Orluvoq

by Benny Hinrichs

  Ka’emu half-bent and stretched her arms as if to pick Qaffa up, then she stood back up and put her hands to her mouth. “I can’t carry you. Qaffa, please don’t die.”

  Qaffanngilaq moaned as a swell of pain masked her mind. She tore flowers and fronds up by the roots. “I know. I know. Go get someone. Hurry.”

  Ka’emu made a shapeless whine. “Who should I get?”

  “Anybody! Hurry!”

  “Okay, okay!” Ka’emu took one last horrified look at the newly angled leg and set off running down the mountain, batting the undergrowth aside. Even at that pace, it would take the girl half an hour to find anyone.

  Qaffa laid her head in the dirt and resigned to wait. With the agony throbbing up from her leg, she feared that the next funeral she attended would be her own. Would her mother insist on a Nuktipik burial, like her grandmother’s last year, or would her family come topside for a burial beneath the sun? No, Qaffa didn’t have a moai yet. She would have to go to Nunapisu. Funeral on ice it would be.

  In the midst of her wallowing, a recollection sprung into her mind. She had tuuaaq.

  She fumbled at her sealskin satchel, casting reprovals at herself for taking so long to remember, and withdrew a candle. Over the past year since her oath to become tirigusuusik, she’d been acclimating herself to the yank and yaw of the narwhal’s tusk. She’d certainly grown more accustomed to its wiles, but she had little appetite for it. The way it crooked her spirit into something else.

  None of her apprehension followed the candle today. She stabbed the wick with her teeth and chipped off a generous flake. Within no time at all, the frothy warmth of Arsarneq prickled her organs, and she began to float. Or, she thought so.

  If she’d had any presence of mind, she might have attempted windwalking. The tuuaaq ensured she had little mind present. A distant cry—perhaps from her knees—told her she’d taken too much. At some point, a brace of wild boars trotted by and worked their bristly snouts back and forth over her. She made desultory attempts to shoo bugs away.

  After a stretched amount of time lying supine, a rustle of bush and a chatter of voices alerted her to the presence of humans. A face stippled with tattoos appeared over her. He smiled down through the bushes.

  “I’m glad I didn’t teach you how to climb trees, daughter of the ice. I don’t know if I could stand the embarrassment.”

  Qaffa gave a dreamy smile and waved at the matatoa.

  “Oh, thank heavens. You’re not dead.” Came a second voice.

  She turned to see Ka’emu. She had run all the way to… wherever, just to bring friends. What a nice girl. Beside her stood another matatoa, so denoted by the moai hanging from his neck. Qaffa wanted a moai.

  “Why would I be dead? I’m just lying down. Have you never heard of, um, lying down?”

  “Dead people often lie down, Qaffa.” Ka’emu bit her lip.

  Oh. She was right. Qaffa would have to remember that. “Does that mean I might be dead after all?”

  “It might mean exactly that,” said the matatoa over her. “We’ll have to carry you home for a proper burial, eh?”

  Qaffa nodded. “Okay. I think I’d like that.” She let herself be hoisted and attached to the back of the overlarge man. This was comfortable. She might have to die again soon.

  “I’m holding you and Paga’a is holding your leg.” Her mount pointed to the other matatoa.

  Qaffa wrinkled her brow. “He is? But he’s not even touching me.”

  “With his moai, you silly chicken.”

  “I hope I get a moai soon,” said Qaffa.

  They set off and she settled into an agreeable state of watching the colors of life pass by. A score or two of trees into it, she realized she had a captive audience. Or she was a captive audience. Either worked.

  “Hey.” She tapped her ride on the shoulder.

  “Huh?”

  “You know any stories?”

  “Stories? How about the time my toenail grew sideways, and a quarter of my foot turned purple?”

  “No, I mean good stories. Like about where islands come from, or the evil warbird that swallowed a volcano.”

  He looked back at her and grinned. “Ah, that kind of story. Well, since you mention the warbird, have you heard ‘Midnight Blue Egg’?”

