Lalani of the Distant Sea

by Erin Entrada Kelly

  “The villagers ridiculed me! They would not accept me with a shell,” Anya pleaded.

  “Rather than adore your shell, you sought the love of those who ridiculed you.” The man shook his head. “This is a great tragedy.”

  He closed the gate. He didn’t slam it or kick it shut. He closed it quietly, which made it worse somehow.

  Anya no longer had the energy to cry or scream or fight. She’d finally found the place where she belonged, and now she didn’t belong anywhere. She had nothing to protect her and no one to keep her company. No herd. No shell.

  “I am here,” she said, one last time, to remind herself.

  But she no longer believed it.

  Cade

  Cade Malay had a secret. For years, even before he was old enough to go to school, he enjoyed sneaking out of his house at night and walking to the northern shore. It was a journey of several miles each way, but it passed quickly because he knew the steps by heart. Quick as a wallecta, he scurried down all the correct paths and by all the right trees until he was sitting alone, staring into the mist.

  Cade knew what kind of boy he was. The kind who wore his ax-saw around his waist, wasn’t afraid to cast his stone in the right basket, and helped his friends with their hooks and scouting boats if he finished his own projects early. Most of the time Cade didn’t pass many hours considering how he felt about all these things or what sort of person he wanted to become. Cade was Cade.

  Or so he thought.

  Ever since his brother had sailed off and Lalani had disappeared, something had changed. He was still the same boy, but it was no longer enough. Maybe it was because of Drum. The way Drum pounded his heavy gavel against the gong and demanded that the people do more, more, more. The way he chastised the men and women, boys and girls, when they didn’t achieve his standards. Cade wondered how he had treated Lalani. How he would treat the village over the next one year, two years, ten. Sanlagita was hardly a paradise—how much worse would it get with Drum leading the charge?

  Staring at the water helped Cade think, even before he knew he had so much to think about. That’s why he’d been coming to the shore now more than ever. He’d promised himself and his mother that he would never try to sail across the sea—if the others hadn’t survived, why would he?—but like most people of Sanlagita, his mind wandered with possibilities.

  If there were people across the sea, were they happy? He hoped so.

  Did they know of Sanlagita? He hoped not.

  The water also made him think about Lalani. They hadn’t talked much, not really, but he missed her. Before Kahna fell, he’d often noticed her with Veyda and Hetsbi, and the sight of her made him nervous. Cade was rarely nervous, so the feeling had confused him at first. He wondered what was behind Lalani’s eyes the same way he wondered what was across the water, and so what if his heart jittered when he saw her?

  Now the only thing that made him jittery was fear for the future.

  Cade sighed. The northern shore scared most people, especially at night, but that’s when Cade loved it most. He appreciated its predictability. Night after night, the sea was the same.

  Except.

  Something was different tonight.

  Cade peered into the fog. The change was subtle. If he hadn’t stared at this horizon hundreds of times before, he wouldn’t have noticed it. But there—not far out—the veil shifted and parted, wisps of mist lifting lazily into the air.

  The veil never parted unless a ship was cutting through.

  But the ships were always sailing away from Sanlagita. This ship—and yes, he saw now that it was indeed a ship—was coming toward him.

  Cade stood. He put his hand on his ax-saw, but he wasn’t scared. Only curious and prepared. He didn’t move. He waited for the ship to announce itself. Soon it did. Strangely. It arrived quietly, with barely a lap of the water. Cade was already a skilled scout and shipbuilder and understood the logic of sailing, so he knew right away that there was no one on board. No one alive, anyway.

  He also knew that he had seen this ship before.

  He knew it well.

  In Sanlagita

  Here is what happened after Cade saw the ship: he ran and told his mother.

  Clusters of men hurried north. Yes, it was Esdel’s ship. Abandoned, as if the sailors had never existed. Maybe they’d become part of the fog. How were the villagers to know what happened on that distant sea?

  When a mysterious ship washes ashore, it twists your mind with ideas. There were two people in the crowd that day whose minds turned more than most.

