Lalani of the Distant Sea

by Erin Entrada Kelly

  “It was a waking dream,” her mother continued. “All mothers have the same one. Some forget they have it. Others never forget. I never forgot.” She took a breath, blinked. “Do you know what the dream was?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “That things would be better for you.” Another breath. “If we want our world to change, we can’t keep walking in circles. Can we?”

  Lalani’s mind swam.

  Things will never change if everyone’s asleep.

  “I don’t know, Mama,” Lalani said.

  Her mother coughed and coughed. Lalani’s chest hurt just listening.

  “When I don’t feel well, I like to think of stories,” Lalani continued. “My favorite story is the one about Ziva. But sometimes I change the ending. Instead of drowning in the Veiled Sea, she makes it all the way to Isa.”

  “You’ve always been fond of stories,” her mother said, closing her eyes.

  Lalani wiped her chin again.

  “I had a dream of you, too, Mama,” Lalani said. “You were the strongest fish in the sea, and you lived forever.”

  But Lalani’s mother had already fallen asleep.

  Thank You, Ellseth

  At first Lalani thought the sound was part of her dream.

  Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

  She didn’t open her eyes right away. She was in that blurry space between wakefulness and dreaming, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But the sound continued, growing more determined with each second, as if it was trying to wake her up.

  Pit-PAT. Pit-PAT. Pit-PAT.

  She opened one eye, then the other. The sounds of her sleeping family faded, and she heard only pit-PAT! pit-PAT! pit-PAT!

  She bolted upright. The rag she’d been using to wipe her mother’s face fell off her chest. She froze. Didn’t want to scare the sound away. Because it sounded like—

  “Rain.”

  The word lodged in her throat and barely crawled out of her mouth. So she tried again.

  “Rain.”

  PIT-PAT! PIT-PAT! PIT-PAT! PIT-PAT! Still, no one stirred.

  “Rain!”

  PITPATPITPATPITPATPITPATPITPATPITPAT PITPATPITPAT

  Soon it was just a great swoosh, a tremendous blanket, a shower of hope. Soon it was so loud that Drum woke up. Then Kul. The three of them exchanged glances in the dark, disbelieving.

  “Rain,” Lalani said again. “Rain!”

  She clutched her mother’s feverish hand and squeezed, hoping she too would wake up and see the miracle.

  “I don’t believe it,” Drum said.

  Lalani closed her eyes. Under her breath so no one could hear, she whispered, “Thank you, Ellseth. Thank you.”

  The words disappeared.

  She would never utter them again.

  Rain

  It rained for hours. No one left their houses. They sat inside and listened. They watched the rain make mud from the dirt. They put bowls on the floor to catch the drops that squeezed through the slats of wood.

  They lost track of time because the sky stayed gray all day. Gray, then black. It kept raining while they slept. When they opened their eyes, the bowls on the floor were full, and still the rain fell.

  Hours turned to days.

  There wasn’t time to celebrate the rain, because it didn’t give the earth a moment to drink. It just kept falling. People finally went outside because they couldn’t stay indoors forever. They held igugi leaves over their heads, but it didn’t matter—they still got wet.

  Lalani, soaked to the bone, ran to Veyda’s house.

  “Will all this rain help the plants grow?” Lalani asked, her heart pounding.

  “If it ever stops,” answered Veyda.

  “What if doesn’t?”

  “We’ll have a flood, sola. That’s what.”

  The girls and Hetsbi spread a handful of pebbles on the floor and played games. How many pebbles can you steal? How many can you pick up at once? Can you guess which bowl it’s hiding under?

  The rain roared.

  When Lalani went home, she tended to her mother. Wiped her forehead. Kissed her cheek. Told her stories—some from Lo Yuzi, some from Mora Pasa, some from herself. An ache beat in her chest. She thought of floods and rising water, and she imagined herself standing in the middle of it all, asking for forgiveness.

  Days became weeks.

