“When the boy rose in the morning, he said to his kin. The moon brings a message from the sun, which is that I must find my mother and my father. Are you my mother? Are you my father?’
“The people of his ka answered that they were not. So the boy left his ka. All day long he walked through the village, through the orchards, over the hill, beside the river, and down to the ocean, asking every woman he saw, ‘Are you my mother?’ and every man, ‘Are you my father?’
“Finally a woman and a man answered, Out of our bodies came yours.’ And the boy said, ‘Then you are my mother and father,’ but the man and woman shook their heads.
“And the boy said, ‘How will I find my mother and my father,’ and the man and the woman said, ‘You must travel a long way by the light of both the sun and the moon, and sometimes there will be neither sun nor moon, but only darkness. Yet you must not fear the darkness because it too can tell you things. Never rest in your search until …”
At this point I got up from my seat. I was about midway up in the cone. By the time I had walked down to the fire, the boy’s voice was stilled and all the people were looking at me.
“Augustine had a dream about me,” I started. “She dreamed I came out of the sea, and that all of you were waiting for me.” I paused and waited but there was no reaction aside from a few nods. “She dreamed that from my head a great light came, shining on all of you.” Again I waited, and the people leaned forward. “Now I shall tell you what that light was. It was the light of reason, the great light of mankind. It meant that I was sent here to make a light in the darkness in which you have lived for so long, a light that would drive out superstition and teach you reality, a light to take you out of your dreams.”
At that, there was a sharp murmur from some of the people, but many of the children watched me, fascinated.
“I come from a place where men fly in the air, not only in their dreams but in real life. You have seen them. A place where the food is so sweet and rich and varied that none of your dreams could contain it, and where most people do not need to labor in the fields to get it. It is a place full of waking wonders, real wonders that remain, that are solid and permanent, not the fantasies and hallucinations of dreams. And I want to go back there! Who wants to go with me?”
“I do, I do,” piped a couple of the smallest children, but from the older people came a kind of mass groan.
“You are told in this boy’s dream to seek your true mother and father. How do you know that your true mother and father are not out there in my world? How do you know that the old people of Ata are not trying to keep you from finding your true mother and father? Out there, away from this island, in the great world are a thousand times Ata, the whole population of Ata many times over. And there things are real and people do not live on fantasies.”
People were getting up and leaving. I imagined them running to the hol-kas. “Look at them,” I said, “running to hide in a hole in the ground because I try to tell them about the larger world.” One of the children laughed.
I saw Augustine standing up near the top of the cone. She was as still as a statue. I could not see her face, black against the black sky. I did not want to see even her figure standing over me. When I looked at her, all my self-righteous determination ebbed out of me and left me empty.
For, of course, I was lying. It was easy to talk about bringing the blessings of so-called civilization to Ata. Ata would probably gain a jet-strip, a gambling casino and a set of slums from which these people could go out each day to serve the tourists. It could even become another navy base. If the people were not so ignorant, I thought, nor so reluctant to argue, they could easily have made my little speech sound ridiculous.
My real plan was to get possession of the precious stones and metals they used in their rituals and return to the world with a new name, a new identity and plenty to live on for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t do it alone. I needed help, and I would have to promise something to get that help.
I kept talking. “You are being held prisoners of superstition. Follow me and I will save you.”
Soon all had left but about fifteen children. Chil-sing was the oldest. I sent five away who were too little to be of any use.
“How far are we from the nearest land?” I asked.
“There are some other islands to the west,” answered the boy who had told the story.
“No, I mean a continent, a large piece of land.” All the children looked blank. “Have you never seen ships? What about airplanes? You know what they are. Did none of them ever land here?” The children shook their heads. “I want to leave here,” I told them. “I want to go back to the great land. If you help me, I will take you with me.”
They spoke all at once, assuring me that they wanted to go and would help me.
“It will mean going against the older ones,” I warned them. “You will have to disobey them.”
“We can do what we want,” said Chil-sing. “There are no taboos here.”
“Tomorrow we will begin,” I said. I thought it best to say nothing about the treasure yet.
The children cheered. I looked up. Augustine was still standing high above us. Then she turned and disappeared over the rim of the cone.
The children and I slept in the la-ka. The next morning we began a thorough exploration of the island. It took us about five days, and revealed nothing of any interest. The only beach was the one used for bathing. Around the rest of the island were cliffs. We spent some time on the beach wading out nearly half a mile at low tide, calculating how to build a boat to take us away from the island.
It seems laughable, but it was a sign of my nearly total derangement that I seriously considered such a thing, I, a perfect example of a modern man, who knew no more than where to press the starter of my car; I was going to build a boat and put out to sea. (Of course, I had no intention of taking the children with me.) There were virtually no tools of any kind except for digging sticks and bones. After a few days of lashing together fallen logs with braided grass, I gave up the idea and watched while the children played in the surf on the raft we produced.
The only answer was to attract the attention of a passing airplane. The children and I started signal fires on top of the hill and on other rises all over the island. But the fires always went out quickly, whether through lack of attention or through being put out by the older people, I wasn’t sure. Occasionally I carefully brought up the question of the treasure. The children seemed confused about what I meant, but were not averse to taking anything I wanted along with us.