  One of those people was Drum.

  The other was Hetsbi.

  Challenge

  Drum was relentless with the gong. It echoed through the village and didn’t stop until Drum was convinced that everyone had emerged from their houses to hear what he had to say. On this particular morning, he didn’t even wait for dawn. The villagers were bleary-eyed and sleepy.

  All but Hetsbi, who wanted to be as close to Drum as possible.

  By the time the rest of the villagers had gathered around their new menyoro, Hetsbi’s feet were planted up front. Veyda joined him. She took his hand and squeezed it once. His heart pounded against his chest. But he kept his shoulders square and his breath steady.

  Once everyone was situated and focused on their leader—careful not to look away, since that invited public shaming—Drum and Kul stepped forward. Drum puffed out his chest and announced that Esdel’s boat had been found in good condition, but with no living souls on board. He offered passing condolences to Esdel’s family—none of whom were there, as far as Hetsbi could tell—but quickly steered the conversation to his grand new idea: he wanted to use the wood from the boat to build a stately home for himself and Kul. He didn’t mention his wife, who was still living with Lo Yuzi, but he made sure to remark that the home of the menyoro should have room for “companions and children,” despite the tradition that the menyoro remain unmarried and childless to prove his dedication to the villagers.

  “I need additional builders,” said Drum. “Come forward to volunteer.”

  The crowd stirred. No one wanted to volunteer. The Sanlagitans were weak and hungry, and volunteering meant working under Drum day after day. It meant taking apart a grand ship that the shipbuilders had built together and reducing it to a single home for one person while the rest of them suffered. They knew Drum and Kul took unfair portions of food already. What more did they want?

  Hetsbi shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  “Why should we dismantle a perfect ship?” Hetsbi called out, when the crowd was at its quietest, before he lost his nerve.

  Hetsbi had meant to appear forceful and commanding, but his voice rose and fell, and sounded like a dying animal. Drum’s expression went from impatience to amusement when he realized it was Hetsbi who had dared to speak to him. Kul crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

  “Excuse me, boy,” said Drum, turning to face Hetsbi. “What did you say?”

  Hetsbi cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t dismantle a perfectly good ship!” His voice was steady now. “They take years to build, and this one is ready to sail!”

  Kul laughed. “Are you offering to captain the ship?”

  The silence broke as people chuckled nervously. Hetsbi Yuzi manning a ship? The boy couldn’t even catch a fish.

  “No,” Hetsbi said. “I’m not man enough. Anyone can see that.” He paused. “But you are! You’re the strongest man in the village! That is why you’re our menyoro!”

  It was early morning, but now the village was awake. As soon as the words left Hetsbi’s mouth, the silence cracked open. The villagers leaned toward each other, talking, their eyes alight with possibility.

  His plan was growing wings.

  Hetsbi suddenly felt light on his feet.

  Drum’s face contorted in confusion. “I can’t sail, idiot boy. I’m your leader. Without me, your crops would fail. Your nets would be empty. You would all be buried by Kahn
a, or worse.” He glanced toward Kul, who stood tall and still, and snorted half-heartedly. “Don’t be stupid.”

  No one bothered to point out that those things had already happened.

  “I know you’re our leader,” said Hetsbi. “That is why I have faith that you can make the journey. Who else but you? When else but now? There’s a perfectly good ship waiting, and no one here is fit to steer it, except for you and your son.”

  Maddux stepped forward now, breaking away from the crowd. “The boy is right, menyoro. If you’re as strong and mighty as you say you are, you wouldn’t be afraid. Look at all the men who went before you. Do you believe they’re better than you? If you don’t sail, that’s just how it appears.”

  Drum strode to Maddux in three giant steps.

  “I’m no fool,” Drum said. “I won’t sail off so you can become menyoro. What do you take me for?”

  A voice rose up from the back of the crowd: “Hetsbi is right! You are the only man who can save us.” It was Cade. He stepped forward with his ax-saw around his waist. He glanced Hetsbi’s way, just for a moment.

