Island's End (4 page)

W
e return to the village. Natalang sways gracefully, balancing the bucket of water on her head, while our bag full of roots bounces against my hip. We part ways as I run into the clearing a few steps ahead of her, eager to hear what Lah-ame has to say.

Mimi takes our heavy bag of food from me. A few moments later, I see Kara emerge from the jungle with a small group of men. A freshly killed monitor lizard dangles from his shoulder. The
petie-ta
is nearly as long as Tawai, who comes running toward me waving his spear and looking as proud as if he hunted the lizard all on his own.

I watch other families knotting together: men bringing fish or animals for the tribe, girls with gathering baskets or bags, married women carrying babies on their hips or holding children by the hand, elders looking as wide-eyed and curious as the children. Only the ra-gumul boys from the bachelor hut sit in a group by themselves rather than with their families.

Lah-ame faces us, standing in front of his hut. The laurel tree behind it casts a long shadow on the ground before him. His palms fly across the boar-skin mouth of his waist-high drum.

I hear the drumbeat soften. “Is anyone missing?” Lah-ame asks.

The married men in each family answer this question in turn. Satisfied that all forty families are present, Lah-ame says, “You must have questions about the strangers who came to our island this morning. As some of you know, I have a friend among them. But most strangers are not to be trusted. So be wary of them.”

The elders nod to show they agree with Lah-ame. But the children look confused and a few men shout questions: “Why did they come?” “When will they come again?”

“One of us must keep watch for the strangers during the day to find out why they want to come ashore,” Lah-ame answers. “We need not keep watch at night. I know they will not come after dark.”

“Why are they as hairy as rats?” Tawai asks.

A ripple of laughter spreads through the tribe.

Lah-ame holds up his hand for silence. “I will answer your questions with a story. But first, we will have our evening meal. I see our chief hunter has brought us a fat lizard.”

“Thanks to the help of many,” Kara says. He places the dead lizard on the ground at the center of the clearing. Kara and his group of hunters dance out the story of the hunt to honor the animal’s spirit. Other groups of men follow.

Meanwhile, Natalang, I and the other ra-gumul girls empty the food we gathered onto a leaf mat spread on the ground. Soon it is piled high with fruit, nuts, roots, leaves, coconuts and ripe berries. Mimi, as wife of the chief hunter, leads the married women as they cut and skin the animals, laughing and talking.

When they are done, Lah-ame starts a fire. Usually, I find it fascinating to watch. But this evening I am impatient to hear Lah-ame’s story about the strangers and I hardly listen to him lead us in prayer to thank the spirits for the fire and the food.

The women roast the meat and fish and make a stew from crabs and turtles. Natalang chatters with them while the stew bubbles and fills the air with cooking smells. I am quieter than ever, waiting for the meal to be over.

Finally, the food is ready—but it seems to take forever for everyone to finish eating. After all the food is eaten, we wipe our hands with clay and sit cross-legged around the fire, picking our teeth clean with fish bones.

At last, Lah-ame rises to begin the story. His voice is a singsong chant, like the wind that rolls over the ocean.

“Tonight is the time for an old tale that you have heard before. But listen well because it carries the knowledge we need to choose our path in the future.”

It is silent except for the crackle of the fire in the clearing and the rustle of leaves in the dark jungle beyond.

“In the days of our ancestors, there were as many tribes living on the islands as there are fingers in eight hands. For our ancestors, life was easy, with food and space enough for all.

“We, the En-ge people, shared one great island with many other tribes. Sometimes we fought, but mostly we treated one another with respect. Once in a while we traded things, or danced together. More rarely still, the men of one tribe would marry the women of another and move away. Hardly ever did the En-ge use their weapons on people. We made arrows and spears to fish and hunt—not weapons to kill other men.

“Then one day pale strangers came, their skin white as lau. They trapped us inside nets as though we were fish and dragged us into boats larger than our huts. Our men tried to fight but the pale strangers killed many of them with sticks that shot bursts of fire. The captured En-ge were never seen again.

“Many hunters left our island to seek out the strangers and fight them. But few of these brave ones returned. Those who did brought tales of the strength and cruelty of the pale people, who they said were far greater in number than any of us could imagine.

“Still, there were two things for which our ancestors were grateful. The pale strangers never came during the rainy season, when Pulug-ame sent howling winds and jagged waves. And the strangers did not want to live on our islands.

“Not until the days of my grandfather’s grandfather did a group of pale strangers come to stay. But when they did, they cut down trees and built stone huts in their place. They did not always eat the birds and animals they killed. And they brought with them a stinking water that burned the throat and drowned the spirit. Men who drank of this water often turned against one another.

“Worst of all, the pale strangers brought disease. They carried lau that did not cause their own people any harm, but killed us. These lau spirits leaped out of their bodies and into ours so fast that every oko-jumu was helpless against them. For the ways of the oko-jumu are slow and lau are quick to spread death.

“Many tribes died out. One by one.

