lo Yuzi’s tales.

  Not Veyda, though. Veyda wanted to examine life from all angles. She wanted to take it apart and study it. If the plants grew, she wanted to know why. If the plants didn’t grow, she wanted to know why. And if Toppi’s cheeks were red and if his breaths were raspy, she wanted to know how to fix it.

  That’s why she’d made the salve. But the salve had run out, and there were no green leaves to make more. The sun had sucked life out of the ground.

  Earlier that night, things had been mostly peaceful. Veyda and Lalani curled up on their blankets; Lalani mentioned seeing Agapito at the well, and they were talking about the Malay brothers, the upcoming Sailing Day, and which brother they thought was the most handsome (Cade, they both agreed), when they heard Toppi’s cries. He screamed so loudly that the sound shot over the roofs and landed on Veyda’s ears. She sat up, grabbed the last of the salve, and together the girls ran to Toppi’s house.

  They told Toppi’s father, Maddux, and his sisters that they wanted to help calm the baby. But they knew—as did Toppi’s mother, Alina—that the last of the medicine was hidden under Veyda’s shirt.

  There wasn’t much left. Not enough to make any difference.

  “What will we do?” Alina said. She clutched Veyda’s shoulders as they all looked down at Toppi. Veyda was just twelve, but she was the one with the answers.

  Only, she didn’t have any.

  Her stomach tumbled.

  Her mind raced.

  She picked the problem apart but had no solution.

  What could she do without plants?

  They all tried cradling the baby, rubbing his head, kissing his feet, but still he cried. Each wail rattled with fluid.

  “I’ll make more,” Veyda said. “I’ll come back.”

  Alina’s face whitened. Her eyes glistened with tears. “What if it’s too late?”

  “It’s the only choice we have,” Veyda said.

  “I’ll help,” said Lalani, her eyes still on Toppi.

  Veyda laid a hand on the baby’s forehead. “We’ll do the best we can.”

  They reassured Alina again and again, then walked back into the night, with the baby’s cries trailing behind them.

  It was dark. The moon lit their path. Bulb flies with their lighted tails flew around them, but other than that, they couldn’t see much. Their sandals kicked dust around their sweaty ankles.

  “Where will we find the plants?” asked Lalani. She whispered, as if someone was right behind them. “You said there weren’t anymore.”

  “I don’t know,” said Veyda. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. With no rain to cool the earth, it was hot, even in the middle of the night. “They must be growing somewhere.”

  “What about the mountain?”

  “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You said you didn’t believe your mother’s stories.”

  Veyda didn’t. But she did believe in nosy villagers who would wonder what they were doing and report them to the menyoro. She could hear them now. That Yuzi girl, she was wandering around the foot of the mountain. What if she angers Kahna? We can’t take such a risk. What would a girl be doing there, anyway? I hear she doesn’t even say the benedictions.

  “I don’t,” Veyda said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Besides, would you really climb the mountain?”

  “If you were with me, I would,” Lalani said. She paused. “Maybe Maddux and Alina should bring Toppi back to the menyoro.”

  The menyoro—and only the menyoro—was in charge of healing the sick. He was considered the wisest man in the village, the cleverest of them all. If there was a question, he had the answer. If there was a dispute, he had the resolution.

  He had yet to cure anyone, however.

  “So he can tell them a bunch of nonsense again?” Veyda shook her head. “The menyoro’s only interested in two things—being adored and being obeyed. And it seems you don’t need knowledge for people to do either of those. You just need the right words.”

  Veyda didn’t even bother to whisper.

  “Shh! You shouldn’t say such things,” said Lalani.

  They arrived back at the Yuzi house, where Hetsbi and Lo were both still asleep, apparently unmoved by Toppi’s waning cries.

  “Let’s change your bandage,” Veyda whispered. She removed Lalani’s bloodied bandage and examined her injury. “It’s going to bruise even more, probably. See the blue and purple? That’s the blood at the skin’s surface.”

  “How do you know?” Lalani asked.

  Veyda shrugged and wrapped a fresh cloth around Lalani’s leg. “Just a guess.”

  “I wish my mind worked like yours,” Lalani said.

  “No, you don’t,” Veyda said, smiling. “Because then you wouldn’t be Lalani.”

  “What’s so special about that? Drum says I’m as useless as a wallecta.
”

  “A wallecta’s brain is three times the size of his,” said Veyda.

  Lalani laughed.

  But by the time the girls were back in their blankets, with the scent of heat still on their skin, the mood had changed. Lalani stared at the ceiling. Veyda sensed she was afraid, but she wasn’t sure what was bothering her. There was a lot to choose from.

  “What are you thinking about, sola?” Veyda whispered.

  Lalani turned on her side. She blinked. “Poor Toppi.”

  “Your heart is made of clouds,” said Veyda.

  Lalani swallowed, then turned back to the ceiling.

  “If my heart is made of clouds, what is yours made of?” Lalani whispered.

  Veyda chewed her lip and considered this.

  “Rock,” she finally said. And they giggled.

  Through

  Lalani walked back home after the sunrise to find her mother scrubbing her finger furiously with a wet cloth. A half-mended fishnet created a trail to her chair, as if she’d jumped up and suddenly rushed to the water basin. It only took a handful of seconds for Lalani to realize what had happened. When she did, her heart fell into her sandals.

  “Mama?” she said.

  The house reeked of fish.

  Her mother didn’t lift her head.

  “Is it bad?” Lalani whispered.

  She wanted her mother to shrug. No, no, it barely touched the skin, see? But when Lalani joined her mother at the basin, she knew that her mother had pricked her finger deeply and dangerously. And in that moment, Lalani saw her whole life laid before her, as wide and endless as the Veiled Sea, and just as terrifying.

  “It will be fine,” her mother said, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. The cloth was spotted with blood. Her fingertip was pink and swollen. “It doesn’t mean anything. Some women prick their fingers and never get sick. Nothing to worry about.”

  But it was. Oh, yes, it was. And they both knew it.

  Lalani rested her hand on her mother’s wrist—brown skin touching—and glared at the net on the floor. She saw the traitorous needle there, lying across it, spooled with thread.