  They now had a shared understanding.

  “My brother failed,” Cade said. “But you can succeed. I know that now. I’ve seen you work in the village. You’re the only one. You and Kul.”

  “Do it for us!” Caralita, one of the washerwomen, cried.

  “Do it for us!” someone else shouted. Taiting?

  Another voice then another. Over and over. “Do it for us! Do it for us!”

  As the crowd grew louder and louder, Drum lifted his thick hands to quiet them. It took a long while for the cheers to settle down.

  “I understand your belief in me, but I will not leave my position as menyoro. Not when there’s a fool who is set to take my place,” Drum said, nodding toward Maddux. “Besides, I am trained as a fisherman, not a sailor.”

  “If you’re afraid,” Cade said, his voice low. “Admit it.”

  Drum narrowed his eyes. “Afraid?”

  “Do it for us, menyoro!” Hetsbi cried. He launched into a chant: “For us! For us!”

  Veyda was the first to join him. Soon, though, the chant moved like a fever through the crowd and within seconds, the villagers were bouncing on their feet and pumping their fists, nervous with excitement under the now-rising sun.

  You Are Ziva

  Imagine you are a ghost. You have no today. You have no tomorrow. You have only yesterday. And many yesterdays ago, you were a girl—flesh and blood, walking the earth, full of wishes and dreams, just like anyone. You weren’t prideful. You weren’t beautiful. Quite the opposite. But you cherished your hair. When times were difficult (and they often were), you twisted it around your fingers and reminded yourself that you were alive and breathing and the world had much to offer, if you could find it.

  You tried. Oh, how you tried. But you had no choices, no options. You had no school. You had no skills, other than mending and pulling vegetables. It had been that way for generations before you, and it would be that way for generations after.

  So you took your chance. You waited for a Sailing Day and stowed yourself away.

  You planned to announce yourself once the ship was far from Sanlagita, and that’s just what you did. You stepped out of the belly of the boat and told the men you were there. They were furious, as you knew they would be, but what could they do? They wouldn’t throw you overboard.

  You were right.

  For a time.

  The fog confused them. They forgot their names. They forgot where they were going. And they forgot who you were. But you fought the tricks of the mist, and your mind remained clear. You tried to explain to them. You wanted them to listen. But they blamed you instead. They saw their misery written on your hands. They gave you their shortcomings, and in the end it was too heavy, too much—you grew tired under the weight, and in your weakness they were able to lift you and toss you overboard, but your hair—your beautiful, beautiful hair, that your mother brushed for you before she died—caught on the boat and you refused to sink. So they cut it. One lock, one slice, that’s all it took for you to slip away.

  There is no pain where you are now. There are other things. Timelessness. The everlasting smell of orchids. Isa. Birdsong. You move among all of it, unseen, but felt. Cherished. You have developed a keen sense of the living—not what they show, but who they are. You can see inside their souls, and you are often left wanting.

  You have learned that patience is a gift.

  You have learned that perseverance is a necessity.

  You have learned that creatures can be cruel, but many can be kind.

  You have learned to ignore the call of the whenbo.

  You have learned that compassion is life’s greatest virtue.

  You have learned of a girl who believed in you.

  I know it’s not you who dried the earth, you heard the girl say.

  If I had known you then, we would have been friends.

  That same girl made you a promise.

  If I find your hair, I will cherish it.

  Though your hair will never be found, it is a beautiful promise.

  When you saw this girl set forth into the sea, just as you had, you wanted to learn other things.

  You wondered: What if I whispered into the ear of a pahaalusk?

  Animals, trees, earth—they understand things that other creatures do not.

  So you leaned close to the pahaalusk’s ear, and you told the girl’s story. When you were finished, the pahaalusk set its eyes onto the sea and went into the water, toward the girl, and you were delighted.

  And here is something else you learned:

  How to pick osabana.

  How to move about with fruit in the land of the living.

