Man Shark

by Knight, Gerald R.

  Ḷainjin readily agreed to such a simple request. Then, having told his story, Pedpedin rose and stepped back upon the reef flat to continue leading him around the island. The narrowness of the passageway between Lae and the island to the north where Kōkkālọk and her workers dwelled surprised him. It was funnel shaped, deeper than the reef flat, and rocky on the ocean side. Then it gradually became more and more shallow and sandy as it curved between the islets and approached the lagoon. There on the opposite bank, where the shorehead and coral boulders ended and the sun-bleached coral stones faded into white sand, was the beginning of a small village, where people raised their arms to acknowledge them. Facing the passageway was a magnificent-looking stilt house that he imagined was hers. It appeared curiously exposed to the elements. Finally, there on the shore, with its rickety-looking outrigger and unusually long and narrow kubaak was the pathetic Pohnpeian fishing canoe in which Paratak had somehow crossed the ocean. Its shallow, oval-shaped hull was completely open. “What an impossible trip he must have had in that thing, and what an unusual story of survival he must have wrapped up inside himself,” Ḷainjin thought. “How did he rest? He must have been bailing the whole time. How did he collect the water he needed to keep his strength?”

  They continued along the shoreline passageway and then cut inland to avoid the hot and lengthy trek around the sandy point at the northeastern end of the unusually shaped island. Around the point where the channel flowed into the lagoon — he remembered from the day before — was the broad, sandy shoreline, but they headed instead into the cool breadfruit forest, which shaded an immense village of well over a hundred dwellings of the irooj’s workers. The carefully cultivated nature of the island was impressive, and the lack of nonessential shrubbery fostered a neat and breezy openness. It reminded him of why the atoll dwellers of the many islands he had visited always preferred their habitat to the dense, cluttered foliage of the mountainous higher islands, despite their more abundant sources of water and fertile soil.

  ***

  Back at the irooj’s house, Liṃanṃan and her sister were again absent, but a crowd of relatives had gathered onto the mats beneath his stilted, thatched home. He politely left Ḷainjin below and disappeared up into his house, through the single entrance in the middle of the floor. Ḷainjin noticed two older men facing each other at a corner post beneath the house. They were rolling coils of fiber twine from coconut husk, and he sat down with them.

  “Wōjej! What is all this? Are you two planning on rethatching the village?”

  “It’s about avoiding eakpel!” one of them joked. “In the middle of a storm, when the navigator looks for somebody to lighten the load, he’s unlikely to choose the rope maker. When the navigator gets to shore, he knows he’ll have to retie some of the lashings.”

  “I heard Litaknaṃ claim you were about to throw her overboard until her granddaughter grabbed your mast and changed your mind,” said another, to uproarious laughter.

  One of the women brought Ḷainjin a basket of food and two coconuts to drink.

  “But to answer your question, the irooj has commissioned the construction of a new house for you and his daughter,” continued the first man.

  “He just didn’t say which daughter,” interjected the woman who brought the food, to more laughter among the group.

  “Choose me instead,” cried an old lady with sagging breasts and missing teeth, sitting among others in the opposite corner. “Trust in experience,” she continued, putting her hands on her hips and rolling them to and fro. That led to another catharsis of laughter. Then, sensing by his embarrassment that they had thoroughly integrated him into the group, they let him eat in peace.

  “All this reminds me of the story of Jibke,” exclaimed the first elder, whose name Ḷainjin would later learn was Ḷaluj.

  “Ḷōpako, have you ever heard the story of Jibke?” asked Ḷaluj, as he took a few fibers from a clump of processed coconut husk and then rolled them between his fingers into a bunch that was a bit fatter in the middle and tapered at both ends. He then rolled the tiny bundle on the flat of his thigh into a hand’s-length strand of string. Finally, he added a thinner end of this single segment to the thin end of the line he was making by likewise joining them into a line of uniform cordage. Later, he would have to twist two such lengths of cordage, with a rope-twisting device, into a single length of dual twine for lashings. This rope-twisting process could be repeated as many times as necessary if thicker rope was desired, but it all started with these single strands rolled on the hairless, calloused thighs of these old storytellers.

