He squatted down on the sand and stared out to sea. Then he looked down at the little blue bead on his wrist. Oh, yes…and he had no soul. His boy soul had vanished with the island, and he’d never get a man soul now. He was the blue hermit crab, hurrying from one shell to another, and the big shell he had thought he could see had been taken away. A squid could snap a crab up in a second, only it wouldn’t be a squid for him, it would be some demon or ghost. It would enter his head and take him over.
He started to draw in the sand again, little figures this time, men and—yes—women, women whom he remembered, not covered-up trousermen women, and smaller figures, people of all sizes, filling the sand with life. He drew dogs and canoes and huts and—
—he drew the wave. The stick seemed to do it all by itself. It was a wonderful curve, if you didn’t know what it had done.
He shifted along a little and drew one stick figure, with a spear, looking out at the flat horizon.
“I think all that means sadness,” said the girl behind him. Gently she took the stick out of his hand and drew another figure beside the first one. It was holding a portable roof, and wore pantaloons. Now two figures looked out at the endless ocean.
“Sadness,” said Mau. “Saad ness.” He turned the word over on his tongue. “Saaad nesssss.” It was the sound of a wave breaking. It meant you could hear the dark waters in your mind. Then—
“Canoe!” said Daphne. Mau looked along the beach, his head still full of sadness. What about canoe? They’d already done canoe, hours ago, hadn’t they? Canoe was sorted out!
And then he saw the canoe, a four-man canoe, coming through the reef. Someone was trying to steer it, and not doing a bad job, but the water tumbled and swirled in the new gap, and a canoe like that needed at least two people to guide it.
Mau dived into the lagoon. As he surfaced he could see that the lone paddler was already losing control; the gap in the reef was indeed big enough for a four-man canoe to come through it sideways, but any four-man canoe that actually tried anything as stupid as that while the tide was running would soon be overturned. He fought his way through the churning surf, expecting every second to see the thing break up.
He surfaced again after a big wave passed over him, and now the paddler was trying to fend the canoe off the ragged edges of the gap. He was an old man. But he wasn’t alone. Mau heard a baby crying somewhere in the bottom of the canoe.
Another big surge made the canoe spin, and Mau grabbed at it. It rammed his back against the coral before turning away once more, but he was ready for it when it swung around for a second try at crushing him, and he heaved himself up and into the canoe a moment before it crunched into the reef again.
There was someone else lying under a blanket in the rocking canoe. He paid them no attention but grabbed a paddle and dug it into the water. The old man had some sense, at least, and kept the canoe off the rocks while Mau tried to move it toward the beach. Panic wouldn’t help here; you just had to pull it out of the churning mass of water a few inches at a time, with long patient strokes that got easier as you drove it free, until suddenly it was in calmer water and moving quickly. He relaxed a little then, but not too much, because he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength left to move it again if it stopped.
He leaped out as the canoe was about to hit the beach, and managed to pull it a little farther up onto the sand.
The man almost tumbled out—and tried to lift the other person out from under the blanket. A woman. The old man was a bag of bones, and with far more bones than bag. Mau helped him carry the woman and the baby close to the fire, and laid them on the blanket. At first he thought the woman was dead, but there was a flicker of life around her lips.
“She needs water,” croaked the old man, “and the child needs milk! Where are your women? They will know!”
Daphne came running up, parasol bobbing. “Oh, the poor things!” she said.
Mau took the baby from the woman, who made a weak and pitiful attempt to hang on to it, and handed it to the girl.
He heard “Oh, isn’t he lovely—ur, yuck!” behind him as he hurried to the river and came back with a couple of brimming coconut shells of water that still had the taste of ashes.
“Where are the other women?” asked the old man as Daphne held the dripping baby at arm’s length and looked around desperately for somewhere to put it.
“There’s just this one,” said Mau.
“But she’s a trouserman woman! They are not proper human beings!” said the old man.
This was news to Mau. “There’s only the two of us here,” he said.
The old man looked crestfallen. “But this is the Nation!” he wailed. “An island of stone, beloved of the gods! I trained as a priest here. All the time I paddled I was thinking, the Nation will have survived! And there’s just a boy and a cursed girl from the unbaked people?”
“Unbaked?”
“Have you been taught nothing? Imo made them first, when He was learning, but He did not leave them long enough in the sun. And you will learn that they are so proud, they cover themselves in the sun. They really are very stupid, too.”
They have more colors than we do, Mau thought, but he didn’t say so.
“My name is Mau,” he said, because at least that wouldn’t start an argument.
“And I must speak to your chief. Run, boy. Tell him my name. He may have heard of Ataba the priest.” There was a sad but hopeful sound to that last sentence, as if the old man thought this was not very likely.
“There is no chief, not since the wave. It brought the trouserman girl here, and everyone else it…took away. I did tell you, sir.”
“But this is such a big island!”
“I don’t think the wave cared.”
The baby started to cry. Daphne tried to cuddle it without getting too close, and made embarrassed shushing noises.
“Then an older man—” Ataba began.