  The Sanlagitans had never experienced anything like this. Before the drought, there had always been two distinct seasons: rainy and dry. But this dry season had stretched on and on. It was never-ending. Now the rainy season had come—but as a curse, not a gift. Long-forgotten streams swelled into rivers. Dry pockets in the earth became miniature lakes. When people ventured outside, the puddles reached their ankles.

  The menyoro sounded his horn—a loud and obnoxious instrument carved from an old pahaalusk shell—but no one could hear it over the rain, so he sent Agapito from door to door to call a village meeting. Everyone gathered, shoulders hunched against the downpour, and moved together through the sludge and mud. Sounds buzzed in Lalani’s ears—falling water, splashing sandals, raised voices. Her mother was too sick to do anything but sleep, so Lalani lagged behind Drum and Kul as they joined the mass exodus to the menyoro’s house. She found Hetsbi and Veyda. Cade was nearby, too. The rain didn’t seem to faze him.

  “How is Toppi?” Lalani asked Veyda. She craned her neck, searching for his family.

  “About the same, I think. But I haven’t gone over in two days,” said Veyda. She blinked her dark eyes at Lalani. “How’s your mama?”

  “About the same.”

  Veyda grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  The menyoro stood atop the detached shell that once belonged to a full-grown pahaalusk. He raised his arms, palms out, just as he’d done on Sailing Day.

  “I sense great panic,” he said, speaking loudly. “And I want to reassure all of you that I’m doing all I can to commune with Mount Kahna to determine if there is something we can do to appease the sky. It’s clear we are being punished. It could be Ziva’s trickery, but I believe it is vengeance from the mountain. Ziva could not be strong enough to control the sun and the rain.” He paused. Scanned the crowd with darkened brows. No one made a sound as they stood under the drumbeat of the rain. “Have you all been saying your benedictions?”

  The villagers murmured. They exchanged glances, mumbled yes, raised their eyebrows.

  This time, Lalani squeezed Veyda’s hand. Hetsbi glanced at his older sister, then chewed his bottom lip.

  “I understand if you don’t want to come forward,” the menyoro continued. “But know this. If you haven’t said your benedictions, you have brought a great curse upon us, and that curse will only worsen.” He lifted his chin. “If you know of someone in this village who does not say them with reverence, reveal that person now.”

  More murmurs. Louder this time.

  After several seconds, the menyoro nodded, as if this was what he’d expected.

  “If you reveal those in our community who have wronged our village, you will be rewarded with double rations,” he said.

  Lalani felt her feet sinking in the mud. She blinked, momentarily blinded by the water in her eyes. No one said anything, but the menyoro was patient. He stood tall and still, as if it wasn’t raining at all.

  And finally, someone spoke.

  “Lalani Sarita did this to us!”

  It was Bio Pasa, with his finger pointed directly at her. People moved out of the way, creating a path between accuser and accused.

  His brother, Dah, appeared beside him. “Yes! It was Lalani!”

  Lalani had the sudden urge to run—fast like a wallecta, quick like a fish. She wanted to climb the tallest tree. Dig a hole in the ground. Heat shot through her body. The fire of shame, embarrassment, fear.

  “I—” she began. Her throat had swollen shut.

  Someone jostled through the crowd and stepped into the path of Bio’s raised finger.

  Drum. He leveled his eyes at
her. His hand tapped madly against his meaty thigh.

  “What’s this about?” he asked. The rain matted his hair around his face.

  “We saw her!” Bio said, practically frantic. “We saw her come down from the mountain! She was up there!”

  “She was! She was!” Dah cried. “Hetsbi Yuzi saw her, too!”

  Heads turned to Hetsbi, who took a step behind Veyda. He pursed his lips so tightly that the skin around them turned white.

  “What’s happening here, boy?” the menyoro asked Bio.

  Bio bowed his head quickly in respect. “My brother and I saw Lalani Sarita walking down from Mount Kahna just before the rain started. She looked like she’d been climbing for days.”

  The menyoro’s eyes shifted from Bio to Lalani.

  Veyda’s hand squeezed her shoulder.

  “Is this true?” the menyoro asked.

  Lalani pressed her index finger against her thumb, remembering her sworn oath to Ellseth. She’d given her blood for that promise.