“By the time of my birth the pale strangers had left the islands. But now the islands were overrun with strangers who had brown skin. These brown-skinned ones did not capture us in nets or bring us evil water. But they, too, showed no respect for Biliku-waye and Pulug-ame. And they, too, brought disease.

“The clear waters of our streams became muddy as these strangers cut down the trees, and our jungle began to shrink like a withering fruit.

“As a ra-gumul boy, I was both scared and fascinated by the strangers’ powerful magic. So I traveled to their village in secret. There, I saw how different their lives are from ours.

“To us, the tribe is one large family. But in their greed to hoard magical things, the strangers rarely share all they have with one another. So their spirits are empty. They try to fill their loneliness with noise and have forgotten the beauty of silence.

“By shutting out the spirits of earth and water and air and light and living far apart from the spirits of trees and animals, the strangers crush their own spirits. And thus they lack something the En-ge have. The strangers rip out of themselves the joy that we carry deep inside, even those among us who are not oko-jumu. When our feet stamp the earth and our voices rise in joy, when our laughter shakes our bodies from toe to belly to shoulder, its echoes fill the Otherworld.

“I decided that it was best for the En-ge to keep their own spirits happy and safe by moving away from the brown strangers. I wanted to find another island to live on—one that we did not have to share with them.

“So I called on the sea eagle, who is my spirit animal, for help. Kolo-ame took me far on his broad back. On his wings I flew and through his eyes I saw this green pearl of an island waiting for us.

“I spoke of this island to the oko-jumu who was training me. He allowed me to address the tribe. But he and most of the others chose to stay where they had been born.

“Our tribe was torn apart like a leaf in a storm. My oko-jumu remained on the island with the many hundreds who refused to leave. And I led the few who believed in me to this island where we now live.

“Around our island the spirits drew a circle of sharp coral to guard our shores like a wall of spears. Once we arrived, they raised stormy waves to protect us. Here we have celebrated many happy seasons of dry and rainy weather. Only a few of us remain who remember that day long ago when we split away from the others in our tribe and journeyed to this island. Yet with the strangers’ arrival, the question will soon arise again about where and how we shall live.

“Today, strangers set foot on our island. Their ways are not our ways. Their world has no place for us. And you must decide if you wish to make a place for them in ours.

“This is a story I have told before, but now I give it as a gift to each of you. Remember it well. May it serve to guide your actions long into the future.”

In the firelight, all our shadows seem to bind together for a moment into a thick rope. Before anyone speaks to him, Lah-ame disappears into the jungle like dark smoke in the night sky.

L
ah-ame’s story leaves me wondering what choices I will face if I become an oko-jumu. And whether I will ever have the courage to challenge the rest of the tribe as he did.

Later that night, I feel a strange pull, as though someone were tugging at a rope tied around my belly.

I follow the spirit-pull away from the village, through the jungle trees and to the beach. Standing alone on the sand, I gaze at the spot where the strangers arrived.

The ocean looks inviting. I wade into the shallows. The water slurps around my thighs, tugging me deeper in. But at the same time a breeze stirs and pushes me gently back toward the shore. It is as though the sea is asking me to explore all that lies beyond our island, while the jungle wants me to remain safe within it.

I go a little farther into the water, until it encircles my waist. But the current feels stronger than usual, so I climb out of the surf and walk up the beach with sand sticking to my wet feet.

I hear something slither behind my heels and look back. Sea snakes are crawling out of the water, the black and white bands on their long bodies shining in the moonlight. They rarely bite, yet I know they are more poisonous by far than any land snake. One drop of their venom is enough to kill a strong man. And they are most dangerous when they come ashore to lay eggs.

In a few moments they are wriggling all around me. Trapped halfway between the ocean’s edge and the jungle, I stand, waiting for the snakes to pass. Sweat bursts like dew on my palms.

I watch the snakes’ backs, curving in endless lines of black and white. They are as beautiful as they are terrifying, like Biliku-waye in the Otherworld. Wave after wave of them goes by, making me dizzy. My body sways like a coconut tree in a storm.

I gaze at the sand, which is alive with movement. Balance. I put one foot forward. Then the next.

I take another step and another. My toes find empty patches of ground between the snakes’ wriggling bodies. Dancing on tiptoe, I reach the jungle. The shadows of trees reach out and embrace me. There are leaves underfoot again.

Moments later, I am inside the dark circle of our village. Then at last the round walls of our home protect me. I lie on my mat, gazing at the dots of starlight that pierce through our thatched roof.

Finally, I drift into sleep.

I
awake at dawn, unsure whether snakes really crept up the sand last night or if it was another vision. I hurry to the beach to look for the telltale signs of snake paths. But I see only the gentle marks left by the receding waves.

Later, as Natalang and I head toward the jungle to gather food, confused thoughts buzz in my head louder than the cicadas in the trees. She chatters away as usual, but I hardly listen.

My toe bumps against a gnarled root jutting out of the ground and I almost fall. Natalang catches hold of my arm to steady me.