No one seemed to be paying any attention to us. Everything went on as usual. Grain and legumes were being harvested and root vegetables planted. Food was prepared for storage on the steps of the la-ka; a few steps were already full.
The days were shorter, and the air crisper. Every evening the usual procession to the la-ka took place. The usual eating, singing and dream-telling took place. The children and I always waited until everyone had left. Then we came in and finished the food (they always left some for us) while I told stories of electric lights, subways, ice cream and television. We continued to sleep in the la-ka because I was afraid that, for all their seeming gentleness, the people might try to hurt me if it were necessary to prevent my leaving. Here, with my ten hostages around me, I felt safe.
The children slept fitfully, often starting and moaning. I slept little, if at all. The old nightmares had come back with redoubled terror and when they were not there I was killing Connie, endlessly, in slow motion. I suspected someone of poisoning the food left for us and began eating fruit I picked myself. But the nightmares continued, bursting on me every time I closed my eyes. I began to feel that the island was a trap where I would go mad and die.
Instead of sleeping, I spent the nights searching the la-ka, where I was sure the treasure was hidden between rituals. I dug dozens of holes, rifled through pots of grain and lifted every stone that surrounded the fire pit. But I found nothing.
Whenever a plane flew over we fanned our fires and signaled, but all the planes flew too high and too fast; we couldn’t even see them, and they came seldom. We were not on any regularly traveled routes.
Then an extraordinary thing happened. The little girl I had standing lookout on the hill screamed and waved according to our pre-arranged signal. I could hardly believe the signal; it meant a ship was coming. She lit a fire while the rest of us ran to the beach.
It looked like a big ship, black and dingy looking. I was sure that after our fire was lit it changed course and headed for the island. I stood on the beach watching it while the children pulled off their tunics and waved them as signals while the smoke rose from the hill.
The ship came nearer and nearer. Then suddenly, it seemed to stop and rock uncertainly, as if suspended. And then just as suddenly, decisively, it turned back on course and steamed away. I was stunned. “They saw us, I know they did!” I said, and the children agreed. Chil-sing stood looking thoughtful. We walked back toward the village.
Before we neared the fields we could see that something had happened. People were lying all about, as if shot down in the midst of their work, in the fields, on the paths. Chil-sing walked beside me nodding his head slowly.
“Are they dead?” I asked. But even as I said it I saw one pick herself up and crawl toward a hol-ka. “What’s happened?”
“I saw this once before,” said Chil-sing. “When I was very young. That time it was a helicopter.”
“What do you know about helicopters?” I asked, but he paid no attention.
“A helicopter.” he went on, “came out from a ship. It was looking for someone lost at sea. It saw Ata. It came down close. It was going to land here.” He paused. “And so Ata disappeared—sank into the sea. Disappeared—like in a dream.”
“How?”
“The people, together, made it so. In the eyes of the person in the helicopter or the people on the ship, Ata melted into the sea like …” He shrugged.
“… a mirage,” I said. “How is it done?”
He shrugged again. “It is very hard. But we have always done it. You may even have heard of it.” He looked at me expectantly until I admitted there were long standing legends about an island that had sunk into the sea. “You see. But it is very hard. The people are exhausted now. They will not be able to do it again for a while. If another ship comes, we will get it.”
“But how often does a ship come?”
“This was the first I have seen.”
I sat down feeling as exhausted and as lifeless as the people lying in the fields. “How do you know about helicopters?”
Chil-sing shrugged. “From our dreams, of course. It is from our dreams that we know the stories you tell us of the great world are true. We have seen it—in our dreams.” He waited for a minute AND then he said, “And we have seen others that you did not tell us. Things that are wonders of horror.”
“Then why do you stick with me?”
“I don’t know,” said Chil-sing. “Maybe you are the reality, and dreams are only dreams. From the beginning of time the kin of Ata have kept the way. Maybe your way is better. Otherwise, why did you come to Ata?”
That night as we lay down in the la-ka, my eyes began to close and my nightmare figures—always waiting in the shadows—began oozing upward toward me. I jumped, woke and found myself surrounded. I threw up my arms, but nothing happened.
Salvatore, Aya, Augustine, Sbgai looked down at me. Around them were six or seven of the oldest inhabitants of the island, two of whom could barely stand. Behind them my gang of sleepy-eyed children were getting up.
Chil-sing stepped up beside me and said, “He is my friend. If you hurt him, I will fight you.”
Salvatore shook his head. “Where do you learn words like that? Why should we bring evil dreams upon ourselves?” He turned to me. “We came to talk to you. May all sit down?”
Everyone sat near the glowing red coals of the fire. The oldest, it seemed, was to be the spokesman. It was the sexless, dried up creature from our ka, whom they called Tarn. He usually leaned on a small donkey, but had left the animal outside. In a quavering voice he said, “If our island is discovered, our way of life will perish.”