  “Um…” She could remember as many as three things right now, one of which being her own name. “Should I have?”

  “You should consider yourself lucky to hear it from such a wondrous storyteller as me first. A pity I didn’t bring my storyteller’s mask. Now, let’s see.” He readjusted her and cleared his throat.

  “In the most fleeting of times, for they are now the most gone, was an island called Mahu. The people gorged themselves endlessly on anana fruit and pig meat until they grew fat and happy. They did not know sailing, so they sat in their tree shade and poked fun at each other until they felt it was time to sleep.

  “After one of their beloved sleeps, they woke to find the most curious thing on their shores. An egg taller than a man and striped up and down with smokey trails of dark blue. Nobody had ever seen an egg bigger than a fist, so they scratched their heads at what to do with this one.

  “Some said it had been laid by a giant, man-eating bird while they slept, and that they had to push it into the sea lest the bird come back and kill them all. Others argued that if a killer bird had left it, pushing it into the sea might only anger it more.

  “Some said it was the spawn of some giant leviathan of the deep, and that they needed to drag it further onto land so that it would die when it hatched. Others argued that if it was the lost child of a sea monster, it might hatch and call out in distress to its mother, who would then come and lash their island with her tentacles. It seemed there was nothing they could do.

  “Their oldest grandmother said it had come to them, so they should bring it up on the land and care for it as one of their own. Some were uneasy with the idea, but all eventually agreed if there was any circumstance that called for his wisdom, now was it. But there was one even older than her.

  “They looked to the sky and asked the sun what he thought they should do. The sun bent down and gazed at the egg for hours before settling back into his sky. The people all wiped their sweat away and gulped in cool breaths. Asking the sun was never without price.

  “When the fire in the sky finally spoke his judgment, he said only two words. ‘Burn it.’

  “Some were quick to agree. They needed to get rid of this evil as convincingly as possible. Others grumbled that of course the sun would say that. Whatever bird hatched from there would block out the sun wherever it flew, and he was a jealous ball of fire. Still, the people of Mahu could make no decision.

  “The contention grew until slaps broke out between sides. People began sleeping on different sides of the island. Spears that had only tasted the blood of beast were turned on man. Before they knew it, the island of Mahu was at war. Augurs were consulted. The appropriate sacrifices slain. Promises inked onto skin in fresh tattoos. New war masks carved. Long-haired priests convened in the middle to shake freshly painted gods at one another and shout their opponents down with threats.

  “After many battles, the side who believed in destroying the egg succeeded in capturing it. First, they beat it with clubs. It would not crack. They struck it with flint knives. It would not chip. They surrounded it with wood and ignited an all-consuming fire. It remained the same soft white with stripes of dark blue. Finally, the chief of the egg breakers declared they would push it into the volcano. They would do as the sun had originally told them.

  “Battle after battle they fought their way up the mountain, for the egg keepers still believed they should let it be. The closer they got, the hotter it became. Everyone was tired from standing watch while others took sleep in the shade. Everyone was weary from the endless fights. At long last, they found themselves at the volcano’s mouth and sent the massive egg tumbling into the fire below.

  “The mysterious egg smacked into
the lava and slowly sank in. The egg breakers gave a mighty roar. They had triumphed! From the other side, the egg keepers wailed their sorrows.

  “But the mourners and the gloaters soon found themselves trading tones. A white and blue oval bobbed to the surface. Not even the volcano itself could destroy the egg. The breakers clutched at their faces and burned their gods while the keepers laughed lustily and set to feasting on pork and bread fruit.

  “As the fires of the keepers crackled, the breakers set to work. They would see the egg broken, no matter the cost. Through much travail they heaved heavy stones up to the rim of the volcano and pushed them in, angling for the egg. But nothing they could muster would fall far enough toward the middle to hit their mark. The egg remained untouched.

  “They needed something longer.