  Ḷainjin had, of course, heard the story in many versions, but he respectfully feigned unfamiliarity and asked, “How does it go again?”

  “Well,” Ḷaluj began, “everyone knows that, when Jebrọ won the race, he became irooj of the whole atoll of Aelōñḷapḷap, and that atoll is second only to Kuwajleen as the largest atoll along the length of the Rālik string. After a few seasons as irooj, tired of judging disputes among his workers, the young Jebrọ decided to choose a woman, so he prepared his canoe for a voyage. But before he launched his proa, his mother, Lōktañūr, came down to the shore and placed a band of sweet-smelling flowers on his head. He sailed westward across the lagoon to the islets along the northern fringing reef. The wave from the east wind pushed him along as he sang.

  Westward flow, fallow-low.

  West flow north of sun — waow!

  Follow down crest of wave

  westward to flow.

  “He came to the first islet, where he lowered his sail and slowly flowed with the current down the shoreline. The unchosen women ran down to the lagoon shoreline and, one by one, beckoned to him, singing,

  What flows and smells — waow!

  What perfumed oil so

  bids me to beckon you?

  From port side flow.

  From starboard side flow.

  Irooj of pure blood show

  if you want me to

  jump into

  your boat and go with you!

  “To each, he replied, ‘I desire you but you’re not my fate.’ He hoisted his sail and continued to steer westward.”

  Ḷaluj went on like this, enacting the story by chanting the part for Jebrọ and then raising the pitch of his voice to depict the women’s parts. He repeated himself, naming all the islets along the northern reef of Aelōñḷapḷap Atoll. As there are many passageways between the islets there, sometimes Jebrọ searched the ocean side, sometimes the lagoon side. He was always looking for a woman to choose on his journey westward, but each time they called to him, he responded with the same answer: “I desire you but you’re not my fate.”

  “Choose me, Jebrọ,” cried the same elder woman, addressing Ḷainjin again. She put her hands on her hips and rolled them back and forth — again to much laughter.

  Then Ḷaluj continued telling the story of how Jebrọ sailed on from islet to islet, dropping his sail and paddling until he came across a woman who had come down to the shore to wash off the soot from an earth oven she had just redug.

  “Her name was Lenkar, and she was embarrassed to say anything because she was so filthy. Jebrọ, however, was smitten by her long, shapely legs and arms and cried, ‘Do not bother to flap your mouth. Come aboard.’ Realizing he was the irooj, she complied, and he hoisted his sail to turn back to Je. This time, the lagoon current was against him, so his first tack was through a passageway into the ocean, and his next tack brought him back toward a second passageway that he intended to sail through to reenter the lagoon. However, just as he was passing by the ocean side of one of the small islets strung along the northern reef, a small cloud released a very short burst of fine rain that caused the soot to streak and blotch her skin. We call that type of rain ‘a shower of Jibke’ because there is enough water to cover but not enough to rinse. It is not even enough water to bother gathering our sun-dried fish. This rain hexed his thoughts and compelled him to push her off into the water.
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br />   “Swim for your life. I have lost my desire for you and you’re getting my proa dirty,” cried Ḷaluj, enacting Jebrọ’s part with much drama. He then told how Jebrọ subsequently sheeted in, sailed straight through the passageway into the lagoon, ended his search, and shunted his way back to Je. And he told how Lenkar began to swim toward the small islet where a man called Jibke lived.

  "He and his mother had laid out a large sheet of jāānkun to dry in the sun, and they noticed the light shower that passed over. His mother said to him, ‘Isn’t this rain magic for your pool?’ There was a pool of tidewater close to the ocean-side shore that heated in the sun at low tide, and on occasion, he would find a fish or two trapped there. So at his mother’s insistence, Jibke took his spear and walked around the island toward his pool. He caught Lenkar bathing there. He was struck by her beauty and they chose each other immediately. They had a quiet life together until, one day, Irooj Jebrọ decided to build a new house for himself and called all his workers to come and help. When the frame was constructed, Jebrọ climbed to the top among the others and began placing the thatch. Each thatch shingle was one ñeñe in length, and Jibke’s task was to spear each shingle and pass it skyward to the men above. Lenkar’s task was to sew the pandanus leaves to strips of coconut-leaf fronds for each shingle using the ṇok. Her thatches were so perfect that the men on the roof begin to compete for them, so she had to produce them faster and faster.”