  “Yes,” said Lalani. Rain dripped from her nose.

  “What were you doing on the mountain?” the menyoro asked. “You know Kahna is vengeful.”

  “Yes,” Lalani repeated. “But—”

  Her voice scurried away.

  “But what, girl?” the menyoro said.

  “I was trying to catch a shek that got loose.”

  Bosalene Pasa, Bio and Dah’s mother, broke through the crowd. “She lies!” Bosalene yelled. “I haven’t lost any shek! None of my shek gets loose!”

  Of course she wouldn’t admit it. The menyoro docked rations when people didn’t tend to their responsibilities properly.

  “It was my fault, probably,” Lalani continued, more quietly than she intended. “I tried to fix the fence, but it didn’t hold.”

  “Speak up, girl!” the menyoro ordered.

  Speak up, girl! Speak up!

  Lalani did her best to raise her voice. “A shek got loose and went into the mountain! I tried to catch it, and I got lost!”

  “Lies!” someone yelled—she didn’t know who. “She angered Kahna, and now we’re paying the price!”

  Veyda dropped her arm from Lalani’s shoulder and took a step in front of her.

  “She didn’t do anything!” Veyda yelled. “She was just trying to help!”

  “Lots of good that’s done for us!” Bosalene said. “She should be punished!”

  Lalani’s heart raced. She felt like she was made of leaves—trembling, vulnerable, falling. People she’d known her whole life were in the crowd—Danila Morendo and all her children, whom Lalani once looked after; the washerwomen that she waved to in the mornings; Maddux Oragleo and his daughters; Cade and his family—but now they’d become one big indistinguishable mob, and she couldn’t tell who was saying what. All she heard was the thunderous cry as the village turned against her: “Yes! She should be punished! Punish her!”

  The menyoro raised his hands, and the villagers’ cries quickly settled down.

  “All of us must increase our benedictions. Repeat them for hours if need be,” the menyoro said. Then he cast his eyes to Drum. “This girl lives under your care, does she not?”

  “Yes, menyoro,” Drum replied.

  “Are you afraid to subjugate your household?”

  The muscles in Drum’s jaw clenched. His cheeks flushed red. “I am afraid of nothing, menyoro,” he said.

  “Teach her a lesson, then,” the menyoro said.

  A Lesson

  Drum clutched Lalani’s arm and she was forced to walk beside him on the way home, taking two steps for one of his, with Kul striding behind them. Just before Lalani and her uncle reached the door, Cade hurried their way, his ax-saw hitting his thigh, water splashing around his ankles. Drum and Kul stopped and waited for him to speak.

  “What is it, boy?” Drum finally said.

  Cade’s eyes moved from Lalani to Drum and back again.

  “I was just—” He paused, shifting from foot to foot.

  Cade was known for being sure of himself. But Drum and Kul had a way of inciting fear, and when they stood together, they resembled a fortress.

  “Speak, boy!” Kul said.

  “My mother hasn’t been well since my brother sailed,” said Cade. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps Lalani could work in our house as her punishment for—”

  “What kind of punishment is that?” Drum said. He turned toward the door and pushed it open with one hand, still holding Lalani with the other. “Besides, she has her own sick mother to look after. Go away.”

  Cade stumbled back and nodded. He ran his hand over his rain-soaked hair. Lalani had seen him do this before when he was focused on a task. It was one of his tells. And she knew now that his task had been to save her from whatever punishment Drum had waiting, because they both suspected it would be terrible.

  When the door closed between them, Lalani had never felt more alone.

  “Find a washerwoman and bring me a basin,” Drum barked to Kul, who ran back into the rain.

  Lalani stood in the center of the room. She wanted to run to her mother, curl up close, listen to her breathing, feel her skin, even if one was labored and the other fevered. She clasped her hands in front of her. Stay very still, she told herself. Show no fear.

  “Stupid girl,” Drum said over and over again. “Stupid, stupid girl.”

  What would he do with the basin? There was no way to know.

  Stay very still.

  Show no fear.

  Kul returned shortly with a sparkle of anticipation in his eye. He placed the basin between his father and Lalani.