  “In a stroke of inspiration somewhere on the border between madness and genius—perhaps a whisper from their new gods, perhaps a twist in a sacrifice’s intestines—they brought forth their hatchets and began to carve a long column from the inside neck of the volcano itself. The work was hotter than asking the sun for advice, and it felt harder than the egg’s shell, but they knew it was the only way they could be safe.

  “They slept, cut, slept, cut, slept, cut, taking every spare chance to bask in the shade, until at last they had carved far enough down. They chopped the anchor ropes and let the pillar fall. End over end it tumbled until it struck the egg dead on. The breakers let up a loud whoop. Three cracks wrapped around the egg. One more direct hit ought to finish the job.

  “Fueled by success, they slept and cut and slept and cut again, their excitement so great that they decided to carve their chief’s face into the stone. Their work didn’t go as swiftly this time. The keepers sent waves of attackers now and again to stymie their progress. But the work went, and after many sleeps, they were finally ready to unleash their weapon.

  “On the day of release, the keepers attacked them from below with everything they had, sending spear after spear at the breakers. They replied with furious defense as the stonecutters made the final cuts. In heat like fiery death, the stonecutters in their harnesses made the finishing crack and separated the pillar’s base from the volcano. The men above swung hatchets and severed the binding cords. The rock began to fall.

  “The breakers hooted in jubilation. The keepers wailed in despair. As its top passed its base, the stone suddenly halted.

  “Confusion hopped from person to person until they noticed the chief holding out his hand. Slowly, the rock raised up above the lip of the volcano and came to rest on the edge. One by one, both keepers and breakers dropped their clubs, obsidian-edged swords, and shark teeth knives and dropped to their knees. This chief of breakers, he was more than a chief.

  “He stood next to the carving of his face twice as tall as him, looked it up and down, then looked to the matatoa all around. ‘I don’t know what moves in this stone, but it now moves in me. Now we end this.’

  “The people gasped as he raised off his feet and floated over the volcano’s mouth. He thrust his hand down in a mighty gesture and a loud crack ricocheted up. The egg was no more.

  “The volcano erupted, but not with fire. Darkness poured out, billowing greater and greater. Even the stoutest matatoa turned and ran down the mountain. It was not enough. The darkness swept the island and rushed toward the ends of the sea until even the sun cried out and fled for the marvel of it.

  “The people of Mahu hid until, hours later, the darkness finally left. When the sun returned, he bent down to the island and shouted at their foolishness. For hours and hours he chastised them until they were sure they would perish. No shade would block the heat of him. Then the darkness returned, rolling across sky and sea. The sun saw it coming and fled.

  “Twice more the cycle repeated until it seemed to the people that things might be that way for some time. They began to call the hours of sun ‘day’ and the hours of dark ‘night’. In the darkness when the sun wasn’t bellyaching, the egg keepers took up the responsibility and heaped their own whining on the breakers and the chief. On the fourth day, when the darkness had retreated and the sun came out to shout once more, the chief decided he would have no more of it. He faced the sun and shouted back.

  “‘Do not come at us to shout. We do not alone own the island. The trees flourish. The swine forage. The volcano grumbles. Why then should it go against reason that you might have to share the sky? We will hear no more of your complaints.’ With that, he called upon the stone that they called moai and pushed the sun higher and higher away from the island. It complained the whole way and shouted that it would return.

  “So, the people cut more moai. They built boats that they might travel far and multiply their moai, and thus we find ourselves the people of Rapai’i, of Marama, of Mokomae, and many more. We nod to the darkness as our ally, but we know that the night will come when night does not come; when darkness fails to cover the ocean. When that eternal day arrives, the sun will wage its final war, and every moai bearer will be called upon to defend the islands against its fiery face.”

  “Wait,” said Ka’emu. “He moved his own moai? I thought moai couldn’t work on themselves.”

  “Shhh,” the man chided, “you’re ruining the story. Maybe back then they knew secrets we’ve forgotten.”

  Qaffa patted her matatoa on the shoulder. “You’re sweaty.”