  Ḷaluj began to chant:

  Jebrọ beguiled by skin so fair.

  Young woman — ah! Pretty girl — waow!

  His line is tangled, his lashing confused.

  Is she woman one or

  is she woman… Waow! Lenkar! Ooo!

  Lenkar turn about Jebrọ,

  sewing pandanus thatch — ten at a time!

  Then, raising the pitch of his voice to portray Lenkar, he chanted,

  Hurry you, hurry me, Jibke.

  If you don’t hurry you

  the spirit will surely swallow you!

  “When Jebrọ looked around at the men competing for her thatch, he noticed Lenkar, came under her spell again, fainted, and fell to the ground. When he awakened, he commanded Jibke to dig the corner post for his great cookhouse. Jibke dug down and then off to one side. He had not quite finished when Jebrọ ordered them to drop the coconut-trunk post. Jibke jumped off to one side just in time but dropped the coconut shell he had been digging with. They heard it crack and assumed that it was his skull. When they removed the post, he was still alive, so in desperation, Jebrọ commanded Jibke to bring him the wind. In other words, the irooj had banished him, but before Jibke left, he cut Lenkar a stalk of pandanus and promised to be back before she finished it.”

  Then, feigning Lenkar’s voice, Ḷaluj chanted,

  He cut me a stalk of Ajbwirōk

  My lover, my Jibke — waow!

  Sighing, I chew and toss

  toward northern horizon — one core.

  Sighing, I chew and toss

  toward eastern horizon — core two.

  Sighing, I chew and toss

  toward southern horizon — core three.

  Sighing, I chew…

  “Lenkar sang on and on, counting like that to punish the irooj. His desire slipped away again, but it was too late for Jibke. His search led him into a whirlwind that smashed his boat and left him to drift up dead on the shores of Eb. There, Lirukōb — the daughter of Irooj Rilik — chose him and took him into her house. As the story goes, she truly loved him, but everyone on the island wanted to eat him. Every day, they cried,

  Let us ba-bake him — waow!

  Eat up his soul,

  eat up his soul!

  “Every day she refused to let them, on and on until even the small fish on the reef cried out,

  Let us ba-bake him — waow!

  Eat up his soul,

  eat up his soul!

  “When Lirukōb finally gave in to them — waow — they started a huge fire in a mammoth baking pit, but Jibke was unaware of what they were about to cook because he did not understand a word of their language. He even helped them gather wood and stones for the fire. Then, when the flames were spent and the red-hot rocks had sunk upon the white coals beneath, he was led up close to the pit to let the warmth of the oven entice his beaten soul. With much curiosity, he watched them cover over the empty oven, and he left, confused and sickened. When the oven cooled, Irooj Rilik divided Jibke’s soul up among his people, and sent one basket to Lirukōb. She turned her back on Jibke and ate. When she finished and needed to wash her hands, she told him not to touch any of the food in the basket, but he was hungry and did not obey her.

  “When she came back in, he was staring into the empty basket, and she cried, ‘I told you to leave that basket alone. Don’t you understand? That was your soul that they covered over in that oven!’

  “Waow, suddenly he understood, and he told her they must gather flowers. He climbed up into the tree and tossed down flowers to her, but she sensed he was leaving her as he climbed up higher and higher into the tree, and she knew there was now nothing to hold him back.

  “‘Good-bye, my love. Good-bye, my love,’ she cried as he climbed.

  “Jibke said, ‘You lie because you and your father

  ba-baked my soul,

  ate up my soul,

  ate up my soul.