  “Pick it up,” Drum said to her.

  It required two hands. The mouth of the basin was wide, but Lalani lifted it without trouble.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  She did. Kul did, too. Lalani hoped to see Cade lingering outside, but he was gone. She and Kul followed Drum through the rain, through the splashing puddles, through the storm, directly to the water pump in the center of the village.

  “Stand here,” Drum said.

  She did.

  He slapped the bottoms of both of her elbows. Lift the basin and straighten your arms, the gesture said.

  She did. She looked like she was offering it to someone, but there was no one on the receiving side. Just Drum leaning close to her ear—so close that she felt his breath on her skin.

  “You think you can make a fool of me? We’ll see who is made a fool,” he said. “You won’t leave this spot until you’re given permission. And you won’t drop that basin.”

  Drum ordered Kul to stay and keep an eye on her. Once Drum was out of sight, Kul gathered a bundle of igugi leaves and tied them to the pump so he could sit under their protection.

  “Let’s see how long those arms last,” he said.

  Don’t be fooled by an empty basin. It doesn’t weigh much, but it collects things. Like raindrops. One, two, three, one after the other, PIT-PAT, PIT-PAT, PIT-PAT. A basin as wide as this one can hold countless drops of rain, and when the rain was coming down like it was in Sanlagita, you may as well be holding Mount Kahna itself.

  Lalani’s biceps burned first. The pain wrapped around her narrow muscles and crawled toward her wrists. Her back ached next. Then her legs. When the basin was half-full, her wrists threatened to go numb and she gave away her first tell: her lower lip trembled. She shoved it under her front teeth, but Kul had noticed.

  “Don’t even think about dropping it,” he said. “Or you’ll really get what’s coming.”

  What could be worse than standing here, in the open, as the villagers glared through cracks in their doors? Some came out of their houses and walked through the sheet of rain to spit on her, or in the basin. Danila Morendo gathered all her children for that very purpose, even the littlest ones who could barely walk.

  “May Kahna curse your soul,” she said.

  Lalani didn’t speak to them.

  Stay very still, she told herself.

  Show
no fear.

  Don’t drop the basin.

  At some point, her arms gave up. It was bound to happen. The basin was incredibly heavy. How long had she been standing there? Hours? It was impossible to tell. Ignoring Kul, she rested the basin on the ground and took a breath. But there wasn’t time for many of them. Kul glared at her, and she lifted the weight again.

  Drum emerged from the rain, carrying something.

  A blood-soaked wallecta on a spear.

  He thrust the spear deep into the muddy earth next to her and walked away.

  The ground was too soft for the weight of the wallecta. The spear tilted and tilted. Lalani didn’t move. Every part of her burned. Even her eyes.

  When the wallecta fell, she did, too. She hit the mud one second after the basin, which overturned and emptied everywhere—on her, the dead wallecta, and the spear. She saw Kul’s boots come toward her, splashing dirty water in her face.

  She thought he was going to kick her.

  He laughed instead.

  Then he walked away.

  She closed her eyes. I’ll be fine here, she told herself. If I never get up, I won’t have to face anyone again.

  She stayed there until someone—Cade?—picked her up and carried her home.

  Straightening Out

  “Whatever the punishment was, it wasn’t enough,” Dah Pasa said as he impaled a small fish on his fishing hook. The boys were sitting on blocks outside the schoolhouse, perfecting their baiting skills. They were under a wooden lean-to, but drops of rain still splashed them and their faces were wet.

  Dah’s brother Bio nodded, eyes on his own task.

  “If she wants to go to the mountain alone, they should just let her and leave her there,” said Bio.

  Cade and Hetsbi were nearby. Hetsbi’s hook still wasn’t baited. Cade’s was, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyeing the brothers.

  “She’s lucky she didn’t get killed. She should thank her father and the menyoro,” Dah continued. “Stupid sahyoon.”

  Hetsbi tried not to look at the Pasa brothers, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “What’s the matter?” said Dah. “Don’t want us talking about your girlfriend? You like that sahyoon or something?”