  “It’s the sun. It senses my moai and wants to fight me.” He and the other matatoa laughed. Qaffa wasn’t coherent enough to figure out why. Before she could, her mind wandered lost in scenes of the legend and the rhythm of the trot.

  Qaffa woke the next day coherent enough to figure out that she had broken her leg, and that shunted her straight into a sour mood. It was the exact type of thing her mother would have told her not to do. Then again, she had been on something of a rebellious crusade lately, all at her father’s behest. Except for the leg situation. He probably would have admonished against that as well.

  A trio of scrimmaging flies ported their buzz around the room, whirring near her face too frequently for her tender royal temperament to cope with. The king would have called them properly large flies. The kind that would lose in a footrace. Ariki Haka'atu was always urging her to get properly large, as a woman should be. She looked down at the leg she'd mismanaged. Seemed there would be time aplenty for devoting to food.

  Someone or another with a moai had apparently cajoled her bone back in line, but moai could only set things up for healing. It was left as an exercise to the body to work out the rest. She picked at the brace made of staves and some durable leaf which her tutors would have sighed in disappointment that she couldn’t identify. A minute in and she was already weary of the next two months—two weeks with the right amount of orange tuuaaq flame.

  She polished up her best listening ears and pointed them at the doorway of her palace room. Surely nobody would mind if she nipped off for a moment. The king was off on some war knocking heads about. She had to execute his will in his absence, and how could she expect to heal like a proper woman without a supply of pristine air and sunshine?

  She rolled tenderly off her mat and braced her weight with her hands. Now it was just a matter of—

  She nearly collapsed sick from the bolt of pain that came with trying to stand. Her breaths cycled quickly as she waited for her gorge to abate.

  A different plan, then.

  With walking descended into utter penury on the scale of good ideas, it seemed only one other option for locomotion presented itself. If she kept her fouled leg off the ground just so… Yes, there it was. A picture of poise. She embarked on a shuffling crawl toward the door, one foot held behind as if it refused to follow. One check to ensure she had her sealskin bag on her, and she was out into the hall.

  After sneaking past a cohort of armed guards—does it count as sneaking if they point at you and call you a smelly crab?—she finally dug her fingers into soil and lavished sunshine upon herself once more. Where to go from here?
The half-cloud sky presaged mud. She and walking weren’t on the best of terms, but the crawling hadn’t been exactly chummy either. Perhaps she’d get better results from windwalking? Her hand floated toward her bag.

  “Qaffa?”

  She looked up to see an eleven-year-old girl approaching the palace. “Good morning, Ka’emu.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Me?” Qaffa glanced at her leg. “Just out for a walk. You?”

  “Coming to see you, of course!” She flapped her arms in exasperation. “Mama keeps turning me away, saying to come back either when you’re awake or when lunch is ready.”

  “How about we skip lunch and go on an adventure?”

  A grin split Ka’emu’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that. Only…” She gestured vague concern at Qaffa’s freshly set limb. “Where will we go?”

  “Let me think.” And as she thought, a dastardly plan struck her with the force of a mountainside hitting a falling girl’s leg. Out of pure respect for her mother, she almost cast the sordid strategy from her head immediately. Out of nervous respect for her father, she entertained it like a visiting dignitary. And perhaps it was.

  “How about we go see the swine herd?” she said.

  Ka’emu snorted a porcine response and helped her to her foot. Qaffa acted the parasite to Ka’emu’s host, slumping against her friend as they shambled off toward the hillside pens.

  An arduous trot later, they entered the air stenched with the color brown and leaned up against the fence, calling their favorite creatures by name. A spare few rolled from their muck and sniffed their way over to the perimeter. The girls’ primary target, however, couldn’t be inconvenienced to make the trip from belly to legs.

  “Pupu!” they shouted with manic gesticulations. But the prized pig taller than any man gave them only combinations of side eyes and flicked ears.

  “Do you think they’re ever going to eat him?” said Ka’emu.

  “Probably waiting for Haka’atu to get back from his war.”