  How to place it at someone’s feet.

  And you consider this your greatest achievement of all.

  Fei Diwata

  Lalani planned to run.

  She would run as fast as she could.

  She would run as far as her legs would take her.

  She would climb the mountain, stand triumphantly on its summit, and humble herself before Fei Diwata.

  She thought of her mother and the bloody cloth. Toppi’s wails. Veyda and her empty basket. My-Shek. She thought of Usoa, dying alone in the belly of a tree.

  All of this would move her forward, step by step, until she reached the top.

  That’s not what happened.

  When Lalani ran past Bai-Vinca’s body, she forgot to avoid the mounds.

  The nunso shot out of the earth with no warning and grabbed hold of Lalani’s ankles. She saw no face, no body, no head. Only dry and callused fingers. Nails that scratched her skin. Pale flesh dotted with white hair that made her think of Ellseth. The nunso tugged and pulled, and when Lalani fell, her chin hit the ground and her teeth hit her tongue and her mouth pooled with blood. She reached out, buried her fingers in the dirt, and pulled, pulled, pulled, desperate to escape the nunso’s grip, but it was strong, and soon there were multiple hands holding her, and how was she to defeat them? She scraped and spit and howled, but she was losing.

  She reached for the pouch.

  Got the arrowhead.

  Dropped it.

  Spit.

  She was buried to the knee and bent at an awkward angle as her hand scrambled, searching for the arrowhead. But each time she thought her fingertip brushed its serrated edge, she lost it again.

  She had no other weapons.

  Scream.

  That’s all she had left.

  And that’s what she did.

  She screamed.

  She screamed “No” and “Let me go” and “Stop” and “You won’t get me” and “I’m stronger than you” and even if she didn’t know if she was telling the truth or not, she didn’t care, she screamed it anyway, she would say it and make it true just as Lo Yuzi had taught her, and she did it again and again and blood dripped down her throat and made her cough, and still she kept screaming, even though her he
ad hurt now more than ever.

  At what point did the nunso let her go?

  She didn’t know. After she’d rested long enough to take a breath or two, she found the arrowhead and put it back in its pouch. She was free.

  One fat, bloody lip.

  One sliced cheek.

  One sliced ear.

  One empty stomach.

  One swollen arm.

  Feet caked in dirt, with scrapes and cuts from the forest floor.

  A bloodied leg where the nunso’s fingernails had raked her skin.

  Head, sore and aching.

  Parched throat.

  Weary lungs.

  Two bloody hands.

  Nevertheless, she walked.

  Carefully. Slowly. Her body was hungry and exhausted, and eventually she could no longer walk properly. Not to mention that terrible, terrible ache in her eyes and the strange visions in her head—images of Veyda and Hetsbi and Drum and her mother that didn’t make any sense. At times she felt as she had in the scouting boat. Confused. Unsure of who she was or what she was doing.

  Then the sun set.

  The darkness made it even more difficult to keep going, especially since she was hungry and thirsty.

  That’s when she fell.

  She collapsed, like a leaf drifting from a tree. Her fall was quiet, and once she was down, she stayed there. She woke up one time, to eat osabana from the pyramid of fruit that appeared before her, within arm’s reach. She didn’t even have to sit up. She bit into it, peel and everything, and chewed. The osabana burned her lip, but so what? It’s amazing the things that no longer matter when you are hungry enough.

  The second time she fell, it was at the base of Mount Isa.

  She’d found her way to open land. The horizon was flat. She’d expected a cluster of trees or peaks, but that didn’t matter because in the distance, rising like a perfect, round sun, was the mountain.

  By now, she knew she was ill.

  She knew she was very ill indeed.

  A fever ran through her body; it made her sweat. She was hot and cold all at once. The nausea was relentless. But she managed to pick up her pace with the mountain in sight. She moved briskly, holding her belly, lifting her shoulder to wipe blood from her cheek, wincing. She walked like this for a mile or so, and then she was at the foot of the mountain.