“There isn’t anyone,” said Mau patiently. “There’s just me and the trouserman girl.” He wondered how many times he would have to say this before the old man managed to find the right-shaped space for it in his bald head.
“Only you?” said Ataba, looking bewildered.
“Believe me, sir, sometimes I don’t believe it either,” Mau said. “I think I’ll wake up and it will all be a dream.”
“You had the wonderful white god anchors,” said the old man. “I was brought here to see them when I was a small boy, and that was when I decided I wanted to be a—”
“I think I’d better give this little boy back to his mummy,” said Daphne quickly. Mau didn’t understand the words, but the tone of determination translated itself very well. The baby was screaming.
“His mother cannot feed him,” said Ataba to Mau. “I found her on a big raft with the child, only yesterday. There was food on it, but she wouldn’t eat and the child takes no nourishment from her. It will die soon.”
Mau looked at the little bawling face, and thought: No. Does not happen.
He caught the ghost girl’s eye, pointed to the baby, and made eating motions with his mouth.
“You eat babies?” said Daphne, stepping back. Mau picked up the tone of horror, and it took a lot of creative miming to get her to understand that the one who was going to be fed was the baby.
“What?” said Daphne. “Feed it? What with?”
Oh, well, Mau thought, the baby is screaming and I’m in trouble whatever happens. But…does not happen. He waved vaguely at her flat chest, under its slightly grubby white frills.
Daphne went bright pink. “What? No! How dare you! You have to…” She hesitated. She wasn’t really sure about this, since everything she knew on the subject of the lumps at the front was based on an overheard, giggly conversation between the housemaids that she had found unbelievable, and a strange lecture from one of her aunts, in which the phrase “when you’re old enough” had turned up a lot and the rest of it sounded unlikely.
“You have to be married,” sh
e said firmly. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand, she felt better for saying it.
“Does she know anything? Has she borne children?” said Ataba.
“I don’t think so!”
“Then there will be no milk. Please fetch another woman, one who has not long had—Oh.” The old man sagged as he remembered.
“We have food,” said Mau.
“It must be milk,” said the old man flatly. “The baby is too young for anything else.”
“Well, at least there can be a hut for the mother, up at the Women’s Place. It’s not too far. I can light a fire there,” said Mau.
“You dare to go into a Women’s Place?” The priest looked shocked, and then smiled. “Ah, I see. You are only a boy.”
“No, I left my boy soul behind me. I think the wave washed it away.”
“It washed away too many things,” said Ataba. “But you have no tattoos, not even the sunset wave. Have you learned the chants? No? No manhood feast? You were not given a man’s soul?”
“None of those.”
“And the thing with the knife where you—?”
“Not that, either,” said Mau quickly. “All I have is this.” He held out his wrist.
“The blue jade stone? They’re protection for only a day or so!”
“I know.”
“Then it could be that behind your eyes is a demon or a vengeful spirit.”
Mau thought about this. He agreed with it. “I don’t know what’s behind my eyes,” he said. “All I know is that it is very angry.”
“On the other hand, you did save us,” said the old man, smiling at him a little nervously. “That doesn’t sound like any demon I’ve ever heard of. And I hope you gave thanks to the gods for your salvation?”
“Gave…thanks?” said Mau.
“They may have plans for you,” said the priest cheerfully.
“Plans,” said Mau, his voice as cold as the dark current. “Plans? Yes, I see. Someone must be alive to bury the rest, was that it?” He took a step forward, his fists clenched.
“We cannot know the reasons for all that happ—” Ataba began, backing away.
“I saw their faces! I sent them into the dark water! I tied small stones to little bodies. The wave took everyone I love, and everything I am wants to know why!”
“Why did the wave spare you? Why did it spare me? Why did it spare that baby which will die soon enough? Why does it rain? How many stars are in the sky? We cannot know these things! Just be thankful that the gods spared your life!” shouted the old man.
“I will not! To thank them for my life means I thank them for the deaths. I want to find reasons. I want to understand the reasons! But I can’t because there are no reasons. Things happen or do not happen, and that is all there is!”
The roar of the Grandfathers’ anger in Mau’s head was so loud that he wondered why Ataba didn’t hear it.
YOU SCREAM OUT AGAINST THE GODS, BOY. YOU KNOW NOTHING. YOU WILL BRING DOWN THE WORLD. YOU WILL DESTROY THE NATION. ASK FORGIVENESS OF IMO.
“I will not! He gave this world to Locaha!” roared Mau. “Let him ask forgiveness of the dead. Let him ask forgiveness of me. But don’t tell me that I am supposed to thank the gods that I’m alive to remember that everyone else died!”
Someone was shaking Mau, but it seemed to be happening to another person, a long way off.
“Stop this! You’re making the baby cry!” Mau stared at Daphne’s furious face. “Baby, food,” she said insistently. Her meaning was very clear, even if he didn’t understand the actual words.
Did she think he was a magician? Women fed babies, everyone knew that! There was no milk on the island. Didn’t she understand? There was no—He stopped, because a bit of his raging brain had just opened up and was showing him pictures. He stared at them, and thought: Could that work? Yes, there it was, the silver thread to a small part of the future. It might work. It had to work.