“That’s true,” I said. “And a better way of life will take its place.” I smiled at the children and nodded confidently, but when I turned back to look at the old creature, his level glance made me squirm.
“No,” he said. “No.” Then quite suddenly, he switched to a halting French. “I was chosen to speak to you because I came here as you did, from the outside. It happens rarely. Augustine’s mother, a great singer who died when Augustine was born, did so. Chil-sing’s grandfather, a Korean monk, was another. But it happens rarely. You and I are the only ones now. I came in 1914, out of a trench, bathed in the blood of young men who were blown apart faster than these hands could patch them up. Here my medical skills have proven largely useless, since Atans do not bring upon themselves the dis-eases of the outside world. Only once did my skill do anything here: I managed to save Augustine’s life when her mother died. I believe that I came here in order to do that.”
“It is a very hard thing,” said Salvatore, “a very great thing, to come from the outside. That is why we were so grateful that you came, because we saw you as part of the fulfillment of our purpose.”
The Frenchman switched back to Ata Language. “We thought you came as I did, willingly, with your whole heart. But that does not seem to be true.”
“It is not true,” I agreed. “Your black witch seems to have got me here.”
Augustine said nothing. I got up and climbed to the fourth level of steps. The old Frenchman followed.
“Ata is the only hope. It alone stands apart from the way of life you and I left. You and I know better than anyone how precarious … if you destroy Ata, you destroy …”
“I don’t want to destroy it. I don’t give a damn what you do here, but I want out.”
“We will try to get you out,” said Salvatore. “That is what we came to tell you.”
“How?”
“There is a way. But you will have to be patient. We cannot do it yet.”
“When?” I demanded.
“In the spring. It can only be done in the spring.”
“Why? Why should I believe you?”
He shrugged. “We will do it as we have done in the past when exiles have been sent from Ata. But it is very hard.”
“Harder than making Ata invisible?”
He didn’t blink an eye. “Much harder. It can be done, I think. But not until spring, after the winter fast.”
“By that time I’ll …”
“We promise to do it. Only be patient. We know we must do it to keep our way of life. You must see that we want this as much as you want to get out.”
“No deal,” I said.
“What more can we do?”
“Give me the treasure.” There was a moment of silence. “The jewels, the gold. I can put it to better use. I need it. I can’t go back without it.” The silence deepened. “Look, those are my terms. It can’t matter to you. You probably stole them off shipwrecks anyway. They don’t really belong to you.”
Salvatore frowned. “You can have anything you want.”
“Okay. Turn them over. Now. To show good faith. Then I’ll wait till spring and I won’t cause any more trouble.”
Salvatore shrugged and turned up his hands, palms outward. “I do not understand what you want.”
I thought I caught a look on the face of the old Frenchman. “Okay, you tell him what I mean. You know what I’m talking about. The crown. The rubies. The pearl. The diamonds Aya poured over her head. Whatever else. The fetishes used in the ceremonies. They don’t know that these things will bring the money I need to live when I leave here. Make it clear to them that I must have these things.”
The old crone spoke like a squeaky hinge. I could understand most of what he said. He didn’t seem to be trying to trick m
e, but was honestly trying to explain to them what I meant. At the end of each sentence, they all turned and looked at me. Even the children’s mouths hung open.
“Tell me,” said the squeaky-voiced old creature. “Tell me, you saw these things during the telling of the stories in the la-ka?”
“Yes, right here, I saw. I’m not blind.”
“You saw what?” asked Aya, stroking her white cat, which kept making hissing noises at me. “Please, tell us.”
“I saw the kid with the pearl in his mouth. I saw them passing rubies. I saw you,” I motioned to Salvatore, “with your crown on your head. I haven’t found where you hide it between performances. But wherever it is, you probably have more. Don’t try to lie. Augustine admitted it. She told me that you kept your treasure in the la-ka.”
Then Tarn, the old Frenchman, made a terrible mistake. He smiled. It was almost a laugh, a slight breathy sound behind the smile.
I only meant to scare him. I was furious, but I felt quite in control of myself because I thought I had won. I simply reached out to give him a backhanded slap across the face, to frighten him, to show them all that I meant business.
It was the last time I ever struck a blow of any kind at anyone.
He was so old and frail that he must have weighed less than any of the children. He was one of the ones who was usually carried down to sit near the fire in the la-ka. At a bare touch of my hand he lost his balance. He fell head down in a heap, across three steps. His head struck the lowest step. The smile was still oh his face. We didn’t have to touch him to see he was dead.
We all stood looking down at him. Then Chil-sing gave a kind of growl which rose to a yell, and sprang at me. I think he would have killed me. But Salvatore stepped between us, and both he and Child-sing went down in front of me. I ran up the steps. Augustine was right behind me, followed by the rest of the children, who made noises like wolves about to tear me apart. When we reached the top of the cone I tripped and fell in front of the entrance. I expected that Augustine would be on me, but that was not what happened. She turned to face the boys and girls, spreading out her arms and legs to try to receive any blow meant for me, at the same time saying, “Donagdeo,” over and over. I jumped up and ran.
The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You Page 7