  “Then,” concluded Ḷaluj, “he climbed out of sight and was never heard from again, among the islands of the living or the islands of the dead.”

  He had told the story well, and that was clear because the sound of his mild voice had quietly begun to dominate the gathering. The silence of the listeners hung in the air for several moments as each perhaps contemplated the story’s significance to their individual life. “For who had not fallen in or out of desire, or taken one path instead of another, or challenged their fate unnecessarily,” thought Ḷainjin.

  He said, “That story was well told, Ḷaluj. Now I remember hearing it told by my grandfathers, and that part about the corner post was part of a similar story I heard on the other side of the ocean.”

  “Then tell us that version, please!” asked Ḷaluj.

  The others chimed in. “Tell us your story, please.”

  Ḷainjin, however, knew he could not tell his stories from out there without explaining what he was doing and why, so he cut them short.

  “That must wait for another time. The story of Jibke has made me sleepy. I must rest now from my recent walk. Is it okay if I take a coil of your ekkwaḷ? I have an immediate use for it.”

  “Take all you want,” Ḷaluj said.

  “Thank you!”

  “For kindness!” said Ḷaluj.

  Ḷainjin entered his house and lay down to rest. The empty earth oven, the eating of the soul… This imagery gave rise to thoughts normally left abandoned. He longed for Liṃanṃan to come to him. She alone seemed to have the patience to draw the story struggling to emerge from within him. She alone could be trusted to keep it. He felt perturbed when the others demanded to know his stories before he was ready to tell them. It annoyed him because it touched the sore that had become his life’s dilemma. Of course, he wanted to tell his story. His story was his soul, and his story would live on only if others spoke of it. Yet how were they to learn the story from a man who had vowed not speak of it? After all, a man’s story is all in the telling, so it must be well told — not announced like an answer to a question. It must ripen over time as a pandanus fruit hangs and slowly turns color, each kernel, from green to yellow to orange — as each kernel’s nib changes from dark green to a lighter shade of green as the sun warms its surface … day by day by day. Break the stalk open too soon and its potential flavor is lost.

  He had just paddled all the way from Namorik. While floating there, outside the reef in the black of night and with the patience of a mother turtle, he decided — more by instinct than reason — to turn silently away and journey on. He was not ready to tell all the things he knew his
beloved Namorik companions would want to know. It was that simple. There was much more ripening to occur, and that is what led him here, where he would be unknown. This time, he could not wipe away so quickly the memory of the upward swirl of her hair as he released her lifeless body and watched it slowly sink into the transparent blue. He curled into a ball on his mat as though he were Jibke, sickened by the loss of his stolen soul, yet he slept in anticipation of the night ahead.

  He awoke that evening, tied his ring to his kilt, and grabbed the line of ekkwaḷ Ḷaluj had given him. Then he strolled down the path to the first coconut tree he had cut that morning, where a boy was waiting for him. As directed, the boy had also brought a length of ekkwaḷ, so Ḷainjin left his at the base of the tree and they climbed to the crown. Fortunately, the face of the once pointy utak where they had cut its flat end was still moist.

  “You’re lucky. This tree should produce much jekaro,” Ḷainjin told the boy. Then he showed him how to tie the ekkwaḷ from the end of the bud to the frond below, bending it outward ever so gently. “As the moon passes, we will bend the utak day by day until it grows horizontal and drips its nectar into the largest coconut shells you can find — so start looking. Take each one to the ocean strand as soon as you can so the tiniest of the hermit crabs can crawl through the mouth into its interior and start cleaning the shell of its meat.”

  “What if a big coconut crab finds it and drags it off?”

  “That’s always a problem, so you must put out several at once. Always put out one or two small ones as decoys!”

  Such was his advice to all the boys he found waiting by their trees. Some of their utak were moist and would be good for jekaro, and some were less so. Some were very dry, and he asked those boys to find another heavy-bearing tree for them to test the next morning. When he finally arrived at the last tree toward the end of the path, Etre was already sitting at the top, motioning for him to ascend. When Ḷainjin reached the top, he could see from the boy’s manner that something was amiss.