“Baby, food!” Daphne repeated insistently, giving him another shake.
He gently pushed her arms out of the way. This needed thinking about, and careful planning. The old man was looking at him as if he were on fire, and he stepped back quickly when Mau picked up his fish spear and strode into the lagoon. At least he tried to make it look like a good manly stride, but inside his mind was full of rage.
Were the Grandfathers mad? Was Ataba mad? Did they really think he should thank the gods for his life? If it hadn’t been for the ghost girl, he’d have taken himself to the dark water!
Babies and milk was a smaller problem, but it was noisier, and closer to hand. He could see the answer. He could see a little picture of how it would have to work. It depended on many things. But there was a path. If he followed the steps, there should be milk. And it had to be easier to get milk for a baby than to understand the nature of the gods.
He stared down into the water, not actually seeing anything other than his thoughts. He’d need more tubers, and maybe some beer, but not too much. First, though, he’d have to catch a fish—
And there one was, only a little way away from his feet, white against the white sand so that only its pale shadow gave it away. It floated there like a gift from the gods—No! It was there because he had been so still, as a hunter should be. It was completely unaware of him.
He speared the fish, cleaned it, and took it to the priest, who was sitting between the two big god anchors.
“You know how to cook fish, sir?”
“Are you here to blaspheme against the gods, demon boy?” said Ataba.
“No. It would only be blasphemy to say they didn’t exist if they were real,” said Mau, keeping his voice level. “Now, can you cook fish?”
By the look of it, Ataba was not going to argue religion when there was fresh food around.
“Since before you were born,” said the old man, eyeing the fish greedily.
“Then let the ghost girl have some, and please make a gruel for the woman.”
“She won’t eat it,” said Ataba flatly. “There was food on her raft. There is something wrong in her head.”
Mau looked at the Unknown Woman, who was still by the fire. The ghost girl had brought along more blankets from the Sweet Judy, and at least the woman was sitting up now. Daphne was beside her, holding her hand and talking to her. They are making a Women’s Place, he thought. The language doesn’t matter.
“There will be others,” said Ataba behind him. “Lots of people will end up here.”
“How do you know?”
“The smoke, boy! I saw it from miles away! They will come. We weren’t the only ones. And maybe the Raiders will come, too, from their great land. You will call upon the gods then, oh yes! You will grovel before Imo when the Raiders come.”
“After all this? What’s left for them? What have we still got that they would want?”
“Skulls. Flesh. Their pleasure in our death. The usual things. Pray to the gods, if you dare, that those cannibals do not come this far.”
“Will that help?” said Mau.
Ataba shrugged. “What else do we have?”
“Then pray to the gods to send milk for the child,” said Mau. “Surely they can do something so simple?”
“And what will you do, demon boy?”
“Something else!” Mau paused then, and thought: He’s an old man. He came many miles, and he did stop for the woman and her baby. That is important. He let his anger subside again. “I don’t mean to insult you, Ataba,” he said.
“Oh, I understand,” said the old man. “We all rage against the gods sometimes.”
“Even you?”
“Yes. First thing every morning, when my knees go click and my back aches. I curse them then, you can be certain of it. But quietly, you understand. And I say, ‘Why did you make me old?’”
“And what do they reply?”
“It doesn’t work like that. But as the day wears on and there is maybe some beer, I think I find their answer arising in my mind. I think they tell me: ‘
It is because you will prefer it to the alternative.’” He looked at Mau’s puzzled expression. “Not dead, you see?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Mau. “I mean, I think you’re just hearing your own thoughts.”
“Do you wonder where your thoughts come from?”
“I don’t think they come from a demon!”
Ataba smiled. “We shall see.”
Mau stared at the old man. He had to be proud about this. This was Mau’s island. He had to act like a chief.
“There is something I am going to try,” he said stiffly. “This is for my Nation. If I don’t come back, you can stay here. If you stay, there are the huts at the Women’s Place. If I come back, I will fetch you beer, old man.”
“There is beer that happens and beer that does not happen,” said the priest. “I like the beer that happens.”
Mau smiled. “First there must be the milk that happens,” he said.
“Fetch it, demon boy,” said Ataba, “and I’ll believe anything!”
CHAPTER 5
The Milk That Happens
MAU HURRIED UP TO the Women’s Place and entered more boldly than he had done before. There was no time to waste. The sun was dropping down the sky, and the ghost of the moon was rising.
This had to work. And he’d have to concentrate, and time it right and he probably wouldn’t get another try.
First, get some beer. That wasn’t hard. The women made mother-of-beer every day, and he found some fizzing gently to itself on a shelf. It was full of dead flies, but they would be no problem. He did the beer ceremony and sang the Song of the Four Brothers as the beer required, and took down a big bunch of plantains and some whistling yams. They were old and wrinkled, just right for pigs.
The Nation had been rich enough to have four three-legged cauldrons, and two of them were up here in the Place. He got a fire going under one and dumped the plantains and the yams in. He added a bit of beer, let it all boil until the roots were soft and floury, and then it was just a matter of pounding it all together into one big beery mess with the butt of his spear.
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